I Swear

14. KATHERINE

Once a week after school I drove over to Daddy’s office, and usually he handed me a stack of documents to file and we talked about a case. He knew I had my eye on Harvard Law, and we’d been doing this since I was in seventh grade.

On Wednesday morning I asked Daddy if I could stop by today instead of on Thursday. Macie wanted to see Beth’s deposition as soon as possible.

“Sho’, princess,” he said. “You really wanna come back for more after the grillin’ Patrick gave y’all yesterday during witness prep?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” I smiled and winked. “You fixin’ to lose me to Harvard next fall. My hourly rate will be too high to ever work for you again.”

He laughed, and I was relieved. One more day of laughing, I thought. Just one. Somewhere down inside me I knew that once the depositions started, he wouldn’t be laughing anymore.

Witness preparation had been a joke. We’d all been there together, so claiming we had no idea what was going on worked on some level. None of us was going to crack in front of everybody else. Macie was really good as far as denying everything Patrick threw at her, but she was clearly annoyed around the edges—little things, her foot started bouncing. She still had that news camera smile, but you could tell she was ruffled. She was used to standing up when she was selling something. Sitting down made her fidgety.

Jillian was a wide-eyed sweetheart, but her face answered every question before she even opened her mouth, and Krista looked shifty, period. Poor Beth was a mess. She started crying on the third question, and Daddy and I had to walk her around in the parking lot to calm her down.

In a strange way I was the best witness we had. I used Aunt Liza’s poker face. I smiled at the beginning, was serious in the middle, and said thank you at the end.

“Ladies, that’s the way it’s done,” said Patrick when he turned off the camera. “Nice work, Katherine.”

When I got to Daddy’s office at about four thirty, I asked him if he’d seen the footage of Beth’s deposition yet. He grabbed the video camera from Patrick’s office and plugged it into my laptop so I could watch, instead of simply handing it over to Macie. Then he headed down the hall to a last-minute meeting with a client over a disputed permitting process.

The video loaded and popped open in QuickTime. The shot was on Beth—looking down at her hands, biting her lip. I clicked play.

Beth sat next to Patrick and faced Kellan Dirkson and Lauren Wolinsky, who I remembered meeting at Leslie’s memorial. Kellan’s kind, blue eyes matched his smile as he handed Beth and Patrick bottles of water, then turned to Lauren and asked, “Shall we get started?”

She nodded and looked to Patrick, who swept his brown bangs off his forehead and flipped open a legal pad, then looked at Beth.

“Ready?” he asked.

She looked up at him, then over at Kellan and Lauren, and gave a short nod.

She was terrified, and watching the scene unfold, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

This was over before it even began.

Lauren started by having Beth raise her hand and solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And somehow Beth did this pleasantly, with a smile, direct eye contact—the whole thing, like Patrick had coached us.

Then she turned to Kellan and he asked her to state her name for the record.

“Beth Patterson,” she said.

He had her identify Leslie in a picture. She pointed. He smiled.

“Thank you, Miss Patterson. When did you first meet Leslie Gatlin?”

“The summer before freshman year,” she said.

“Were you friends with Leslie?”

“Back when I first met her?” Beth asked, looking confused. She glanced over at Patrick.

“Were you friends with her at all?” asked Kellan.

Beth paused. Kellan smiled kindly at her, and I saw her warm up to him like she was scootin’ up to a hot fire on a cold night.

“Yes . . . ,” she said cautiously. “Back when we first met. We were . . . friends.”

“Were you aware of the rumor that was started about Leslie during the first few weeks of her freshman year?” Kellan’s smile was gone. He was all business.

Beth frowned and looked at Patrick. He nodded toward Kellan, indicating that she should answer the question.

“I don’t know what rumor you’re talking about,” she said. Slowly her cheeks were flushing.

“The first one we have record of was in regards to Leslie having had breast implants.” Kellan’s face was stone. “Did you have knowledge of this rumor?”

“I . . .” Beth opened her mouth, then stopped, flustered. “It was three years ago,” she said, turning to Patrick. “Why are we talking about this?”

Kellan took a sip of water and offered a tight-lipped smile. “Miss Patterson, we’re in the part of a legal case called discovery. We’re trying to discover the facts regarding any involvement you or your classmates may have had in the wrongful death of Leslie Gatlin.”

