Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [103]
“And how you get her there doesn’t matter?”
Devon spoke deliberately, sarcastically, annunciating every word: “She-says-she-can-do-it.”
“She has no idea. You’re putting her up against Mark Rauch? No,” I said. “No way! He’ll malign her character,” turning back to Lynn, “so the judge won’t take what she says seriously. I can’t believe you weren’t briefed on this! He’ll make her look like a pot-smoking disenfranchised spoiled Westside kid looking for kicks who got in over her head. Who’s been bullied into testifying by the big bad scary FBI agent and her lawyer. Maybe it will set her back, maybe it won’t, but look, I shot the guy, there’s no question that I shot him—”
“Shut up, Ana,” said Devon County, former LAPD. “You’re fucking yourself, excuse my language.”
Juliana shrugged. Her mother looked confused.
“You’d rather go to trial?” asked Lynn, dubious. “Because, well, that’s what Mr. County said. He said, if the judge thinks you shot this policeman for a not very good reason—you’ll go to trial, right? And maybe go to jail.”
A thousand replies sprung up at once. “I’ll take that risk.”
“We have to get back,” interrupted Devon, grabbing his crutch and making for the glass doors. Awkwardly, he held them open, challenging us to follow. Only Lynn walked on ahead.
“Mom?” called Juliana, waiting uncertainly, holding on to the mini purse.
She turned. “It’s up to you.”
“Since when has anything ever been up to me?” Juliana catcalled back.
Lynn’s lips compressed and her eyes were blinking rapidly.
“You told me to stay out of your life.”
“Ladies?” Devon implored.
“He’s talking to you,” Lynn repeated, in a voice as jagged as a shard of glass, suddenly a weapon capable of cutting.
It seemed impossible this same woman had sat on the kitchen floor and wept for her lost daughter.
“Lynn,” I asked, “what’s going on?”
She straightened her back and fixed her sunglasses. But before she could reply, if she were going to reply, Juliana said, “My parents are getting a divorce.”
The lazy sunshine, relaxed figures, polished fruit and chrome fittings on the espresso machine parked between two shaggy trees made a hopeful frame for an urban oasis, but it wasn’t, really, not for these two. Where there had been connection, now there was emptiness. Where there had been a family with all its gnarly, snotty, tear-filled, heated, cleaving, lustful, playful, painfully shared aliveness, now we had disembodied individuals hurtling into space.
You see, the actions of Ray Brennan had caused this to happen to the Meyer-Murphy family.
We are drawn to the nexus of violence. Everybody’s hot to reconstruct the crime scene—crawl inside the bore and ride the spiraling projectile; pilot the factors that brought so-and-so together with so-and-so at such-and-such a time and place. I have noticed small attention paid to the aftermath, the shock waves released into the human atmosphere, more deadly than the original event because they have a wider range; an infinite range, if you think about the physics.
“I am so sorry about your marriage, I cannot say.”
“A long time coming,” Lynn Meyer-Murphy sniffed.
“Mom?” said Juliana. “What should I do?”
“It’s up to you,” she repeated, tiredly this time. She was worn out by it and had nothing left. “I know you care for Ana and you want to help. That’s very admirable. I’ll support you. Whatever you want to do. I have a Xanax in my purse if you need it.”
In response, Juliana raised her chin and marched toward the door that Devon County patiently still held open.
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s not for a fifteen-year-old to decide to put herself in harm’s way,” and stepped in front of Juliana and put my hands on hers. They were quivering with the tension of holding on to the purse.
“Please go home,” I told her gently. “If you want to do something, do that for me.”
Then I took her in my arms and told her that I loved her.