Michael Collins - The Death of All Things Seen

A magnified series of shots showed her head turn, looking back before she abruptly changed lanes and advanced across the six lanes of Lake Shore Drive. Her foot had not, as was initially theorized, inadvertently slipped in a moment of confusion from the brake to the accelerator pedal. Helen had deliberately changed lanes.

Mr Ahmet pointed, the steering wheel turned in a hand-over-hand manner. It was caught on a sequence of shots, the deliberateness of her action.

Helen Price had actively attempted suicide.

Mr Ahmet gathered the files like a dealer gathering a fold of cards at the end of a long deal. He said, without looking up, ‘Maybe, sometimes the secrets we withhold reveal more about us than what we ever say. It is perhaps better understood by greater minds. Maybe you can say it better, Mr Price. I am simply a gatherer of evidence.’

His smile was consolatory. As for Norman’s laundry list of judicial infractions, it had been discussed with a number of authorities in a position to advocate on Norman’s behalf. Norman could plead to a series of misdemeanors, and serve a two-year probation on the drugs charge with the guarantee that all associated criminal records would be expunged if he stayed clean. The deal had been vetted through the District Attorney’s Office. They were amenable to the terms proposed, cognizant of Walter’s service. The entire family had been under undue pressure.

There was, however, the aggravating and regrettable circumstance of a Mr Kenneth Caudill. Mr Ahmet proceeded. ‘Apparently, this Mr Caudill called Mr Einhorn in the early hours this morning. The FBI had an injunction to tap Mr Einhorn’s phone. There are incriminating remarks, possibly a count of blackmail. I have not read the transcript.’

Mr Ahmet clarified the situation. ‘It will, of course, be established it was not Mr Caudill who killed Mr Einhorn. As I told you, Mr Einhorn and his father-in-law were going to be indicted, but it is an unfortunate coincidence that Mr Caudill did call. The police, they will get to the bottom of it, I am sure, of why he called.’

There was the charged sense in so saying it that Mr Ahmet already knew Norman had gotten word to Kenneth about his arrest. Joanne’s call from Norman’s phone to Kenneth would surface, if it had not already.

Norman advanced no explanation. It would have demanded too long an explanation and an admission of guilt in having sent the original letter to Daniel Einhorn. He remained silent.

Procedurally, there were terms of the agreement to be formalized, papers to be signed. Mr Ahmet would take care of it. Norman could expect to be out before the hour.

There was also the issue of the box. Norman felt the compunction to do the decent thing, and, clearing his voice, he settled his hand on the box and said, ‘I might yet make something of all this if you wouldn’t mind?’

Mr Ahmet was accommodating, agreeable and generous in his comment. ‘You might yet write something great, Mr Price.’ In rising he moved the box slightly, so it was closer to Norman.

Amidst the exchange, Mr Ahmet called out to the guard and, turning again, said quietly, ‘They will have the box up front. It is for legal reasons, you understand.’

He was then gone and so suddenly.

WHEN JOANNE WENT to the jail, a Cook County clerk told her that Norman had already been released, and then wouldn’t tell her anything more.

Joanne checked her voicemail immediately. There was no message. In the echoing vault of the courthouse around her were prosecutors, defenders and witnesses. At the entrance was an airport-style security in full operation, voices echoing in the municipal vault of the tall ceilings. It added to the confusion in her head.

In her manic state, Joanne checked again with the clerk, who then asked her to produce ID and state her relationship with the accused.

Joanne turned and walked away.

*

The day had turned to a mixture of snow and sleet, a continuation of the same cold front that had descended the previous afternoon. Throughout the early morning, on no sleep, Joanne had trawled in a cab for a Check-into-Cash outlet to advance money against her credit card so she might have sufficient funds to make Norman’s bail.

Joanne stood looking out on the street at a clutch of immigrant drivers talking among themselves. She held Grace’s hand. They had argued, Grace defiant and tired. She had demanded a McDonald’s. Grace looked at Joanne with hardened determination. She said, ‘I want Daddy!’

Joanne was on the verge of tears. She said, ‘We’re going to find him, okay?’

Grace was still dressed in the same godawful outfit from yesterday. She looked like something from a pervert’s wet dream.

The sky opened in a stinging sleet as they clambered into the furnace of a taxi. The driver hit the meter without acknowledging Joanne. She gave the address, toppling back into the seat as the car lurched forward.

The driver had a single ear bud in his ear. Joanne felt his eyes in the mirror locked on her, then he looked away. He was talking about her to someone in Iran, calls a cent a minute, detailing the great damnation of what he was forced to do here in Chicago, USA, drive this woman, who had committed a multitude of sins against Allah that would see her flogged or beheaded under Sharia law.

Joanne was determined to get through this, to make it back to the house without crying, and then, in thinking of not crying, she was crying. She raised her hand up to her face and turned to the window to hide her tears from Grace.

*

Joanne had not been honest with Norman about the reasons she had left home.

It had begun with Dave when she had lacked the perspective or insight to even process what was then happening. She squeezed her eyes shut. She would blank the world out, and yet it was alive in her head, all that had happened, and how it had happened. It accounted for why she was here now in this cab. She believed it.

Six months after Dave had started dating Sheryl, he had begun picking Joanne up from band practice so Joanne didn’t have to take the late bus, an ingratiating kindness to get in with the family. Sheryl had endorsed it, promoting Dave’s big brother familiarity, Dave arming himself against Dad and all his resistance.

Joanne was a pawn in the conspiracy of their love.

Dave had always had an over-familiarity about him. She should have seen it. He wasn’t as stupid as he seemed. This is what groomers did. They talked about it on daytime TV, the obvious signs: Dave sitting at the kitchen table with a tall glass of milk and peanut butter sandwiches, talking to ‘Jo’, a name she hated that further made her less a woman and just a kid and incited her in the way someone like Dave better understood; Dave making it his business to be out in the open in his dealings with Jo.

This was again how a groomer groomed. She hardly showed in her chest. She was conscious of a slow change that could not come fast enough. She was her own worst enemy. She stuffed with cotton wool. Sheryl made a point to tell Dave this, because Sheryl was a bitch, and her gain always had to be Joanne’s loss. These were the trenches of family life, of sibling rivalry. Dave, in taking Jo under his wing, was seen to be seeking a mediating peace.

He took Jo out for a sundae at a roadside ice-cream parlor. He was sympathetic and not given to taking sides. They would work it out between them. Jo was a rare beauty and he told her the story of the ugly duckling, which should have raised five alarm bells about his intentions, but he knew what she wanted to hear. There was any number of things a person could say to another person in a shared intimacy that could never, or would never, be repeated in the light of day.

Who didn’t love Dave? Dave, familiar and funny! Dave, all hands, taking the truck the long way home, wresting the last of good fortune from an Indian summer, because he loved drives and aloneness, something he revealed as he stopped smiling, which suggested suddenly a greater depth of understanding and caring. He had the power to see in Joanne’s heart. She understood, in looking back on it, how it happened.