Claim of Innocence

“Great.” I turned, pushed open the Plexiglas door and stepped into the gallery.

More people had gathered now for the opening arguments and all eyes went to me. Zavy Miller looked at me expectantly, too.

I stepped into the pew where he sat and took a seat, making sure to be a respectful distance away from him. “Mr. Miller,” I said, my voice low, “I want to introduce myself. I’m Izzy McNeil. I’ll be representing Valerie Solara, along with the Bristols.”

I held out my hand to him. He looked at it, then back up at me.

I waited for a look of hatred or maybe revulsion. But he only nodded, as if he respected the gesture. He stuck out his hand. Our shake was firm, friendly even.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the state’s attorneys staring at us. Ellie was giving Tania a shove on the arm, pointing to me. Tania headed for the Plexiglas door.

“Mr. Miller,” I said, “I don’t know if this will make sense, but I just wanted to tell you I hope that whatever is supposed to happen here, whatever is right…well, I hope that happens.”

He nodded. Sadness crossed his face and he swallowed, as if gulping something down. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

I stood and almost ran into Tania, who had a stern look on her face. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to move around her.

But Tania didn’t move. “Everything okay?” she said to Zavy.

He gave a simple nod.

“Mr. Miller,” she said, “I’m sorry but you’re going to have to step out of the courtroom until we call you as a witness. After that you can stay. I know that’s difficult, but those are the court rules.”

“That’s fine.” Zavy Miller stood. “Nice to meet you,” he said to me with a kind smile.

“Likewise.”

When he was gone, Tania leaned in and whispered to me, “Ellie wants you to know that we looked into your background last night.”

“Excuse me?” I pulled away.

“Your background.” As if that explained everything.

“Okay.”

“You’re not a criminal defense lawyer.”

“Just a lawyer,” I said with an easy tone. I shifted toward her, sure she would move now, but again she didn’t budge.

“Things are different here than they are at the Daley Center.” She said Daley Center with a mocking air, as if she were saying, Things are different here than they are at that day care center.

Normally, I took the high road. But not when I was on trial. “Yeah,” I said, “the difference is that attorneys there intimidate with talent.”

Zing. Tania actually took a step back, and I moved around her. As I pushed through the Plexiglas wall, Ellie Whelan was glaring at me.

I smiled in return and went to the defense table. “See,” I said to Maggie, “that wasn’t so bad.”

17

“F or most of us, best friends are safe havens. Best friends provide a place where we can let ourselves be who we really are, where we are supported, where we are loved.” Ellie Whelan paused, as if having a hard time with her words. “But this woman…” She turned and pointed at Valerie. “This woman is pure poison. For her friendship was merely a disposable relationship where she could shop for a new husband. And kill any obstacles. Any at all.”

Valerie sat on the other side of Maggie, but even from that distance I heard her whimper. Maggie put her hand on Valerie’s forearm for a brief second. I saw a couple of jurors notice the movement.

Ellie Whelan patrolled the courtroom, moving back and forth in front of the jury, often pointing at Valerie and combining the gesture with damning words. She told the jury that Valerie and Amanda were best friends, or at least Valerie let Amanda think that. She told them that they would hear all about the friendship from another best friend, Bridget. They would hear how Bridget and Amanda and Amanda’s husband, Zavy, had supported Valerie after her own husband, Brian, died years ago. They’d become her second family.

“Because for Bridget and Xavier, and especially for Amanda, friendship meant something,” Ellie said.

She gestured toward Tania, who strode forward with a few poster-size exhibits. Tania placed them on an easel and went back to their table.

“Friendship and family,” Ellie said. “That’s what was important to Amanda Miller.”

She turned the first exhibit to face the jury. “This was Amanda Miller.”

I stood and walked to a side wall, where I could see a photo of a lovely brunette with green eyes and a big smile.

“You will hear from Amanda’s husband about the importance of friendship to Amanda Miller. He will tell you how much she loved her two girls, Tessa and Britney.” Ellie put the first exhibit on the floor, revealing a blown-up photo of Amanda and two toothy, gorgeous girls. “Xavier will tell you how the girls are now motherless. He will tell you they are having a very, very hard time of it. And all because of…” She didn’t have to say her name this time; she just turned and pointed toward Valerie.

