Elin Hilderbrand - Summer People

Instead, Constance’s whole slumping, resentful demeanor suggested she had gotten stuck with Bo, Marcus, LaTisha, a job working for the New York Board of Education, and an apartment in the same neighborhood she grew up in.

Marcus noticed Winnie staring at him, waiting for more.

“Angela and Leon got hooked on smack,” he said. He cringed at how typically urban, how typically black this sounded. “Then Angela disappeared for a while. She ran off with another man for two years, and my mother managed to get Leon into rehab. But Angela turned up again with this baby girl, Candy. My uncle went right back to her.”

“Why?” Winnie asked. “If she had a baby with another man. Wasn’t your uncle angry about that?”

“Some people like what’s bad for them,” Marcus said, parroting his mother’s words on the topic. “Leon was under this woman’s spell. She asked him to do all this crazy stuff. Do drugs, steal money from his friends.” Marcus paused for air. He didn’t want to tell the story anymore. It was too gruesome. But this was the point Zachary Celtic had tried to make during their lunch: the grislier the content of the book, the more people would flock to buy it. Marcus eyed Winnie; he thought of the five hundred dollar bills slipping through his fingers like water.

“When Candy got older, and I’m talking, like, eight and nine years old, Angela used to pimp her out. Let men come to their apartment and have sex with her daughter for money. Because neither she nor Leon worked that was, like, their source of income.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Winnie said. Her stomach was churning in an unpleasant way and she concentrated on her breathing. Her science teacher, Mr. Halperin, told their class once that nearly all pain could be managed by deep breathing.

“I should stop,” Marcus said. He knew, though, that even if he stopped talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop the images: how Angela used to dress Candy up like a woman, in nylon stockings and high heels. Marcus and LaTisha joked about it-the way Candy teetered around in the heels, the nylons bunching around her skinny, eight-year-old ankles. They had no idea what was going on, that Angela was offering Candy up to the low-life men who hung around their apartment building. Marcus had no idea that this was why Constance bought Candy the pair of black patent leather shoes and thick white cotton tights-so that she would look like a little girl and not a prostitute.

“I’ll be okay,” Winnie said. “Go ahead.”

“When my mother found out what Angela was doing-when she found out how bad it all was-she demanded that Angela let Candy live at our house. She told Angela if she didn’t let Candy come to our house to live, she’d call the police. But it was tricky, see, because then Angela told my mother that Leon had been having sex with Candy, too, and so he’d be the first person to go to jail.”

Winnie felt herself shaking on the inside. Marcus took her hand, and this surprised her. His hand was huge and warm, which made Winnie realize how small and cold and brittle her own hand was. She stared at their interlocking hands. He stared, too, confused by his own gesture. He’d taken Winnie’s hand instinctively, like he was reaching out to steady himself.

“My mother decided she didn’t care about Leon and she didn’t think Angela would turn him in anyway since he did all the dirty work scoring their drugs. Angela never left the house; she just laid in bed all day, got high and ate Hostess cakes.” Marcus emptied the last few drops from his Coke can into his mouth, then with his free hand he pried off the tab and dropped it into the can. “My mother was a teacher so she planned it.” There it was, the premeditation. “On October seventh Candy had a half day of school because of in-service. My mother waited for Candy on the street at noon and brought her home. Like, to live with us.” Intent to abduct, the D.A. said. “Mama gave her some lunch and told her, you know, that Angela and Leon were sick and needed time to get better so Candy was going to move in with us. Candy nodded and said she understood but she was crying. Mama gave her a glass of milk and let her watch cartoons on PBS.” Marcus rattled the Coke can, a sound effect-his jittery nerves, his dried-out brain rattling in his skull. “Angela wasn’t as clueless as my mother thought. When Candy didn’t make it home from school she knew where to look. She came over to take Candy back.”

Here was where the story got convoluted-for the judge, for the jury, and for Marcus. Why did Constance let the woman in? In his mind, Marcus reconfigured the end of the story so that Mama just bolted the door shut and waited for someone else to get home-Bo, Marcus, even LaTisha. Or waited for one of the neighbors to call the police. There might have been an ugly scene, but no one would have been killed.

Marcus was in the room the first time Arch met with Connie at Riker’s. Bo and LaTisha had walked out-Marcus could tell his father was nervous about having a private attorney show up because how would they ever pay for it? Connie asked Marcus to stay. The public defender was a milky-skinned woman named Fiona Dobbs who got bright pink spots on her cheeks when she spoke to Constance. She was twenty-seven years old, eighteen months out of Pace Law School, and although there was no way her defense would be effective, Constance felt comfortable around her. Arch was another story-a tall, successful-looking man with such a cheerful demeanor that Marcus wondered if he realized the reason they were here was murder . Arch introduced himself, shook hands with both Connie and Marcus, smiling right into their eyes. To Connie, he said, “We were freshmen together at Princeton. 1975, right?”

“Right,” Connie answered warily, as if it were some kind of trap. “Did I know you?”

“No,” Arch said. “But that’s why I’m here. I looked you up in the facebook. I thought maybe I could help you.”

“I can’t afford your help,” Connie said.

Arch sat down and pulled a yellow pad out of his briefcase. “Free of charge,” he said. “Let me ask you a couple of questions.”

A couple of questions turned into her whole life history up until the murders. Marcus fell asleep, his head resting against the cinder block wall behind his chair, his arms crossed in front of him. When Arch started asking about October seventh, Marcus opened his eyes. Arch’s voice was much more serious.

You were holding the knife when you opened the door?

I was trying to scare her.

That doesn’t answer my question.

Yes, I was holding the knife. She was there to take the child, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. I hated the woman. I’d always hated her.

That’s not something you’re ever going to tell a jury. What happened, exactly, when you opened the door? What did you say? What kind of movements did you make?

I can’t remember.

You’re going to have to remember. They want to execute you, Connie.

My life was over a long time ago.

That’s not true. What about your family?

Connie glanced in Marcus’s direction, her eyes like a couple of closed doors. Marcus stood up to leave. His father and sister had the right idea. He didn’t want to listen to this. Poor child. It’s not his fault. My life was over before he was even born.

Arch nodded at Marcus, as if giving him permission to go. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Can you tell me what happened with Candy?

Connie started to cry. She’s dead. God, she’s dead.

In Constance’s official testimony, there was a fight, a struggle, just like in the movies-a duel between herself, Candy’s savior, and Angela, who wanted her nine-year-old daughter to have sex with grown men for money. But in this day and age, you can’t lie about something like that. The forensic expert found no evidence of a struggle. Connie opened the door. Angela stepped in and Connie stabbed her.