The Perfect Mother (8 page)

R
oberto explained that there would be no information to be gleaned that day. The police would book Paco and start interrogating him, but they would not share any of what he said until they were ready. Roberto assumed Paco would have a lawyer, probably one assigned by the court. José could find out who it was and perhaps they could talk to him, but not until the next day at the earliest. For the moment, there was nothing to do but wait.

“And eat, of course,” Roberto said. “Why not join me for dinner? It will be better than pacing around your room and calling room service, no?”

Jennifer felt grateful. “Yes, much better. Thank you. But please don’t feel obligated. I mean, if you have something else to do . . .”

“If I had something else to do, I wouldn’t have suggested it,” he said, smiling. “I would be delighted to dine with you for the same reasons you are glad to join me: I too need distraction and would welcome not moping in my apartment and eating alone.”

She knew it was a cue for her to ask why, but she assumed she knew: His marriage had broken up and his daughter wasn’t with him. He had mentioned all that the first time she met him, and it seemed clear he needed to talk to someone about it. She didn’t follow up with the expected question, but thought that if it came up again later, perhaps she would.

“Besides,” he said, “we have several other issues to discuss about this case. It will be more congenial to have that conversation over dinner.”

She nodded. It was 6:00
P.M.
—still the afternoon by Spanish standards—so she returned to the Alfonso XIII by taxi, determined to get some rest before meeting him at the designated restaurant. He had suggested 10:00, but she persuaded him that 9:30 would be better—she still wasn’t used to these late Spanish hours, she said—and he had acquiesced. At the hotel, she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes and tried to nap, but sleep wouldn’t come. She tried counting backward from one hundred—a strategy that rarely worked—and it was as unsuccessful as usual. She finally gave up and phoned Mark to tell him about Paco. She used her cell phone, and although she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet to avoid being overheard, she did it self-consciously and felt slightly foolish and paranoid. She reached his office, but his secretary told her he had just left for a lunch appointment, so she sent him a quick e-mail and promised to fill him in as soon as she learned anything new.

She was about to put her phone away, but thought better of it and punched in the cell number of her closest friend, Suzie Berenstein. She was going to tell her that she’d lied in her e-mail—that everything wasn’t fine, in fact nothing was and she was worried and afraid and needed her. She was going to swear her to secrecy. She was sure Suzie would keep her confidence—she always had over the years, everything from her doubts before marrying Mark to her suspicion a few years ago that he was having an affair. That suspicion had turned out to be baseless. He was just going through a difficult time at work, he’d said, and had withdrawn from her in a palpable way, but talking it through with Suzie had helped her see that she needed to try to bridge the distance between them and restore some of their former intimacy. She’d been so tied up with the kids, so centered on them that naturally she and Mark had drifted apart a bit, Suzie had suggested. Jennifer had agreed, but she didn’t worry too much about it at the time. Their children were doing so well, and their shared pride in them would sustain their marriage too, she had believed. There’d be time to work on their relationship when there was just the two of them left, she’d decided, imagining the day when even little Eric would go off to college and her daily mothering would come to an end.

She’d promised Mark not to talk to others about Emma’s predicament, but it was simply too hard, with him not here and Emma acting so strangely, to go through this without Suzie’s help. Besides, she thought, Suzie was Emma’s godmother. She had a right to know. The phone rang a long time, but there was no answer, so she left a message: “Suze, it’s me. I need to talk to you. I haven’t been honest. I’m in Spain with Emma, but she’s not fine and neither am I. Please call me. My cell works here.”

Mark still hadn’t called back when it was time for her to leave to meet Roberto. She’d told him that she’d fill him in tomorrow, she knew, but she still felt he should have called. He should be calling all the time, she thought, not just for information but to share this experience with her, to console her and shore her up. After all, she was here and he was in Philadelphia. She had to live with the day-to-day developments and both her own and Emma’s worry, anger, and frustration.

She was glad she was going out for dinner. She showered, changed into a navy blue sleeveless dress, did her makeup, and left her room, taking the elevator down to the lobby, where she asked the doorman to get her a cab. She had written the name and address of the restaurant on a piece of paper and she gave this to the driver, who nodded and stepped on the gas.

Roberto was already there when she arrived; the hostess showed her to his table. He sprang up to hold her chair. He had already ordered a bottle of Marqués de Riscal rioja, and he filled her glass. She scanned the menu, suddenly feeling slightly ill at ease.