From my vantage point at the wall, I could see the jury from the side. I was standing not just to see the photos, but also to try and determine the jury’s reaction to the state’s opening. For now, they were calm and attentive. But if I was looking for a reaction, I was about to get it.

“Here,” Ellie said, beginning to slowly remove the photo of Amanda’s kids, “is Amanda Miller on the day she died.”

As the next blown-up photo was revealed, the jury gasped.

I couldn’t help it—I winced. Maggie shot me a dirty look from across the courtroom, and I composed my face.

The photo was a “death shot.” Amanda, naked on a stainless-steel counter, a sheet draped across her lower half, her skin white as pearl, her mouth open, rigor mortis making her neck look stretched and rigid, like she was screaming into eternity.

I couldn’t take my eyes away from the photo. Out of my peripheral vision, I could tell that the jurors couldn’t, either. That poor woman, I heard one say. Horrible, murmured another.

“Quiet, please,” the judge said.

I glanced at Valerie. Had she killed Amanda? Had she done that to her friend? And if she had, constitutional rights or no, what was I doing representing her?

The courtroom felt chilly suddenly, as if sinister air had entered through a back door and wound its way through the place.

“You will hear from the coroner who examined Amanda’s body after her death, and you will hear how he came to the diagnosis of death by poisoning.” Ellie took a step away from the photo, letting the image of the dead woman speak volumes to the jury. “From Bridget, you will hear that just weeks before Amanda’s death, Valerie asked her about poisons, which Bridget had researched as part of a novel she was writing. And you will hear Xavier Miller tell you about the day…” A heavy pause. “About the day he came home from work and saw Valerie put something crushed, something blue, into the food she was cooking. She said it was an herb. It was not. It was a drug that, given at high doses, acted as a poison, and that poison would kill Amanda Miller before the day was done.”

Another pause to let all the information settle.

“Why would Valerie want to kill her ‘best friend’?” Ellie asked the jury. “I’ll tell you why. Because she was husband hunting.”

There seemed to be no more exhibits forthcoming, so I went and took my seat again next to Maggie.

Ellie continued. Brian, she told the jury, was Valerie’s husband, although not the father of her daughter. He had died of Lou Gehrig’s disease. He was only forty-eight at the time, Ellie said, which was strange because the disease didn’t usually exhibit itself until people were over fifty.

I looked at Maggie. “Objection,” I whispered. I saw Valerie’s pained face on the other side of her. I dropped my voice even further. “Are they trying to imply she killed her husband?”

Maggie frowned at Ellie. “We already dealt with this in motions before the case started,” she said under her breath. “If she says one more word…”

But sure enough, Ellie moved on, just short of drawing an objection. She told the jury how Amanda and Xavier had helped Valerie care for Brian. She told them that Valerie had fallen for Xavier during that time and shortly after had tried to seduce him.

A number of the jurors furrowed their brows and openly appraised Valerie.

I glanced at her. She seemed to nearly tremble in her black dress, but she didn’t blink, didn’t flinch.

Ellie Whelan was nearing the close of her argument. “At the end of this trial,” Ellie said, “I will have an opportunity to get in front of you again, and at that time, I will ask you to do the only thing that justice will allow. Find Valerie Solara—” again she pointed at our client “—guilty of first-degree murder.”

Maggie popped up from her seat even before Ellie had found hers. She waited for a minute, then when Ellie was in her chair, looked at the judge. “Your Honor, I’d request that the state remove their exhibits.”

“Granted.” The judge nodded at Ellie Whelan. “Counsel?”

I saw Maggie cover a small smile. Ellie had tried to leave the autopsy photo in front of the jury, a good move, but Maggie had countered it, not just taking it down, which she could have done, but getting the judge to make the state do it after Ellie had taken a seat.

Ellie shot an annoyed look at Tania Castle, who jumped to her feet and removed the photos.

