With Malice (26 page)

Their voices got louder, but not yelling. Then the blonde says something, and the dark-haired girl starts to cry. Then they are hugging. Boom. Storm over. (Snaps fingers.) Now they seem like friends again. They finish their wine. They did not have more than a glass each. Not even a big glass. I told the police right after the accident, neither girl seemed drunk or angry anymore. They took the food and went back toward the hotel. We heard the loud bang of the accident not even an hour later, but it wasn't until that night when some guests were in the café that we heard it was two American girls. I asked and they said yes, a blonde and a dark-haired girl. I told myself it wasn't the two beautiful young women, but I think in my heart I knew it to be true. Everyone is saying it was murder, a crime of passion, but I say they were not fighting when they left here. When they left here, all was well. I think it must be some kind of accident.

Media Statement from the lawyers for Niccolo Landini

The courtroom was a huge disappointment. Years of
Law & Order
watching had led me to believe it would be more imposing, or at least less like an outdated hotel conference room. It was small and there weren't any windows. The carpet was worn, and there was a large dark stain that I was pretty sure had been coffee near the defense table. Given that it was the halls of justice, you would have thought someone would have sprung for some steam cleaning.

I pulled on the neck of the shirt my mom had brought for me to wear. The tag itched. Evan wanted to make sure I made a good impression on the judge. I looked like one of those fundamentalist religious kids; all that was missing was hair straight down to my ass and a WWJD bracelet color-coordinated to my too-long floral skirt. I hated everything about the outfit, most of all the idea that I had to wear it. Was anyone really going to be fooled by a Peter Pan collar blouse and a Virgin Mary baby blue cardigan?

I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be back at the hospital. I needed to talk to Dr. Weeks, but this appearance was mandatory, according to Evan. He said even though this wasn't an official trial, it would look bad if I didn't show up. The Italians weren't allowed to argue their case in our justice system. They'd successfully applied for me to be extradited. They'd already certified the record to the Secretary of State, who decides whether to surrender the fugitive to the requesting government. However, Evan had petitioned for something called a writ of habeas corpus as soon as the order was issued.
Now it was up to the district court, and they could stay the order if they wanted.

Evan poked me under the table with his pen. This was my cue that I was doing something wrong—fidgeting, looking bored, scowling. One of the million things on the list he'd made when we prepped. He'd even included things like “pick at your teeth,” like I had to be told how to have basic social skills. I forced my face into a bland expression and made sure I was sitting up straight and staring at the judge. I could feel the presence of my parents directly behind me. I could also sense the horde of reporters. They were forbidden from taking pictures during the hearing, but I knew they were recording everything, taking notes, hoping something would happen that they could talk about. Maybe some rampant tooth picking.

They would have been thrilled if they'd known the real news. I was starting to remember. Or at least I thought I might be having memories. There were flashes, images, like faded photographs. I could picture a hotel room with bright damask wallpaper and a glass of water balanced on top of the bedside table. There was a row of trees, cypress I think, lined up like lime Popsicles along a dirt road. A group of people all standing in front of an old building, arms around one another, mugging for the camera. A painting with a woman pleading on her knees in front of a solider wearing armor and a look of pompous arrogance. I sensed if I could just get the images in the right order, I could flip through them, like one of those homemade animation pads we'd made in eighth-grade art class. Put them in motion and see what was missing.

“Mr. Stanley,” the judge said, “the court will hear you now on Title 18, Code 3184, in the case of Ms. Jill Charron.” Despite the fact that I was knocking myself out to impress her, the feeling clearly wasn't mutual. The judge hardly seemed to notice me, and she sounded bored. She rarely looked up from her desk and kept scribbling something on the paper in front of her. For all I knew, she was working on a crossword.

“Your Honor,” Evan said. He stood and buttoned his suit jacket. “You will see in our documents that the Italian court has failed to meet the standard for compelling evidence. Their request for extradition is nothing more than a fishing trip.”

The two Italian detectives screwed up their faces. My hunch was they were trying to figure out what fishing had to do with anything. Detective Marco looked like he hadn't shaved in a day or two. They must have been frustrated with how things were turning out. Just a few days ago I was public enemy number one, a murderous slut, but now things were changing. Instead of just one or two blogs where the media company had placed the story, now there were at least a half a dozen talking about me as someone who was being framed for a crime. An innocent. The video of the police mishandling the evidence had been viewed more than 350,000 times since the media company had posted it on YouTube.

Evan was still talking while walking back and forth in front of the empty jury box. He seemed to be making his case to the crowd in the gallery instead of the judge. He ticked off the mistakes the Italian police had made. I knew they were listed in our petition to the court, but I supposed repeating everything was part of the process.

I focused on the images that I'd remembered, trying to see if there were any new ones. This morning I'd woken up with a crystal clear image of Simone sitting across a small table from me. We each had a wineglass in front of us; her face was serious. I wanted to reach through the image and hear what we were talking about, but there was nothing. It was a flat image. No sound, taste, or noise.

Evan sat down. He poked me with his pen, and I smiled up at the judge as if I were a beauty contestant in the bikini portion of the contest. A look that I hoped said,
Sure, I've been stripped bare, but I don't mind you seeing me like this. Heck, I like it. Stare away! I've got nothing to hide.

