Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [102]
Juliana, wearing dark glasses and a heartbreaking little pink suit, legs crossed, long dark hair blown out straight and looking about twenty-five years old, was sitting in the shade with her mother. Devon had pulled a chair close and was speaking intimately. Juliana’s arms were folded and she appeared to be staring straight ahead, turning guardedly as I neared.
“Hi, Juliana. Great to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.”
“Ana,” said Devon, “you’re not supposed to be here.”
“I just want to say thank you. Can’t I say thank you?”
“No, you cannot be seen talking with a witness!”
But I was already shaking Lynn Meyer-Murphy’s hand. I think it was the first time I had smiled in about a month and the fresh breeze blowing through the courtyard smelled like spring.
“Thank you for coming and for bringing Juliana. I know this is hard for her and I really, really appreciate it.”
“Ana,” said Devon, standing up so his chair moved back with a scrape, “go back upstairs.”
A long time ago I had stood on the threshold of the Meyer-Murphy home, shaking the hand of a woman wearing mismatched clothing who was deeply in shock. Her eyes squinted and her affect was blank, but after a brief moment’s nod toward her discomfort, I was impatient to get inside and go to work. Now it was Lynn’s face that was composed, and her fingers that withdrew first and went to the calfskin shoulder bag and took out the car keys.
“Are you leaving?”
“We’ll be up in a minute,” Devon assured me.
“What’s the matter, Juliana?”
“I’m having a panic attack,” replied the girl.
I saw her rigid carriage was effort, not composure. Her face was flushed and beneath the defiantly crossed arms her chest was heaving.
“It’s okay. It will pass,” she said bravely.
“Ask for a recess,” I told Devon. “The witness is ill.”
“Juliana wants to go for it now,” my lawyer replied urgently.
“I’d rather get it over with,” Juliana said, breathing through her nose.
“What do you think?” I asked her mother.
“I’ve been told to let her make her own decisions,” she said in a voice that was raw with self-pity.
Lynn was also wearing a suit, royal blue, and the two looked as if they should be lunching at Café Pinot, except for the obvious anger crackling between them that made it hard to imagine them even sitting at the same table. Despite her equanimity, Lynn was clutching the car keys so tightly her knuckles had turned pink.
“But she’s sick,” I protested.
“I’m not sick. It’s just a panic reaction to being in a big room in front of people. It’s a feeling, not a fact. The fact is, I’m safe. I’m safe here,” Juliana repeated, apparently as she had been taught.
“Let’s roll,” said Devon, looking at his watch. “This judge likes to go home at four.”
Juliana and her mother stood up.
“No,” I said, “no. Thank you, but no.”
“No, what?”
“I don’t want Juliana to testify.”
Devon, used to all manner of sudden turns, adroitly steered into the skid.
“I know how protective you feel of Juliana, and you’ve spoken very touchingly of your concern that she’ll be further traumatized by going up there and talking to the judge—”
“She’s in no shape to do this.”
“She wants to. Don’t you, Juliana?”
Juliana nodded, clutching a tiny black handbag in front of her, as if about to fall off her feet.
“Listen to what this young woman is telling you.”
Devon stood with one hand on the round wire table to take the weight off his bad leg. The awkward posture thrust his upper body forward, made him look gracelessly eager.
“Do they know the prosecutor has a right to cross-examine?” I said. “Do they know he can question her about the rape? He’ll make her relive it and he’ll put the blame for being raped, for being kidnapped by Ray Brennan, on her.”
“No,” said Lynn, looking back and forth to Juliana. “Nobody told us that. What would that have to do with—”
“I am acting in your best