Burning September (15 page)

I didn’t know if I could handle all that.  I had none of Caroline’s black magic or carved glass insides.  I was too soft, a coward, the moron unable to connect dots.  At least I could admit that shameful truth to myself; admitting you had a problem was the first step. 

Testifying alone would have been enough to make me start crumbling.  She may have been strong for me her whole life, but when the tables were reversed, could I do it for her? The Fireball bubbling in the pit of my empty stomach gave an obstinate
yes!
but my realistic left brain disagreed. 

“Did you tell her all this when you spoke with her at Breakthrough?”

“Yes.”

Her apologetic email made a little more sense, then.  Massaging me back into place with sorrys and surprise presents given in the spirit of a holiday she didn’t believe in.  Ordering me to back off and then changing her mind.  Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. PMS.  And then I thought about something she’d told me years earlier, that nobody’s all good or all bad; those who claim otherwise are liars or delusional.  Everyone’s got light and dark.  Like me, how I wanted to punch her square in her perfect nose and then grab her hand and yank her out of Breakthrough Recovery Center. 

“And was she surprised?”

“It didn’t seem like it, but she’s got a decent poker face, I gather.  She didn’t look thrilled.”

Because she probably thought I couldn’t handle it.  A greasy wave of weakness spilled through my veins, rendering me unable to look him in the eye.  I looked at the cat instead, the way his fluffy spine rose and fell as he slept.  “Do you think I can do it?  I’m not the best public speaker.  Or very charismatic.”

“If I thought you couldn’t do it,” he said carefully, taking his time over each word, “I wouldn’t have even considered using your statement in Caroline’s defense.  The prosecutor wouldn’t be likely to call you after reading what you’d said in your statement, and a weak witness for the defense is worse than no witness at all.”

“How many murder cases have you tried?”

“I’ve represented twelve clients who’d been charged with murder.  Only three of those cases went to trial.”

“And how did those trials go?”

“I lost one.”

Not spectacular odds, I thought, chewing my bottom lip.

“The other nine pled out to much lesser charges, manslaughter being the worst.”  He snorted, taking in my expression.  “Who do you think I am, Johnny Cochran?  You must watch too much TV.  That’s a solid track record.  The partners in my firm are happy, so I am, too.”

“I’d have expected Victoria Rasmussen to hire a high-on-the-food-chain shark of an attorney,” I pointed out, waiting for the crack in his armor of confidence, or at least a gasp of surprise I’d figured it out, but I got neither, only his trademark infuriating smile.

“Ah, but her brother-in-law has quite a bit of faith in me.  Can I make a suggestion the name front for this little guy?” He tilted his head toward the cat. 

“If you want.”

“Nicholas.  It’s only fitting.  He showed up on Christmas Eve.  And Saint Nicholas is a bit of a mouthful for such a small cat.”

“Works for me.”  A fork of jealousy stabbed me in the gut, churning my intestines around the tines like spaghetti as I watched his clear camaraderie with Nicholas, the way his fingers instinctively twisted through mounds of fur and incited louder purrs.  “I’ve haven’t taken care of an animal before.  Don’t know the first thing about them.  Caroline hates them, so I’ve never gotten any practice.”

He rolled his sleeves up to the insides of his elbows and reached for the bottle of Fireball.  “I’m never fully comfortable around people who hate animals.” 

***

The next morning, I awoke to a knock, but nobody stood outside the front door when I’d straggled across the living room and answered it, just an envelope shoved through the doorjamb which fluttered to the ground.  I stooped to grab it before water bled through and slit it open. 

I closed my palm around the key inside and read the card.

The red one
was the only message it bore, in the unmistakable hand of my sister. 

After hunting down a pair of mismatched shoes, I made my way through the condo complex and out to the streets which smelled heavily of rain.  I didn’t have to look long to find it, a frighteningly sporty car the same cherry red as the lipstick Caroline sometimes wore snug against the curb.  I approached as if it were a wild animal because that’s what it looked like, a feral crimson jungle cat with huge headlights for eyes, sandwiched between comparably sad looking Toyotas.  The kind of car men salivated over.  I couldn’t salivate since my mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and a feeling of something similar to trepidation washed over me, as though an invisible someone had snuck up behind me as I stood there stupidly still and slammed an egg on my head. 