“The court will review this petition,” the judge said, standing. Everyone scrambled to his or her feet as the bailiff instructed us to all rise. The judge was gone before most of them were able to stand. A few people were murmuring, and I knew they were wondering if that was it. I was glad Evan had warned me that there wouldn't be an immediate decision. The secret to avoiding being let down is to keep your expectations low.

My parents were suddenly at my side. Mom rested her arm on my shoulder as if she could protect me from the crowd of reporters.

“How do you think it went?” my dad said, his voice low so no one around us could listen in.

“Good,” Evan said. “Judge Rendahl can be a hard read, but her history shows her to be a stickler for people dotting their
i
's and crossing their
t
's. She's not going to like the Italians' sloppy work. She's got zero patience for that kind of stuff—that's going to be in our favor. Plus, with public opinion swinging to our side and questions about why the Italians didn't look more closely at Nico, I don't see her ruling for extradition. She won't want to be the one to send an innocent American abroad.”

“Then Jill could come home?” my mom asked.

Evan nodded.

“And then this will be all over,” she said.

Evan packed up his briefcase. “I don't know about that. The Italians may push forward with a trial. You need to prepare yourself for that. Even if this ruling goes our way, it doesn't mean that it will end right away.”

My dad cursed under his breath.

“Mr. Stanley?” a reporter asked. “You said you had something for us?”

Evan nodded. He motioned for my parents and me to follow him into the hall where the reporters could turn on their cameras. I'd known this was coming, Evan told us it was time to make a formal statement. My knees felt like they'd turned to oatmeal.

As soon as we stepped outside, I blinked. A bank of lights shone directly in our eyes. It was like center-stage kind of bright. I paused, but my dad had his palm pressed into my back, pushing me. I stood next to Evan, with my parents directly behind me. I didn't know what to do with my arms. I knew Evan wouldn't want me to cross them, but they felt heavy and meaty just hanging at my side. I settled for lacing them in front of me—maybe people would think I was praying.

“If everyone will be quiet, we'd like to make a statement.” Evan ran his hand quickly through his hair. He had a game-show-host smile. “The Charron family is pleased with how our petition to the court went today. We have faith that the U.S. justice system will be fair and balanced. They will see that what happened in Italy is a tragic accident and will not want to compound one tragedy with another.” Evan motioned for me to step forward.

I took a step, and my parents moved so I had one on either side of me, like the granite lions outside the library. I took a deep breath. I was holding my prepared speech in my hand. I'd read it at least a hundred times. Last night I'd done it in front of a video camera so Evan could point out any possible errors or weird facial tics. He was rabidly insistent that I not read it too fast, or too slow, and that I keep a bland expression, not happy, not too sad. I was striving for as middle-of-the-road as I could make it. I hadn't wanted to bring the paper with me—I thought it made me look rehearsed—but Evan said he'd seen too many people lock up once the cameras were on. He told me to think of it as a security blanket, and I had to admit now that I was glad I had it.

“Thank you for letting me make a statement,” I said. “I'm leaving my legal situation in the hands of my lawyer, but I wanted to speak about what's gotten lost in the coverage of this case. My friend Simone.” My voice cracked, and I froze for a second. I took a deep breath and looked back up. I spotted Evan's secretary, Molly, standing at the back. Evan had promised she would be there to give me someone to look at, someone who would be friendly. She smiled and winked.

“Simone and I have been friends since fourth grade. And in that time, we did millions of things together—we had sleepovers, we went to camp, we learned to swim—and when she backed her parents' car into the garage, I was at her side when it was time to confess. We also had fights, as friends do, but one thing never changed—we loved each other. Simone was, and always will be, my closest friend. I look forward to the court finding in my favor so I can grieve her in private.”

I paused. My dad tensed, ready to leap in and finish my statement if I couldn't hack it. I cut him off before he could say anything. Evan was going to freak, but I was going off script. Now that I had everyone's attention, I had to say it. The image I'd had this morning of Simone and me together cemented what I'd wanted to believe all along. I hadn't done anything.

“You know I lost my memory in the accident. But one thing I know is that I did not hurt Simone, that I couldn't have hurt her.” A tear ran down my cheek, and the snap of cameras echoed back at me like muted applause. “I'm so sorry that this accident happened, and if I could go back in time and make it turn out differently, I would. I wanted to convince all of you, but now I realize that Simone, wherever she is, knows the truth, and that's what really matters.”

I stepped back. I could hear Evan let out a relieved sigh. Then I remembered the last line of the statement. “Oh, and I wanted to thank the staff at the hospital and my parents for their unending support during this difficult time.”

Evan clapped his hands together. “Okay, then, that's our statement for today. Thank you all for coming.”

“How did you feel things went?” Dr. Weeks asked.

“Pretty good,” I said. “The statement to the press went better than I expected.” I flushed. I felt absurdly proud of myself, like I'd won regionals in debate or gotten an A on an AP physics exam. “I didn't forget any words,” I said. “The aphasia's almost all gone.”

She smiled. “You should thank Deena,” she said, mentioning my speech-language pathologist. “And give yourself a pat on the back too. You put in a lot of effort.”