The Night Shift, page 13
He shrugs. Typically, these meetings resemble therapy sessions, but with Ella as the patient. Mr. Steadman isn’t one to go under the microscope, and he usually ends up filling all the time asking her loaded questions, never talking much about himself. It’s an occupational hazard, a principal of a high school needs to be beyond reproach, and keeping life close to the vest helps.
She knows he isn’t married. A year ago he let slip that he had gotten back on the horse and had started seeing someone. He used the pronoun “she,” so that answered another one of Ella’s long-standing questions. She also knows he lives in Asbury, far enough from the school district to allow some privacy. And she knows that he spends summers traveling, typically to African countries.
“How’s Bradley?” Steadman says.
“Don’t ask.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Really don’t ask.”
Steadman doesn’t push. The restraint and patience of a man who’s spent years dealing with demanding parents and mouthy teenagers.
Ella considers telling him about her night with Jesse. What the girl told her. But Steadman is a straight arrow. She knows what he’ll say: she needs to tell the authorities everything, for her own good and Jesse’s. She needs to establish boundaries with Jesse. Start acting like a therapist, or at least an adult, not the girl’s friend.
Instead, she asks what he knows about Jesse’s background. The incident at her old school.
“You know student information is confidential,” he tells her.
Ella frowns.
“I suppose since you’re working with her, it’s okay to talk about it. But I don’t know much.” Steadman glances around the shop to confirm no one is eavesdropping. “When she transferred, I was told there had been an ‘incident.’” He makes air quotes around the word with his fingers. “I saw that her test scores were off the charts, so I was curious, and I called the principal at her old school.”
Ella waits, anxious to hear what he learned.
“The principal told me that her parents died in a car accident when she was in middle school. I asked about ‘the incident’ and he clammed up. Said there were legal issues.”
“How are you supposed to help a student if they keep it from you? I mean, I think Jesse is a good kid. But what if she’d been violent or troubled?” Ella recalls the homeless kid from last night. You broke his nose.
“You’re preaching to the choir. It’s just how it is with these things.” Mr. Steadman scratches his chin, creases his brow like he’s debating something internally.
“What is it?”
“I can’t. It’s just gossip.”
Ella holds his gaze, not letting him off the hook.
He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then looks around again to see if anyone’s within earshot. In a quiet voice, he says, “The gossip mill says the incident involved a teacher.”
Ella doesn’t like where this is heading. “An improper relationship or something?”
Mr. Steadman shrugs.
Ella gives him another long look. A classic Phyllis move. Say it with silence and your eyes.
Mr. Steadman lowers his voice. “I can’t talk about it, Ella, you know that.” He pauses. “But schools like Middlesex East have online directories. It wouldn’t be hard to compare last year’s staff with this year’s…” He holds her stare.
Ella grins. “And see who might be missing.”
Steadman shrugs again. She didn’t think he had it in him to break the rules.
“Ella,” he says, his tone serious.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?” He says it like he’s regretting bringing her in to help Jesse. That he’s thinking it’s too much, too many memories.
“Okay? When have I not been okay?” She smiles.
Mr. Steadman does not.
CHAPTER 34
KELLER
Keller and Atticus stop at a greasy spoon for lunch, and Atticus eats a burger that looks absolutely delicious while Keller picks at a salad and forces down the green sludge smoothie from her thermos. Over the meal, Keller runs down their thin leads. First, the new piece of information, that one of the victims, Katie McKenzie, had been pregnant. Second, Katie was from a strict, religious family and was keeping her boyfriend, presumably the father of her unborn child, a secret. Third, the guy she was seeing was being obsessive, abusive, according to Tawny O’Shaughnessy. Fourth, at least two of her coworkers at the Blockbuster, Candy O’Shaughnessy and Mandy Young, were having none of it and planned to confront the guy. Perhaps doing so resulted in him killing Katie in a rage, then the rest of them to cover his tracks. Finally, the other new bit of intel: the Union County task force buried the fact that Katie had been pregnant. And they did so, according to Grosso, because Katie’s mother was tight with a detective.
It isn’t much to go on. And it certainly doesn’t get them any closer to finding Vince Whitaker. But you chase the leads you have.
After lunch, they knock on the front door to the home of the McKenzies, Katie’s parents. The lawn is immaculate, the cars washed, the exterior of the house meticulously maintained.
A woman answers the door timidly. She’s mousy and wears a necklace with a cross pendant outside her sweater.
“Ms. McKenzie, I’m Special Agent Keller with the FBI. This is Detective Singh with the Union County Prosecutor’s Office. We wondered if you have a minute to speak with us?”
Ms. McKenzie starts to speak as a man’s voice calls out from behind. “Who is it?”
Before Ms. McKenzie turns around, the man has joined her in the doorway. He has a sharp part in his hair and a sharper demeanor.
Keller introduces Atticus and herself again.
The man’s face turns to stone. “I’m sorry, but we have nothing to say to you.”
Before Keller can get another word out, the door slams shut.
She looks at Atticus, confused. That’s now two fathers who’ve refused to talk about the case. It doesn’t make sense. She considers knocking again, but she’s distracted by Atticus, who’s intently studying his phone.
