In the Company of Liars (20 page)

P
eshawar was like another country. The terrain was not dissimilar but the people were. Other than the Afghan refugees, Ram had met very few people who were not natives in Baluchistan. Peshawar was different, a dusty town on the western border. Dozens of languages spoken on the street, different accents speaking each language. The contrasts were staggering. Exquisite Islamic architecture in one direction, an Afghani refugee camp teeming with women and children, sick and deprived, in the other. Men of all ages moved through the streets with assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

Father had said that he would sell carpets in Peshawar, that commerce was good there, better than in Quetta, and Ram knew that this was owing to the overflow of refugees and freedom fighters, and Americans and British there to help them fight the Soviets. Peshawar, near the Khyber Pass, was the principal gateway for the
mujahedin
into
Afghanistan, and this had made Peshawar an international city in the most notorious sense of that word.

They lived with Father's cousin in a small house. Ram and his father shared a bedroom, slept nestled together every night. Father would always wait for Ram to fall asleep, caressing his hair, singing to him. They clung to each other, Ram believed, out of utter fear of losing the last remnant of their family.

But sometimes Father would leave the bed after he thought his son was asleep. Ram, as he was now called—he would never again be addressed as Zulfikar or Zulfi—would sometimes rise from the bed and listen in on conversations taking place between his father and the men who would come to visit.

They would talk about weapons. They would talk about
jihad.

Ram saw changes. There had been enough upheaval already for him, the loss of his mother and sister, the move to a new village, but the single constant in his life, his father, began to change as well. There was something to the look in his eyes, something Ram had never seen previously—a sadness, an anger, a sense of purpose. And soon enough, in less than a year from the time they landed in Peshawar, they moved again, to their own home. Father was doing well in the carpet business, he told Ram; things were better financially than they had ever been before, and they would stay that way. Ram was glad, for his father more than himself. Ram just wanted what he had in Quetta. But there was no turning back, of course. So he did what his father told him to do, did not discuss politics and concentrated on schoolwork, which his mother would have wanted.

It was not until Ram was thirteen, after the Soviets had been repelled from Afghanistan, after the American CIA largely left Peshawar behind along with thousands of armed militants, after the United States reimposed economic and
military sanctions on Pakistan for its development of nuclear technology, that Ram's father finally told him.

Ram Haroon walks into the foyer of the Wickard Building on campus and removes his gloves and hat. Even the short trip from the dorms to this building, in this weather, requires full gear. He has spent the better part of two years in America's Midwest, and still he remains shocked by the extremes in the climate.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees his contact, sitting in the lounge area in the open foyer, wearing headphones, face buried in a textbook. Haroon readjusts his backpack, and his contact, at the opposite end of the foyer, gets up and leaves through the south entrance of the building. Haroon makes his way into the lounge area and mills around a moment, as if to choose a seat in the rather populated site, then decides to take the seat where his contact was sitting only moments ago.

It is a chair in the corner of the lounge area, really two panels forming an L. Haroon takes off his coat and sits on it, then sets his backpack on the other chair and makes a point of sifting through its contents, while his other hand reaches under the cushion and quickly finds the note. He does not immediately read it, naturally. With one casual maneuver, he drops the note—a piece of stationery folded in half—into the pack.

Haroon kills twenty minutes until his class on socialism in the twentieth century is to begin. As he reads the textbook for the class, he reaches into his bag, removes the note, and drops it into the textbook.

Things are proceeding as planned. The testing is coming along very well. There is a high degree of confidence. Finalization should coincide with final exams.

 

As for her: Things are as good as could be expected. She is more concerned with protecting family than winning
case. No indication whatsoever that she has any idea, regardless. This was probably all about nothing. But the doctor is insisting we keep watch, so we will.

The doctor.
Ram Haroon smiles. His contact is keeping the reference vague, but Haroon knows. He can do his homework, too. Doctor Neil Lomas is his name, and he is good. Unsteady, but good. Nervous about nothing, but good. He can be as neurotic and dependent as he wants to be, as long as he delivers the formula.

