“Why would they stay? How many guys want to stay the night after they’ve convinced the girl to have sex?”
A terrible metaphor. Cecilia was famous for them. He glanced out the square windowpanes on the front door. Without thinking any further, he marched outside. Cecilia was calling after him, but it was too late. He found himself standing on his porch, waving the half-dozen reporters to enter through his front gate. They approached cautiously at first, but once they realized it was an invitation to an impromptu press conference, they began to jockey for position, holding up their mikes, camera operators jostling for the best view.
The reporters started shouting questions over one another. Sean held up a hand. It took a moment, but they went quiet. He then cleared his throat. “I’m speaking to you today for one reason and one reason only: the hope that doing so will get you off my front sidewalk and give my family some privacy. I have two young sons—boys who are grieving the loss of their big sister—and I really hope and expect that you will give them the opportunity to return to their routine; to leave for school without a media spectacle outside their front door.”
A reporter with a thin waist and blonde bobbed hair tucked behind her ears didn’t waste time. “Mr. Serrat, Jane McKnight from News Channel Eight. How do you feel now that Malik Montgomery has been released on bail?”
“To be honest,” Sean said, “I’ve been focused on my family, and I think it’s best that I not comment on the proceedings.” That was a lie. Sean thought about Malik a lot. About driving to Malik’s row house. About charging the man as he answered the door. About jumping on top of him. Pounding his head against the ground. The way Malik did to Abby. How quickly the old instincts returned. The punch-first-think-later impulses of a fourteen-year-old coursed through his forty-four-year-old body.
The blonde reporter pressed on: “But as a father, aren’t you angry that the man who raped and killed—who allegedly raped and killed—your daughter is on the streets?”
Sean felt his thumb digging into his palm, the rough scar on his soft, uncalloused hand. “I’m not going to second-guess the prosecutors or judge. It’s not productive. I think the best course right now is to let them do their jobs.”
Another reporter pushed in front of the blonde. He had puffy bags under his eyes and wore faded jeans and a tight blazer. “Reverend Al Coleman says that bail was granted because the evidence against Mr. Montgomery is flimsy. He said there’s no DNA, no witnesses, no physical evidence, and that Malik Montgomery was arrested only because he is black and your daughter was—I quote—‘a pretty white girl.’ Do you care to comment on that?”
Sean’s stomach clenched. He stared at the reporter for what seemed like a long time, deciding not to engage with the man. But then he began to speak.
“For starters, I think that people who didn’t know my daughter should really ask themselves if they are helping or hurting the investigation with comments like that. And if they did know my daughter, they would never suggest she was just a pretty face.” He swallowed hard. “Let me tell you what the world lost when my Abby was stolen.” At this everything seemed to go quiet, not just the reporters, but the birds, the sounds on the street. As if Sean’s mind was filtering out the world.
“Everything came easy to Abby,” he said finally. “She was first to walk and talk in daycare, graduated high school and college early and with honors, she was already at the top of her class in law school. We used to marvel at her. But her success isn’t what made us so proud. It was her heart, her lovely, kind heart.” He looked out at nothing. “When she was ten years old she would stop on the soccer field to help a kid who fell down, even if it meant losing the game. In high school she worked with special-needs kids, but didn’t want to include that work on her college applications because she thought it cheapened the relationships she’d built with the children. She went to law school not to get rich or land on Wall Street, but to help the underprivileged. She made mistakes, and she wasn’t perfect. But anyone who’d ever met Abby would tell you she was special. So, to call her just some ‘pretty white girl’ is”—Sean searched for the word—“well, it’s disgusting.”