“Mat, it’s me.”
“What’s going on? How are you?”
“I’ll tell you how I am,” she says. “I got a visit yesterdayfrom the FBI. That’s how I am.”
“The FBI? They came to your-”
“Listen to me, Mat. Okay? Just listen, don’t talk.”
They didn’t used to speak to each other like this, but it’sone of the few perks of being charged with capital murder, lots of freedom withyour emotions.
“Do not talk to them under any circumstances,” she says. “Ifthey try to make a deal with you, don’t do it. Do not even say hello to them.Don’t even let them in. Just yell ‘Fifth Amendment’ from behind the door.”
“With me?” Mat asks. “They’re going to talk to me?”
“They wanted to talk about you. They wanted to talk aboutDivalpro. Just let me take care of this. Don’t you dare talk to them.”
“Ally?” Mat Pagone, her ex-husband, sounds out of breath.“Did you talk to them? About-that?”
“No, and I’m not going to. And neither are you. Just keepyour mouth shut and remember one thing, okay?”
“What’s that?”
“Your daughter needs at least one parent.” She hangs up thephone and holds her breath.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
Allison is awake, in the fetal position, when the alarmsurprises her at six in the morning. She probably managed a few fitful hours inthere somewhere, but it feels like she hasn’t slept at all. It’s not the lackof rest but the sense that time has accelerated from last night to thismorning. Everything seems to have quickened these last few weeks. Time flieswhen you want it to stop.
Yes, she did sleep, because she dreamt. She spoke to Sam.They were in his bed. Allison was saying to him, Can you believe they think Ikilled you?
She stretches, considers going for a jog but opts for coffeeinstead. She makes her own, with an antique percolator she bought a year agothat reminded her of the coffee in Tuscany. There was a time when she waitedanxiously for the brew to be ready, when she was eager to move on with her day.These days, there is little to look forward to. She will drink her coffee,listen to classical music, go on the internet later. Sometimes she even readsthe stuff about herself. Sometimes she will check out the website devoted toher case,freeallison.com, not for the support-they have no reason to thinkshe’s innocent, they’re simply capitalizing on a media event-but out of idlecuriosity. Much heavier on the idleness than the curiosity.
They had planned to go to Italy, Sam and Allison. A tripthis spring, before heavy tourism, to less-traveled places like Poggi del Sassoand Gaiole in Chianti. She had already made plans for it, already bookedromantic rooms in renovated castles with verandas where they could sit with wineand cheese and watch the sun go down over the breathtaking countryside.
“Oh, God.” She wipes the moisture from her cheeks. “Oh, shit.”The percolator has been whistling for too long. She pulls it off the stove,burning herself on the handle, spilling the entire thing onto the floor, thecoffee that she had burned, anyway. She picks up the percolator and slams itagainst the refrigerator, breaking the lid off.
She lets out a loud moan, a deep sound she doesn’trecognize, and covers her face with her hands. She is woozy but unwilling tocorrect the sensation, unwilling to open her eyes.
“They think I killed you,” she says to him, and actuallylaughs, a release of nervous tension. “They actually think I killed you.”
The doorbell rings just after nine in the morning. Shehasn’t showered or even brushed her teeth, but she is far beyond appearances.She goes to the door and stares through the peephole. She sees a woman, anattractive woman with a tiny face, expressive brown eyes, cropped dark hair. Awoman who is holding her credentials up for Allison to see.
“My name is Special Agent Jane McCoy,” the woman says. “I’mwith the FBI.”
“What do you want?” Allison calls out, her heartbeat kickinginto overdrive.
“A minute of your time, please.”
“What does the FBI have to do with me?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
Allison takes a breath, opens the door. “What do you want?”
“May I come in?”
Allison leads the federal agent into the den. She takes aseat on the couch. She remembers her father, interrogating her as she sat onthis very couch, about her whereabouts the prior evening, when she blew hermidnight curfew. She remembers, in fact, that it was Mat Pagone with whom shehad spent that evening.
Her parents didn’t approve of Mat. She had been quick toaccuse them of racism, a strapping Latino boy entering a white, middle-classhome to date a younger white girl. Mother said it was a matter of age-Mat was acollege freshman at the state university, the starting middle linebacker, andAllison was a high school sophomore. As a freshman a year earlier, she hadworshipped Mat, a senior and an all-state player. As a sophomore, she hadcaught his eye at a postgame party one Saturday night, a party that Allisoncertainly was not supposed to attend, but which many of her friends did. Thekids from both the public and Catholic schools on the northwest side caught allthe football games at the state university, only miles away, and managed to getinto the parties, too- especially the pretty female students.
Yes, she once was pretty. She had stopped believing that along time ago.
You’re so beautiful, Sam had said to her, I lose my breath.
The FBI agent sits across from Allison on the ottoman of aleather recliner. The agent is a petite woman. Soft brown hair cut short, atiny curved face, the wide innocent eyes of a doe. She is immediately likable,Allison thinks, regardless of the circumstances. That has probably been anasset in her job. The good cop in the routine.
“We can help each other,” the agent says to Allison.
“Before you tell me how you plan to help me,” Allisonstarts, “why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Well, Mrs. Pagone-or is it Ms. Quincy now?”
Allison chews on her lip. “Is this the part where you tellme that you know all about me?” she asks. “I hate to burst your bubble, AgentWhatever-your-name-is, but you aren’t the first to try that stunt. And if youhadn’t noticed, my life is hardly a secret these days.”
McCoy smiles at Allison. “It’s McCoy. Jane McCoy. You’veheard of Operation Public Trust. I’m one of the case agents on thatinvestigation.”
“Okay,” says Allison. “Thank you. Now, please tell me howyou intend to ‘help’ me.”
“I think you know, ma’am.”
Allison doesn’t respond. She thinks of what her lawyer wouldadvise her to do, which is precisely that.
“I’ve been following your trial,” McCoy says. “You know alot of what we know, quite honestly.”
“I’m sure I don’t know as much as the federal government.”
McCoy watches Allison a moment. She leans forward, herelbows on her knees.
“I think you know more,” McCoy says.
Allison looks away. “You’ve got five minutes. You can spendthat time baiting me, or you can get to the point.”
“Very good.” McCoy claps her hands together. “You are out ofoptions, Mrs. Pagone. You’re going to lose your case, from what I can see.Maybe you’ll beat the death penalty. I don’t know. I’m saying, you can helpyourself. I can help you. Take some years off that sentence. Keep you close tohome so your daughter can visit. But you have to help me first.”
Allison steels herself.
You want Mat.
