Paris crosses the cell and takes a seat beside Charlotte on the bench. “How did you kill him?” she asks in a low voice.
Charlotte looks at Paris with her one good eye. “He was beating on me, but when he hit Olivia, I just … snapped. I pushed him without even thinking. He fell backward down the stairs. Broke his neck.” Her eyes are moist. “I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted him to stop. But I’m not sad he’s dead. It was always going to end with one of us in a casket. I just wish my daughter hadn’t seen it, you know? I’m worried it’s going to mess her up when she’s older.”
“How old is she?”
“Six.”
“There’s a good chance she won’t remember,” Paris says. “At this age, their minds are so malleable. Just tell Olivia every day that you love her, that it’s not her fault, and that she’s a good girl. Over time, she’ll understand that you slayed a monster. For her.”
A small smile, followed by a wince. Charlotte’s lip is still raw. “You must have slayed a monster yourself at some point. That, or you have kids.”
“I don’t have kids,” Paris says. “But I remember what it was like to be a kid. And these were the things I would have wanted to hear.”
The woman nods, her tears beginning to flow freely, though she makes no sound. Paris understands this, too. It’s always best to cry silently, so you don’t make things worse. Stop those fucking tears God I hate your face when you cry.
They both turn their heads as an officer appears at the cell.
“Peralta,” he says, unlocking the door. “You’re being transferred to the courthouse. Your lawyer will meet you there.”
“Good luck,” Charlotte says, and touches Paris’s arm.
“You too,” Paris says.
They’ll both need it.
* * *
The elevator ride is quick, and this time they go up instead of down, stopping a few floors above the main level. There’s a walkway that connects the jail to the courthouse, and since Paris’s wrists are cuffed, the officer holds her elbow as they pass through.
When they arrive on the other side, Elsie is waiting. No tropical colors for the older woman today. For her court appearance, the lawyer has chosen a pinstriped navy skirt and matching jacket paired with a crisp white blouse. Standing beside her is an attractive young woman in a dark pantsuit, platinum hair in a sleek bun, holding a Nordstrom bag. This must be the junior associate Elsie mentioned the day before. The young woman appraises Paris through her trendy, oversize glasses.
“This is Hazel,” Elsie says.
The two women shake hands, and Hazel hands Paris the bag. “I couldn’t go into your house to get you anything from your closet, but your friend Henry gave me your sizes. You should find everything you need to freshen up in here.”
Elsie fingers a lock of Paris’s hair and grimaces. “Did you bring her a hair elastic, too?” she asks Hazel.
“Oh, I didn’t think—”
“Give her the one in your hair.”
The young associate takes out her bun and hands over the elastic without argument. The officer escorts Paris to a nearby bathroom. Once alone, she carefully peels off the bloodstained butterfly bandage from her forehead, then rinses her face and brushes her teeth. In the bag, she finds a hairbrush with the price tag still on it, and does her best to comb out the tangles in her hair before securing it in a loose bun with Hazel’s elastic. She then locks herself in a stall and sprays her armpits generously with deodorant before putting on her new outfit. Hazel has great taste. The conservative knee-length dress is dove gray and a perfect fit. The modest heels are less comfortable for someone who spends most of her day barefoot, but they’ll do. At the bottom of the bag, she finds a brand-new lipstick. She has the same one at home. The shade is called “Orgasm,” a bold name for a universally flattering color. She swipes it on her lips and then, impulsively, dabs a little on her cheeks.
When she comes back out of the bathroom, Elsie nods her approval. With Hazel in tow, they make their way over to the assigned courtroom, where the lawyer pauses just outside the double doors.
“Whatever happens in there, do not react.” Elsie’s voice is low and firm. “You are quiet, you are serious, you are well-mannered, and you are sad because your husband just died. Got it?”
Paris nods. She doesn’t have to pretend, because she is all those things.
The security guard opens the door. The courtroom is packed, every seat in the spectator area full. It doesn’t look anything like the fictional New York City courtrooms Paris sees on TV, which always appear so opulent, with ornately carved wood and high ceilings. This courtroom is modern and understated, with mid-toned paneling and natural light.