Her Pretty Face Page 7

  “Her lawyer?” DJ’s dad snapped. “If she’s innocent, why does she have a lawyer?”

  His mother’s voice overlapped his dad’s. “What does that mean? Manslaughter?”

  The cop laid it out in quantitative terms. “It means max ten years. Minimum four.”

  “Four years?” DJ’s mom shrieked. “Four years for watching my baby get tortured and raped and murdered? Four years for standing by and letting her die?”

  “We’ll push for the maximum sentence,” the prosecutor offered. “She may serve the full term.”

  “My daughter will be dead forever!”

  The female detective’s voice was gentle. “This girl just turned twenty. She’s a kid herself. I don’t believe she could have stopped Shane Nelson. She wasn’t strong enough, mentally or physically. . . . But she can stop him now.”

  “We have a lot of circumstantial evidence against Nelson,” Neil Givens added, “but it might not be enough. The girlfriend’s testimony is crucial if we want to put him away for life.”

  “Which we do.” Margot Williams stated the obvious.

  No one spoke for a moment. The smack of the detective’s gum and the puff of DJ’s mom’s cigarette filled the void.

  “You’re sure she wasn’t in on it?” His dad’s voice was quiet but angry. DJ felt angry, too, but he stayed silent, loitering unseen.

  “She wasn’t in on it.” The female detective was adamant.

  “Definitely not,” Neil Givens affirmed.

  “What’s this girl’s name?” His mother’s voice was soft.

  “Amber Kunik,” the prosecutor replied.

  Amber Kunik. The girl who had watched his sister die.

  His father gave a heavy sigh. “Can we think about it?”

  “Of course.” DJ could hear them getting to their feet. He stepped farther back into the shadows as his parents walked their guests to the door.

  Neil Givens spoke. “We’ll need your answer within a couple of days.”

  The next day, his parents agreed to the deal.

  frances

  NOW

  Sometime after dinner, it was suggested that Marcus should sleep over. Though he was eleven, Frances’s son had never spent a night away from his mother, for obvious reasons. What if he had one of his tantrums? What if he needed Frances in the night? He still wet the bed on rare occasions. It would be humiliating for him if it happened on Charles’s air mattress.

  But Marcus had begged. “Pleeeeeease, Mom,” he whined, plucking at her shirtsleeve as she sat at the dining table.

  “You don’t have your pajamas.”

  “He can borrow a pair from Charles,” Kate said, like she hadn’t noticed that Marcus was roughly double her son’s size.

  “They won’t fit,” Frances said.

  “I’ll sleep in my boxers,” Marcus offered. “I do it all the time.”

  “You don’t have your toothbrush.”

  Jason took his son’s side. “His teeth won’t fall out if he misses one night of brushing, Frances.”

  “He has an appointment with his physical therapist in the morning.”

  “Charles and I are early risers,” Robert said. “I’ll get the boys some breakfast and have Marcus home by eight-thirty.”

  “We’ll take good care of him,” Kate promised. “And you’re not far away if he needs you.”

  Frances had run out of objections. Pushing her anxiety aside, she acquiesced. Her son’s quick but warm hug of gratitude almost compensated for her sense of unease . . . almost. She and Kate had followed their sons upstairs to get them settled into bed.

  When the comforting sounds of the boys’ whispers and giggles had ceased, and their slumber could be safely assumed, Kate asked, “Dessert anyone?”

  “Just a tiny sliver,” Frances said, automatically. She’d been working so hard at her circuit training, and had been watching her carbs and sugar for almost two weeks. When she’d weighed herself (naked, before breakfast, coffee, or even water), she was down three pounds.

  Kate disappeared into the kitchen, returning shortly with a mischievous grin and a small plastic bag containing two oatmeal cookies. Where was Frances’s signature tiramisu?

  Jason chuckled. “Are those what I think they are?”

  “Yep,” Robert said, a twinkle in his eye. “One of the benefits of moving to Washington State.”

  “Legal weed,” Kate said, giving the bag of cookies a gentle shake.

