I said nothing.
'Because I'm going to dig. I'm going to dig until I find every mistake you ever made. And I'll use them. You got skeletons, Mr. Copeland. We both know that. If you keep up this witch hunt, I'm going to drag them out for all the world to see.' He seemed to be gaining confidence now. I didn't like that. 'At worst, my son made a big mistake. We're trying to find a way to make amends for what he did without destroying his life. Can you understand that?'
'I have nothing more to say to you,' I said.
He kept hold of my arm.
'Last warning, Mr. Copeland. I will do whatever I can to protect my child.' I looked at EJ Jenrette and then I did something that surprised him. I smiled.
'What?' he said.
'It's nice,' I said.
'What is?'
'That your son has so many people who will fight for him,' I said. 'In the courtroom too. Edward has so many people on his side.' 'He is loved.' 'Nice,' I said again, pulling away my arm. 'But when I look at all those people sitting behind your son, you know what I can't help but notice?'
'What?'
'Chamique Johnson,' I said, 'has no one sitting behind her.'
I would like to share this journal entry with the class,' Lucy Gold said.
Lucy liked having her students form a big circle with their desks. She stood in the center of it. Sure, it was hokey, her stalking around the 'ring of learning' like the bad-guy wrestler, but she found it worked. When you put the students in a circle, no matter how large, they all had front-row seats. There was no place to hide.
Lonnie was in the room. Lucy had considered letting him read the entry so she could better study the faces, but the narrator was female. It wouldn't sound right. Besides, who ever wrote this knew that Lucy would be watching for a reaction. Had to know. Had to be screwing with her mind. So Lucy decided that she would read it while Lonnie searched for reactions. And of course, Lucy would look up a lot, pausing during the reading, hoping something would give.
Sylvia Potter, the brown noser, was directly in front of her. Her hands were folded and her eyes were wide. Lucy met her eye and gave her a small smile. Sylvia brightened up. Next to her was Alvin Renfro, a big-time slacker. Renfro sat the way most students did, as though they had no bones and might slide off their chairs and become a puddle on the floor.
'This happened when I was seventeen,' Lucy read. 'I was at summer camp. I worked there as a CIT. That stands for Counselor In Training…'
As she continued to read about the incident in the woods, the narrator and her boyfriend, 'P,' the kiss against the tree, the screams in the woods, she moved around the tight circle. She had read the piece at least a dozen times already, but now, reading out loud to others, she felt her throat start to constrict. Her legs turned rubbery. She shot a quick glance at Lonnie. He had heard something in her tone too, was looking at her. She gave him a look that said, 'You're supposed to be watching them, not me,' and he quickly turned away.
When she finished, Lucy asked for comments. This request pretty much always followed the same route. The students knew that the author was right there, in this very room, but because the only way to build yourself up is to tear others down, they ripped into the work with a fury. They raised their hands and always started with some sort of disclaimer, like, 'Is it just me?' or 'I could be wrong about this, but,' and then it began:
'The writing is flat…'
'I don't feel her passion for this P, do you?…'
'Hand under the shirt? Please…'
'Really, I thought it was just dreck.'
'The narrator says, 'We were kissing, it was so passionate.' Don't tell me it was passionate. Show me…'
Lucy moderated. This was the most important part of the class. It was hard to teach students. She often thought back to her own education, the hours of mind- numbing lectures, and could not remember one thing from any of them. The lessons she had truly learned, the ones she internalized and recalled and put to use, were the quick comments a teacher would make during discussion time. Teaching was about quality, not quantity. You talk too much, you become Muzak-annoying back ground music. If you say very little, you can actually score.
Teachers also like attention. That can be a danger too. One of her early professors had given her sound and simple advice on this: It's not all about you. She kept that front and center at all times. On the other hand, students didn't want you floating above the fray. So when she did tell the occasional anecdote, she tried to make it one where she messed up-there were plenty of those anyway-and how, despite that, she ended up okay.