She chose fish—the
merluza
—as did he. After the waitress took the order, Roberto leaned forward slightly.

“Senora, I must talk to you about what may be a delicate subject. It is the media.”

Jennifer looked puzzled.

“You do not read Spanish, so you have not perhaps followed it, but every day there is a story about this affair.”

He opened his briefcase and extracted several copies of the
Diario.
Each had front-page headlines about the death of the Spanish boy, who was the son, after all, of a prominent Seville family and therefore a major local story. On the jump page there was always the same picture of Emma, the one she’d used for her application to the Seville program, looking serious and beautiful. He read two of the articles aloud. Each included a plea for the Algerian to show himself and a promise to support his immigration appeal.

“This was the way they covered it until now,” he said. Then he pulled out that day’s paper. There was a front-page photo of Emma dressed in a low-cut tight-fitting black minidress and stiletto heels, her weight on her left leg, with her hip jutting out over it. Her lips were parted in a provocative expression. It was clear even in black-and-white that she was heavily made up, with dark lipstick and black eyeliner.

“Oh, my God. What is this? She looks like a . . .”

“Like a
puta
. I know.”

“A prostitute. That’s what she looks like.”

“Yes, that’s why they printed it. The headline says, ‘Innocent American?’ The story says, ‘This is the “innocent” American who claims our Spanish honors student tried to rape her.’” He continued to read to himself and then looked up. “It says that the picture shows a side of the American—they keep referring to her as
la americana
—that makes her story of the Spaniard’s actions suspect.” He turned the page, leafing through the paper to see if there was anything else. “There is an interview with Rodrigo Pérez’s parents telling what a fine boy their son was and accusing Emma of seducing him, robbing, and killing him herself.”

Roberto handed Jennifer the paper and she stared at the picture of Emma in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Where did they get this? Where did it come from?” She put the paper down and looked pleadingly at Roberto. “Look, I understand the parents of the boy. How could I not? This is a tragedy for everyone, and of course they can’t believe their son is capable of trying to rape someone. And they’ve endured a terrible, tragic loss. But their conclusion about Emma is wrong. You have to believe me.”

Roberto didn’t respond.

He thinks I’m pathetic, Jennifer thought. He thinks we all are.

But Roberto was just planning his next move. Finally he looked at her. “We need to speak to Emma. She must explain this picture so we can respond to it. Clearly there is a good deal more she hasn’t told you. They have stopped access to her until they finish questioning Paco. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I will accompany you there in the morning. I’m afraid you may find press and television reporters at the police station. Remember that you will not speak to them or answer any of their questions. I will be with you and help you pass through the crowd.”

“The crowd?”

“Probably. You must tell your husband to come immediately.”

“I have already told him.”

What she had feared had happened. Now surely the story would get out beyond Spain. How long before the American media picked it up and it became a circus with them, all of them, in the center ring? “I won’t be able to bear it,” she murmured.

“You will. You must.”

She felt a wave of anger. “That’s very easy to say.”

“Easy to say, yes. Easy to do, no. I know that.”

She closed her eyes and tried to collect herself. “I’d like a drink,” she said.

They ate dinner and finished the bottle of rioja. Jennifer, who drank rarely and was already pretty far past her limit, asked for another glass, and Roberto ordered another bottle.

“It’s so strange,” she said. “I always thought I knew Emma so well, as if I was inside her head, anticipating her needs and desires and mostly, to be honest, trying to satisfy them, to help her along, and so proud of how she was doing. And, I’ll admit it, proud of myself too, crediting my mothering at least partly for her success. I mean, I didn’t go back to work. I stayed with my children. I didn’t let babysitters raise them. I remember when I gave birth to her and I nursed her, you know, and I wondered how I’d be able to wake up often enough to feed her. But it wasn’t a problem because my body knew when she was hungry; the milk started to seep out of my breasts before she woke up, so when she finally did awaken, a few minutes after I did, I was all ready for her. It kind of stayed like that.”

Roberto nodded. “I understand. I felt a bond like that with my daughter. . . . Without the nursing,” he added with a smile. “But that was before.”

“Before? You don’t anymore?”

“Of course I do. But I haven’t seen her in eight years. I don’t even know where she is.”

Jennifer put her glass down and stared at him. “Oh, Roberto, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Her mother kidnapped her when she was five years old—took her away, probably out of the country, and disappeared. I have looked everywhere for her, hired other private detectives, and asked the police, but no one has found her. I don’t even know if she is alive.”

“But why? Why did she do that?”