  “Thanks, but we don’t smoke pot,” Frances said. Even to her own ears, she sounded judgmental and uptight; a giant buzzkill.

  Jason obviously thought so, too. “We used to,” he said gamely.

  Kate addressed Frances. “We don’t either. Not really . . . But the kids are older now. It’s legal. We thought it might be fun.”

  “I never really liked it,” Frances said, which wasn’t exactly true. She had quite enjoyed being stoned . . . but the associated munchies had put her up a dress size.

  “This is a nice mellow indica,” Robert said. “It’s more of a body stone.”

  “In-da-couch,” Jason said, affecting a weird, semi-Jamaican accent. He seemed quite keen to jump back on the cannabis wagon.

  “It makes me feel relaxed and giggly,” Kate said.

  Relaxed and giggly sounded pretty great. “Okay . . . ,” Frances said, smiling at her friend. “I’ll try some.”

  Robert broke a cookie in half and handed a piece to Frances. “Start slow,” he advised.

  For almost an hour, Frances felt completely unaffected. Robert made tea, and as they sipped it, they chatted about the boys, about municipal politics, about a great foreign movie Robert and Kate had watched. Gradually, the pot took effect. For Frances, it felt like slipping into a warm jacuzzi. Her body felt heavy and relaxed, and the corners of her mouth twitched with amusement.

  “The tiramisu!” Kate said, jumping up.

  Jason stood, too. “Who needs water?”

  “Yes, please.” Frances was suddenly aware of a serious case of dry mouth. Her husband followed her friend into the kitchen, leaving Frances and Robert alone at the table.

  “So . . . ,” she said, scrambling to make conversation. Her brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and her mouth felt like it was coated in fur. And what did a housewife and a big-shot legal consultant a decade older have to talk about, even when they weren’t stoned? “What kind of consulting work do you do again?”

  “Labor law,” Robert said. “Kate thinks it’s boring.”

  Frances smirked, remembering Kate’s comment to that effect. She’d been almost sure that Kate had said her husband’s field was environmental law, but she must have misheard.

  “Kate said you used to work in human resources.”

  “For a few years.”

  “You must have some pretty funny stories.”

  “Yeah . . . ,” she chuckled, “I sure do.” But she didn’t. Or if she did, she couldn’t recollect any right now. Even if she could have summoned a humorous anecdote, her cottony mouth wouldn’t have let her articulate it. Where was Jason with her water?

  Leaning slightly to her left, she peered into the Randolphs’ spacious kitchen. Everything was white and gleaming: cupboards, counters, the stack of plates set out for the forthcoming dessert. How did Kate keep everything so clean? Her model-thin friend was slicing up the tiramisu, her back to the dining area. Maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the weed, but the scene looked almost surreal, like a picture from a magazine: a beautiful woman in an immaculate kitchen plating a decadent cake. And then Jason stepped into the frame.

  He had the plastic container of dark chocolate curls that Frances had lovingly prepared with a vegetable peeler. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Kate, Jason sprinkled chocolate onto the dessert, his water-fetching errand abandoned. He turned slightly and said something—something witty, charming, funny—that made Kate giggle. Their hostess leaned in and whispered into Jason’s ear. Frances felt her stomach churn. Kate and Jason looked good together, th
ey looked right; an attractive couple sharing a private laugh as they prepped dessert for their older and overweight guests, abandoned in the dining room.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t swallow. She needed water, but Jason had forgotten all about his parched wife. He was too busy garnishing Kate’s cake to worry about Frances choking to death in the other room. Her heart was beating erratically now. She stood, prompting Robert to ask, “Are you okay, Frances?”

  She wasn’t okay. Jealousy and insecurity were feelings that Frances knew all too well, but this was different. This was another level. She was freaking out! That’s when she remembered the real reason she had stopped smoking dope all those years ago. It wasn’t because the drug rendered her sluggish and lazy, depositing her on the sofa for hours, watching TV and eating bags of Doritos and ice cream straight from the tub. It wasn’t the weight gain, the soft flab created by the lethargy, or the junk food–induced acne. It was the paranoia. Frances was already dealing with so many negative thoughts, so many twisted fantasies, so much self-doubt. . . . Why on earth had she agreed to eat that fucking cookie?!