“What is it?” she asks.
“They caught the perp.” His eyes jump up from the device. “Arpeggio’s team just made an arrest.”
“Who is it?”
“You’re not gonna believe this.”
CHAPTER 35
CHRIS
When Chris arrives at the office, he feels an electricity in the cube farm. Their work area is normally filled with the clatter of typing and the din of calls with clients, prosecutors, and witnesses, but today there’s an ominous quiet.
“What’s going on?” Chris asks Julia, who’s stationed in the cubicle next to his.
“You haven’t heard?” Julia is eating fruit from a plastic container. They both started at the Public Defender’s Office two years ago, but unlike Chris, Julia still has true-believer idealism.
“Heard what?” Chris asks.
She swings her long braids over her shoulder. “They caught the ice cream shop killer.”
Chris takes in a breath. “When did they—who?”
“A high school kid.”
Déjà vu ripples through every part of Chris.
“I know, crazy, right?” Julia says. “The Blockbuster case all over again.”
Once, Chris came close to telling Julia his secret—his real name, his connection to a notorious crime that had made this very office notorious. The inspiration for Henry’s the best lawyer I ever knew speech. They’d been out drinking, talking shop when he started to tell her, figuring she’d be someone who would understand and not hold it against him. But they were interrupted by Roger, one of the newer lawyers in the prosecutor’s office, who stumbled over, tanked up on artisan beer. He frequently hit on Julia while gloating about his office’s convictions of their clients. Roger is one of those prosecutors who treat the justice system like a game. Maybe he’s right.
Chris looks about the room. The tension is palpable. Then he realizes why. Everyone is worried they’ll be assigned to defend the kid. A quintessential B-file.
Henry Robinson approaches the podium. The head of the office scans the room from over his reading glasses pinched on his nose.
“I imagine you’ve heard that there’s been an arrest in the murders at the Dairy Creamery.”
The room is morgue-quiet now.
“The accused is being brought before Judge Armstrong this afternoon. The judge called me personally to make sure we had someone there. No way this kid can afford a private lawyer.”
Whoever the kid is, he’s gotten lucky so far. Judge Armstrong is fair, not a hanging judge. She worked at the PD’s office for a decade before taking the bench. She and Henry are old friends. She believes in the Bill of Rights. Won’t rush to judgment. But even Armstrong, Chris knows, will have Bartholomew H. Badcock on her mind.
“I’m going to appear myself,” Henry tells the group. “But I need a couple volunteers who can get their arms around this quickly. I don’t want to assign someone who doesn’t want it.”
The room remains quiet.
“All right,” Henry says, after a long pause. “Give it some thought. If you’re willing to help this seventeen-year-old”—he’s laying on the guilt now—“come to my office. If there’re no takers, I’m going to have to—”
“I’ll do it.” The words escape Chris’s mouth before he has time to think it through.
Julia looks over and gives him an openmouthed nod, as if to say, That’s what I’m talking about.
Henry stares past him. The case is out of Chris’s league. He’s still doing lightweight work, drugs and guns. This is a murder case. And not just any murder case. One that will be covered heavily by the media. One that could summon a mob at the courthouse steps.
Chris remembers the media footage of his brother’s arraignment. The throng of angry people holding signs. The disdain and grief etched into the faces of the victims’ parents.
Henry still hasn’t responded to Chris’s offer.
“I’ll do it,” Chris says again, this time with conviction.
“I heard you, Ford.” Henry’s lips are tightened into a thin line. He waits for others to jump in. Hoping that his best lawyer I ever knew speech had meant something to them all.
But the room remains still.
Henry waits an uncomfortably long time for more experienced lawyers to jump in. But they’re the ones with kids and mortgages and college tuition who can’t risk being the next Bart Badcock.
Henry gives a disappointed look around the room.
Then, another voice: “I’m in.”
Chris turns to Julia, who’s making a point of not looking at him. He could’ve hugged her.
Henry’s shoulders sag. Then he says it. “Okay, Chris and Julia, my office. The rest of you, serve justice today.”
CHAPTER 36
Chris stares out the window from the backseat of Henry’s rust-blotched Subaru hatchback.
The courthouse is only a short walk from their office, but dark clouds loom, so perhaps that’s why they drove. Or maybe Henry wants to avoid any journalists staking out the place. Chris sees no reporters out front. The building has a wide staircase that leads up to the porticoed entrance. It’s a small, narrow structure, like an old schoolhouse struggling to look majestic with its columns too close together. Julia sits silently up front next to their boss.
Henry pulls around to the rear of the building. No portico there, just a blocky structure with windows that are too small for the concrete facade. The back contains the holding areas for defendants with windows built small to prevent ill-conceived bedsheet-tying escape calamities.
“Shoot,” Henry says, looking to a news van lingering across the street outside the lot. “The prosecutors haven’t even announced the arrest, but the vultures are already circling. Damn leaks.”
A pack of reporters will soon swarm all sides of the building. And probably the PD’s office too. The press has already established a campsite outside the prosecutors’ office complex, so the lawyers there will welcome the reprieve. Share the love.
