Reluctantly, I agreed.
We’ve been living quite happily together ever since—splitting the rent, making meals together, calling his family together, shopping together, going to the Olive Garden together…and more. Juan Manuel shares my love of the Tour of Italy platter. We often play a game where we have to choose just one part of the Tour of Italy to eat if we one day become stranded on a desert island.
“You can choose only one—the chicken parmigiana, the lasagna, or the fettucine Alfredo.”
“No, I can’t choose. It’s impossible, Molly.”
“But you must. You have to choose.”
“I can’t choose. I’d rather die.”
“I’d rather you stay alive and well, thank you very much!”
The last time we played this game, we were at the Olive Garden. He leaned forward and kissed me across the table, right under the pendant light, all without ever putting his elbows on the table, because that’s just the kind of man he is.
Tonight, we will go out, just the two of us, to the Olive Garden. After all, we have reason to celebrate. Yesterday was a big day for both of us. We each took the stand in the trial against Rodney. Charlotte spent weeks preparing us for cross-examination, for every difficult question the defense could throw at us. In the end, Juan Manuel took the stand before I did and told the court his very sad and terrible truth. He told them how his papers were taken from him, how Rodney threatened his life and those of his family members, how he was forced to work for Rodney, and how he was burned repeatedly. In the end, it wasn’t Juan Manuel who was attacked on the stand. It was me.
Do you truly expect this court to believe you didn’t know anything when you were literally wiping cocaine off tables every morning?
Is it accurate to say that you were Mr. Black’s accomplice?
Is Giselle your friend? Is that why you’re protecting her?
I wanted to tell them that Giselle doesn’t need my protection, not anymore, not since her abuser, Mr. Black, is dead. But I learned from Charlotte that in court, when a question assumes, you don’t have to answer it. And since I didn’t want to make an A-S-S out of myself, I allowed Charlotte to object. And I said nothing.
Detective Stark tried many times to get Giselle to appear in court, but to no avail. Once, she managed to get her on the phone. She located Giselle at a hotel in Saint-Tropez. Detective Stark begged her to come back to the country and take the stand. She asked who the charges were against, and when she learned they were against Rodney, not me, she said, “Hell no. I’m not going back.”
“Did she say why?” I asked.
“She said she’s wasted enough of her life on guilty men. She said that everything’s different for her now, that she’s free for the first time ever. She said that unless I can track her down and serve her a subpoena, she’ll come back when hell freezes over. She also said I’m the detective, not her, that it’s my job to put the villain behind bars.”
That sounded like Giselle. I could almost hear her saying it.
In the end, I took the stand with only Juan Manuel to corroborate my side of the story.
Apparently, I did well. Apparently, I had a calm demeanor on the stand and the judge took notice. Charlotte says that most witnesses feel attacked up there, and they either lash out or break down.
I’m used to name-calling and insinuations about my character. I’m used to verbal jousts and jabs. They’re fired my way every day, often without me even being aware of them. I’m used to my words being my only defense.
For the most part, being on the stand was not difficult. All I had to do was listen to the questions and respond with the truth, my truth.
The hardest part was when Charlotte asked me to walk the court through my memory of the day I found Mr. Black dead in his bed. I told them about Mr. Black almost bowling me over outside the suite. I told them how I entered later that day and Giselle was gone, how I turned the corner to the bedroom and saw Mr. Black lying there. I told them every detail I could remember—the drinks on the sitting-room table, the open safe, the spilled bottle of pills, Mr. Black’s shoes akimbo on the floor, three pillows on the bed, not four.
“Three pillows,” Charlotte said. “How many are usually on a bed at the Regency Grand?”
“Four is our house standard. Two firm, two soft. And I can assure you, I always kept four clean pillows on that bed. I’m a very detail-oriented person.”
A muffled eruption of laughter traveled through the courtroom, laughter at my expense. The judge called for order, and Charlotte asked me to continue.