I glanced back in time to see Beth Docherty striding toward our table. She’d aged like someone who spent every vacation at a yoga retreat on an island. Her face was weathered, but rich weathered. No sag to it, just fine lines she could have Botoxed away but was confident enough not to. Her blond hair was short, tucked behind her ears, still beautifully highlighted. She barely paused beside our table, a kid in a John Hughes cafeteria. She said, “What a shocker to see you here.”
I should have smiled and said it was lovely to see her, too, but before she could finish walking away I said, “I’m here as a witness. Just like you.”
Beth wheeled around, sucked her tongue against her teeth, let out two small puffs of laughter. She said, “You didn’t witness jack shit, Bodie. This whole thing is the most pathetic attention grab. You have a book deal yet?”
Geoff said, “No, but her album drops Tuesday.”
Beth squinted at Geoff like she was trying to place him but didn’t care enough to think too hard about it.
He said, “I’m pretty sure this is witness tampering.”
Gratifyingly, Beth looked alarmed. She didn’t know if he was a lawyer or what. She wiped her hands on her sweater, as if that would get rid of us, and left without saying more.
Lord knows why I felt the need to defend Beth Docherty in that moment—Beth, who saw me as no better than Dane Rubra—but I said, “I imagine she might still be close to the Keiths.”
“She’s close to the pole up her ass, is what she’s close to. Listen, I can text from the courtroom if you want.” Geoff was ready to join the crowd in the gallery at ten a.m., a crowd that had been packed with journalists and onlookers in the first few days, but had thinned somewhat for the long haul.
I invited Geoff to join me and Fran at the party on campus that night, and he grinned. “I’m forty-five years old, but the idea of freely drinking alcohol on the Granby campus thrills me.”
“I think they let you do that at Alumni Weekend.”
He said, “I’ll go back when they invite me as a paid speaker.”
When I passed the lobby desk, the teenager who’d checked me in was arguing, loudly, with two young women holding video equipment. It wasn’t labeled; they weren’t, as far as I could tell, a news crew. They looked young, like students themselves. The teenager stammered about them needing permission to film, about stepping outside until he could locate his manager. I scuttled past, hurried onto the elevator, jabbed the button to close the doors fast.
14
Something Amy March told Alder, and Alder texted to me:
Every morning, Omar was woken at six a.m. at the State Prison in Concord and given a quick, cold breakfast, then put into a Sheriff’s Department sedan for the hour-long drive to Kern, where he was stuck in a holding cell until court began at nine.
Amy had to get permission from the bailiff to bring Omar some lunch, and every day since the hearing began, the bailiff had said no.
（Why???? I texted Alder, and he sent back a shrug emoji.）
The hearing wrapped up each day around four, and Omar would be back at the State Prison by six—but dinner was over in the prison by then.
So for the full week since the hearing had started, Omar had been subsisting on one meal a day. It was a meal of a set size; there was no asking for extra food.
According to Alder, Amy was worried not only that Omar would pass out in court, but that the woozy, vacant look in his eyes might come off a certain way to the judge. Every day she argued her case to the bailiff, and every day the answer was no.
15
There’s a women’s clothing shop in Kern called Delilah’s that I occasionally shoplifted from in the ’90s. I decided to spend apology money there.
The place still smelled like patchouli, and the clothes looked no different. Linen dresses, chunky sweaters, bead jewelry, clogs. The silver-maned woman at the counter might have been standing there unchanged the whole time, too.
I’d picked a few dresses to try on behind the tiny blue curtain, and right as I struggled to get a too-small one back over my shoulders, my phone rang. When I finally answered, it was Defense Team Hector letting me know it had come to his attention that I was seen speaking with other witnesses in the hotel, and just to be on the safe side, could I please avoid all direct contact with other witnesses. It was ten minutes till testimony started, and this was how he was using his time.
“But I don’t even have the full witness list,” I said.
“So,” he said, “I guess just avoid everyone you don’t know for sure is not a witness.” The hotel, he added, had agreed to make bagged breakfasts for those who needed them, and I could pick mine up at the front desk. “You don’t have to hide in your room,” he said. “Just be careful.” I understood; this was less about actual sequestration than about me looking like some manipulator who scurried around town intimidating people.
I emerged from the stall, having decided to buy earrings instead, and came face-to-face with a woman I recognized from the pool yesterday as Robbie Serenho’s wife. She had a couple of shirts draped over her arm, and up close she looked tired. We stood recognizing each other for an awkward moment before she extended her hand.
“I know who you are,” she said. “I’m Jen Serenho.”
“Oh, I—yes, hello.”
“It’s okay if I talk to you, right? I know Robbie’s not supposed to talk to anyone on the list, which—you know Robbie, that’s not easy for him. But Mike is here, and I’ve always loved Mike. He was in our wedding! I’m so fond of the Granby people I know.” Jen Serenho was either the kind of person who always talked nonstop, or the kind of person who talked nonstop when she was face-to-face with the woman who’d ruined her husband’s life. She looked anxious, was leaning in too close, and I was glad for my face mask. I couldn’t imagine Hector would approve of this conversation, but then there was no possible way Jen was a witness.
I stepped to the side just to put the dresses back on the rack, but she touched my arm as if to stop me fleeing the store. “You know, it was the hardest thing in his life,” she said. “He told me so on our first date. I asked about the worst time of his life and the best time, and he told me about losing Thalia. He’s someone—he takes things hard. These past few years, especially, it’s brought everything back.”
It dawned on me that she wanted an apology. Instead I said, “This must be a lot for you.”
“Oh! Well, yes. But the great thing about Robbie testifying, he can clear it up. We’ve been getting emails, phone calls. We took down our Facebook. Any package that comes, we have to double-check it’s something we ordered. I know people only want justice, but they’re so confused. You know, I saw someone with a T-shirt once that just said The Husband Did It, and I asked what it meant, I thought maybe it was from a TV show, and she said it meant when a woman is murdered, it’s always the husband or boyfriend. We’ve been trained to think that way.”
I wanted to tell her the shirt wasn’t wrong; the issue was that Thalia had more than one boyfriend. And I wanted to tell her that whatever suspicion Dane Rubra had sent their way, I’d hopefully just made things better.