Chương 11
Emily returned to the receipts. “Try bowling.”
“I hate bowling.”
“See? You know things about yourself.”
He watched her count.
After a minute, he said, “My father taught me to decide what people wanted before they spoke. It made him seem perceptive. Mostly it made everyone around him stop correcting him.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“I keep trying to decide what you want.”
“Stop.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, I mean stop right now.”
Michael folded his hands.
Emily finished counting the drawer, wrote the total, and locked the cash in the safe.
Then she stood on the other side of the counter.
“I don’t want to be rescued,” she said.
“I know.”
“I don’t want my mother’s care paid for by you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to become evidence that you’re different from him.”
His face tightened. “I know.”
“No, you don’t. You keep saying that because it ends the sentence.”
He looked down.
Emily pressed her palms to the counter, the same way she had the morning of the cup.
“I like you,” she said. “That makes me angry. It makes everything less clean.”
Michael’s mouth moved, but no words came.
“Say something imperfect,” she told him.
“I’m relieved you’re angry.”
“That’s terrible.”
“I know.”
She pointed at him. “You did it again.”
He laughed.
Emily laughed too, unwillingly.
Then neither of them knew what to do.
Michael moved first, slowly enough to let her stop him. He came around the counter and stood close, not touching.
Emily looked at his mouth, then at his eyes.
“This is a bad idea,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Your father’s attorneys will use it.”
“Yes.”
“My mother will be unbearable.”
“Probably.”
She kissed him before he could say anything else.
It was not cinematic. His nose bumped hers. Emily’s apron caught on the drawer handle. Someone knocked on the front window, and they jumped apart to find Leon Briggs holding up his forgotten hat.
Leon looked through the glass.
He raised both eyebrows.
Emily unlocked the door, handed him the hat, and said, “You saw nothing.”
Leon put it on. “At my age, that’s medically plausible.”
The trial began the following spring.
By then, Margaret had returned to a small apartment with home oxygen and a visiting nurse. She could walk to the kitchen with a cane and complained that everyone sliced tomatoes too thick. Emily visited every morning before work and most evenings afterward. Michael came on Sundays, bringing groceries Margaret had not requested.
The diner had become profitable for the first time in years, partly because of publicity Emily disliked and partly because Reuben added a breakfast sandwich people drove across town to buy. Dana enrolled in community college and continued working four shifts a week. Sal performed community service while awaiting sentencing and was not permitted to manage the diner’s finances.
He still came in on Tuesdays to repair things.
No one stopped him.
The prosecution called Emily on the sixth day of trial.
She wore a dark blue dress Priya helped choose and practical black shoes because the courthouse floors were hard. Before entering the courtroom, she stood in a restroom stall and pressed both hands against the door until her breathing slowed.
A woman in the next stall asked whether she was all right.
“Yes,” Emily said.
“You don’t sound all right.”
“I’m testifying.”
The woman flushed, came out, washed her hands, and said, “Then maybe don’t aim for all right.”
Emily remembered the sentence when she took the oath.
Vincent sat at the defense table.
He looked older than he had in the diner. Not weak. Time had simply become visible around his eyes.
The prosecutor led Emily through the false delivery form, her contact with Michael, the planning of the meeting, the cup, the envelope, and the threat to Margaret’s hospital bed.
The diner recording played.
The sound of ceramic breaking filled the courtroom.
Emily watched jurors react. One flinched. Another looked at Vincent. The defense table remained still.
On cross-examination, Vincent’s attorney approached with a yellow legal pad.
“Ms. Carter, you told Mr. Moretti, ‘Throw one more thing, and I end you.’ Correct?”
“Yes.”
“That was a threat.”
“It was a sentence.”
“Did you intend Mr. Moretti to fear for his life?”
“No.”
“What did you intend him to believe?”
“That I wouldn’t obey him.”
The attorney paused.
“You coordinated this encounter with Michael Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“You knew it would be recorded.”
“Yes.”
“You hoped Vincent Moretti would say something incriminating.”
“I hoped he would leave me alone.”
“But you invited him to the diner.”
“Michael told him I would sign.”
“So you deceived him.”
“Yes.”
The attorney turned toward the jury. “You lied to get him there.”
Emily looked at Vincent.
“Yes.”
“And you expect this jury to trust you?”
The courtroom became very quiet.
Emily could have given the polished answer Priya warned her not to rehearse. She could have said truthful people sometimes use deception to expose wrongdoing. She could have defended herself.
Instead, she said, “They should decide based on the evidence.”
The attorney studied her, dissatisfied.
“You were in a romantic relationship with Michael Moretti when you testified before the grand jury.”
“Yes.”
“You stand to benefit if his father is convicted.”
“How?”
“Mr. Moretti is an heir to substantial wealth.”
Michael sat behind the prosecution table, his face rigid.
Emily said, “He renounced his interest in the family trust.”
The defense attorney smiled faintly. “Based on documents prepared after the investigation began.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe that means he will receive nothing?”
“I believe rich families find ways to make money confusing.”
A few jurors smiled.
The judge told everyone to remain quiet.
The attorney stepped closer. “You disliked Vincent Moretti before he entered the diner.”
“I was afraid of him.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Yes. I disliked him.”
“You wanted to damage him.”
“I wanted him to stop damaging people.”
May you like
The attorney lifted the leather confession form in its evidence sleeve.
“Did you read this before police arrived?”