“Who knows? It’s strange. When something this extreme happens to you, people always ask you why, like you know the reason, like maybe you did something terrible enough to deserve it. But the truth is that my wife was very ill, had been for a long time. She is delusional and impulsive and I kept hoping the doctors and drugs and treatment would help her. But none of it did and she ran away. I make my living partly by tracking missing people, but she has simply disappeared.” He took another swallow and put his glass down heavily. “So maybe it was my fault. I should have stopped her before. I should have taken Christina away from her before she could take her away from me.”

Jennifer didn’t know what to say. Her lips felt heavy from the wine and she had trouble forming words, but she wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That we don’t always see things that are right in front of us. That we don’t know people as well as we think we do.

He raised his hand to call the waitress over for the check. When it came, they both put their credit cards on the tray and Jennifer asked the waitress to split it. Roberto took her card and handed it back to her with a reproachful look. “It is for me to pay,” he said. “I invited you, and you are in my country. Please do not offend me.” She didn’t argue.

“I’m sorry, senora. I am here to help you with your problem and not to tell you mine. But I wanted to show you that I too understand grief and loss and the strength needed to confront them. You must, how do you say, muster”—he clenched both fists in front of him as he said this—“yes, muster all your resources and then you will have a chance to bring your daughter home. I ask you to trust me.” He paused and waited for his words to sink in. She didn’t say anything. “Estás de acuerdo?” he continued.

“‘De acuerdo’?”

“It means do you agree?”

“Yes,” Jennifer said, her voice heavy with drink and emotion. “I agree.”

J
ennifer couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned, restless and agitated, and when finally she took an Ambien and fell into a drugged slumber, she was troubled by fragments of worrying dreams. The pill offered only a brief respite—four hours later she was awake again. She glanced at the clock: 5:30
A
.
M
. She sighed and lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling. It would be 11:30
P
.
M
.
in Philadelphia. The kids would be asleep. Mark would be up, probably working in his study. She reached for the phone.

Her mother answered on the first ring. Mark was out for dinner, she said, and not home yet. Jennifer felt a stab of discomfort. “Who is he with?” she asked casually, but her mother didn’t know. “Someone from the office, I think,” she said. “I don’t know where he is. He said he’d be home early.”

“Did he come home first to say good night to the kids?” Jennifer wanted to know.

“No, honey. He didn’t need to. Everything here is fine. Don’t worry. How is Emma?”

The time had come to tell her what was going on, and Jennifer girded herself for a hysterical reaction. She told her enough so that if the story came out in the media it wouldn’t be a complete shock, but she didn’t go into details. She emphasized that of course Emma was completely innocent and would soon be cleared but in the meantime she was being held in the “detention cell” at the police station. Her mother was silent as she spoke, and when she stopped she expected an explosion, but it didn’t come. She asked Jennifer’s father to pick up the phone and asked Jennifer to repeat what she had told her. She spoke soothingly, telling Jennifer that she must stay as long as was necessary to help Emma, that everything would be fine at home and she was convinced that Emma would soon be freed. Her father echoed her remarks and asked some specific questions: Did they have a good lawyer? Was Emma being treated well? Jennifer had expected this calm reaction from her father, but her mother surprised her. Her mother became frantic with worry when one of the kids had a cold or a slight fever, so much so that Jennifer usually shielded her from that information. Yet she seemed unruffled by the news of her eldest granddaughter’s incarceration in a murder case. Thinking about it, Jennifer realized that her mother had done this before. When Eric was hospitalized as a baby with a mold allergy that closed his trachea and required him to be intubated to save his life, her mother arrived the next day, cooked the meals, helped with the girls, and took over so completely that Jennifer could sleep at the hospital. Clearly, her mother rallied in emergencies—thank God, Jennifer thought. She hoped she was doing the same for her daughter.

“Tell Mark he must come right away,” Jennifer said. “There’s been a new development—I can’t go into it on the phone—but I think this story may reach the papers soon and he needs to be here. Tell him to call or e-mail me when he’s booked his flight.”

It was now 6:30
A.M.
and the sky was still pitch-black. In a little while it would fade to gray and soon after that the rising sun would flood the room with light. She thought about going back to bed, but more sleep was clearly out of the question; her mind was racing with both worries and plans to head off new problems before they arose. She picked up the phone again and called Suzie. Her friend’s voice sounded groggy and she knew she’d awakened her, but Suzie came to life quickly when she realized who was calling.

