His lips were pressed together, and he was shaking his head violently, as if somehow he could will her to stop talking.
“The Buffalo Police searched James Grisco’s car in 1995 after someone turned in his license plate number from the scene of Wayne Cooper’s murder. Grisco drove a red 1988 Pontiac Firebird. He gave Adrienne that car when he went to prison. He wanted her to have a fresh start.”
“There were a lot of Pontiacs on the road back then.”
“But not that many, George. And the gun at your beach house? You told the police that you bought it after Gabriella said she saw someone watching the house. That was right before she died, wasn’t it?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“This is what I do. I clear cases. I answer questions even after people stop asking them. This one’s not hard to figure out, George. You can probably find the family Adrienne nannied for with one quick phone call. They might just remember her red Firebird suddenly being damaged. And if not, eventually that car got sold or totaled or sent to a junkyard, and a record got entered with the DMV. This is a question that can be answered. But you, a meticulous, cautious lawyer, said nothing. You confronted Adrienne, didn’t you? That’s how you convinced her to take this deal today.”
“Not all questions need to be answered. Some resolutions are good enough.”
“And what makes this good, George? You know in your heart what she did. She stalked Gabby. She followed her from the stables. She accelerated her car into the love of your life, left her to die on the side of the road, and then pretended to care about you, just so she could get another shot at the daughter she’d abandoned.”
“Adrienne didn’t abandon Ramona. Did it ever dawn on you how much she had to love that child to do what she did? She was sixteen years old. She couldn’t have even known who the father was—Wayne Cooper the rapist or James Grisco the killer. She could have gotten rid of the baby, but she carried her to term. Now, what she has done since then”—his words were coming slower now—“is absolutely unforgivable. But punishing her isn’t the only interest at stake here, Detective.”
“You’re worried about Ramona.”
He looked at the door again. “Right now, my daughter believes that she had an adoptive mother who loved her as much as she possibly could before she died, and a biological mother who loved her so much that she found a way to be with her and then ultimately killed a man, just to protect her. If this thing goes to trial—”
“She might find out the truth—that the only mother she has ever known may have killed the one she can barely remember, and all because of her.”
“Please don’t do that to my daughter. She’s the one innocent person in this picture.”
“It’s not right—”
“You said this wasn’t a hard question to answer, and maybe you’re right in one sense. We can track down my old neighbors, or dig up some ancient DMV records. But Adrienne will never, ever admit to what you suspect she did.”
“Not all defendants confess.”
“You’re an experienced detective. You mean to tell me that’s proof beyond a reasonable doubt? How many other vehicles might have left a certain kind of red paint and tire tread as the car that may have—in the words of the accident reconstruction report—been involved in Gabriella’s death? And how many such vehicles were on New York’s roads in 2001? You’ve got just enough to mess with my daughter’s head, but you’ll never get a conviction.” He looked at his watch. “And maybe you’re wrong. Maybe Adrienne had nothing to do with Gabriella’s death. She killed James Grisco, but there was mitigation. Do you know what was in that shoe box when it originally showed up at our apartment? All of the letters she had written to him back in Buffalo when she was only fifteen years old.”
“That’s not mitigation. That’s a bad case of puppy love. We assumed he was blackmailing her.”
“No, he did worse than that. He still wanted her, or at least that version of her. She gave him money hoping he’d go away, but he didn’t. He said he had been watching her family. That if he couldn’t have her, maybe—I can’t even say the words, they’re so disgusting—maybe he’d try out that little Ramona instead. His own flesh and blood, not that he knew that. Adrienne wasn’t sleeping at all for two weeks. Julia had just died. This guy comes out of nowhere and starts talking about Ramona that way. She snapped.”
Ellie remembered Adrienne talking about her mother’s failure to protect her. She could still hear Adrienne’s voice: I see my Ramona. If any man ever touched her like that, I’d kill him. “She didn’t snap. She lured him to your address in East Hampton and staged the entire scene to look like self-defense.”
“Look, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t even know the woman I’m married to. Maybe she’s the coldhearted Lady Macbeth you’re describing. But maybe she’s a woman who has tried at every turn—however wrongheaded—to protect this life she’s created for us and for our daughter. Leave it alone, and a few minutes from now she’ll be a convicted murderer. She’ll be in prison for twenty years. When she gets out, she’ll have nothing. I plan on filing divorce papers while she’s in custody.”
“She’ll still have Ramona.”
“Maybe. That will be up to them. Or maybe Ramona will start taking another look at the facts when she’s older and come to some other conclusion for herself. Maybe she’ll even bring in a strong-willed detective like you. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, right?”
“You know that’s not realistic—”
“With all due respect, Detective, you don’t get to talk to me about being realistic. Trust me: I’m being a cold, hard pragmatist right now. My daughter’s entire universe—not just her external world, but her very sense of self—will be permanently and fundamentally altered if you go on poking at this. Maybe you don’t have children—I really don’t know—but what kids know about their parents affects how they see themselves. Ramona may think she’s all grown up, but she’s too young for this.”
There was a knock on the door, followed by the bailiff’s round face in the open crack. “Time’s up, you two. Gregory’s taking the bench. You coming?”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The squeak of Judge Gregory’s courtroom door earned them an annoyed scowl from the bench. George took a seat next to Ramona in the first spectator row behind the defense’s counsel table. From the prosecution’s table, Max gave her a pleased look of surprise before returning his attention to the plea colloquy.
“Did you sign this agreement and initial each page to show you read it?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Are you satisfied with your attorney’s representation?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Donovan, on behalf of the people, please summarize the terms of the plea agreement.”
Even from her spot against the wall at the back of the courtroom, Ellie could see Ramona’s shoulders shake at the mention of the twenty-year sentence. Adrienne turned and gave her a sad smile. It will be okay, she mouthed. Ramona took her father’s hand. Casey placed a comforting arm around her shoulder.
“Ms.—okay, I see a couple of names here. Legal name is Adrienne Langston, née Adrienne Miller. Also an alias of Adrienne Cooper. Got all that? All right, Ms. Langston, are those the terms of the plea agreement as you understand them?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”