After a checkpoint at the garage entry, Henry parks. Chris feels abnormally excited. It’s his first big case. But he’s also anxious. He hadn’t fully considered the media coverage. That the defense team will be featured in newspapers or on the six o’clock news. Chris is merely a supporting member of the cast, someone in the background. Still, if someone recognizes him, it could create problems: Vince Whitaker’s brother defending another accused mass killer.
Before getting out of the car, Henry pauses, as if collecting his thoughts. He twists around so he’s mostly facing Julia but can also see Chris in the backseat.
“A few ground rules,” he begins.
They nod, both wanting to know the rules of engagement. This isn’t one of their usual cattle-call drug prosecutions. It’s a major case, albeit an infamous B-file.
“From the moment you step out of this car, you exude confidence. Your facial expressions, the way you walk, the way you talk, it all needs to project that we’re not worried one spit about this case. Our client is not guilty. No laughing, no smiling. This is serious business and we don’t want it misperceived by anyone.”
They nod again. Henry’s instructions so far are familiar.
“We’ll hopefully avoid any reporters today, but you need to be on alert because they’re crafty. If they shout questions at you while filming, pretend like they don’t exist. Viewers can’t tell if you hear the questions, so don’t say ‘no comment’ or acknowledge them. They’re invisible.”
He looks to the pair for acknowledgment. They nod again.
“Last, with our client, it’s all about building trust and rapport right now. A seventeen-year-old is more likely to take a shine to a younger person rather than to me, so we’ll play it by ear on who takes the lead in the interview.”
The trio leaves the car. Henry cracks his neck, a boxer about to enter the ring, and leads them to a grimy elevator. They get out on the seventeenth floor. At the security checkpoint, they pass through metal detectors and are allowed into the inner sanctum of the courthouse. An officer stands guard outside a door near another checkpoint at the end of the long hallway.
“Dammit.” Henry points to a man outside the perimeter with a smartphone filming the defense team.
The guard turns and sees the guy and shoos him away.
Standing at the door to room 1754, Henry nods to the officer outside, who opens the door for them.
It’s time to meet their client.
CHAPTER 37
ELLA
It’s troubling how quickly Ella identifies the only teacher who hasn’t returned to Middlesex East high school from last year—less than fifteen minutes on Google. His name is Chad Parke. Until his quiet departure from Middlesex, he taught English and—another clue—he ran the school newspaper. Where a budding young Bob Woodward worked. No, wait … who was the journalist Jesse claimed was her role model? Ella can’t remember.
Now, how to locate him? She runs a search on his name, date-restricting it to the past year. Boom. Up pops a page for Chad Parke Landscaping in Rahway, New Jersey. A new business. An unusual career change for an English teacher. Unless teaching is no longer an option. But maybe it isn’t the same guy. She navigates the page. On the “About Us,” there’s a photo of the owner of the business and his crew standing in matching shirts on a landscaped yard. It takes only a few more searches to find a photo of Chad Parke from his days as a teacher. He’s tagged in a social media post about an after-school club—the Culture Club. He and a group of students stand in front of a Broadway marquee. It’s the landscaping guy. But it isn’t the photo of good-looking Mr. Parke that’s so jarring. It’s the young woman standing next to him amid the lights of Broadway. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t notice it—the adoring, some might say sultry, gaze at her teacher.
Jesse.
Twenty minutes later, Ella’s sitting in her parked car at the curb in front of Parke Landscaping.
“What do you think you’re doing, Eloise?” Ella says aloud, mimicking her mother’s voice.
How many times has Phyllis asked her this? Too many to count. Along with What are you wearing, Eloise? Why are you living like a pauper, Eloise?
She gets out of the car, her head floating a little from taking another pill.
The office is a small structure, not much bigger than a two-car garage. She takes a breath before going in. The door swings open unexpectedly. Two men in the same company shirts from the website photo smile at Ella as they walk toward a truck that has a trailer loaded with mowers, rakes, and bags of mulch.
Ella catches the door and steps through. A man sitting at a desk doing paperwork looks up at her.
“Can I help you?” He smiles. Good teeth. Dimples. The kind of teacher Ella might have swooned over back in the day.
“Hi. I’m Ella Monroe.”
“Hi,” he says back, still smiling.
“This is going to sound weird,” Ella says. “But I’m a therapist. And one of my clients is the survivor of the attack at the ice cream store in Linden. You may have heard about it?”
His smile fades, but he seems curious.
“My client, she’s a high school student. You used to work at Middlesex East, right?”
Now the smile is gone.
“Yeah, I used to teach—before I decided to become my own boss.” He smiles, gestures around. It’s rehearsed. An explanation at the ready, in case he’s asked why he left the school. “But I don’t understand how I can help with your—”
“Jesse Duvall,” Ella interrupts. “She’s the survivor.”
Parke’s face turns dark. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Please, I’m just trying to understand what happened, why she left your school, so I can help her.”
“Go!” He’s on his feet now, finger stabbing at the door.
Ella has a choice to make. There’s a quote she’s always loved. She can’t remember who said it. Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes. She decides she’s going to stand her ground even if her voice shakes.
