I slept for about three hours last night and woke up at five-thirty, breathless with anxiety. It was the thought of facing the press again. I know that’s self-obsessed and selfish, given the awful thing that was just about to happen to Susie, but it’s the truth. I couldn’t bear the thought of being seen by them, of them photographing me and making me ugly again. I feel all right when there’s no one looking. When Yeni’s looking at me, I feel handsome and funny and able, but when the press look at me, I feel ugly and pathetic and unlucky, like those grim photos they always print of a victim’s family.
Anticipating being unable to drive when I came out of court again, I arrived early and left the car half a mile away in a long-term parking lot. I had thirty minutes to kill before I went to meet Fitzgerald, so I sat in the car and listened nervously to the radio. I definitely didn’t want to have to hang around outside the court with the old women and the man who smelled of mustard. I was too jumpy to sit in the car- I kept thinking that the lot attendant was watching me from his little booth- so I got out and went for a circuit of the block, telling myself calmly, calmly, smooth blue ocean, smooth blue ocean, walk slowly and don’t build up a sweat. Courts have the heating up high because they’re sitting still for so long, whatever the weather outside. The day of Susie’s bail hearing I had hurried in, arriving with a thin film of sweat on my face, and after five minutes I was peeling my shirt from my back. I was left distinctly rank.
I walked around the corner, shortening my stride, and came across the Armani shop. Nerves made me misread the sign as the Armor shop and that attracted me to the door. I went inside and walked about in the soporific gray light, finding myself involuntarily slowing down. A shop assistant slithered over to me and inquired in a broad-voweled Italian accent whether he could help me. I thought of Yeni and smiled. I must have had a strange look on my face because he said, “Very well,” and withdrew without prompting. Working out that it would take ten minutes to walk around the corner to the court and five to find Fitzgerald and get seated, I decided to leave at a quarter to, which gave me ten minutes to look around the shop. I found myself checking my watch every thirty seconds but managed to get it down to intervals of two minutes before I left.
Initially there didn’t seem to be much to look at. Everything was gray and black and white, but when I looked more closely, I realized that these were incredibly expensive clothes, very well made. Even the T-shirts felt beautiful. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and the overhead lights highlighted the rain creases between my lapels and shoulder pads. My hair didn’t look bad, though. I was almost in front of the coats. I picked out a gray one and pulled at it, but there was a security chain along the arm. The assistant had to come over, unlock it, and stand there, staring at me as I tried it on. It’s three-quarter-length with four buttons and a black velvet collar, like a frock coat. I looked great in it, slim and tall and cool. The lining is sky blue. The Italian guy was watching me, so I couldn’t preen in the mirror or grin delightedly. Just before I threw my wallet in the air and shouted take what you need, you Italian fop, I slipped the coat off, the exquisite silky lining sliding gracefully down my shirtsleeves, and I looked at the price. Fuck me blind. It cost more than I used to live on in a year. But then I thought of the day ahead and of the comfort of wearing something that didn’t make me feel like a two-bit loser creep, and I bought it anyway. I was glad I did, glad I had some armor on. The assistant had me pegged as a time-waster and was surprised when I said I’d take it. He tried to wrap it in tissue, but I said I’d wear it and put my old coat in the bag.
I walked around the corner, catching glimpses of myself in the windows of shops. Realizing that it would be grotesque to show up in court with a shopping bag, I dumped the Armani bag with the old coat in it at a charity shop.
There was no crowd at the court. No one thought of this as anything more than a formality. I found Fitzgerald around the back corridor, and he greeted me coldly. I don’t know why he’s so snooty to me. I’ve been perfectly nice to him and we pay him on time and everything. Maybe he’s annoyed that he’s lost the case, but that’s hardly my fault. I saw him looking at my coat and was glad I’d dumped the bag. He said he liked it very much, that he hadn’t seen me wearing this one before. Was it new? When I said yes, it was new, he looked away sharply. He asked me if I wanted to make a statement to the press afterward, because there were a couple of journalists kicking about. I said no, I didn’t really want to. He told me to wait in the public galleries. I think he was jealous of my coat.
In the dark public gallery the mustard-smelling man was sitting next to two of the older women. I sat down in front of them, nodding hello. The dark gallery looks out onto the bright court, a proscenium arch framing the justice system for us viewers. I noticed as I sat down that the lady who brought the scones was missing from the gang. One of the other ladies leaned over to tell the mustard man that their friend had suffered a stroke since they were last here, and I turned without thinking and said, “Oh dear, how is she?” Not very well, apparently, but her friends looked shocked that I’d asked, so I turned away. My coat felt conspicuously wealthy and decadent in a world where wives were sentenced to life imprisonment and old ladies with scones had strokes. Still, my wondering whether I looked good or bad was a welcome break from thinking about whether or not the mother of my child was going down for life.
They brought Susie in from the side cells, and she looked awful, broken. The nice gray suit doesn’t fit her anymore, she’s lost so much weight around her hips. I thought of plump, sexy Yeni and felt a shooting pain of guilt. She caught my eye, and I suddenly realized that I must be looking dismayed. I smiled and waved. She ignored me and frowned at my overcoat. It was quite a light color for the court. Everyone else was wearing black or washed-out tones of green or pink or slate.
They sat Susie down, facing away from us. She straightened her back and, in a gesture of inarticulable grace, raised both hands to the nape of her neck and gathered her dull black hair, twisting it into a tidy rope and letting it drop. I felt suddenly unbelievably sad. I knew it was over, that Susie was gone, and by the time she got out of prison, I’d be gone, too. Margie would have done most of her growing up, would rebel against her pudgy old dad, and would always be wary of Susie. We were all three lost to each other, and there was nothing to be done but give witness to the unfolding disaster.
I’d left my handkerchief in the old overcoat pocket. I couldn’t sniff because it would draw attention to me, and Susie would be pissed off. So I undid the cuff on my shirt and pulled the sleeve out, dabbing my nose with it.
God, I am fucking sick to death of being fucking miserable. Look at Morris: he thrashes about, fucking everything that moves. He fiddles his practice accounts and drinks too much, and he’s happy. I’m sick of Susie looking at me as if I’m some sort of fucked-up weirdo freak. I wasn’t the one who followed a serial killer and his ugly bride up north.
I stopped for a smoke there. I’ve cooled down.
Anyway, we were all sitting in the court, the journalists waiting and watching Susie, chatting to each other, smiling sometimes but never taking their eyes off her. She looked out-gunned sitting there between the two big male guards, suddenly small, like Margie. Eventually the judge came out, and after a bit of whispering among the lawyers and passing around of papers, he addressed Susie directly. Yak yak, he said, look at me up here in my big chair, yak bloody yak. He told her she had previously been of good character, was a successful psychiatrist, and had a small daughter. He was starting to sound like a miraculously insightful stage psychic when he said it was a shame she’d let herself down by committing this murder and ordered her to serve a life sentence with a recommended minimum of ten years.