“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you back on your cell. No one answered.”

“I’m sorry. I was busy and didn’t check. But listen, I need your help.”

“Yeah. I know. I got that from your message. What is going on?”

She told her, adding a little more detail than she had for her parents.

“I don’t understand that suggestive picture,” Suzie said. “It can’t be true. Could it have been photoshopped? Was someone trying to frame her? Ruin her reputation? Is there someone who hates her? Someone who’s jealous of her?”

“I don’t know, Suze. I never thought of that. I think it’s far-fetched.”

“You don’t think a photo of Emma looking like a prostitute is far-fetched?”

“Yes, of course I do. I’m horrified and I need to talk to her about it. But the thing is, tomorrow I have to go see her in jail, and I have been told to expect a press presence. I’m really scared that this will become a big story and be picked up by the American media too. If that happens, it’s a circus. We need to do something to control the story in the States. Can you help with that?”

“Of course. We need to hire a firm to help show the world the real Emma and to make it clear that she is being unfairly targeted in a foreign country, maybe partly because she’s an American.”

Jennifer hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s true. I should ask the guy we hired here to manage her case and see if he thinks that approach is helpful.”

“Look, Jen, I’ll take care of the U.S. side. You worry about Spain.”

“Okay. But there’s something else. If it does go public there’s going to be a lot of people—friends, family, acquaintances—who will want to follow it, to know what’s happening. I can’t take that on. Can you start a blog or something, and can I forward all the e-mails I get on this to you? Will you be the spokesperson for the family?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Now try to calm down. We will beat this. She’s going to be all right, you’ll see. Is Mark with you?’

“No. He’s coming soon.”

“I’ll call him. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Suze. Thanks so much. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

She hung up. The sun was just beginning to break the horizon, ushering in another blindingly bright Seville day. Jennifer felt the tight fist of anxiety relax a little. She showered, dressed, and ordered breakfast. Soon Roberto and José would come to escort her to the police station.

In a black-and-white tailored suit with black pumps and her long hair up in a twist, she looked as though she might have been a lawyer going to try a case. She carried a black shoulder bag and had carefully folded the newspaper with the damning photo of Emma and placed it inside. They ushered her into the backseat of a hired car, Roberto climbing in beside her and José sitting in the front passenger seat. As the driver wove in and out of traffic, Roberto reminded her that the media would make this a different experience than before.

She could see how right he was even before they pulled up in front of the police station. There was a small mob assembled—at least twenty people milling around, some with cameras, others with microphones, and still more with notebooks or electronic devices. As the car pulled over she could hear someone shout, “That’s the mother!” and the whole group moved as one to the car, crowding around it, making it difficult to open the door. Roberto got out first and led her through the throng, where she found herself in the middle of a scene she’d only ever seen before on television crime shows. Questions were hurled at her like lightning bolts. At first they spoke Spanish, but they soon realized she didn’t understand them and switched to English: “Did you know your daughter was a call girl?” “The police say she invented the Algerian—what do you think?” “Has she told lies before?” “Do you think she thinks an American can do anything she wants and get away with it?” “Have you seen the mother of the victim? What message do you want to send to her?”

Jennifer put her head down and clutched Roberto’s hand, trying to listen only to him as he whispered into her ear. “Don’t answer,” he told her. “Don’t listen. Keep walking.”

Once inside, she stared at him, aghast.

“This is what I meant, senora. This is only the beginning. You must be strong,” he said crisply. She nodded, swallowing hard.

José approached the desk officer and requested a meeting with Emma. They were told to wait until Fernando, the detective in charge, came to fetch them. Roberto occupied himself with Jennifer, showing her where she should sit, bringing her a cup of coffee from the machine in the hallway. She felt grateful and more and more dependent on him, looking to him for how to react, what to say, what to do next.

They waited for more than an hour, during which time José and Roberto tried to impress upon her, as if she didn’t already know, the importance of convincing Emma to cooperate with the police. When Fernando appeared, he greeted them politely and told them they had concluded their interrogation of Paco for the moment. They all noticed that Fernando looked exhausted. His clothes were disheveled, his hair greasy, and he had a five o’clock shadow.

“We have questioned Paco all night,” he said, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “He has begun to be cooperative.” This news sent a chill down Jennifer’s spine. What did he mean? she wondered. What had they done to him to make him cooperate? He turned to Jennifer. “Your daughter doesn’t know he is here. You will tell her, of course. We will question her again later. I suggest you explain to her, as we will, that one of them will tell us the truth first. That is the person who will have the advantage and testify against the other. It is beginning to look like that person may be Paco.”