I ran my hand across the
Challenger
insignia, inserted the key, and pulled the door open.  An air freshener shaped like a ball of fire hung from the rearview mirror, permeating the cabin with the strong scent of cinnamon.  Not something you want clogging your nostrils after drinking more than the recommended dose of Fireball the previous night. 

I flicked the air freshener, watched it swing back and forth.  She gave me a car for Christmas, and all I’d given her was silence. 

***

Kat,

Your new friend Nicholas has made me dream up a children’s book title—A Kitty for Kat.  I hope he doesn’t have fleas or ticks or mites or any other horrible thing stray animals catch.  Take him to the vet and check him for worms, then make sure he doesn’t scratch our sofas or claw his way up the drapes, and I may be able to make my peace with him.  He looked very prissy, judging from the picture you sent.  Did you make him that collar?  Only you would give a cat a nazar.  Looks like he’s already got the evil eye, if you ask me. 

You’re welcome for the car, but that goes without saying.  I doubt the police will ever let the Buick out of impound, and we can’t have you taking the bus for too long—do you know what kind of weirdos hang out on buses?  The one freak on the bus always wound up sitting right next to me, that’s the kind of luck I had, and I’m sure it’s no different for you.  FYI, it’s rude to ask people how much a gift cost, or how they’ve paid for it.  It’s a necessity, isn’t it?  A
used
necessity, if knowing that will calm your frazzled nerves.

Don’t apologize for being angry.  Apologies are signs of weakness.  Never apologize, never give reasons.  Only losers do that. 

C.

Didn’t that make Caroline a loser, then?  She’d apologized to me in an earlier email, hadn’t she?  Though I was long used to her mild hypocrisy and Caroline Logic, how men routinely tried their hands at playing inside the ivory walls of her chess match, never knowing that slippery habit she had of changing rules every other day.  Those games were always rigged, she made sure of that. 

***

“How was your Christmas?”  Caroline untied the elastic from her braid and shook out waves of hair.  “Better than mine, I hope, the aides still made everyone go to bed early.  All I did was count sheep and wish I was anywhere but here.”

“Mine was no more exciting than yours.”  I’d stayed up late with Nicholas and watched him chase the red dot from a laser light I shone over the walls, which had been far more amusing than I’d initially thought.  I had no idea the ninja moves of which he was capable. 

“Didn’t take the Challenger for a joyride?  That’s the first thing I’d have done.”

“To be honest, it’s a little intimidating.  I drove it here and felt like everyone was staring.”  The growl of the engine had caught me off guard, and I’d ridden the brake the entire ride over. 

She laughed, catching a golden tendril of hair and twisting it around her finger.  White lights above Breakthrough’s lobby played over rows of her pearly teeth.  “It’s the kind of car people stare at, especially when some hot young thing is in the driver’s seat.  A blonde Megan Fox.”

Attention was the last thing I’d ever wanted.  I’d have lived my whole life blending into the background if I could have gotten away with it. 

You’re too pretty to be so shy
, she used to tell me, and I always wondered what the use in being pretty was.  It only made some people hate you, others envy you, certain men want to own you, exploit you, and in Brian’s case, knock you down a few pegs—no, I’d rather be ordinary.  Boring, even.  That’d be better than the alternative. 

“Did Kyle tell you what I’d have to do to help you get out of this place?”

“Yeah.”  She cleared her throat and stared at the floor, expression growing blank, so far away it looked as though she were on a different planet.  “I wasn’t too happy to hear that.”

It means I’m your ticket out of here, I wanted to say, but the words couldn’t claw their way out of my mouth.  How could she not be thrilled, ecstatic to know the lengths I’d reach to get her out? 

Because she knew I couldn’t handle the pressure.  I may as well have had WEAKLING stamped on my forehead. 

“I’ve been saying it from the start, Kat,” she said to my non-response.  “I’ve never wanted you involved.  You’ve already lied for me.  That was enough.  I hadn’t expected you to do that to begin with.  I don’t know how much more press conferences and interviews can help.” 

“I’m scared,” I said, hating that trill in my voice.  “I don’t know if I can do it.  I’m not like you, Caroline.  I hate public speaking.  I’m not strong the way you are.  I never say the right things like you do.  Nobody thinks I’m interesting the way they think you are.  Who the hell would even care what I have to say?”

