Perfect Match (3 page)

“My client is Rachel's biological father. He understands that the child may h ave been poisoned against him, but he isn't willing to give up his parental r ights to a daughter he loves and cherishes.”

Yadda yadda yadda. I'm not even listening. I don't have to; Fisher grandstanded to me on the phone when he called to reject my last plea barga in. “All right,” Judge McAvoy sighs. “Let's get her up there.” The court is empty, except for me, Rachel, her grandmother, the judge, Fishe r, and the defendant. Rachel sits by her grandmother, twirling her stuffed h ippopotamus's tail. I lead her to the witness box, but when she sits down, s he cannot see over the railing.

Judge McAvoy turns to his clerk. “Roger, why don't you run into my chambers and see if there's a stool for Miss Rachel.”

It takes a few more minutes of adjustments. “Hi, Rachel. How are you?” I be gin.

“I'm okay,” she says, in the smallest voice.

“May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” Closer up, I won't be as intimid ating. I keep smiling so hard my jaw begins to hurt. “Can you tell me your whole name, Rachel?”

“Rachel Elizabeth Marx.”

“How old are you?”

“Five.” She holds up the fingers to show me proof.

“Did you have a party on your birthday?”

“Yes.” Rachel hesitates, then adds, “A princess one.”

“I bet it was fun. Did you get any presents?”

“Uh-huh. I got the Swimming Barbie. She does the backstroke.”

“Who do you live with, Rachel?”

“My mommy,” she says, but her eyes slide toward the defense table.

“Does anybody else live with you?”

“Not anymore.” A whisper.

“Did you used to live with someone else?”

“Yes,” Rachel nods. “My daddy.”

“Do you go to school, Rachel?”

“I'm in Mrs. Montgomery's class.”

“Do you have rules there?”

“Yes. Don't hit and raise your hand to talk and don't climb up the slide.”

“What happens if you don't follow the rules in school?”

“My teacher gets mad.”

“Do you understand the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie ?”

“The truth is when you tell what happened, and a lie is when you make some thing up.”

“That's right. And the rule in court, where we are right now, is that you h ave to tell the truth when we ask you questions. You can't make anything up . Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“If you lie to your mom, what happens?”

“She gets mad at me.”

“Can you promise that everything you say today is going to be the truth?”

“Uh-huh.”

I breathe deeply. First hurdle, cleared. “Rachel, the man over there with th e silver hair, his name is Mr. Carrington. He's got some questions for you t oo. Do you think you can talk to him?”

“Okay,” Rachel says, but she's getting nervous now. This was the part I couldn 't tell her about; the part where I didn't have all the answers. Fisher stands up, oozing security. “Hi there, Rachel.” She narrows her eyes. I love this kid. “Hi.”

“What's your bear's name?”

“She's a hippo.” Rachel says this with the disdain that only a child can pull off, when an adult stares right at the bucket on her head and cannot see that it is a space helmet.

“Do you know who's sitting with me at that table over there? ”

“My daddy.”

“Have you seen your daddy lately?”

“No.”

“But you remember when you and your daddy and your mommy all lived togethe r in the same house?” Fisher's hands are in his pockets. His voice is as s oft as flannel.

“Uh-huh.”

“Did your mommy and daddy fight a lot in the brown house?”

“Yes.”

“And after that, your daddy moved out?”

Rachel nods, then remembers what I've told her about having to say your a nswer out loud. “Yes,” she murmurs.

“After your daddy moved out, then you told somebody that something happen ed to you . . . something about your daddy, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You told somebody that Daddy touched your pee-pee?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you tell?”

“Mommy.”

“What did Mommy do when you told her?”

“She cried.”

“Do you remember how old you were when Daddy touched your pee-pee?” Rachel chews on her lip. “It was back when I was a baby.”

“Were you going to school, then?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you remember if it was hot or cold outside?”

“I, um, I don't know.”

“Do you remember whether it was dark outside, or light?” Rachel starts rocking on the stool, shaking her head.

“Was Mommy home?”

“I don't know,” she whispers, and my heart plummets. This is the point wher e we will lose her.

“You said you were watching Franklin. Was that on TV, or was it a video?” By now, Rachel isn't even making eye contact with Fisher, or with any of us . “I don't know.”