Maggie introduced herself quickly to the jurors, then said, “Boy, that was a good story, wasn’t it?” She nodded. “Kind of like watching a soap opera, am I right? All that stuff about coveting someone else’s husband, about poisoning someone? That’s really interesting, huh?” She nodded as if to concede the point. “But that’s all that was—a really interesting story. A story concocted by the state in order to lay blame for the tragic death of Amanda Miller. But this woman—” she moved behind Valerie and placed a hand on her shoulder “—is not to blame.”

She took her hand off Valerie’s shoulder and went to a podium, placing her notes on it and crossing her arms. “And do you know what? The state can’t just spin a good story. They have to prove that Valerie Solara was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.” She intoned again, “Beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Maggie looked at the state’s table for an uncomfortable, quiet second, then back at the jury. “But how are they going to do that? They told you you’d hear from Mr. Miller about some…what did they call it? A seduction. They told you you’d hear from other witnesses. But isn’t it interesting that they are accusing Valerie Solara of planting poison in her friend’s food…and yet they didn’t tell you that you would hear any evidence of Ms. Solara buying the medication. You know why?”

The jury waited for the answer.

“Because there isn’t any evidence of her acquiring it. None. They couldn’t find any link between Valerie and the drug that killed Mrs. Miller. That’s interesting, don’t you think?” She huffed out loud, as if expelling disbelief.

“And they want to talk about friendship? Well, let’s talk about it.” She put a blown-up photo of three women on the easel.

“These women met fifteen years ago at a gym here in the city. Amanda Miller was newly married to her first husband. Valerie was a single mom. Her daughter, Layla, who is nineteen now, was just four. And Bridget was a surgical nurse. Usually, Amanda was busy with charitable events, Valerie was busy being a mom and Bridget was always working. Usually, they wouldn’t have had time to make new friends. But on that one day, they all had time for one reason or another. After they met at a gym, they went to a restaurant nearby to talk. It was a Tuesday. And for nearly every other Tuesday after that, up until the time Amanda Miller died, these women met to share their lives. They were immediate friends. They were like sisters. There was no one who supported Amanda more than Valerie and Bridget and vice versa. That continued to the day she died.

“You will hear from witness after witness who will tell you how close these women were. You will hear Amanda’s husband, Xavier, tell you that himself. He will tell you that he never would have suspected Valerie Solara of wanting to kill her friend. Her best friend. Their other best friend Bridget will tell you the same thing. They will all tell you that Valerie wasn’t like that. She wasn’t jealous, she wasn’t violent, she couldn’t hurt anyone. You will hear this over and over. Because it’s true.”

Maggie picked up her notes and reviewed them. She explained that Valerie Solara didn’t have to put on any evidence herself. She didn’t have to prove anything at all.

Maggie stopped, dead center of the jury. “A woman died. By all accounts, a lovely woman, a good mom. When someone like that dies, we all want someone to pay for it. But the right person must pay for it. We cannot allow them—” she turned and pointed at the state’s attorneys “—to rush to judgment and pile up inconsequential tidbits to make it appear they have the person who committed this when they do not. That’s not how the American criminal justice system works. You are the upholders of that system. Your job is large. Your responsibility is massive.” She looked up and down the row of jurors. “Do it,” she said. “Do your job.”

18

A mother’s words can soothe. But just as easily they can sting.

Recently, I had been hearing my mother’s words about my father, about how I owed him respect, how I should make “some attempt” to give him that. They had hurt at first, but then the sting wore off. Yet they kept winding through my head, then into my heart, creating a slow-building guilt that, once it had taken hold, could not be released without me doing what she wanted me to. What I needed to do, I suppose.

And although I still hadn’t spoken to him, Sam’s offer to cancel his wedding—his ultimatum, if I was honest—was reverberating through me. I needed my dad’s cold, unflinching analysis.

As soon as court was over for the day, I called my father.

He answered on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting all day or maybe all month, for this call. I told him that I wanted to see him. I thought about asking him to have dinner, but none of my usual places, the ones where I might step out on a Friday, seemed right. Twin Anchors, Marge’s, Benchmark—they all seemed too casual, places to meet a friend.