“You’re plenty interesting.”  She took my hand in hers, and I watched her lace her fingers through mine.  They fit like they’d been designed as pairs.  “I wasn’t always strong, Kat.  I don’t know where you got that idea.”  I felt her eyes burn into my profile, but I couldn’t look back at her.  “I made myself strong because I had to be, for you.  But you don’t
have
to be the strong one this time around.  These are completely different circumstances.  We’re here because I did something stupid.  That’s not the same as me taking care of my little sister.  You were an innocent little girl.  If you don’t want to do it, then you don’t have to.  This isn’t some required reading homework assignment.  I’d much rather you focus on school, not some PR fiasco I brought on myself.  I got myself into this mess.  You don’t think I can hack my way out?”

If anyone could slither out from between cracks, it would be Caroline.  “Kyle says he thinks I can handle it.  That my statement to the police makes it pretty hard for me to stay out of the picture.”

“Kyle can kiss my ass.  You can do whatever the hell you want.  It’s nobody’s choice but yours.”

But I didn’t have to soul-search to know what choice I’d make.  She was my only choice.

JANUARY

The new year brought fifty degree temperatures, clouds of birds Nicholas liked to watch from the window seat he’d claimed as his own, and a call from Kyle’s secretary requesting my appearance in his office.  I’d never been summoned anywhere in such an official capacity before, and it caused one hell of a sleepless night. 

The offices of Singer & Harrison were located in an upper-class area of Orange County, one that made me hyper-aware of my faded jeans and scuffed shoes.  Inside, the assistants looked like actors playing roles of receptionists and secretaries, but they gave me reassuring smiles and said Kyle’s assistant would fetch me shortly. 

My head was bent over my Kindle, but I wasn’t reading.  I’d given up after scanning the same line over and over, and pretended not to notice a pair of shoes drawing nearer in my peripherals until I heard someone call my name.  When I looked up, a grandmotherly woman smiled, beckoning with a wrinkled hand. 

“Katya?  I’m Kyle’s secretary.”  I stood, and she patted my shoulder.  “Come with me, honey.  Do you want anything to drink?”

I shook my head, following her chunky black shoes through labyrinthine hallways with offices on one side and cubicles on the other, until she stopped and knocked sharply on one door.  She didn’t wait for a response and turned the handle, ushering me inside the bright, airy confines of the kind of office I’d only seen in movies.  All chrome and shiny glass surfaces, a wall-sized window spilling weak morning sunshine all over the gunmetal gray carpet, Kyle behind a desk piled with files and coffee mugs. 

His eyes flicked from his computer to me as the secretary shut the door with a backward wave.  “Kat.  Thanks for coming on such short notice.  How are you?”

I dropped into the seat opposite his desk, squinting through the brightness.  “Fine, I guess.  What’s going on?”

“Nothing bad, just some things to go over.  Did Gemma ask if you wanted anything to drink?”

“Yeah.  I don’t need anything, thanks.  How come you’re the only attorney with an assistant who doesn’t look like an Abercrombie model?  I thought you were higher on the totem pole.” 

He cocked his head.  “Gemma?  I hired Gemma myself.  She types ninety words per minute and brings me cookies.  I don’t need eye candy at work.” 

I felt my eyebrows knit together.  What kind of man didn’t want eye candy period, never mind at work?  To say otherwise would be hacking at the whole foundation of
Mad Men
, wouldn’t it? 

He pushed back from his desk.  “Anyway.  I’m glad you’re here.  There’s a lot of stuff we need to discuss.”

“Like what?”

“Like PR practice runs.”

The blood in my veins turned to ice as my heart rate sped up.  “What does that even mean?”

“I need to teach you how to conduct yourself during these types of things.  Do a kind of trial run slash rehearsal.  I don’t want any surprises when the time comes.”

I knew it was coming, the media frenzy he’d wanted to whip up, but I’d pictured it as some far off storm brewing an ocean away, something to worry about later.  It took a long time for murder cases to be tried, whatever
Law & Order
portrayed.  

“It’s just me, Kat,” he said knowingly.  “There’s no need to be nervous.”

But I was. 