Another problem was that students did not say what they truly believed as much as what they hoped would impress. Of course this was true at the faculty meetings too-the priority was sounding good, not telling the truth.
But right now Lucy was being a bit more pointed than usual. She wanted reactions. She wanted the author to reveal him-or herself. So she pushed.
'This was supposed to be memoir,' she said. 'But does anybody really believe this happened?'
That quieted the room. There were unspoken rules here. Lucy had pretty much called out the author, called her a liar. She backtracked. 'What I mean to say is, it reads like fiction. That is usually a good thing, but does it make it difficult in this case? Do you start to question the veracity?'
The discussion was lively. Hands shot up. Students debated one another. This was the high of the job. Truth was, she had very little in her life. But she loved these kids. Every semester she fell in love all over again. They were her family, from either September through December or January through May. Then they left her. Some came back. Very few. And she was always glad to see them. But they were never her family again. Only the current students achieved that status. It was weird.
During some point, Lonnie headed out. Lucy wondered where he was going, but she was lost in the class. On some days, it ended too quickly. This was one of them. When time ran out and the students started packing their backpacks, she was no closer to knowing who had sent her that anonymous journal.
'Don't forget,' Lucy said. 'Two more pages of the journals. I'd like them in by tomorrow.' Then she added, 'Uh, you can send more than two pages, if you want. Whatever you have for me.'
Ten minutes later, she arrived at her office. Lonnie was already there.
'You see anything in their faces?' she asked.
'No,' he said.
Lucy started packing her stuff, jamming papers into her laptop bag.
'Where are you going?' Lonnie asked.
'I have an appointment.'
Her tone kept him from asking any more. Lucy kept this particular 'appointment' once a week, but she didn't trust anyone with that information. Not even Lonnie.
'Oh,' Lonnie said. His eyes were on the floor. She stopped.
'What is it, Lonnie?'
'Are you sure you want to know who sent the journal? I mean, I don't know, this whole thing is such a betrayal.'
'I need to know.'
'Why?' 1 cant tell you.
He nodded. 'Okay, then.'
'Okay, what?'
'When will you be back?'
'An hour, maybe two.'
Lonnie checked his watch. 'By then,' he said, 'I should know who sent it.'
Chapter 9
The trial was postponed for the afternoon.
There were those who would argue that this made a difference in the case-that the jury would be left overnight with my direct and that it would settle in, blah, blah, blah. That sort of strategizing was non sense. It was the life cycle of a case. If there was a positive in this development, it would be offset by the fact that Flair Hickory would now have more time to prepare his cross. Trials work like that. You get hysterical about it, but stuff like this tends to even out.
I called Loren Muse on my cell. 'You have anything yet?'
'Still working on it.'
I hung up and saw there was a message from Detective York. I wasn't sure what to do anymore about Mrs. Perez lying about the scar on Gils arm. If I confronted her with it, she would probably say she just got mixed up. No harm, no foul.
But why would she have said it in the first place?
Was she, in fact, telling what she believed to be the truth-that this body did not belong to her son? Were both Mr. and Mrs. Perez merely making a grievous (but understandable) mistake here-that it was so hard to fathom that their Gil had been alive this whole time that they could not accept what their own eyes were showing them?
Or were they lying?
And if they were lying, well, why?
Before I confronted them, I needed to have more facts on hand. I would have to provide definitive proof that the corpse in the morgue with the alias Manolo Santiago was really Gil Perez, the young man who had disappeared into the woods with my sister and Margot Green and Doug Billingham nearly twenty years ago.
York's message said: 'Sorry it took me so long to get this. You asked about Raya Singh, the victims girlfriend. We only had a cell on her, believe it or not. Anyway, we called up. She works at an Indian restaurant on Route 3 near the Lincoln Tunnel.' He gave me the name and ad dress. 'She's supposed to be there all day. Hey, if you learn anything about Santiago's real name, let me know. Far as we can tell, he's had the alias for a while. We got some hits on him out in the Los Angeles area from six years ago. Nothing heavy. Talk to you later.'
