before Emma’s party had only whetted her appetite for more, I realized. More juggling. I was getting it from all sides at once. Leave my secret identity alone! I felt like yelling.
“Mom, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Emma said, taking back the spoon. “Why don’t I look more like my dad?”
That was one of my biggest worries. That Emma might notice that Aidan Beck was fair instead of black Irish like Peter.
“I have no idea,” I said cheerfully, making it up as I went along. “I do know you have his good nature and his laugh.”
Emma, no dummy, frowned at my utter bullshit. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t want me to find out about him?” she said.
I had to struggle to keep from pulling my hair out. “Do I give you that impression?” I said.
“Whatev,” Emma mumbled, fat tears suddenly springing into her big blue eyes.
I knew that Em was just being a sixteen-year-old girl, a ball of hormone-charged emotion. But I couldn’t let her do this. I couldn’t afford it, and neither could she. What the heck was I supposed to say? Sorry to have to tell you this, kid, but your dad’s a psychopathic killer, and I’m a pathological liar?
Instead, I used my secret weapon.
I dropped my keys loudly on the countertop, collapsed onto the island stool, and started crying myself. “I wish I could make your life make more sense, but I can’t,” I said, sobbing.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Em finally said, coming around to embrace me. “You don’t think I know what you’ve done for me, but I really do. I’ll stop freaking you out with all this stuff.”
“No, I’m sorry. You could look up your Irish roots, just not right now, OK? You have college prep and so many other things on your plate. When I get back, we’ll rent
My iPhone rang as Emma hugged me again. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Terrific. What now?
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Carl Fouhy from Exonerate NYC. Is this Nina Bloom?”
“Yes, Carl. What’s up?”
“Since you’ve got the Justin Harris case now, I thought it would be a good idea for you to meet Harris’s mother.” Mary Ann must have called him, I surmised. No backsies indeed. “What’s your schedule looking like?”
“Real tight, Carl. I’m actually on the ten o’clock flight to Florida,” I said.
“Could you come by Rockefeller Center before you leave? Justin’s case is making big news now. The
The
A fist-sized ball of fear suddenly clenched in my stomach. I knew I shouldn’t have done this. Taking this case on had been a mistake.
“Nina? You still there? I know it’s a crunch, but I feel it’s really imperative that you meet.”
I couldn’t think of an excuse. I’d have to figure it out. If I was asked to get anywhere near a camera, I’d just refuse and walk away. Run away, if it came to that.
“Um, OK, I guess,” I said, checking my watch. “But only for a minute. Give me half an hour.”
Chapter 62
“AND FOUR, THREE, TWO,” said some wimpy bald guy all in black and wearing a headset. He pointed at the massive high-tech television studio camera beside him as its red light came on.
“And we’re back,” Al Roker said, reading off the teleprompter screen mounted beneath the saucer-sized bluish lens of the camera. “We’re concluding our three-part series today on Florida’s Jump Killer execution by talking to a family member of one of the alleged victims.”
Sitting on the couch across from America’s weatherman, wearing jeans and a light blue cashmere sweater, Peter Fournier smiled. Behind him outside the Rockefeller Plaza studio window, a crowd of people were waving signs. This was the reason Peter had traveled up from Key West to New York for the weekend.
“Peter Fournier’s wife was only twenty-three years old,” Roker continued, “when she was believed to have crossed paths with Justin Harris. Mr. Fournier, a Key West, Florida, police officer, is the head of the victims’ rights group for the Jump Killer’s victims. Good morning, Mr. Fournier. Has Harris actually admitted to murdering your young wife, Jeanine?”
“No,” Peter said sadly. “He has not, Al. He maintains his innocence not only in the case of my wife’s death, but even of the Foster girl, for which he was convicted.”
Peter took a breath as the glossy eye of the camera stayed on him.
“That’s why I, and all the other families, are gratified that the execution is finally going to take place next week. This man needs to pay for his crimes, and on Friday night, God willing, that’s exactly what he’ll do.”
Al nodded. “I can’t imagine your pain, but it’s long been debated whether capital punishment actually helps the victim’s family. What’s your take on that?”
“Seventeen years ago, this person abducted my wife and killed her, and he doesn’t even have the semblance of humanity to tell me where he dumped her body so I can have a proper funeral,” Peter said calmly. “What do I do with that, Al? Forgive and forget? My pain and the pain of all of the victims’ families will never go away. Dante said that hell is the place where all forgotten things go. That’s exactly where I want to put Harris. I just want him to be forgotten by me, by the other families, and by every other human being on this planet.”
“What are your plans now?” Al wanted to know.
“I, and the other family members in our organization, have learned that death penalty opponents are scheduling protests, so we will be front-row center to make sure that our voice, and the voices of the people that Harris truly disenfranchised, are heard.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fournier. I wish you well, sir,” Al said. “Up next is Meredith with some money-saving travel tips.”
Chapter 63
MY AIRPORT CAR let me out in front of Rockefeller Center on the corner of Fifth and 50th and kept going. I’d asked the driver to go ahead to my Lexington Avenue office building to pick up the Harris case file and wait for me there. After my aggravating meet and greet with Harris’s mom, I would hustle over to my office and, by some miracle, make my flight.
I spotted Fouhy standing in the crowd in front of the 10 Rock Center window where they taped the
Beside him, a large black woman wearing a YES WE DID ball cap was holding a large handwritten sign:
FREE JUSTIN HARRIS!
DON’T KILL MY SON!
“Mrs. Harris. Hi, I’m Nina Bloom,” I said, coming through the crowd.
Mrs. Harris almost knocked me down as she barreled into me, wrapping her arms around me in a full embrace. She pressed her smiling face against my cheek. She seemed enthusiastic, strangely upbeat despite her son’s predicament.
“Oh, she’s a good one. I can feel it, Mr. Fouhy,” she said in a honey-smooth Southern accent, her soft brown
