Page 130 of The Right to Remain
“Elliott, stop,” said Jack.
“I was terrified of what would happen if the policedidbelieve it.”
Jack was confused, and the prosecutors seemed even more puzzled. Elliott looked squarely at Jack as he spoke.
“Austen is not like other boys. Anyone can see that. His father saw it and hated him for it. I can relate. And I could see his future. Maybe he’s gender-confused, or for all we know he’ll have more girlfriends than George Balanchine and Mikhail Baryshnikov combined. Either way, dancing is not football or basketball, and he’s going to be teased when he’s young, maybe even bullied. What chance does he have in middle school and high school if, on top of it, he’s known as the kid who murdered his father?”
There was silence, and perhaps Jack was the only one in the room who could make sense of it. When Jack was questioning Austen at the first hearing, Elliott had tried to pass him a Post-It note—Leave my son alone—and shut him down. When Jack had asked if there was truth to Serena’s testimony that Elliott sold Austen to pay for his gender-affirming treatments, Elliott threatened to fire him. Since the start of his “speech strike,” Elliott’s only communications with Jack had been to protect Austen.
“This is making me sick,” said Weller. “You’re seriously telling us that you covered up a murder—and then you sat silent and took the blame—out of amother’s lovefor a child?”
Elliott didn’t answer. Jack was about to speak on behalf of his client, but the state attorney took the words out of Jack’s mouth.
“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” said Beckham.
It was music to Jack’s ears. He wasnotthe only one in room who “got it.”
The state attorney continued. “Mr. Stafford, take your lawyer’s advice and stop talking. Julianna, set up a meeting with Helena Pollard ASAP. I have just one question for her. Mr. Swyteck, I will be in touch with you myself before the end of the day.”
Beckham rose and shook Jack’s hand.
“Let’s go, Elliott,” said Jack.
Together the two men left the meeting and walked to the elevator. Elliott said nothing until they were inside the elevator, alone, watching the blinking lights above the door on their way to the lobby.
“Thank you,” said Elliott.
The doors opened, and they stepped into the lobby. “You’re more than welcome,” said Jack.
Chapter 48
Helena was in her new kitchen, unpacking a box of glass tumblers, when her cell phone rang. The process of moving her and Austen into their new townhouse seemed never-ending, and not until the fourth ring could she discern where, in the scattered mix of cardboard boxes and packing materials, she’d left her phone. She snatched it from beneath a pile of bubble wrap on the granite counter just before the call would have gone to voicemail.
“Hello?” she said in a breathless voice.
It was Julianna Weller. State Attorney Abe Beckham needed to meet with her. Weller was vague about the reason for the urgency but very specific about the “very important” question the state attorney needed Helena to answer.
“Does Austen know anything about how to shoot a gun?”
Weller didn’t want an answer over the phone. She told Helena to “think about it.” It was Helena’s impression that the prosecutor was hoping the answer would be no.
Helena checked the wall clock, which was still sitting on the kitchen counter, yet to be hung. Austen was in an after-school dance class at the conservatory until 6 p.m.
“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” Helena said into the phone, “but I have to leave no later than five thirty to pick up my son.”
Weller agreed, and the call ended.
Helena took a breath and collected her thoughts. She knew exactly what the meeting was about. Her only wonder was why it had taken so long for them to piece things together. Perhaps the investigation’s focus would have shifted sooner if Helena had been more forthcomingabout the way Owen treated Austen. She’d offered glimpses of his verbal abuse. What she’d left out was the first—and last—time Owen had gone way too far and struck his son for “flittering around”—not like a “fairy,” but the more vicious “f-word” that people hurled against Helena’s friends in the ballet world.
No question, she should have left Owen. It was out of fear that she’d stayed. Not the fear of physical violence but fears that Owen would convincingly deny all accusations of abuse, win the battle of “he said/she said,” turn Helena’s disastrous effort at Austen’s social media campaign against her, and ultimately win the battle for custody of their son.
She tucked her cell phone into her purse and walked to the foyer, trying to stop the memories from flooding back to her. But it was no use. As she stepped outside and closed the front door behind her, she was painfully aware that she was carrying the same purse that for a time had concealed the weapon that was used to kill her husband.
It was the same purse she’d grabbed on the day she’d warned Owen never to strike Austen again. The day she’d run out of the house with Austen, jumped in the car, and just started driving. The day she’d decided that, if they were forced to stay in the same house with Owen, she was not the only one who needed protection.
“Mom, where are we going?” Austen asked from the back seat.
They were on a busy stretch of Southwest Eighth Street known as “Calle Ocho,” but Miami’s Little Havana neighborhood was not their destination.