“That's all right, Rachel,” Fisher says calmly. “It's hard to remember, somet imes.”

At the prosecutor's table, I roll my eyes.

“Rachel, did you talk to your mommy before you came to court this mornin g?”

At last: Something she knows. Rachel lifts her head and smiles, proud. “Yes !”

"Is this morning the first time you talked to Mommy about coming to court?

"

“Nope.”

“Have you met Nina before today?”

“Uh-huh.”

Fisher smiles. “How many times have you talked to her?”

“A whole bunch.”

“A bunch. Did she tell you what to say when you got up into this little box?”

“Yes.”

“And did she tell you that you needed to say that Daddy touched you?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mommy tell you that you needed to say that Daddy touched you?” Rachel nods, the tips of her braids dancing. “Uh-huh.” I begin to close my file on this case; I already know where Fisher's going ; what he has done. “Rachel,” he says, “did your mommy tell you what would happen today if you came in here and said that Daddy touched your pee-pee ?”

“Yes. She said she would be proud of me, for being such a good girl.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” Fisher says, and sits down.

Ten minutes later, Fisher and I stand in front of the judge in chambers. "I'

m not suggesting, Ms. Frost, that you put words in that child's head,“ the j udge says. ”I am suggesting, however, that she believes she is doing what yo u and her mother want her to do."

“Your Honor,” I begin.

“Ms. Frost, the child's loyalties to her mother are much stronger than her l oyalty to a witness oath. Under those circumstances, any conviction the stat e might secure could be overturned anyway.” He looks at me, not without symp athy. “Maybe six months from now, things will be different, Nina.” The judge clears his throat. “I'm finding the witness not competent to stand trial. D oes the state have another motion in regard to this case?“ I can feel Fisher's eyes on me, sympathetic instead of victorious, and this m akes me fume. ”I need to talk to the mother and child, but I believe the stat e will be filing a motion to dismiss without prejudice.” It means that as Rac hel grows older, we can recall the charge and try again. Of course, Rachel mi ght not be brave enough for that. Or her mother might just want her to get on with life, instead of reliving the past. The judge knows this, and I know th is, and there is nothing either of us can do about it. It's simply the way th e system works.

Fisher Carrington and I walk out of chambers. “Thank you, counselor,” he say s, and I don't answer. We veer off in different directions, magnets repelled .

This is why I'm angry: 1) I lost. 2) I was supposed to be on Rachel's side, but I turned out to be the bad guy. After all, I am the one who made her und ergo a competency hearing, and it was all for nothing.

But none of this shows in my face as I lean down to talk to Rachel, who is w aiting in my office. “You were so brave today. I know you told the truth and I'm proud of you, and your mom's proud of you. And the good news is, you di d such a great job, you don't have to do it again.” I make sure I look her i n the eye as I say this, so it slips inside, praise she can carry in her poc kets. “I need to talk to your mom, now, Rachel. Can you wait outside with yo ur grandma?”

Miriam falls apart before Rachel has closed the door behind herself. “What happened in there?”

“The judge found Rachel not competent.” I recount the testimony she didn't hear. “It means we can't prosecute your ex-husband.”

“How am I supposed to protect her, then?”

I fold my hands on my desk, gripping the edge tight. “I know you have a lawy er representing you in your divorce, Mrs. Marx. And I'd be happy to call him for you. There's still a social services investigation going on, and maybe they can do something to curtail or supervise the visitations . . . but the fact is, we can't put on a criminal prosecution right now. Maybe when Rachel gets older.”

“By the time she's older,” Miriam whispers, “he will have done it to her a t housand more times.”

There is nothing I can say to this, because it is most likely true. Miriam collapses in front of me. I have seen it dozens of times, strong mother s who simply go to pieces, like a starched sheet that melts at a breath of ste am. She rocks back and forth, her arms crossed so tight at her waist that it d oubles her over. “Mrs. Marx, . . . if there's anything I can do for you ...”

“What would you do if you were me?”

