“Yes, call him. I have his number, I—”
“He’s already been interviewed. He’s not a credible witness on your behalf either. He can’t be considered unbiased. I think you know why.” Dr. Paulson’s gaze is hard. “He’ll be questioned further in the coming days.” My heart pounds. Is Adam a suspect? Or is he a witness? It was Adam who led us to Kerala. Did Charlie use Adam, knowing I’d contact him in Mumbai? Or was Adam more directly involved? My thoughts are confused, racing.
“Regardless,” Dr. Paulson goes on, “he says he technically never saw you and Charlie together. Not once. He was eager to defend you, but without being able to swear under oath that he saw the two of you together simultaneously, his defense is useless.” I think back to that weekend in D.C. Adam and me on the sofa, after Charlie passed out. Me chatting with Adam at the bar while Charlie was in the bathroom. Heading to the bathroom myself, saying goodbye to Charlie, giving him a kiss on the cheek while Adam was still up front ordering drinks. Me falling asleep in Charlie’s bedroom, only emerging after Charlie came in and passed out himself.
“But I was in Charlie’s uncle’s apartment that weekend,” I protest.
“You could have snuck in. This girl, his girlfriend—she says you did that. That you went so far he almost filed a restraining order. She has letters from Charlie, emails complaining about your behavior.”
My heart feels almost as though it’s stopped beating. My hands are cold. It can’t be true; Charlie would never do this. Why would he?
Unless.
Unless the other girl was suspicious. Unless she’d found out about me and he wanted to deceive her, to keep her from knowing the truth. To keep both of us around. Or unless she wasn’t his girlfriend at all—she could have been working with Charlie, setting up this whole thing. “What else did she say?” My words are barely audible; but Dr. Paulson shuffles in her bag and retrieves a sheaf of papers.
“This is a copy of her statement,” she says quietly. “Read for yourself.”
It’s long, maybe ten typewritten pages. The phrases that jump out at me are cruel and so wrong that they make my hand—and the paper within it—shake until I can hardly read anymore.
. . . met Charlie one summer in New York. He was kind, invited her in, helped her when she had nowhere to go . . .
. . . Delusional. Imagined she was his girlfriend . . .
. . . until she began stalking him. She concocted an elaborate history of their “relationship.” A fake anniversary . . .
. . . It was becoming more frequent, more aggressive. She showed up at his door. Sent him presents. Wrote love notes.
. . . Charlie cheated on me, yes. With a girl named Lena. I found out a year ago. He broke it off with Lena; we made things work. I forgave him. Aubrey, though, she was very jealous of both of us.
. . . Charlie was about to press charges when he disappeared. I wouldn’t be coming here if I weren’t afraid for my own life.
My face, my body, they weigh a thousand pounds. I am too confused to ask questions, too panicked to think. I can’t move.
“There’s more,” she tells me, and I wonder: How could there possibly be more? “According to this girl, Charlie told her that you were involved in a hit-and-run.” She pauses, as if to assess my reaction. “She turned in a whole collection of clippings related to it, clippings containing alleged confessions and apologies from you. I checked the clippings against your sketchbook, which was confiscated at the time of your arrest; a handwriting expert says they check out.” I am trembling violently now, and tears wet my face, although I can’t remember ever having started to cry.
“You have another option,” Dr. Paulson continues. “If you’re convicted of these crimes, Aubrey, you won’t be extradited to an American prison. The system here is very corrupt. It’s likely that you’ll stay here in Bang Kwang for the remainder of your life.” She pauses, taking a breath. “Unless,” she goes on, “you believe what you’re saying. If you believe this elaborate lie you’ve concocted, there is hope.”
“It’s not a lie,” I tell her. But my voice is feeble, shaky. “It’s not.” But I don’t have anything to prove it. I think back to all the times Charlie and I were together. I think back to that weekend in D.C. To the first time we met. We’re dating now, Charlie had said. Hadn’t he? My brain is so fuzzy, so thick with fatigue. Now I can’t remember.
All the times Charlie never answered my calls. Never returned my correspondences. Do I have anything to prove he engaged in a relationship with me? An email, a text? My emails are automatically deleted within thirty days of receipt. I routinely clear my text log to free memory in my phone. Even if I did have something, would it matter? I think hard. My body goes rigid. I don’t have anything. There is nothing. Not even a present, because he only ever gave me a cake on my birthday. I’d been hurt that there was no card.