entering the store moments before the murder.
The only thing Michael did not have, not in the sense he needed, was Falynn Harris, the daughter of the slain man. Falynn, whose mother had died in a car accident when she was only six, had not spoken a single word since the day she saw her father die in a hail of bullets.
Today would be Michael’s last opportunity to get Falynn to talk.
Michael knew why he was so driven on this case. It was hardly a secret around the office. Falynn’s story was not that different from his own. He had ridden shotgun on every detail leading up to the prosecution, had walked the evidence through the firearms unit, had personally interviewed everyone involved. Michael Roman was known throughout the Palace as the kind of prosecutor who liked to tie down evidentiary details even before charges were returned.
Michael had already met with Falynn six times, once bringing her to his house in Eden Falls, hoping that spending some time with Charlotte and Emily and Abby might open her up. No such luck. Each time she sat, curled into a ball, completely closed off from the world, embraced by the cold arms of grief.
Unless there was a continuance, today would probably be Michael’s last chance to prepare her for testimony. She had been subpoenaed by the defense, the judge had already ruled on the matter, and whether Michael liked it or not, she was going to take the stand.
She looked younger than fourteen, even younger than she had the last time Michael had seen her. She was slight and gamine, with light brown eyes and curly chestnut hair. She wore faded jeans and a burgundy sweatshirt, battered Frye boots, at least three sizes too big for her. Michael wondered if the boots had belonged to her father, if she had wadded-up paper towels in the toes.
Then there was that face. The face of a sad angel.
Falynn had been staying at a foster home in Jackson Heights since the murder. Michael had asked for a patrol car to pick her up and bring her to the office. He met her at the back entrance.
As they rode up to the second floor, Michael tried to plot his strategy with the girl.
He knew that if he could get her to open up in court, get her to look into the face of each juror – just once, just one heart-cinching time – he would put Patrick Ghegan on the gurney with a needle in his arm. And he knew why he wanted this so badly.
As they walked down the hallway Michael watched her. She was observant, smart, ever aware of her surroundings. He knew she saw the Christmas lights that ran along the wall where it met the ceiling, lights no one had bothered to take down for more than five years.
They walked through the small outer office into Michael’s office. Michael gestured to the sofa. “Would you like to sit here?”
Falynn looked up. The slightest smile graced her lips, but she remained silent. She sat on the sofa, drew her legs under her.
“Would you like a soda?”
Silence.
Michael reached into the small refrigerator next to his desk. Earlier in the day, the only things inside had been a single can of club soda and a bottle of Absolut. When Michael first met Falynn she walked in the room holding a diet Dr Pepper, so this morning he ran out and bought a six-pack of the soda. He hoped she still liked it. He popped a can out of the plastic, handed it to her. She took it and, after a minute or so, opened it, sipped.
Michael took the chair next to her. He would give it a few minutes before trying again. This was their routine. In their six meetings, Falynn had listened to everything he had said, but said nothing in response. Twice she had begun to cry. The last time they met, at Michael’s house, he had simply held her hand until it was time for her to go.
“Can I get you anything else?” Michael asked.
Falynn shook her head, and curled into a ball at the end of the old leather sofa. Michael thought about how the mayor of New York City had once sat in the same place, toasting Michael’s success, a place now occupied by a young girl who might never breach the shell of heartache and sadness that surrounded her. He had never seen anyone so shut down in his life.
He glanced at the file in his lap.
Since her father’s murder, Falynn had run away from her foster home three times. The last time she was picked up for shoplifting. According to the police report, Falynn walked into a Lowe’s and shoplifted a package of peel-and-stick decals, the kind you put on the walls in a kid’s room. The decals were yellow daisies. When she walked past the security pedestals she set off the alarm.
According to the report, the security guards gave chase, but Falynn got away. The guards called the police, gave them a description. An hour later Falynn was found by the police, sitting beneath an I-495 overpass, a place known as a refuge for the homeless. According to the report, Falynn was polite and respectful to the officers, and was peacefully taken into custody.
The report also stated that police found the stolen decals stuck on the concrete columns under the overpass.
Michael watched her. He had to start talking. He had to give this another try. Because if Falynn did not testify, there was only a fifty-fifty chance that Ghegan would be convicted on the scientific evidence. Even ballistics could be impeached.
“As you know, the trial starts tomorrow,” Michael began, trying to sound conversational. “I’ll be honest with you, the defense attorney in this case is very good at what hedoes. I’ve seen him work many times. His name is John Feretti and he is going to ask you tough questions. Personal questions. It would be great if we could go over some of this before tomorrow. If we could get your story out first, it will be a lot better.”
Falynn said nothing.
Michael felt he had one last lever. He sat silently for a while, then stood, crossed over to the window. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels, chose his words carefully.
“When I was really small we lived over on Ditmars, in this small second floor apartment. You know Ditmars Boulevard?”
Falynn nodded.
“I had my own room, but it wasn’t much bigger than my bed. I had a small second-hand dresser in the corner, a closet next to the door. The bathroom was down at the end of the hall, by my parent’s bedroom. Every night, right around midnight, I always had to go to the bathroom, but I was scared to death of walking past my closet. See, the door never closed all the way, and my father never got around to fixing it. For the longest time I was sure that there was something in there, you know? Some kind of monster ready to spring out and get me.”
Falynn remained silent, but Michael could tell she knew what he was getting at.
“Then one day my father installed a light in that closet. I kept that light on for the longest time. Months and months. Then one day I realized that, if there ever was a monster in there – and I’m still not convinced there wasn’t – the monster was gone. Monsters can’t stand the light.”
Michael turned to look at Falynn. His fear was that he had put her to sleep with his admittedly ham-handed analogy. She was listening, though. She was still curled up in a ball, but she was listening.
“If you testify tomorrow, you’ll be shining a light on Patrick Ghegan, Falynn. He will be exposed, and everyone will know who and what he is. If you testify we’ll be able to send him away, and he won’t be able to scare anyone or hurt anyone ever again.”
Falynn did not look up at him. But Michael saw her eyes shift side to side, saw the wheels begin to slowly turn.
Michael glanced back out the window. A few minutes passed, minutes during which Michael realized he had taken his best shot, and failed. He envisioned this broken young girl sitting on the witness stand, devastated by the murder of her father, adrift on an ocean of sorrow, unable to say a word. He saw Patrick Ghegan walking out of the courtroom a free man.
“Everything is so ugly.”
Michael spun around. The sound of Falynn’s voice was so foreign, so unexpected, Michael thought for a moment it had been in his head.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Falynn shrugged. Michael feared for a moment that she was going quiet again. He crossed the room, sat near
