The Ex(80)

“That doesn’t sound normal to me.”

“Really? Many people, if they were being honest, would admit to having thought about it. It’s all hypothetical, mind you—just a fantastical and devilish daydream. But what happens psychologically is that the seemingly normal person is now becoming conditioned to the idea of killing, no different behaviorally than a dog hearing the doorbell over and over again. It’s no longer shocking. So the idea develops. And for most people, the idea remains exactly that. It stops right there. But for others, those thoughts become a training ground. And then when something happens to trigger and heighten the emotion toward the contemplated victim, the conditioning kicks in. Bam. The person kills. And it may seem premeditated because the thoughts were there all along. But they only became real at that second.”

“And you’re saying that Jack is like most of these people, where it all remained hypothetical.”

“Clearly. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”


ONCE I WAS ON I-95, I listened to the hum of the Toyota Corolla, tires against concrete, my own breathing. It was almost like meditation.

I replayed the doctor’s tutorial in my head. For most people, the idea remains exactly that. When the thoughts were about me, Jack had made them stop by locking himself up for a year. But for others, those thoughts become a training ground. By the time he came to hate Malcolm Neeley, Jack no longer had the luxury of inpatient treatment. He had a daughter to take care of. So the idea develops.

Jack knew where Malcolm Neeley could be found on Wednesday mornings. He could research information about surveillance along the Hudson River. Find the magazine article detailing the location of the cameras. He was a gifted novelist. He knew how to tell a story. He would know that truth could be stranger than fiction. He would know that the story of a mysterious beautiful woman would seem too bizarre to be a lie. How had he described it to Detective Boyle? Surreal, like he was narrating a tale for a reader.

I pictured him at the firing range, learning how to shoot a Glock. Driving to Jersey to buy one on the street. Opening a temporary e-mail account to hire Sharon Lawson. Telling her where to sit, right where a camera would catch a fleeting glimpse of the lady in the grass. I imagined him pulling the gun from the basket, aiming it at Malcolm.

Or had he shot Tracy first? The woman who looked like a younger me.

Tomorrow, Scott Temple was going to try to put Jack back into custody. I had seen what Jack looked like after only a couple of days in jail. And I had seen how anxious Jack was to know one way or the other whether he’d be convicted. I knew exactly how the uncertainty of the future, combined with pretrial incarceration, could change a defendant’s fortitude. Once Jack was in jail awaiting trial, he would become the kind of client who’d plead guilty just to get it over with.

What did I still owe him?


AT 9:52 THE NEXT MORNING, the courthouse elevator doors opened. From the hallway outside Judge Amador’s courtroom, I saw Charlotte, Jack, and Buckley, side by side in a row. I’d grown accustomed to the picture, like a three-person American Gothic—two grim, worried faces, Jack the unreadable pitchfork in the center.

Jack was having a hard time maintaining eye contact with me. “I was wondering whether you’d even show up.”

“I’m your lawyer, Jack.”

I fought for clients all the time, even when I knew they were guilty. It wasn’t my job to know the truth. That didn’t change just because my client was Jack Harris.

When I walked into the courtroom, Scott Temple was already at counsel table. He shot me a sideways glance as I crossed the bar, and then continued to look at his notes.

“Can we talk about why we’re here?” I asked. I wished Don was here to ask the question, but he had texted me to say he was stuck in Judge Gregory’s courtroom and might be a few minutes late.

“The way you talked to me before pulling me in here on a so-called Brady violation? The frog and the scorpion, Olivia. No more side deals.”

Scott had always been one of my best resources at the DA’s office. I may have resolved to continue working for Jack, but I did regret burning a friend on his behalf.

“He hasn’t violated any of his release conditions, Scott. I really don’t understand why we’re here.”

“Because you ran over that incompetent ADA Amy Chandler at the original bail hearing. The case against your client is a lot stronger than you know. It’s time we got that on the open record.”

I turned to face the galley and realized the media were here. I recognized Jan Myers, along with reporters from the Times, Daily News, and Post. Max Neeley had just walked in, hand in hand with his ex-girlfriend Amanda Turner. She looked at me blankly, clearly not wanting me to show any sign of recognition.

I heard a door open at the front of the courtroom, and Judge Amador walked out of chambers in his robe. The bailiff called us to order.


“I SEE FAMILIAR FACES,” THE judge said. “The People are moving to revoke bail? What’s the alleged violation?”

Temple rose from his chair. “If I can clarify, Your Honor. This is a motion to reconsider your original decision to grant bail in the first place. At the time, Your Honor concluded that Mr. Harris was not a flight risk, in large part because our case did not appear particularly strong. I take responsibility for that, Your Honor. I should have attended personally to present evidence that the arraignment ADA was not aware of.”