But all in all, good news here. His contact has gone to great lengths to assure Haroon that things are proceeding appropriately. He expects to hear such things, of course; they want Haroon to feel safe and secure. They want this job to go through as much as Haroon's people do. Yet Haroon realizes that his partners are sharing the risk, in their minds probably taking greater chances than he is. Haroon, after all, is doing this for a cause, something he is willing to place himself in harm's way to achieve. His partners are Americans, doing this for money. A jail cell or notoriety would be far more horrifying to them than to Ram Haroon. So he must assume that these assurances are sincere, that his partners truly believe the coast to be clear. They will hope for the best, which is to say they will hope that Allison Pagone does not know what they fear she knows. They will hope for a trial that proceeds without incident, and then they can move forward with their plan. What they do not realize is that Haroon could never agree to let Allison Pagone live. If she were convicted, she could make a deal at any time, trade information for leniency or even clemency. The only way to guarantee Allison Pagone's silence, he recognizes, is to silence her.

A
llison closes the door in the small, sparsely furnished room in the public library. This is an unexpected place to meet but, in a way, that's the point. This library is about three miles to the south of Allison's home, which makes it a bit closer to Mansbury College, from which Jessica had to travel to meet her.

Allison turns from the door. Jessica is wearing an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, her hair back in a ponytail. Her expression is a combination of concern and antagonism; Jess has never been able to reconcile the two over the last few months. She resents her mother but she loves her, too, and she is desperately concerned about this criminal prosecution.

Allison hasn't seen Jessica for several weeks, so despite the urgency of this meeting, she cannot help but first take measure of her daughter. She is truly a beauty, a natural one, not relying on makeup or an extravagant hairstyle or
anorexic dieting. She has a strong, intelligent face, a complexion reflecting her father's Latino heritage and her mother's pale skin, wide dark eyes, a full mouth. Allison has always felt that Jessica could have her selection of guys, though she no longer enjoys that notion.

There's a guy, but you wouldn't approve.

It's someone at work, Mother, okay?

“Is everything okay?” Jessica asks, touching her mother's arm. Oh, that look on her face. Jess is trying to hold everything together, something she has recently found not to be easy at all.

“It's going to be fine, Jess. I'm sorry to be so insistent like this. And I don't have long to talk. We—we probably shouldn't talk very much about this.”

They shouldn't talk, Allison means, because Jessica will be a witness at trial. Anything that the two of them say could be discovered by the prosecution.

“You went straight from campus to my house that night,” Allison says. “You were studying on campus, then you came home to get away from the noise. You got to my house at eight-thirty. You studied, fell asleep, then I came home sometime before two in the morning.”

Jessica frowns. This, almost verbatim, is what she told the police. “Did something happen?” she asks.

“I think it might be better,” Allison says, “if you simply testify that you got to my house at eight-thirty. There's no real reason to elaborate on what you were doing before that. It's not relevant.”

“It's not relevant,” Jessica responds warily, “but you're pulling me out of class in the middle of the day to have me meet you here.”

Allison drops her head.

“Did something happen, Mother?”

“Jess.” Allison raises a hand, looks her daughter in the eye. “I want you to remember what you told the police. You
went into some detail about the fact that you were at the student center studying, then you went back to your dorm room, then you came to my house.”

“That's right.”

“There's no need to volunteer that information, but have it ready.” Allison sighs. “The best thing would be not to talk about it at all. Just to say, ‘I got to my mother's house at eight-thirty.' The less said on the subject, the better.”

There is a small circular table with two chairs in the room, and Jessica carefully settles into one of them. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and stares at the table, runs her hand over the surface slowly, as if she were cleaning it with a cloth.

“Talk to Paul Riley about this,” Allison pleads. “Whatever he thinks you should do, trust him. You always have the right to invoke the Fifth Amendment, too.”