He stood, heading for the coffee table near the door of his office, and pointed at the couch beside it.  “You’ll sit here.” 

I did as told, though my feet felt leaden as they carried me over. 

He swept his arm across the room.  “We’ll do this exactly the same as a press conference, but without reporters.”

I shifted on the couch, not knowing what to do with my hands.  “Doesn’t that mean you should sit, too?  You’re going to be there, right?” 

“I’ll be there, but I’m not going to be sitting.  If I have to act as emcee, I’ll look lazy if I’m sitting.  You, on the other hand,” he said, inclining his head toward me, “are the sad, soft little sister of a wrongly accused woman.  You need that chair to project the image.”

I didn’t need to work hard to project that image.  I embodied that image.  Except for the wrongly accused sister part. 

“What would you start off by saying to the audience?”

“Whatever you tell me to say.”

“I’m asking what you think we’d begin with.  Work with me.”

I cast about my mind, but thoughts were elusive as water slipping through my fingers.  “Uh…I’d say I was there when she supposedly committed this murder.  I’m her alibi.”

He made a
wrong answer
buzzer noise.  “Nope.  You say thank you for coming, blah blah blah.”  He shrugged at my death glare.  “Gotta start with that.  Then what?  No—” he snapped his fingers, forcing my gaze from the floor to his face.  “No looking at the ground.  Look at me, pretend I’m the audience.  You start looking everywhere but the audience, they’ll start thinking you’ve got something to hide.”

But I had everything to hide. 

“So I thank them for coming, and then…I say Caroline’s a wrongly accused woman?”

He stopped mid-pace and swung around in the other direction.  “That sounds rehearsed.  Don’t say that.”

“Then
what
?”

“Then you say something like, my sister raised me since my mother died when I was three.  She had to, because my father was a drunk, yada yada.”  He unbuttoned the cuffs on his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows. “Don’t say drunk, though.  Say alcoholic.  She’s the only parent I’ve ever known, so I’ve got a pretty accurate idea of the type of person she is, and a murderer isn’t part of that picture, not by a long shot.” 

“If you know everything I should say, why don’t you just say it all?  I can sit there and chime in once in a while.  Nod, or bring up a point now and then.”

“No.  The main idea in any press conference is control.  You’re going to be the only speaker.  More than one person talking means less control, unlocks all sorts of doors you don’t want to see opened.  We can contradict each other in the smallest way or say the same thing two different ways, which can confuse reporters or give them opportunity to misinterpret or misquote us.  I’m not going to let that happen.”

“So this is all about making sure the reporters don’t say anything detrimental?  Why don’t we just release a statement, they can’t argue or interrupt a piece of paper.”

“A statement doesn’t give the appearance of transparency.  While I’m on the topic of transparency, never say “no comment”, it’ll blow up in your face.  You’re not a celebrity or a politician.  You have no idea how much a reporter can spin an innocent “no comment” into something horrible.”  He cracked his neck.  “So what do you say next?”

“And then…that she gave up her life to take care of me, and it forced her to be more responsible than most people her age?”

He nodded.  “And that she would never ever have done what she’s accused of.  She wouldn’t have risked it, knowing it would take her away from you.  That she’s not that type of person.” 

“And then I say the alibi thing?”

“No.  You’re going to be speaking uninterrupted for about five minutes.  After that, I’ll open the floor for questions for a limited period of time, about another five minutes.  Ramble on about all the details right from the start, the reporters will have all the ammunition they need to ask nasty little follow up questions and try to trip you up.  Even if we limit the time frame, you can bet your ass those five minutes will be chock-full of tough questions.  If you hold back on some details they’ll be forced to ask the basics.  They need those basics to be able to file a story, so by holding back we can have some control over what you’re asked.  You can say something like, I know for a fact she didn’t do this.  It couldn’t have been her, but the police rushed to make an arrest without investigating other viable suspects and angles.”

All this preparation would boil down to a mere ten minutes.  It seemed impossible.  “So, keep it vague, and eventually one of the reporters will ask how I know for a fact she’s innocent?”

“Basically.  Keep in mind this isn’t all about the reporters.  They’re not your real audience. Your real audience are the people sitting at home watching TV.  Possible jurors, people who’ll look at you and see someone who’s been dicked over by an overzealous police department.  If they side with you, they’ll side with Caroline, too.  This is about them getting to trust you and believe what you’re saying.  That’s what’s most important, here.”