Her voice rises like a snake, tugs me forward. “You did not hear this from m e,” I say quietly. “But I would take Rachel, and I would run.” 25 Minutes later, from my window, I see Miriam Marx searching through her purs e. For her car keys, I think. And quite possibly, for her resolve. There are many things Patrick loves about Nina, but one of the best things a bout her is the way she enters a room. Stage presence, that's what his mothe r used to call it when Nina barreled into the Ducharme kitchen, helped herse lf to an Oreo from the cookie jar, and then paused, as if to give everyone e lse a chance to catch up to her. All Patrick knows is that his back can be t o the door, and when Nina comes in, he can feel it-a tickle of energy on th e nape of his neck, a snap to attention as every eye in the place turns towa rd her.

Today, he is sitting at the empty bar. Tequila Mockingbird is a cop hangout , which means it doesn't really get busy until dinnertime. In fact, there h ave been times that Patrick has wondered whether the establishment opens ea rly simply to accommodate himself and Nina for their standing Monday lunche s. He checks his watch, but he knows he is early-he always is. Patrick does n't want to miss the moment she walks in, the way her face turns unerringly to his, like the needle of a compass at true north.

Stuyvesant, the bartender, flips over a tarot card from a deck. From the looks of it, he's playing solitaire. Patrick shakes his head. “That's not what they 're for, you know.”

“Well, I don't know what the hell else to do with 'em.” He is sorting them by suit: wands, cups, swords, and pentacles. “They got left behind in the ladie s' room.” The bartender stubs out his cigarette and follows the line of Patri ck's gaze toward the door. “Jesus,” he says. "When are you going to tell her?

"

“Tell her what?”

But Stuyvesant just shakes his head and pushes the pile of cards toward Pat rick. “Here. You need these more than I do.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Patrick asks, but at that moment Nina walks i n. The air in the room hums like a field full of crickets, and Patrick feels something light as helium filling him, until before he knows it he has gotten up from his seat.

“Always a gentleman,” Nina says, tossing her big black purse beneath the ba r.

“And an officer, too.” Patrick smiles at her. “Go figure.” She isn't the girl who used to live next door, hasn't been for years. Back th en she had freckles and jeans with holes at the knees and a pony-tail yanked so tight it made her eyes pull at the corners. Now, she wears pantyhose and t ailored suits; she has had the same short-bob hairstyle for five years. But w hen Patrick gets close enough, she still smells like childhood to him. Nina glances at his uniform as Stuyvesant slides a cup of coffee in front of her. “Did you run out of clean laundry?”

“No, I had to spend the morning at an elementary school talking about Hall oween safety. The chief insisted I wear a costume, too.” He hands her two sugars for her coffee before she asks. “How was your hearing?”

“The witness wasn't found competent.” She says this without betraying a sin gle emotion on her face, but Patrick knows her well enough to realize how m uch it's killing her. Nina stirs her coffee, then smiles up at him. “Anyway , I have a case for you. My two o'clock meeting, actually.” Patrick leans his head on his hand. When he went off to the military, Nina was at law school. She'd been his best friend then, too. Every other day th at he was serving on the USS John F. Kennedy in the Persian Gulf, he receiv ed a letter from her, and through it, the vicarious life he might have had. He learned the names of the most detested professors at U of Maine. He dis covered how terrifying it was to take the bar exam. He read about falling i n love, when Nina met Caleb Frost, walking down a brick path he'd just laid in front of the library. Where is this going to take me? she had asked. An d Caleb's answer: Where do you want it to?

By the time Patrick's enlistment was up, Nina had gotten married. Patrick c onsidered settling down in places that rolled off the tongue: Shawnee, Poca tello, Hickory. He went so far as to rent a U-Haul truck and drive exactly one thousand miles from New York City to Riley, Kansas. But in the end, it turned out that he'd learned too well from Nina's letters, and he moved bac k to Biddeford, simply because he could not stay away.

“And then,” Nina says, “a pig leaped into the butter dish and ruined the whol e dinner party.”

“No shit?” Patrick laughs, caught. “What did the hostess do?”

“You're not listening, Patrick, goddammit.”

“Sure I am. But Jesus, Nina. Brain matter on the passenger seat visor that do esn't belong to anyone in the car? Might as well be a pig in the butter dish you're talking about.” Patrick shakes his head. “Who leaves his cerebral cort ex behind in someone else's rig?”

“You tell me. You're the detective.”