“Can I stop by your place?” I asked.

There was no pause before he said yes.

My father lived in a nondescript midrise building on Clark Street, just south of North Avenue. Although I’d known the location of his building, it wasn’t until I pushed through the revolving glass doors that I realized that it was nearly equidistant between my mother’s house and my own. Did that mean something? As always with my father, I had no idea.

Likewise, I didn’t know what to expect from my father’s apartment, but I sensed it would be worldly and interesting, something like my father himself or the person I thought he was.

But when I got there, I saw the apartment was a place for someone transient, a place where no one would live for long.

The gun-metal-gray couch was dark enough to hide any stains and looked like the type rented from one of the furniture places on Milwaukee Avenue. To the left was a reading chair that had once, maybe, been interesting. But now the wood arms were nicked and scarred, the formerly ivory paint across the top yellowed. My guess was that it was the fruits of Dumpster-diving or a visit to a secondhand store. A squat old table, too low, sat in front of the couch and chair.

The living room held little else but a small desk in the corner, which faced the wall. If the apartment had been mine, I would have put the desk near the window, in order to look outside and get a glimpse of the world. But my father was different from me. Maybe he didn’t need to see anything at all.

We stood at the threshold of the room, my father quiet, letting me study it. I looked at him then. It still startled me to see him, a handsome man in his late fifties, instead of the younger version of him, forever memorialized in my brain. His wavy hair was now salt-and-pepper-gray instead of chestnut-brown like Charlie’s. He was still trim, but he was more refined than when he was younger. After living in Italy, he dressed like an Italian—slim-cut linen trousers, an expensive white shirt, open at the collar, a beautiful gold watch. His eyes were still the same green, still intensely focused through the copper glasses he’d always worn. But there was rarely life in those eyes.

He gestured to the couch. “Have a seat.”

I sat. The couch was stiff. I shifted back and forth, trying to get comfortable. I now faced the open kitchen, which held nothing on the counters save an espresso machine.

My father followed my eyes and gestured at it. “Can I make you some espresso?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. I drink tea.”

“That’s right. Green tea.”

I couldn’t remember if I’d ever told him that or if it was one of the things he’d learned from watching me. I was just coming to understand how much he’d observed me, on and off, for most of my life.

“Mom told me she used to see you sometimes,” I said.

If he was surprised by the shift in topic, he didn’t show it. He said nothing.

“That must have been intentional,” I said.

“It was. But it was also a failure, a weakness.”

Now neither of us said anything.

“I’d give you a tour—” he gave a little polite laugh that sounded unlike him “—but it’s just this room and the bedroom.” He gestured toward a short hallway.

“That’s okay.”

The apartment made me profoundly sad. My father had lived an incredible life—incredibly tragic, incredibly exciting. This empty shell of an apartment didn’t fit him.

He seemed to sense my thoughts. “I’m just here until I decide…”

I nodded. I understood what he was saying—until he decided what to do with himself.

“Let me get you some water.”

I watched him go into his kitchen and open and close cabinet doors as if unsure where the glasses were. Or if he even owned them.

Finally, he found one made of orange plastic. “This is all I have,” he said over his shoulder in an embarrassed tone.

“Anything is fine.”

I heard him opening some drawers. When he came back with the water, he put it on the table, then placed two other items there.

I looked closer. My old cell phone and my old ID.

“Those were in the building. The one we were in with Aunt Elena.” The one that exploded.

There had been an explosion in Chicago earlier that summer, and my Aunt Elena, my dad’s sister, had been one of the last people in the building that was blown to smithereens. Long story. Really long story. My dad had told me he got word that she was uninjured and in Italy. The body found after the explosion was male, likely either Dez Romano, the boss of Michael DeSanto, or the guy who worked for him. Dez was a gangster I’d gotten mixed up with thanks to a gig from John Mayburn. Dez had once made it clear he’d wanted to kill me, and so although I’d never wanted anyone dead before, there was a part of me that hoped that he was enjoying himself in gangster heaven. But it was more than likely that the body was that of Dez’s lackey. I tried not to think about the fact that Dez could still be out there.