What a daunting task, getting the whole of southern California on my side.  Sometimes I wasn’t even sure I was on my own side.  “Should Brian be mentioned at some point?”

“What would you say about him?”

“He stalked Caroline, in the beginning.  Called her at work, found out her phone number and her email, called and texted constantly.  He’d show up places we went and bug her about going out with him.  Even came to our condo a few times.  She kept turning him down, but he didn’t get the message.”

“I’ve spoken to a few people who can verify that, too.  Anything else?”       

“He sold drugs.  It could have been a customer who killed him, or maybe a supplier, however those things work…is that enough to fill five minutes?”

“Possibly.”  He sank onto the couch beside me.  Tapped on my knees so I’d turn to face him.  I swallowed a lump in my throat that hadn’t been there a moment ago and met his gaze head-on.  “Start from the top.  By the time we’re finished, practiced a ton, you’re going to have this whole speech committed to memory.  No surprises when the time comes.  No reason for nerves, because there’ll be no possibility of you tripping yourself up.  It’ll be like giving an oral report in high school.”

I’d always hated those.

***

It was dusk by the time Kyle and I had finished.  A churning cement sky loomed an inch above our heads as he walked me out to the parking lot.  I dug for my keys in my purse as an afterthought, still unused to owning a car. 

“Don’t start,” I said, once Kyle got a good look at the Challenger with eyes the size of silver dollars.  “I didn’t pick it out.  Caroline gave it to me for Christmas.”

“You must have been a good girl to get such a nice car.”  He gave the hood of the Challenger the kind of approving smile a teacher gives his favorite student.  “I thought about buying one of these but ended up getting a boring Audi.  Thought it’d look more mature when I showed up for court or depositions.” 

“A car’s a car.  Who cares if you showed up with one of these?”  He had the confidence to pull it off.  Unlike me. 

“One day you’ll realize a lot of things have to do with presenting the right image to the world.  I’m too young to be taken seriously in my profession, driving something like this.  This is the kind of car you’d buy after making partner, when it’s okay to have an ego the size of Texas.”

“You really think people would spend that much time thinking about what you choose to drive?”

His nostrils flared when he laughed, rocking back on his heels.  “Are you calling me insignificant?”

“No.”  I held the keys up in front of his face, swinging them back and forth like a hypnotist’s clock. 
You’re getting sleepy.
  “You want to drive it?”

“Seriously?”

“I’m not territorial about my things.”

He swiped the keys mid-swing and headed for the driver’s side at the same time a car door opened and shut somewhere behind us.  I wrenched the passenger’s door open, threw my purse on the floor mat, but Kyle hadn’t gotten in.  He stared over the hood as a staccato of clicking heels swelled closer, and when I turned, a woman stood there wearing an ugly flush and a trench coat. 

“Hi,” Kyle told her, shutting the car door.  “I didn’t expect you until later.”

“Clearly.”  I’m sure the smile she shot me had meant to come off as curiously welcoming, but it looked more disdainful than anything.  It was the same look I’d seen countless women give to Caroline, a mixture of spiteful arrogance and ill-disguised shock, but I’d never perfected the coolly condescending answering expression my sister owned.  Sharp clever eyes and a carnivorous smile.  “Who’s your
friend
?” she asked, her voice sagging with sarcasm. 

My eyebrows contracted at the coldness of her tone.  I was nobody to her, so why should she feel the need for defensive posturing?  I wasn’t worth her efforts. 

“This is Katya.”  Kyle skirted the hood of the Challenger into the gap between me and the woman I’d become rapidly convinced was his Empress.  “Katya, this is Crystal.”

“
Katya
.”  She smiled a little, fingering the strap of her purse.  “How…exotic.  Are you Russian, or something?”  But she said it with the heavy overtones of
Russian equals whore
. 

I slammed the passenger’s door shut and belted my arms across my ribcage, tracing the contours of her fried fake blonde hair with my gaze.  “Are you a stripper?  The only Crystals I’ve known have been strippers.”

Her eyes bulged, ruining the outline of her heavy liner, but Kyle cut across her retort.  “Kat, I’m sure she didn’t mean it like that—”