“But I . . .”

“Yes or no, Miss Patterson? Did you ever hear a rumor about Leslie Gatlin having breast implants? And might I remind you that you are under oath.”

Beth’s hand trembled as she unscrewed the cap on her water bottle and took a sip.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I heard that rumor.”

“Did you ever repeat this rumor to anyone else?”

Beth glanced over at the court reporter, who sat looking back at her, fingers poised over the black levers, waiting.

“I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“Miss Patterson, we are attempting to establish a pattern of unrelenting bullying over a period of time. I’ll ask you again, did you ever repeat the rumor you heard about Miss Gatlin?”

“I don’t know why you would accuse me of repeating a rumor like that three years ago. I was Leslie’s friend then.”

“So, do I understand that you did not repeat the rumor, Miss Patterson?”

“No—no! You don’t understand.” Beth was sobbing now, and as her tears fell harder, Patrick put a hand on her arm and requested a five-minute break.

Beth shook his hand off her arm. “I don’t need a break. I need you to understand what it’s like,” she shot back at Kellan. “You have no idea what it’s like, do you? You can sit here behind your big white table and take your notes and try to trip us all up, but you don’t have any idea what it’s like to be a girl in high school, do you?”

Kellan took a different tack. “Miss Patterson, you’ve stated that you were friends. Did you ever have a romantic relationship with Leslie Gatlin?”

“Objection. Relevance.” Patrick was not happy.

Lauren Wolinsky slid an iPad across the table toward Beth.

“Have you ever seen this Facebook wall post, Miss Patterson?”

Beth glanced at the screen. “Yes,” she said.

“Please read it out loud for the record.”

Beth sighed, then read: “‘List Chick, I’m sorry I didn’t feel the same way about you. I could’ve been your friend. Anchors away.’”

“Beth, who is List Chick?”

“I don’t know!” Beth’s eyes were a little wild. She was desperate.

Kellan picked up a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Patrick.

“Exhibit twelve-A. This is a printout from Miss Patterson’s Gmail account. You’ll notice that it is a Facebook notification message sent to the email address [email protected].”

He turned back to Beth. “Miss Patterson, is this your email address?”

Beth hung her head. “Yes.”

Kellan nodded. “Beth, did you ever express interest in dating Miss Gatlin?”

“Objection! Relevance.” Patrick’s face was a storm cloud.

“Just trying to establish a motive for consistent slander and harassment of Leslie Gatlin via Facebook messages,” explained Kellan.

He handed a stack of paper to Patrick.

“Exhibit twelve-B. These are printouts of hundreds of messages subpoenaed from a Facebook profile with the name of Di Young. These messages were sent from several IP addresses traced to three different residences. One of them is Miss Patterson’s. Beth, did you ever send a Facebook message to Leslie Gatlin from this account?”

Beth was silent and stared at her hands.

“Miss Patterson?” Kellan leaned forward.

“Beth, answer the question,” said Patrick.

“Yes.”

“Did you set up the account under the name Di Young?” asked Kellan.

“It wasn’t my idea. I—”

“Yes or no?” Kellan interrupted her forcefully.

Beth paused and sucked in her cheeks. Her eyes filled with tears. She glanced at Patrick, who stared down at the stack of printouts, looking pale.

“Yes,” she sighed.

“Beth, why did you turn on Leslie Gatlin?” Kellan asked quietly.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice was too loud for the tiny room. Tears streamed down her face.

“Beth.” Patrick’s voice was firm. “Let’s take a break. You’re getting emotional.”

“Yeah, I’m getting emotional,” she spat out in frustration. “Nobody understands how hard it is. If you’re a guy, you can be good at sports and get away with anything, but if you’re a girl in sports, it’s all different. You’ve got to keep the rumors at bay. If you’re too good, you’re a dyke or a bitch, plain and simple. And all it takes is one rumor—one wrong word by the right person—and your whole life is over.”

The court reporter was wide-eyed and her fingers were dancing on those levers like the feet of the organist at our old church in Atlanta.

In the silence that followed, Lauren Wolinsky pulled some tissues out of her attaché case and gently handed them across the table to Beth.

“No further questions,” said Kellan with a smile.

The video ended on Patrick holding his head in his hands.