The mention of taking the Fifth, Allison realizes, is explosive, and has the effect she feared. In what passes for only an instant, Jessica is in tears, covering her face with her hands.

Allison rushes to Jessica, folds her into her arms. The intimacy is welcome to Allison, circumstances notwithstanding. She cannot remember the last time she held her daughter.

“This is my fault,” she whispers to Jessica. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing is going to happen to me. Nothing is going to happen to your father. Believe that, Jess. Believe it. This is all going to be over soon, and you can get on with your life.”

Her daughter sobs uncontrollably, a complete melt-down. Allison did not want this, but this was important enough. The subject had to be raised. She has to be sure.

“This is my fault,” she repeats, resting her chin on her daughter's head, caressing her hair. “I won't let anything happen to you or your father.”

L
arry Evans scribbles on his notepad. “And why do you think it was so successful?” he asks. “
April Showers
?”

“Oh.” Allison looks over Larry's head at the shoppers in the grocery store. “I think women readers liked a strong female character. A character with warts, bumps, flaws, just like any other person. Yet, April wasn't threatening to men, I don't think. They liked her, too. She was funny. She was feminine. She didn't mind having a door opened for her.”

“I liked her. I loved that book.” Larry smiles. “By the way, what's your favorite book?” he asks. “Best thing you ever read?”

Allison shrugs, as if there were so many from which to choose. In fact, she has an answer at the ready, but it's not a book. She remembers the character, because Allison herself played the role in college theater. Nora Helmer, wife of Torvald, identified principally in her life as such—the flighty wife, the mother, when in fact it was her strength that held everything together, her courage that saved
Torvald's life, his lack of courage that finally propelled her to leave him.
I have been performing tricks for you, Torvald. That's how I've survived. You wanted it like that.

The way I am now, I'm no wife for you.

Larry seems to be observing her, probably notes the change in her expression. He makes a point of glancing at his watch. “I don't mean to monopolize your time here with background.”

“No, that's fine.” Allison waves a hand. “These subjects are far more enjoyable than what most people want to talk about these days.”

Larry puts down his pen. “I'll tell you something, Allison, if I may.” Larry bites his lip. He has a way about him, a low-key approach. She imagines his rugged looks and easy demeanor play well with the female population.

“You may,” she says.

“I think you're innocent.”

“Oh.” Allison laughs, an outburst closer to dismay than joy.

“No, I mean—I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it. I just don't see it in you.”

Allison smiles. “Larry, we met about—what—six weeks ago? We've spent all of maybe twenty hours together. You don't know me.”

“I'm a good judge of people. Plus, I'm no lawyer, but—well.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“But what?”

Larry shakes his head. “I was going to say, the evidence looks pretty thin to me. Like it just doesn't say very much. They have evidence that you were there. Your hair, the earring, the broken nail. Sure. And yes, Sam's blood was found on your sweatshirt. But if you and Sam were seeing each other—”

Larry looks at Allison, as if he were a ten-year-old who just cussed in front of his mother.

“I'm not saying you were or you weren't,” he quickly qualifies.

Allison, of course, has denied having a romantic relationship with Sam to the police, and she has made no public statement on this subject. The police got it out of Jessica when they questioned her, which puts Allison in a bit of a pinch. Larry Evans, ever the diplomat, has tried to keep away from the sensitive topics in their discussions. He doesn't want to poke the bear.

“This is all I'm saying, Allison. That stuff—the hair and fingernail and earring and blood—just means you were there at some time. It doesn't mean you were there on the night he was murdered.”

“His blood just happened to be on my sweatshirt?”

“Oh, it wasn't like a significant blood spatter or anything,” Larry says. “So yes. People bleed sometimes. I had a girlfriend once, cut her lip and I ended up with her blood all over my shirt.” He shrugs. “I'm just saying. All of these things could happen in a different setting. Not when he was murdered.”

“They say I went back to the house at one in the morning the night he was murdered,” Allison replies.

“They say a
car
that looks like yours—a Lexus SUV—drove to his house then.”

