I Swear

30. KATHERINE

“Daysun—this is hopeless. I want to prosecute these girls myself.”

Patrick’s voice was strained and angry. I couldn’t blame him. His week had been ten kinds of torment. After my deposition on Monday, Macie’s had followed on Tuesday before Jillian and Jake’s crash-and-burn disaster Friday.

I slipped off the couch in Daddy’s reception area and listened. The door of his office was partly open. It was Saturday afternoon. Daddy had played tennis with his doubles partner early this morning, and then come into the office to tie up some loose ends on the permitting case. I’d come with him to study for my chemistry exam on Monday in the peace and quiet of the empty firm, but when we walked in Patrick was pacing the hall outside Daddy’s office.

“I’m serious, Daysun. I’m ready to switch sides in this case.”

“Patrick, please.” Daddy’s voice was slow and low. “I know this has been hard, but we don’t have to prove anything here. Burden of proof is on the prosecution. They’ve got to show that there was some sort of responsibility here. And no one has ever been proven guilty of causing someone else’s suicide.”

Through the space between the door and its frame I saw Patrick place his hands wide on Daddy’s desk and lean across the dark mahogany. “Daysun, they are responsible for this suicide. Every one of them.”

When I heard Patrick say this, I remembered walking down the hallway with Daddy on Tuesday afternoon. Mike Merrick had rounded the corner, with Macie, clicking along behind him.

When her dad stopped to shake hands with mine, Macie leveled her eyes at me but didn’t speak.

“How’d it go in there, Senator?” Daddy boomed, pumping his hand.

“Just fine, Daysun. Just fine.” Mike Merrick was smiling like a possum eating briars. Or at least that’s what Aunt Liza would say. “Just can’t thank you and Patrick enough for prepping the kids so well on this.”

“Happy to help.” Daddy smiled. “Just got back from some tennis at the Bellevue Club. Let’s schedule a match when this is all over.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said and smiled, all charm and teeth and tan.

Macie raised her eyebrows at me and let out a long sigh as if to say she were bored. As her dad held the front door open for her, she turned back to look at me and narrowed her eyes. Then she stepped out the door and slipped her sunglasses onto her face like she was avoiding a group of paparazzi, and walked with her father toward the parking deck.

Something about this memory and the sound of the anger in Patrick’s voice made me feel like I was falling. I steadied myself on the doorframe as Daddy eyed Patrick wearily.

“These are not bad kids,” Daddy said. “You remember high school. It all seems very important, and let’s face it: Kids are kids. They include some and exclude others. That’s just evolution. You gather your pack and you survive because of safety in numbers. Leslie Gatlin had her pack just as sure as Macie and Katherine did.”

“Leslie had no pack, Daysun.”

Daddy was quiet for a moment, then said, “Okay, Patrick. So let’s say for a second that you’re right. Let’s say that the evidence here points to wrongful death. What does Kellan Dirkson say that he’s gonna charge Macie Merrick with?”

“That’s just it,” sighed Patrick. “Macie Merrick can’t be charged with civil liability in this case. She’s the only one who didn’t actually do anything that can be proven. You should’ve seen her in that deposition. She was perfect. An ice queen with a warm smile. That girl is the best liar I’ve ever seen.”

“She perjured herself?” Daddy’s voice was sharp.

“She didn’t have to. She got everybody else to do her dirty work. The one email I’m sure she sent was forged from Jacob Walker’s account—on his laptop. There’s no way to prove that she wrote it, and she knows it. So does her dad.”

Patrick was quiet for a moment. “Daysun, this civil case is over. We won, and Dirkson knows it. There’s a single instance in Massachusetts where criminal charges were brought in a suicide case, and that’s been tied up in paperwork for months. There’s just not enough legal precedent to bring a criminal case here.”

“So what are you so worked up about?” Daddy asked. “You won.”

“Then why does it feel like I lost?” Patrick asked quietly.

“The purpose of the law is handin’ out justice, Patrick, not warm, fuzzy feelings.”

Patrick stood up and put his hands in the pockets of his flat-front chinos and looked at the toes of his spit-shined penny loafers. “So how does Leslie Gatlin get her justice?” he asked quietly.

My daddy has made a career of having an answer every time somebody asks him a question. As long as I can remember, folks have been asking Daddy for advice—not just about the law but about everything. Aunt Liza used to say that when God was handin’ out smarts, Daddy was first in line and came back for seconds.

For the first time in the seventeen years I had known him, my daddy answered a question with a deafening silence: There would be no justice for Leslie Gatlin.

Patrick got the quiet answer loud and clear, and turned toward the door without looking up from his shoes. I slipped back onto the couch and opened my chemistry book. When he walked into the foyer, Patrick paused and looked up at me. I held his gaze for a moment, then he shook his head and walked out the door.

I sat in the silence for a moment, then I closed my chem book again and silently walked into Daddy’s office. He was sitting at his desk looking at a picture in a silver frame that he’d always kept next to his computer in every office he’d ever had.

It was a picture Aunt Liza snapped of me wearin’ Mama’s high heels when I was three years old.

He didn’t look up. He just sat and stared at the picture. When he spoke, he didn’t move his eyes away from the frame.

“I wonder what it’s like?” he said softly.

“What?” I asked.

“Knowin’ that the little girl you loved for all those years was downstairs, dead in the garage while you were sleepin’.” There were tears running down his cheeks—something else I had never witnessed in my entire life.

“Patrick’s right,” I said softly, my eyes flooding over like a bathtub with the water running. “It was our fault, Daddy.” I sank onto the leather chair opposite his desk and buried my face in my hands. “Can you ever forgive me?” I sobbed.

Then I felt his arms around me, in a wordless grip so tight that I cried even harder—his second silent answer of the day.

When I had cried myself dry against his shoulder, Daddy reached into his back pocket and handed me a crisp linen handkerchief.

“Katherine,” he said. “I have recused myself from this case because you are my daughter, but it appears that this case is now over.” He stood up and walked to his desk. He sat back in his chair and swiveled sideways to look out the window at the gathering clouds in the afternoon sky. The light was beautiful and his skin glowed the same deep brown as his desk. There was a glint in his eyes when he asked me, “Have you watched all the depositions?”

“I’ve seen them all,” I said. “Except Macie’s.”

“From what I understand, that swim team captain—what’s his name? Dating the Braddock girl?”

“Josh Phillips?” I asked.

“Does he really have that video of Marty Merrick?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Daddy pressed the tips of his fingers together, then tapped them against each other while he stared out the window. “Kathy, I’m going to ask you something, and I want the God’s honest truth from you, young lady.”

He swung around in his chair and faced me dead-on. I nodded.

“If the DA were to file criminal charges against Macie Merrick, would Jillian and Beth testify against her? On the stand? Under oath?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “But, Daddy—won’t you just run into the same problem with not being able to pin anything on Macie? The evidence is circumstantial, isn’t it? It’s our word against hers. How are you going to prove anything?”

“Oh, I’m not gonna be proving anything, sweetheart.” He was dialing his phone. “Yes, hello. This is Daysun Fraisure calling. Is District Attorney Braddock available?” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“You’re sure about Jillian and Beth?” he whispered.

I raised my right hand. “I swear.”