  Jason entered with two plates of Instagram-worthy tiramisu. “Dessert is served.”

  “Where’s my water?” Frances snapped.

  “Right here, hon.” It was Kate, holding two tall glasses of ice water. She handed one to Frances, who drank it in audible gulps.

  “You okay?” Jason asked. His eyes were glassy, but his expression was concerned.

  “No,” Frances said, “I’m not. We should go.”

  “Make some coffee,” Robert said to Kate. “She’s too high.”

  “Coffee doesn’t bring you down,” Kate responded. “I think you’re supposed to drink orange juice.”

  Jason set the plates on the table. “In college, we used to chew peppercorns.”

  “Really?” Robert asked. “Did it work?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Frances, would you like some peppercorns?” Kate asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “We could sprinkle them on the tiramisu,” Robert offered.

  A loud snort of laughter erupted from Jason, and soon, he was doubled over. Kate and Robert quickly joined in, and Frances observed as her companions fell about in hysterics. Peppercorns on tiramisu . . . She supposed it was mildly amusing, but she was a little distracted by the fact that she was dying—from a heart attack, possibly, or a stroke—to join in the revelry. She was struggling to breathe now. She sipped some more water and waited for her spouse and hosts to compose themselves.

  Finally, Jason wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes. Frances addressed him coolly. “I need to go home.”

  “Okay,” he acquiesced, with a sigh.

  “With Marcus.”

  The three adults exchanged a look. Uh-oh. . . .

  “He’s asleep,” Jason said gently, like he was talking down a jumper. “And I’m too stoned to drive.”

  “I don’t care,” Frances said. The thought of leaving her son here, in this house full of drug-takers, made her heart palpitate. She loved Kate, and Robert was great, but they had just let their fourteen-year-old daughter walk out into the night without asking: When will you be home? Where is the restaurant? Who are you going with? Girls like Daisy were vulnerable, easy targets for rapists, drug dealers, human traffickers. . . .

  “You can carry him home.”

  Jason had the audacity to laugh. “Sorry, babe,” he said, noticing her umbrage, “but have you noticed the size of him lately?”

  “I’ve got a wheelbarrow in the shed,” Robert offered, indicating the backyard with his thumb. He remained straight-faced for a beat, before dissolving into giggles at the mental image of Marcus’s bulky, sleeping body being wheelbarrowed down the street.

  Jason seemed to find the notion equally hilarious. He was nearly breathless with laughter when he quipped, “Maybe we could rent a crane?”

  “You guys . . .” Kate admonished them, pressing her lips together to maintain composure, as the two males lost it. Again.

  Frances’s voice was soft. “I need to be with my son,” she said, feeling fretful and pathetic, but also determined. She would not, could not, leave Marcus here tonight. The THC was amplifying her anxiety, she knew that, but she had also known that she wasn’t ready. She had been pressured and cajoled into agreeing to the sleepover, and now, she realized . . . she couldn’t do it.

  No one, not even Jason, knew what was at the root of Frances’s discomfort. She’d always been a protective (perhaps overprotective) mother, but it was seen as par for the course. A child like Marcus required intense parenting. But the boy, despite his myriad issues, seemed confident and ready to spend a night away from his mom. It was Frances who was not ready. She knew the terrible things that could happen to children when they weren’t protected. She would not, could not, let anything happen to her son. This was about her issues alone.

  “I have an idea,” Kate said, taking Frances’s hand and leading her away from the two men, still tittering like schoolgirls.

  “Where are we going?”

  Kate said nothing as she led her friend through the living room and up the stairs. When they reached the silent second floor, Kate pushed open a door directly opposite Charles’s bedroom. “You’ll sleep here,” she said, “in Daisy’s room.”

  “What about Daisy?”

  “I’ll make a bed for her on the couch. She watches TV half the night anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” Kate said, gently pushing her into the room.