“Who else would be driving my car?”

“Assuming it was your car.”

“Yes, assuming it was my car.”

“Who else would be driving—” Larry grunts a laugh. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Allison shakes her head in frustration. “I'm the only one with keys to my car, first of all. And they have me barging into Sam's office the day before, shouting at him. And the office aide overheard Sam dumping me.
And
”—she raises a finger—“they have me returning home at two in the morning, with dirt on my face and hands.”

“You mean
Jessica
has you returning home at two in the morning with dirt on your face and hands.”

Allison draws back. “I'm not enjoying this conversation.”

Larry Evans leans forward, his eyes narrow. “You know what I think about this conversation, Allison, if I may say so?”

She waves a hand, still fuming.

“I think you're trying very hard to convince me that you're guilty.”

Allison looks away, not ready with a response, but something hot and creepy invades her chest. “Why all this talk about Jessica?” she asks.

Larry equivocates, raising his hands, cocking his head.

“Is this coming from your source in the department?” she demands. This has been Larry Evans's primary chit in their deal, the source in the police department, from whom he would feed Allison nuggets of information.

“They're wondering about the chronology of events that night,” Larry admits. “It's standard procedure, from what I'm told. They do a timeline. And they fit their witnesses on that timeline. What can they say about Jessica? She says she was at your house at—what was it—eight?”

“Eight-thirty,” Allison whispers.

“Okay, but what about before that? She says she was studying back at Mansbury College, but there's no corroboration for that.”

Allison takes Larry's hand. “Tell me everything, every single thing, they're saying about Jessica.”

“That's it, Allison. I'm not saying she's a suspect. They're just trying to tie everything up, and Jessica is a big piece.
She's
the one who says you were away from the house on the evening Sam Dillon was murdered,
she's
the one who says you had dirt on your hands and your face,
she's
the one who says you were wearing that sweatshirt with Sam's blood on it, and
she's
the one who says you
admitted having an affair with Dillon when you denied that fact to the police. So she matters to them a great deal. It's a circumstantial case, we all know that, and she's the biggest link. So my guy there, he was just saying, when your best witness against a suspect is her daughter, there's going to be some concern.”

Allison cringes. “But they're not saying she was a suspect.”

“No,
they're
not.”

Allison glares at Larry.

“Hey.” He raises his hands. “I'm just a reporter. But my job is to look at facts. So I'm supposed to believe that you went to his house, bludgeoned him, an earring fell out, a nail broke, a hair fell out, and you got a little blood on your sweatshirt.”

Allison doesn't answer.

“A sweatshirt that says ‘Mansbury College,' by the way.”

“She gave me the sweatshirt,” Allison insists. “It was mine. Just because she's a student at Mansbury, that means no one else could wear a sweatshirt with the school name?”

Larry Evans smiles. His eyes drift from hers. “No,” he concedes. “Of course, it could have been your sweatshirt. That doesn't mean the story washes.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“This
is
ridiculous,” Larry agrees. “What is ridiculous is whatever it is you're doing. She's close with her father, you've told me. Her father was in trouble. He was being investigated by the feds. Maybe Sam Dillon knew something. He was a threat to your ex-husband. Which made him a threat to someone who loved your ex-husband.” Larry takes a breath. “Look, I don't know your daughter, Allison. But it makes sense. She worked at Sam Dillon's office, right? She was close to all of this.”

“Jessica didn't murder Sam,” Allison says.

“Oh, okay.” Larry falls back in his seat, waves a hand at
her. “
You
did, right? You beat him over the head, accidentally left some evidence behind, and some evidence on you.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Why is that—” Larry Evans messes with his hair, shakes his head absently. “Allison,” he says, leaning close now, his hand trembling, “who wears expensive platinum earrings with a sweatshirt?”

Allison jumps out of her chair, spilling the remnants of her cup of coffee, knocking Larry's notepad to the floor. She moves quickly from a walk to a run out of the grocery store.