Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

In winter, the creek froze over and the kids skated on it and tobogganed down the bank behind our backyard and partway up the bank that led to the house Zack and I might live in together. My future had been there all along. Seemingly, the Turks were right about kismet: the course of events is predestined. All we can do is keep a firm grip on the toboggan.

I was watching Willie decide whether his fate was linked with that of a duck floating on the glassy water when my cell rang. It was Zack. “Sam and Glenda send their best wishes,” he said. “They’re happy we’re getting married.”

“I’m happy we’re getting married too,” I said. “Willie and I are on the levee, scoping out the new house.”

“We can get the keys and check out the inside when court’s over. Hey – shouldn’t you be getting down here?”

“I have another half-hour,” I said.

“You might want to speed that up,” Zack said. “Big doings today.”

“Kathryn Morrissey is testifying,” I said. “I know that.”

“There’s an added attraction,” Zack said.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No, but when you come into court, take a gander at who’s sitting in the front row of the seats reserved for the public.”

The added attraction was worth more than a gander. Six of the thirteen subjects Kathryn had written about in her book had found seats that put them right in her sightline when she testified. If Charlie hadn’t been sitting with them, I might not have made the connection immediately. The photos Kathryn had chosen for her book had shown the Too Much Hope kids at the worst moments of their lives. With the exceptions of Charlie and Glenda Parker, whose only crime was a private burden they were forced to bear in public, Kathryn’s subjects had been whirling black holes of self-destruction. They had been photographed drunk, stoned, beaten up, or under arrest.

Without exception, the young people in front of me were well groomed, self-possessed, and clearly struck by the gravity of the situation. As survivors of tragedies that had been played out in full public view, the Too Much Hope kids were also the subject of intense and feverish scrutiny from the press.

When I slid into my accustomed place next to Brette, she was gleeful. “This is going to be so good. The word is that Charlie Dowhanuik arranged for Kathryn’s victims to be here today. She’s a cool one, but this is going to throw her.” She looked down at her notebook. “I need your opinion. I think I’ve identified everybody, but is that really hunky guy on the end Morgan Dafoe – the kid who drove the family speedboat into the dock and killed his friends?”

“It is him,” I said. “He’s in medical school now. Kathryn promised him she’d write about how he’s trying to make up for what he did.”

“He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was also fourteen years old. A friend of his mother’s decided Morgan was cute, and it would be fun to get him drunk.”

“What happened to the friend?”

“She got a slap on the wrist.”

Brette swore softly. “And two kids die and another kid’s life is mutilated.” She stared over at the row where Morgan was sitting. “Speaking of mutilated lives, wasn’t Krissy Treadgold supposed to have her anorexia under control?”

“When Charlie Dowhanuik interviewed her last spring, she said she’d gone to a clinic that specializes in eating disorders and she’d managed to turn things around.” I glanced at the young woman sitting next to Charlie. She was dressed fashionably in a vintage black velvet jacket whose generous cut couldn’t disguise the fact that the body inside was stick-thin. As she turned to talk to Charlie, Krissy Treadgold’s profile was as sharp-edged as a carving. “She doesn’t look cured to me,” I said. “She looks as if she should be hospitalized.”

“The book pushed her over the edge,” Brette said flatly. “I did a story on eating disorders, and you’re never really cured.”

“Kathryn Morrissey is planning to make a victim’s impact statement,” I said. “Maybe the defence should get impact statements from the victims of the victim.”

Brette grimaced. “You know, when I think about Kathryn Morrissey, I wonder if I have what it takes to be a journalist. I’ve read the texts. I know that truth is elusive and that the journalist’s job is to go in with a flaming sword and cut through all the contradictions and self-justifications until she finds out what really happened. But Kathryn knew the truth – we all did. Most of those kids had screwed up big time, but a lot of them were trying to make amends. All Kathryn cared about was selling books.” Brette snorted derisively. “I’d rather scrub toilets.”

“I’m sure the defence would be pleased to hear that.”

“That part maybe, but not the rest. Kathryn may be opportunistic, but she didn’t deserve to be shot.”

“So if you were on the jury, you’d vote to convict Sam Parker?” I said.

Brette chewed on her pearls. “If I were on the jury, I’d be feeling like Solomon about to cut the baby in half.”

If Howard Dowhanuik’s testimony had been a slug-fest, Kathryn Morrissey’s was a soap opera. In retrospect, even the unpredictable was predictable. Dressed in a suit of soft grey, with hose and shoes in complementary grey, her silver hair smoothed back to set off her untroubled brow and brilliant blue eyes, Kathryn was a casting director’s ideal of the brave but suffering victim. When the court clerk called her name, Kathryn approached the bench, glancing at the jury box long enough to fix her image in their minds, then she stepped in front of the judge’s bench and waited to be sworn in. A flawless performance until she stood to take the oath and her eyes met those of the six men and women whose lives she had ripped apart by her blithe disregard for their trust and their need.

Kathryn was a professional, but the appearance of the Too Much Hope kids was a distraction, and before she placed her hand on the Bible, she shot an angry glance at Garth Severight. He should have spared or at least prepared her for this, but he hadn’t, and now she would have to tread carefully. As Garth approached the bench to take her evidence, she was not happy. Kathryn was knowledgeable enough to realize that the Crown prosecutor was not her lawyer, but she knew she was his main witness, and she should have been told what was up. It was a variant of the old legal truism: false in one thing, false in all things. Garth had let her down and now Kathryn was on edge, wondering what other traps awaited her.

That said, she acquitted herself well. Garth led her through her testimony with the courtly attentiveness of a gentleman at a cotillion. There were no surprises in her testimony. She had been enjoying a glass of wine on her deck. Sam Parker had appeared through her side gate. She recognized him from his appearances in the media. He was very emotional. He asked her to postpone the publication of her book. She explained that was impossible. He asked her if she realized what she was doing to his family. Kathryn told him people must accept responsibility for their own actions. According to Kathryn, her statement infuriated Sam Parker. He became, in her words, “a madman.” He pulled out his gun, aimed it at her, and said, “How does it feel to know this could be the last day of your life?” Certain he was about to kill her, Kathryn lunged at him. Sam pulled the trigger. At this point in her account, Kathryn grew teary, and Garth produced a snowy linen handkerchief and handed it to her with a flourish. Lazy as a lizard sunning himself on a rock, Zack watched the testimony with hooded eyes and a small smile playing on his lips.

As Garth ceded his place to the defence, the energy level in the courtroom rose. The cage match between Zack and Kathryn had been hotly anticipated. The consensus was that he was good, but she was no slouch. She had been interviewed many times, often by questioners who were hostile, and she had learned to spin an awkward question, turning it back on the interviewer, making it seem that he, not she, was the character assassin. But as Zack wheeled towards the witness box, Katherine seemed surprisingly nervous. Her eyes darted towards the row in which the Too Much Hope kids were sitting and she asked for a glass of water.