Locust Lane(68)

Cantor went to see Christopher, who was being held in a room nearby. Michel became aware of the people in the court. The benches behind him were already full. At first he thought they’d come to see his son, but most of them had problems of their own. Directly in front of him, on the other side of the rail, lawyers and clerks milled about. Michel wished Alice was here, and then almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the thought.

There was movement to his right. Two lawyers, a man and a woman, were stepping into the enclosure. Both carried heavily laden shoulder bags that they placed on the table opposite Cantor’s. They were trailed by a black-haired woman who took a seat directly across the aisle from Michel. Eden’s mother. He recognized her from the news. There was a ferocity about her that reminded him of women he’d seen in Beirut. Widows. Fighters. Believers. A few days ago their two children were, what? Lovers? Friends? The female lawyer spoke to her over the fence; Eden’s mother nodded grimly as she took in her surroundings. Michel felt her gaze moving inexorably toward him. He knew he should look away. But that would be like admitting his son’s guilt. And then she was staring at him with her black eyes. Michel expected rage and hate, but instead there was a deep curiosity. As if she was asking him a question. Without thinking, he gave his head a single shake. She held his gaze a moment longer, her expression unreadable, before she looked away.

Cantor returned.

“We’re up first,” he said. “Michel, it’s important you don’t do or say anything in front of the judge.”

Michel nodded. Cantor took a seat at the table in front of Michel and began to pull folders from his briefcase. Christopher entered from a side door, accompanied by two guards. He wore an orange jumpsuit. His hands were shackled in front of him. He looked very small. His eyes were downcast. Making himself invisible, like he would do when his mother was ill. Michel was tempted to speak his name but remembered his instructions. The guards directed Christopher to the chair next to Cantor. He did not sit, however. Instead, he turned to face his father. Michel stood and opened his arms and his son fell into them. He smelled of bitter soap. His body quivered slightly, like an idling machine. The guards spoke to them; Michel felt a hand on his arm.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” he said.

He released his son and sat down. There were tears on his face and he wiped furiously at them. Eden’s mother was looking at them, her dark eyes still unreadable.

The judge entered, a tall man with wispy gray hair. He spoke to a clerk whose desk was directly below his bench. When they finished, the clerk stood and said that Christopher Paul Mahoun was charged with murdering Eden Angela Perry. Christopher stood and, his voice almost inaudible, claimed he was not guilty. A long discussion broke out over bail. Cantor talked about Michel’s place in the community, Christopher’s grades, his acceptance at BC. The female prosecutor talked about his relatives in Paris and Beirut, his French passport. Finally, the judge said there would be no bail, although he made it clear that they would be revisiting his decision soon. And then it was over. The judge left; the guards led Christopher out a side door. He didn’t turn around.

Cantor tried to be encouraging. He said it was unusual for the judge to offer another bail hearing so quickly. There was still a chance Christopher could be out soon. Michel nodded, though he wasn’t really listening. He just wanted to get away so he could call Alice and they could set about the business of liberating his son.





DANIELLE


When she finally saw him, she didn’t feel the things she’d expected. She’d arrived at the courthouse believing that confronting Christopher Mahoun would give her certainty. Part of her knew she should be feeling it already. The facts certainly suggested as much. He’d been alone with Eden in the house, the last person to see her alive. He had some sort of fixation on her. The police were now saying that the chunks of flesh beneath her daughter’s nails definitely came from his neck. It was him.

But when she saw the boy’s father, the doubts Patrick had instilled last night returned. He wasn’t what she’d expected. At all. With that name, she’d thought he’d be like one of the wholesalers who dealt with Slater. Coarse, heavy-browed men with pitchy voices and suspicious eyes. But the elder Mahoun was more like a European, with his dark suit and fine features. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Rich European types did evil things all the time. Just look at history. And yet when he shook his head at her, it was hard not to feel that they were both trapped in the same hell.

Her doubts deepened when Christopher appeared, shackled and terrified. She’d seen photos of him but they hadn’t prepared her for this. He was just a baby. Danielle had been around violence her whole life and there was none of that to him. She just couldn’t see it. Eden could handle herself. She’d seen off much more formidable boys than this. There had to be something Danielle was missing.

She was tempted to express her doubts to the detectives and the DA, but she knew that her words would fall on deaf ears. They’d been so certain at the press conference. What an ordeal that had been. Danielle hadn’t wanted to attend. Being paraded in front of all those cameras, having her image broadcast even more widely than it’d been already—the thought terrified her. But Gates, as usual, was very persuasive. They needed her there, standing up for her fallen child. And so it was back to Emerson. Danielle wore the big sunglasses Eden had given her for her birthday. A crowd had gathered outside the police building. It was a real production. Microphones, cops and suits, the press, a small group of citizens who had nowhere better to be. Gates greeted her warmly. She was introduced to the DA handling the case, a large woman named Penny. She looked like someone who lived with a cat and a mother and a lifetime of slights she took out on the shitheels she put away.