“I’m here,” she announced loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
“Lanie,” Aunt A hissed, gesturing to the empty seat beside her. “Sit down.”
Lanie smirked and dropped into the seat.
“So nice of you to join us,” Ellen said sarcastically.
Aunt A shot her a warning look and turned to Lanie. “We just ordered drinks and appetizers. Do you know what you want? I’ll call the waiter over.”
Lanie waved a hand in my direction without meeting my eyes. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
Aunt A flagged down the waiter, who had emerged from the kitchen to stare distrustfully at us, and ordered a Diet Coke and a garden salad for Lanie.
“So what have you all been talking about?” Lanie asked, leaning back in her chair, her glazed red eyes jumping from Aunt A to Ellen and back, again not landing on me.
“You,” Ellen said.
I kicked my cousin under the table. She glowered at me.
“Actually, we’ve been discussing how exciting it is that Ellen and Josie are leaving for college tomorrow,” Aunt A said brightly.
“Yeah, it’s fucking fantastic,” Lanie sneered.
“Hey,” I said sharply. “What’s your problem?”
Ellen snorted, and Aunt A shot me a look that was equal parts disappointed and sympathetic. Lanie sat up, bobbing her neck like a snake ready to strike, and opened her mouth just as the waiter arrived with our drinks and salads.
“I don’t want this,” Lanie said as he tried to present her with a plate.
He hesitated, glancing at Aunt A for direction.
“I don’t want this,” Lanie repeated, her voice rising in volume. “Get it out of my fucking face.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter said through gritted teeth, pulling the salad away.
“It’s delicious,” I said, taking a bite of my identical salad.
“You would think that,” Lanie said. She looked around at all of us before standing up and throwing her napkin down on her seat. “I have to pee.”
We chewed in silence for fifteen minutes until Aunt A went to check on her. Even before Aunt A returned to the table, I knew that Lanie was gone.
Discussion thread on www.reddit.com/r/reconsideredpodcast, posted September 20, 2015
Why should we believe her? (self.reconsideredpodcast)
submitted 12 hours ago by notmyrealname I haven’t been able to stop thinking about episode 2 since it aired. It blows my mind that Warren was convicted on such little physical evidence. It really got me thinking: why should we believe Lanie? Everyone just took her at her word, but why? Especially after she lied the first time?
spuffyshipper 150 points 12 hours ago I’ve been wondering the same thing. Didn’t anyone question her at the time?
armchairdetective38 89 points 12 hours ago She was the star witness for the prosecution and she was cross-examined by the defense team.
spuffyshipper 74 points 11 hours ago But the defense team only accused her of being “confused,” not of actually lying, right?
urugly 10 points 11 hours ago
what did you expect them to do? she was a pretty white girl and he was a big scary metal freak
armchairdetective38 89 points 11 hours ago She was only 15 years old (16 by time of trial) and traumatized. The defense team wouldn’t have wanted to push her too hard for fear of alienating the jury.
miranda_309 90 points 11 hours ago
This exactly.
Source: I am a public defender.
elmparkuser1 165 points 12 hours ago IMHO, Lanie Buhrman is not a credible source. I grew up in Elm Park, and I was a freshman the year the twins were juniors. They had only been in public school for half a year at that point—they were homeschooled first, remember—and Lanie already had a really bad reputation. She ran around with a really rough crowd and was always in trouble. I walked in on her getting high in the girls bathroom one time at like 9 AM. I wouldn’t trust her farther than I could throw her.
chapter 6
Aunt A lived in one of the older sections of town, her neighborhood populated by rambling Victorians in various states of disrepair. Some, like Aunt A’s, had been renovated and maintained, while others had fallen into neglect and were blighted by peeling paint, decaying trim, and sloping roofs. Although Aunt A often referred to her home as a money pit, she took pride in its upkeep. It had been purchased during a more hopeful time in Aunt A’s life when she thought she might fill all four bedrooms with a large family, and when she envisioned herself and her ex-husband spending long weekends together on restoration projects.
As a child, I had been captivated by the house’s showy exterior, with its wraparound porch, turret, and widow’s walk, so different from our own modest Dutch Colonial. It didn’t take long after moving in for me to become disenchanted. Old homes might be glamorous from the outside, but inside they are drafty and haunted by constant, eerie creakings of indeterminate origin.
Unfolding myself from the passenger seat, I was almost flattened by a sweeping sense of déjà vu. Suddenly, I was fifteen again, standing in this same driveway, one hand clutching my sister’s, the other wrapped around the handles of a suitcase. The mounting dread I had felt that afternoon returned, oozing darkly through my body. That had been the moment I realized everything was forever changed: my father was dead and my mother had retreated deep inside herself, further than ever before. The most frightening part was that this time it seemed permanent.
Aunt A stood on the porch holding her cat, Bubbles, in her arms, just as she had that long-ago afternoon. Her face even wore the same bittersweet smile. It pained me to see how much older my aunt looked. Aunt A’s thick chestnut-colored hair was streaked with gray and pinned up in a loose bun that aged her ten years. Her familiar face was lined with distinct creases, and every part of her seemed more subject to gravity.
A lump formed in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I said without meaning to.
Aunt A smiled, her eyes glistening with tears, and she descended from the porch to enfold me in a warm, feline-scented embrace. “I know, darling. I know.”
The lump dissolved into hot, salty tears that crowded my tear ducts, but I refused to allow them to fall. I had no right to cry. I was the perpetrator here; I had left Aunt A, just like her husband and her sister.
But the tears refused to be denied, and I pushed myself away from Aunt A before she could see them.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled. “I need to use the restroom.”
As the front door swung shut behind me, I heard Aunt A say to Ellen, “That poor girl.”
Aunt A’s kindness squeezed my heart and made me feel even worse. I should never have abandoned her.