  Daisy’s enclave was feminine, adolescent, messier than the rest of the house, but not by much. Kate directed Frances toward the bed, tidily made with a lilac duvet and numerous complementary throw pillows, and helped her lie down on it. As soon as Frances’s body sank into the comfort of the bedding, she realized how tired she was. The paranoia had been successfully diverted, and now she wanted to sleep.

  Kate perched on the bed beside her. “I’ll set an alarm,” she said, laying an afghan over her friend. “You can get up early and Marcus will never know you were here.”

  It was the perfect solution. Marcus would have his taste of independence, but Frances would be right across the hall if he needed her. Only one thing still bothered her. . . .

  “In the kitchen . . . What did you whisper to Jason?”

  Kate’s brow furrowed, as she struggled to remember. “I think I just said how lucky he is to have a wife who can make tiramisu. I’ve never been able to bake.”

  Relief and gratitude welled up inside Frances. She should have known that Kate would never betray her. “Thank you,” she said, her words slurring together as the sedative effect of the marijuana took over. “You are such a good friend.”

  Kate stroked Frances’s hair and smiled down at her, loving and maternal. “You’re the good friend, Frances. I’m so lucky to have you.”

  Frances had heard about this kind of friendship: intense, powerful, life-altering. Such friendships were unique to women, a bond as profound and meaningful as sisterhood. It wasn’t sexual, but it felt like falling in love, like she and Kate were soulmates who had finally found each other. God, she would have considered the notion so corny, inappropriate even, prior to Kate. But now, it felt beautiful. And right. She hadn’t even realized how lonely and isolated she had been. Frances let her heavy lids close. Warm and content, she drifted off to sleep.

  dj

  THEN

  The trial of Shane Nelson for the murder of Courtney Carey began on August 5, 1997. DJ had begged to be allowed to attend, and, eventually, he had worn his parents down. It was school holidays, so he didn’t have to miss any classes. And he would be thirteen soon. He was old enough to look into the face of his sister’s killer.

  Shane Nelson sat in the prisoner’s box, appearing strangely complacent, almost amused, as a parade of witnesses testified against him. For weeks, his friends and colleagues had affirmed that he was violent, a sexual deviant, that they had seen him do cruel and
inhuman things. The prosecution called the hiker who had found Courtney’s broken and battered body, the coroner who had performed the autopsy, a psychiatrist, and a string of detectives and inspectors who had found Courtney’s hair in Nelson’s car, his DNA under her fingernails. (DJ learned that his sister had been douched with a bleach solution. No semen was found.) Through it all, Nelson remained unperturbed. Why wasn’t he worried? Why wasn’t he afraid?

  It wasn’t until Neil Givens called Amber Kunik to the stand that DJ saw Nelson’s composure falter. The defendant’s face darkened with repressed rage. Or maybe it was fear? As Amber entered the courtroom, Nelson turned toward her, revealing his profile. DJ watched the prisoner, analyzing his expression. It was pure, unadulterated hatred.

  The courtroom was packed that day, everyone desperate to get a glimpse of the prosecution’s star witness. Spectators had lined up for hours to obtain one of the 119 seats in the gallery. At least a hundred people had been turned away. The media had latched onto Amber Kunik ever since her identity had been revealed, and they had created a narrative: a pretty but damaged girl fallen under the spell of a sadistic Svengali.

  She was calm and composed as she made her way to the witness box, demure in a skirt and blouse, her shiny dark hair pulled back from her face. When she was sworn in, her voice was soft, girlish, innocent. . . . As Amber Kunik took her seat, a hush fell over the proceedings. DJ had glimpsed her on TV, seen photos in the newspaper, but they hadn’t prepared him to see her in the flesh. In this drab setting, surrounded by these grim, middle-aged faces, she looked delicate and beautiful.

  Before Prosecutor Givens could present his case, the judge addressed the four women and eight men who comprised the jury. He was an older man with a long, rectangular face that made DJ think of Frankenstein’s monster.

  “This witness has entered into a plea bargain with the prosecution in exchange for her testimony against Mr. Nelson,” Justice Calder said, in a sonorous voice appropriate to his visage. “Under circumstances like these, witnesses often minimize their own role in the execution of the crimes.”