"Thank you, Rachel," Fisher says, and sits down.
Ten minutes later, Fisher and I stand in front of the judge in chambers. "I'm not suggesting, Ms. Frost, that you put words in that child's head," the judge says. "I am suggesting, however, that she believes she is doing what you and her mother want her to do."
"Your Honor," I begin.
"Ms. Frost, the child's loyalties to her mother are much stronger than her loyalty to a witness oath.
Under those circumstances, any conviction the state might secure could be overturned anyway." He looks at me, not without sympathy. "Maybe six months from now, things will be different, Nina." The judge clears his throat. "I'm finding the witness not competent to stand trial. Does the state have another motion in regard to this case?"
I can feel Fisher's eyes on me, sympathetic instead of victorious, and this makes me fume. "I need to talk to the mother and child, but I believe the state will be filing a motion to dismiss without prejudice."
It means that as Rachel grows older, we can recall the charge and try again. Of course, Rachel might not be brave enough for that. Or her mother might just want her to get on with life, instead of reliving the past. The judge knows this, and I know this, and there is nothing either of us can do about it. It's simply the way the system works.
Fisher Carrington and I walk out of chambers. "Thank you, counselor," he says, and I don't answer. We veer off in different directions, magnets repelled.
This is why I'm angry: 1) I lost. 2) I was supposed to be on Rachel's side, but I turned out to be the bad guy. After all, I am the one who made her undergo a competency hearing, and it was all for nothing.
But none of this shows in my face as I lean down to talk to Rachel, who is waiting in my office. "You were so brave today. I know you told the truth and I'm proud of you, and your mom's proud of you.
And the good news is, you did such a great job, you don't have to do it again." I make sure I look her in the eye as I say this, so it slips inside, praise she can carry in her pockets. "I need to talk to your mom, now, Rachel. Can you wait outside with your grandma?"
Miriam falls apart before Rachel has closed the door behind herself. "What happened in there?"
"The judge found Rachel not competent." I recount the testimony she didn't hear. "It means we can't prosecute your ex-husband."
"How am I supposed to protect her, then?"
I fold my hands on my desk, gripping the edge tight. "I know you have a lawyer representing you in your divorce, Mrs. Marx. And I'd be happy to call him for you. There's still a social services investigation going on, and maybe they can do something to curtail or supervise the visitations . . . but the fact is, we can't put on a criminal prosecution right now. Maybe when Rachel gets older."
"By the time she's older," Miriam whispers, "he will have done it to her a thousand more times."
There is nothing I can say to this, because it is most likely true.
Miriam collapses in front of me. I have seen it dozens of times, strong mothers who simply go to pieces, like a starched sheet that melts at a breath of steam. She rocks back and forth, her arms crossed so tight at her waist that it doubles her over. "Mrs. Marx, . . . if there's anything I can do for you ..."
"What would you do if you were me?"
Her voice rises like a snake, tugs me forward. "You did not hear this from me," I say quietly. "But I would take Rachel, and I would run."
25
Minutes later, from my window, I see Miriam Marx searching through her purse. For her car keys, I think. And quite possibly, for her resolve.
There are many things Patrick loves about Nina, but one of the best things about her is the way she enters a room. Stage presence, that's what his mother used to call it when Nina barreled into the Ducharme kitchen, helped herself to an Oreo from the cookie jar, and then paused, as if to give everyone else a chance to catch up to her. All Patrick knows is that his back can be to the door, and when Nina comes in, he can feel it- a tickle of energy on the nape of his neck, a snap to attention as every eye in the place turns toward her.
Today, he is sitting at the empty bar. Tequila Mockingbird is a cop hangout, which means it doesn't really get busy until dinnertime. In fact, there have been times that Patrick has wondered whether the establishment opens early simply to accommodate himself and Nina for their standing Monday lunches.
He checks his watch, but he knows he is early-he always is. Patrick doesn't want to miss the moment she walks in, the way her face turns unerringly to his, like the needle of a compass at true north.
Stuyvesant, the bartender, flips over a tarot card from a deck. From the looks of it, he's playing solitaire. Patrick shakes his head. "That's not what they're for, you know."
"Well, I don't know what the hell else to do with 'em." He is sorting them by suit: wands, cups, swords, and pentacles. "They got left behind in the ladies' room." The bartender stubs out his cigarette and follows the line of Patrick's gaze toward the door. "Jesus," he says. "When are you going to tell her?"
"Tell her what?"
But Stuyvesant just shakes his head and pushes the pile of cards toward Patrick. "Here. You need these more than I do."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Patrick asks, but at that moment Nina walks in. The air in the room hums like a field full of crickets, and Patrick feels something light as helium filling him, until before he knows it he has gotten up from his seat.
