“Who was that?”
“Jill Hoffman.”
“And what was Jill Hoffman doing?”
“She was coming out of her room and heading for the bathroom.”
“Did she have her back to you, or was she coming toward you?”
“She had her back toward me,” I said, more confused than ever. What did that matter?
“Did you call out to her?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“She turned around, and I could see that there was some blood on her face and hands.”
“Some blood?”
I looked to Mr. Pearl, aghast.
“Please clarify that question for my client,” Mr. Pearl instructed.
“In your statement to the police”—The Defendant shuffled his notes like a deck of cards—“you described it as ‘more blood than I’d ever seen in my life.’？” But the page in his hand was upside down. Inwardly, I recoiled. The barnyard animal sitting much too close to me had memorized that part.
“For someone like me,” I replied priggishly, “who spends most of her time in the library, yes, it was certainly more blood than I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Please answer the question.”
Blithely, “Was there one?”
“Was it a lot of blood or only some blood?”
“It was a lot.”
There was a purse of his lips, like an air kiss. In that moment I understood. This was all he wanted: to relive it. There was no trapdoor beneath my feet, at least none The Defendant had the pull cord to. He had summoned me here to tweeze the goriest bits from my memory. I could not believe anyone could call him intelligent, or even take him seriously. His act was so transparent, his character so fundamentally hollow, that it should have been an affront to the court, a place that was venerated and inviolable to me.
“What did you do after you saw that Jill was covered in a lot of blood?” he continued to no objection. There was none to make. This was all legal. Unbelievably legal.
“I ran down the hallway to wake up the other girls.”
“Did you go into Denise Andora’s room then?”
Her name, in his mouth, sounded all wrong. Denise Patrick Andora was a denomination that warranted a reverent inflection. Salvador Dalí had sent her mother a condolence card after she died. When you fry, I willed my pleasant features to express, your mother will have to grieve in societal exile.
“Yes,” I said. “I went to check on Denise Andora then. I loved her. So many people did.” In death penalty cases, copies of court transcripts must be saved forever, and I wanted a permanent record of this unsparing truth, for Denise. “I was worried because she wasn’t out in the hallway with the other girls.”
“Can you describe her physical state when you found her?” There was a quick dart of his lizard tongue, dabbing his thin lips.
“Her eyes were closed, and I thought she was sleeping.”
“Did you notice anything out of place in her room?”
“The window was shut, and she had the covers pulled up. Denise ran hot, so that was unusual for her.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t understand your question,” I said stubbornly.
“From your police statement”—The Defendant smacked his lips together lasciviously—“？‘The nozzle of the hair mist bottle was covered in blood and sort of dark brown gunk and hair.’ Do you recall saying that to Detective Pickell?”
I zipped up my knees, pelvis torching with sympathy pains. “I do.”
“Can you describe the hair mist bottle?”
“What does he mean?” I asked Veronica Ramira, whispering a little. I could see in her face that I’d shocked her, but I was realizing that about the only time The Defendant didn’t scare me was when I was in the same room he was. When I could confirm the exact location of his whereabouts with my own two eyes, and there were guards with guns who would put a bullet in his middling brain if he so much as breathed wrong. If I wanted to make him feel like scum on the bottom of my shoe, this would be my only chance.
“What is your understanding now as to why the nozzle of the Clairol hair mist bottle was covered in those elements?” The Defendant hastened to ask before Veronica Ramira could get involved.
I bit my tongue as Veronica Ramira leaned across her client, head bent to block his face, and whispered something. For a moment I thought she was resigning as counsel, having remembered she was a woman.