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Later, Jeff and I watch another film noir in bed.Leave Her to Heaven, with Gene Tierney as an obsessive, murderous bride. So beautiful. So damaged. When the movie is over, we watch the eleven o’clock news until a story about Jeff’s case comes on. The police union held a press conference with the dead cop’s widow, urging stiffer penalties for those convicted of crimes against officers. Before Jeff can grab the remote and switch off the TV, I get a split-second glance of the widow’s face. It’s pale, deeply creased, smudged with sorrow.
“I wanted to see that,” I say.
“I thought you’d want a break from bad news.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Just like Sam’s fine. And Coop’s fine.”
Coop had left minutes after Jeff arrived, mumbling excuses about the long drive back to Pennsylvania. A clearly subdued Sam spent most of dinner trying to avoid the need to speak. And I remainedmad, despite the Xanax and the baking and probably half the box of wine. I still am, hours later. It’s an irrational, all-encompassing anger. I’m mad at everything and nothing. I’m mad at life.
“I know this is hard on you.”
“You have no idea,” I say.
That’s more than anger talking. It’s the stone-cold truth. Jeff doesn’t know what it’s like to have one of only two people just like you snatched from this earth. He doesn’t know how sad and scary and confusing that feels.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re right. I don’t. I never will. But I do understand that you’re angry.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“You are.” Jeff pauses. I tense up, knowing he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “And since you’re already mad, I might as well tell you that I have to go back to Chicago again.”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
“But you were just there.”
“The timing sucks, I know,” Jeff says. “But a new character witness has come forward.”
I look at the television’s blank screen, still picturing the face of that cop’s widow.
“Oh,” I say.
“The guy’s cousin,” Jeff continues, even though I have no desire to hear about his client’s character. “He’s a pastor. The two of them grew up together. Got baptized together. It could really help his defense.”
I flip onto my side and face the wall. “He killed a cop.”
“Allegedly,” Jeff says.
I think about Coop. What if he had been gunned down by this guy? Or what if Jeff’s client had murdered Lisa? Would I still have to pretend to be happy that some niceties from a preacher cousin could reduce his sentence? No, I wouldn’t. Yet Jeff seems to expect exactly that.
“You do know that, in all likelihood, he’s guilty, right?” I say. “That he shot that detective just like everyone says he did.”
“That’s not for me to decide.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Of course not,” Jeff says, matching me in testiness. “It doesn’t matter what he’s been accused of. He deserves as good a defense as anyone else.”
“But do you think he did it?”
I sit up slightly, peering over my shoulder at Jeff. He’s still on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He blinks once, and I can see the truth in that swift flutter of his eyelids. He knows his client is guilty.
“It’s not like I’m some expensive criminal defense attorney,” he says, as if that makes it slightly better. “I’m not getting rich from defending obvious murderers. I’m upholding a cornerstone of the American justice system. Everyone has the right to a fair trial.”