Jennifer bristled before Roberto could stop her. “I see that you do not have the belief that a person is innocent until proven guilty here. My daughter did nothing that anyone could accuse her of.”

“We will see,” Fernando said with a tired smile. “Would you and your lawyer like to see her now?”

“Sí, por supuesto,” José said.

“I should tell you that Paco confirms what we have already heard from several witnesses: He was with Emma earlier on the night of the murder. Only Emma denies it,” Fernando said. He looked sympathetically at Jennifer. “I am a father. I understand the pain this must cause you. I have said it before and I repeat it: You must convince your daughter to tell the truth about everything. It is her best hope.”

He turned to go and José followed. Jennifer stopped for a moment and turned to Roberto. “Will you come with me?” she asked.

Roberto looked at Fernando, who nodded.

“Yes, of course,” Roberto answered. “In any case, it is important that we meet.”

Emma was sitting on her bed reading a copy of
The New Yorker
that Jennifer had brought her on an earlier visit. She tossed the magazine aside and jumped up when she saw her mother. She hugged her distractedly, greeted José politely in Spanish, and looked inquisitively at Roberto. Jennifer introduced them, reminding her who he was. She shook his hand and said something Jennifer didn’t understand in Spanish. They sat down around the table and Emma asked when she could get out. Roberto spoke first. “That isn’t so easy, Emma. But the answer depends very much on you. I need to tell you first that Paco has been found and is in custody here. They—”

Emma didn’t let him finish. She jumped up. “Oh, no. They will try to pin this whole thing on him. I need to talk to him right away. When can I see him?”

“You can’t see him,” José said. “They are not through interrogating him, although they have questioned him throughout the night, and they will start again with you probably after we leave. They won’t let you talk to him until they find out what they want to know. Apparently he has begun to talk to them.”

Emma looked at her mother. Her voice sounded desperate. “Mama, isn’t there anything you can do?”

How many times had Jennifer heard those words? And in the past, there often had been something she could do. How easy that had been. She could talk to the school if Emma wasn’t in the same class as her best friend and get it changed. She could get her a tutor when she didn’t understand math. As she got older, it was a little harder, but she still managed. She remembered when Emma was caught in tenth grade including in an essay two verbatim paragraphs from a published source. The teacher called it plagiarism and wanted to fail her for the course as punishment. Emma swore she hadn’t done it purposely and Jennifer believed her. These things happen.

Jennifer went in and talked to the teacher. She pointed out how easy it was when writing and copying notes from other writers to confuse them and inadvertently use them. She reminded her that even Doris Kearns Goodwin, the famous historian, had done it, for heaven’s sake. Finally, she managed to convince the teacher to relent. “She’s learned,” Jennifer said. “She’s so sorry and will be much more careful next time. This was an important lesson.” She begged her not to “ruin her whole life” or her chances of getting into the college of her choice. The teacher had caved in and had assigned Emma to detention for two weeks instead.

But now she was helpless. It was more like the time Emma had been bitten in the face by a friend’s German shepherd. Jennifer had been in the next room and she had heard Emma cooing at the dog. “Hi, Denny,” she had said, and then a growl followed by a terrible scream. “Mommy help me, help me!” Emma had shouted, and there was the blood running down her face and the dog’s teeth deep in her cheek, and finally the dog being dragged away and Emma still screaming, a scream Jennifer would never forget. She had felt helpless then, but she was still able to call the hospital, arrange for a plastic surgeon to meet them in the emergency room, carry Emma to the car, and talk soothingly to her, holding cloth over the bleeding bite and stroking her hair until they reached the hospital and Emma was wheeled into the operating room with Jennifer right behind her. But this time, she really was helpless.

“No, darling, I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “But
you
can do something. You can stop protecting Paco. He has already told them that you were with him the night of the murder. They have other witnesses. You have to tell them what part he played in all this. The case against you has exploded. The press is turning against you. The police must have leaked their suspicion that the Algerian doesn’t exist.”

Emma started to object.

“No, wait, Emma,” Jennifer continued. “I believe he does, of course. If you say he does, then he does; I know that. But you can understand, as I’ve tried to tell you before, that now that they know you were lying about seeing Paco the night of the murder, they are reluctant to believe anything you say.” Her voice was rising and her mouth felt so dry she had trouble swallowing her saliva.