My father’s head bobbed in a single nod toward the items on the table. “I retrieved them before we got out.”

“You’re just giving them to me now?” I made an irritated sound. “Do you know what a pain in the ass it was to spend half a day at the DMV and the other half at the cell phone store?”

Without pausing, without expression, he said, “Do you know what a pain in the ass it would have been if the police learned you were there that day and confiscated them as evidence? Or if they had tracked a call from your phone and then you’d used it again?”

“That’s why you told me to get a new phone number.”

He nodded.

I looked at the phone and ID. So he’d been protecting me. “Thanks.”

Again, he said nothing.

I put the cell phone and ID in my purse. “So…” I looked around. “It must be strange to be so out in the open now. I mean, since you were almost—” what was the word? “—invisible before. Mostly.”

I regretted it as soon as I saw the strange expression on his face.

“I don’t mean that in any critical kind of way,” I said quickly. “I guess I was just thinking about it because Mom and I were talking and…” I shrugged. “I’m just wondering how you’re doing.”

My father looked around his new apartment, then back at me. “I still feel invisible.”

I felt the weight of his words, and it nearly flattened me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m used to either blending into the background or starting over. But this is different. This feeling I have, it’s more about Chicago.”

I scrunched my face in confusion.

“Chicago is one of those towns,” he said. “One where you need to know people. More than any town I’ve ever seen, even in Italy. You Chicagoans are part of your city. Either you have family here or your friends become your family, and you all seem to move forward together.”

The statement was left unsaid—and I have neither friends nor family.

“Do you know the best thing about Chicago?” I asked.

He shook his head no, looked hungry for my response.

“The best thing is that people want more friends and more family. They want to grow. They want the city to grow. They’re not trying to keep people out.”

My father frowned. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is. For the most part. People want to know interesting people. They want others to be a part of their web. It’s not exclusive.”

He crossed his arms. “So what would I do to join a web?”

Was he asking me personally because he wanted to know my world and Charlie’s? Or was he just looking for advice about making it in the city? The answer to either, I figured, was the same. “It’s up to you to stick your foot out and stop a couple of people from walking by.”

“My whole life, I have tried very, very hard to blend. I kept myself closed off.”

I saw how uncomfortable his admission made him and I knew then we were talking about more than the move to Chicago.

I nodded. “I know. But other people have done that, too. Maybe not in the way you have, but they’ve closed themselves off just the same. And they’ve gotten past it. Maybe this is your challenge now. I’m sure it’s one you can handle.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“Oh, I’ve got tons of this stuff. I just need to apply it to myself now.”

I thought about asking him about Sam, but now that I knew my father was having his own struggles, it seemed somehow wrong.

He smiled with one corner of his mouth then. “I think you’re doing fine, Izzy.”

I shifted on the stiff couch while my father just sat there, looking contemplative and sad. I wished I could help him become less invisible.

And then I had an idea.

I reached for my bag and took out the notes that Detective Vaughn had made in Valerie’s case. “I have to cross-examine a detective on Monday. I’m helping Maggie on a murder trial…” My words died off when I saw recognition in his face. “You already know all of this.”

He gave a slight bow of his head.

“How do you know this? I didn’t even know I was trying this case until yesterday.”

He didn’t look sheepish or embarrassed. He said nothing.

I felt a flicker of anger. I thought about telling him that I no longer needed him to follow me around, to see if I was okay. I thought about telling him that he should be a normal person. But the anger fizzed when I realized he was looking after me in the only way he knew how. And really, when I thought about it, was it so bad to have someone looking over my shoulder?

When I was younger, zipping through the city on my Vespa, never bothering with a helmet, I felt I hadn’t needed protection. When I was in a relationship with Sam, I hadn’t felt any desire for that, either. But when I learned Sam was going strong with Alyssa, I had suddenly liked the idea of someone else keeping an eye on me.