One of the few useful services I have performed for my father, given everything else, is to shuttle back and forth to the house to get personal possessions he needs. About a month before the trial began, my father moved into a residency hotel in Center City for the duration of the proceedings. He didn't want to waste time commuting before and after the long days in court. More to the point, he was sick of the creeps with cameras who jumped out of the bushes every time he went in and out his front door.
The Miramar, where he is staying, is nowhere near any body of water, despite its name, and is one of those places that chose to change its signs and client mix instead of remodeling. The colonial furnishings in the lobby look as if they were there when George Washington spent the night, and the wallpaper in two different corners of his room hangs down like the tongue of a slobbering dog. None of that seems to matter to my father, who returns to the efficiency only to sleep when Stern and he have finished preparing for the next day. Now and then he'll make lame jokes about getting accustomed to smaller spaces.
The truth is that right now he is living only in his head, and his head is crowded almost exclusively with the details of the case. When he is not in the courtroom, he likes doing legal and factual research in Stern's office. It's baffling, since he seems to have no hope about the outcome, but I guess it's his only way to cope. It would be better if there were some friends to distract him, but my dad has found himself remarkably alone. These kind of charges, especially for a second time, don't fetch party invitations, and he is too much of a loner to have ever had much of a social life anyway, especially because my mom was pretty much phobic about leaving home. Even his former colleagues are rarely in touch. He was a fairly remote figure on the court, and his only really good friend there, George Mason, is, like me, a witness who has to keep his distance right now. The idea that riled me months ago, of my dad dating, would probably make some sense right now, even if it was just to have company for dinner or a movie; but he seems totally uninterested in anything outside his case and prefers to spend his few free moments by himself.
He does not even seem to enjoy spending time with Anna and me. We've tried a couple of evenings, but it's all been somehow stilted. Despite how much he loved Anna as a clerk, he does not seem comfortable speaking in front of her in this time of distress, and the three of us often descend to silence. Now and then, when Anna is working late or out of town, I'll have a quick dinner with him, which is permissible as long as we steer clear of the case. He reminds me a lot of my law school friend Mike Pepi, whose wife left him for her boss at River National and who talks obsessively about his divorce. After a half-hour rant about LeeAnn and the lawyers, Pepi will abruptly say, 'Let's discuss something else,' and then go back to the subject immediately, seeming to find a segue in subjects as unlikely as quilting exhibits or the latest astronomical status of Pluto.
My dad's pretty much the same way. He would probably like to dissect every Q amp;A from court, but since he really can't talk to me about that stuff, he rambles about his own state of mind. Again and again, he has said that this experience is nothing like the first time twenty-plus years ago. Then, he says, he really couldn't believe it and constantly wished his life could be the same as it was before. Now he takes a tectonic shift for granted. He refers offhandedly to going to prison. But even if he is acquitted, the DNA results from the first trial will be released to the press after the jury returns its verdict. Sophisticates may grasp the arguments about specimen contamination or the victim's other lovers, but the nuances won't find their way into the headlines. If my dad walks away again, he will be shirked by virtually everyone who recognizes his name.
Now, outside Marta's office, I hug my dad, something I do every night before I leave, and tell him I'll have the ties for him in the morning. The little blue Prius Anna bought herself last year is at the curb.
"Would you mind a trip to Nearing?" I ask after I've kissed her. "He wants some ties."
Would you want to wear a tie that came from the hand of a woman you killed? Or is my father sinister and subtle enough to foresee that I'd ask myself that very question? It's this kind of cloud chamber, where the questions ricochet in all directions leaving their skinny vapor trails, in which I've lived for months. For the last hour, I've thought a lot about Stern's remark that my father took the stand to enhance my confidence in him. I know my dad is desperate not to lose me. As parents, he and my mom were always so eager for my love that it seemed to pain all of us. But to disconnect from me now, especially, would bring my dad to an end too much like that of his own father, who died alone in one of those tin can trailers out west.
"How did he do?" Anna asks after we have been driving quite some time. She is accustomed to my lengthy silences, especially after court.
"God," I answer, and just worry my head as we stutter through the Center City traffic toward the Nearing Bridge. On the street, some messenger is traveling along on a unicycle and a full-body rabbit's suit, the ears bobbing as he pedals. I guess that's what they mean when they say, All the world's a stage. "Did you read anything?" I ask.
"Frain," she answers. "He's already posted." Michael Frain writes a national column, with oddball observations on culture and events, called "The Survivor's Guide." He is married to a federal judge here, and to keep from traveling, he gravitates toward local stories that can entertain people coast to coast. He's been writing a lot about my
father's case and seems to think my dad literally got away with murder.
"Bad?"
"'Like a bombing raid on a small village.'"
"I'm not sure it was that awful. My dad got some licks in here and there. And Sandy has something up his sleeve they didn't want to talk about before I go on the stand again." Nonetheless, the words resound. 'A bombing raid.' I think about what I heard this afternoon. It seemed worse moment by moment, watching him getting pecked at like Prometheus tied to that rock. But after talking to Sandy, it feels as if my dad had a really rough plane ride, on which he somehow landed safely, more scared than injured.
"Do you remember whether my mom drank the wine that night?" I ask Anna as I am rethinking my father's testimony. Long ago, I violated the rules about not discussing the case with Anna. I have to talk to someone, and there is no realistic chance she will get called to the stand herself.
Debby Diaz located Anna two days after the detective had come to see me, but I had warned her, and she knows how to play the game far better than I do. She had Diaz meet her at her office, and one of the senior partners sat in as her lawyer. When Diaz asked about who did what the night before my mom died, Anna said she had been too nervous about showing up as my girlfriend for the first time to remember anything clearly. She kept adding, 'I'm not sure,' and, 'It might have been the other way,' and, 'I really don't recall,' whenever she answered a question. Diaz gave up about halfway through the interview. The prosecutors put Anna's name on their witness list anyway, just like everyone else the cops talked to during their investigation, including my dad's dry cleaner. It's an old trick so they can conceal who they will actually call. As a result, she's obliged to stay out of the courtroom, but always eager to hear what took place.
Now, in reply to my question about the wine, Anna reminds me that when we sat down to dinner, my mother insisted my dad open the nice bottle Anna had brought and that he poured some for each of us. Neither of us, though, seems to recall clearly whether my mom lifted that glass or the one she'd been served in the kitchen.
"What about the appetizers. Did she eat any?"
"God, Nat. I don't know. I mean, the veggies and dip, probably. I remember your father offering her the whole tray, but I sort of thought he finally took it out with you guys while you were cooking. Who knows?" She wriggles up her nose at the uncertainty of all of it. "How are you feeling, anyway, after all of that?"