April Smith - Good Morning, Killer

B.

Mike Donnato’s wife, Rochelle, was a very efficient person who used hot rollers and who, God knows, could track the roasts in the freezer and the kids’ activities, both of which she penciled in on a calendar that hung in a nook completely devoted to scheduling. She was a good lady, a scuba instructor, who besides holding down a full-time job in a management firm, which she got after going back to law school, volunteered with a program to teach underprivileged kids to scuba dive. She had been an FBI wife for seventeen years, during the days when postings changed year to year. Their oldest boy had gone to four different schools.

“What happened?” she asked one night in the kitchen.

“I can’t talk about it.”

“I understand, but this is family.”

“My lawyer would kill me. You know lawyers.”

“If we’re not family,” squirting pink dishwashing liquid into a baking pan, “who is?”

Devon had been adamant. “Don’t talk to anybody. If someone contacts you claiming to be a private detective, you say, Call my attorney. If it’s 60 Minutes on the phone, hang up. I’ve seen it time and time again. Many cases are won by the prosecution, not because of evidence they have at the beginning, but by what the defendant says to so-called friends and family.” A natural athlete, Rochelle looked great in nothing but sweat shorts and a little tank top. Her arms were shapely, and she liked her tight gold bracelets. She had an ankle tattoo from surfing days and was fussy about her long red nails — would never pry open a lid without using a gizmo, or wash the pots without big blue rubber gloves.

“You know I’m grateful to be here.” I touched her hard freckled shoulder. “If you guys didn’t take me in, I don’t know where I’d be.”

“Mike thinks the world of you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“He has total faith.”

Bubbles were rising in the pan. The kitchen smelled like gardenias on a sugar high.

“I’m glad, because it’s going to be a battle,” I said. “Being a woman FBI agent is bad news.”

“You’d think it would be just the opposite.”

“ You and I would,” trying to seal a very watery bond. “But females on the jury will resent the fact that I’m— relatively —young and free, and sleeping with this hunky cop, and males will think I’m a ball buster.” Rochelle turned with an indignant pout. “ He came after you .”

“That’s true. I can say that much. Where does the spaghetti pot go?”

She pointed with a dripping rubber finger. “Underneath.” Then, “I don’t see why women have to be so jealous of each other.”

“Laws of the jungle.”

“Look how many hours you and Mike spent together when you were partners — I didn’t have a problem with that.”

There was an earsplitting crash as all the metal lids in the cabinet where I had been fumbling with the pot fell down, scattering like cymbals.

“Sorry.”

“And I work with men,” Rochelle went on. “My boss is a man, we’re together all day and after work for drinks with clients — I mean, get a grip.”

“Well,” I said, on my knees, trying to fit the lids back into a special rack, “usually these jurors are older. Another generation.”

“You may not even go to trial.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Berringer is a big strong guy. You’re pleading self-defense?”

“I’ve got to go into Devon’s office and work that out.”

“They would drop the charges if your boyfriend said forget it.”

“Not with Mark Rauch running for mayor.”

“Still.” Rochelle pulled off the gloves and slapped them in the dish drainer where the baking pan lay, gleaming and steaming. “What if Berringer stated it was a lovers’ quarrel, none of your business, over and out? Do you even know what your boyfriend thinks?” I closed the cabinet and stood. “I don’t know anything.”

She was already making the boys’ lunches for the following day. A whole new meal had appeared on the counter: cheese, bologna, iceberg lettuce, plastic bags.

“Can I help?”

“I’ve got it. Years of practice,” she added, which made me feel annoyed.

“Well, anyway”—I smiled—“it’s been great to hang out with you. Except for the circumstances.”

“I agree.” She smiled back, whirling the cap off the mayonnaise. “When this is over, and you can talk —because talking is a prerequisite — you’ll have to join my book group. It’s a great group of girls, you’ll love it.” I realized she was afraid of me. Let’s face it, she had an unstable individual on her hands, awakening in the early hours, liable to get the dry heaves any hour of the day. When I wasn’t heaving I was crying, long emotionless jags in the hobby room. I was down to 104 pounds. Rochelle had shared some tranquilizers, which laid you down in a cradle of bliss for a while, then tossed you out on your ass.

Hours before dawn, spaced on pills that were rejecting me, I would pace the empty kitchen muttering, “What do I do now?” desperate to call someone, but the whole country was asleep, even Donnato, asleep with his wife. Tenderness for him sometimes swelled so hard I had to close my eyes and bear down, but I was practiced at trammeling my feelings for Mike.

Rochelle knew, and it made her afraid, but she sheltered me anyway, because Mike had given her no choice.

Loyalty.

Juliana called the cell phone one of those mornings. I did not tell her where I was nor, at first, what was going on.

“Um, well, this is minor and stupid, but, my swim coach wants me back on the team. And I don’t want to do it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a joke. My times are so bad.”

Although speaking to Juliana off the record during the investigation of her case had not exactly been kosher, talking to her now felt very not right.

“The only reason,” she was going on, “is they’re all in a conspiracy to get me back to school.”

“What conspiracy?”

“My parents. The vice principal.”

“Maybe it’s time.”

How long could I stay on the phone without violating someone or something? With Devon’s constant haranguing all I could see was Mark Rauch subpoenaing the phone records and jumping on the fact I had been talking to a vulnerable young rape victim at four in the morning, after I was suspended from the Bureau. Who knew what he would make of that, but it would not be an ice cream soda.

“I don’t want to go to school.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Kill myself,” Juliana said.

I closed my eyes and went into hostage negotiator mode.

“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?”

“Don’t trip.”

“I have to trip.”

“I didn’t call to get yelled at!”

“I’m not yelling. Am I?”

“Yes, you are.”

“I don’t mean to yell.”

“You’re the only one who understands.”

Is this what children do? Force you to see the excruciating difference between your real self and who you are pretending to be, you think, for them?

“I—” My voice faltered, which was not hostage negotiator mode. “Juliana, I really, really care about you. Anything you say to me is all right. I’m here for you.”

From the quality of the silence I could tell she was fighting tears.

“When people talk about killing themselves, they very often mean it. I need to know what’s going on with you.”

“It’s just an expression, for God’s sake! I’m not an idiot. I would never do anything like that. Don’t you think I know what everyone — my parents — went through just because of the rape? I would never do that. It has nothing to do with what I’m talking about!” “What?”