“Do you understand that under the plea agreement you give up your right to appeal both your conviction and any sentence?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The words of a plea colloquy are scripted and mechanical, but the phrases replaying in Ellie’s head were scrambled and chaotic. How many other vehicles? Adrienne will never, ever admit . . . You’ll never get a conviction.
“Do you understand that you have a right to be tried by a jury, and that by pleading guilty, you are giving up that right?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And at such a trial, you would be presumed innocent. The government would have to prove your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. You would have the right to be represented by a lawyer at that trial, and if necessary have the court appoint a lawyer. You would have the right to confront all witnesses and to call witnesses on your behalf. You would have the right to testify on your own behalf, or to remain silent. Do you understand all of these rights?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And do you understand that by pleading guilty, you are giving up all those rights?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Leave it alone, and a few minutes from now, she’ll be a convicted murderer. She’ll have nothing.
“Mr. Donovan, please make a representation concerning the facts that the people would be prepared to prove at trial.”
Max’s voice felt far away as he methodically ran through the web of evidence against the defendant. “The defendant, rather than report to police the victim James Grisco’s attempt to blackmail her, took matters into her own hands. Taking advantage of a previous experience in which threatening comments had been posted to her website by another individual, she continued to post additional comments herself to create the impression that her stalker was escalating his conduct. She also sent herself a threatening package which had Mr. Grisco’s fingerprints on it, furthering that impression. Finally, she instructed Mr. Grisco to meet her at an address in East Hampton, where she shot him and then staged the scene to look like self-defense.”
What had George Langston said—Ellie had just enough evidence to mess with his daughter’s head but could never get a conviction? The evidence in her own father’s death had been just enough to suggest that Jerry Hatcher had committed suicide, but never enough to give Ellie the firm answers she so desperately needed. She had spent her entire life wondering whether her father had loved his family so little that he chose voluntarily to leave them.
Please don’t do that to my daughter. She’s the one innocent person.
“How do you now plead to the charge contained in Count One of the indictment, Murder in the Second Degree?”
“Guilty.”
“Very well. It is the finding of this court that the defendant is fully competent and capable of entering an informed plea, is aware of the nature of the charge and consequences of the plea, and that the plea of guilty is knowingly and voluntarily entered and supported by a sufficient basis in fact. The defendant is adjudged guilty of that offense. I understand there is also an agreement to proceed straight to sentencing, with no evidence from either party to challenge the joint sentencing recommendation.”
She thought about Casey, revisiting what he’d learned during his short-lived therapy with David Bolt: He’s all about separating yourself from your parents—being honest about who they are and how they treated you, but then letting go of it.
“Ms. Langston, it is the judgment of this court that you be committed to the custody of the New York State Department of Corrections, to be imprisoned for a term of twenty years.”
As the deputy took Adrienne back into custody, Ramona reached toward her from behind the courtroom railing. “I love you, Mom. Don’t forget. No matter what.”
And then Adrienne was gone.
When Ramona started to cry, George placed an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head before guiding her from the courtroom. Casey followed behind. Only Katherine Whitmire acknowledged Ellie’s presence with a polite nod.
Max was the last to make the trip down the center aisle of spectator seats. He looked behind him to make sure the coast was clear before giving her a peck on the cheek. “To what do I owe this surprise?”
“Just wanted to see it all go down.”
“Taking pleas is not exactly the most exciting part of my job. You got time for a cup of coffee? I missed you last night. Did you get any sleep? How late did you work?”
The work itself hadn’t taken long, but she never did manage to sleep.
She had been so certain about so much, from the very beginning of this case, but at each turn the people involved had surprised her. Julia had not taken her own life. Katherine Whitmire was leaving the husband who had defined her. Casey Heinz was finding family among people who had shunned him. Simple, rigid George Langston turned out to be remarkably complicated and empathetic.
What had that book editor said? Not everything is black-and-white, or even shades of gray. Things can be black and white—right and wrong—all at the same time. A week ago, Ellie would never have kept quiet through that plea colloquy.
“Yeah, coffee sounds good.” For the first time since they’d met, she let Max hold her hand in the courthouse as they walked to the elevator.
George had said not all questions needed to be answered, but maybe some questions didn’t need to be asked. Maybe she was still getting to know herself after all.
Acknowledgments
I continue to be grateful to the many people who labor behind the scenes to support my work and bring it to readers. I have known my agent, Philip Spitzer, since I was twelve years old. He and his wife, Mary, and daughter, Anne-Lise, are my surrogate New York family and biggest champions. His colleagues Lukas Ortiz and Lucas Hunt round out the posse, making the Spitzer Literary Agency the Jerry Maguire of book agencies.
Thank you, also, to the incredibly supportive and professional crew at HarperCollins: Amy Baker, Erica Barmash, Jonathan Burnham, Heather Drucker, Mark Ferguson, Michael Morrison, Danielle Plafsky, Nicole Reardon, Jason Sack, Kathy Schneider, Leah Wasielewski, and Lydia Weaver. Special thanks to my editor, Jennifer Barth, who has been with me from the beginning and continues to push me at every stage to write the best book I can write. She represents the very best in publishing, and I’m forever appreciative to have her on my side.
Thanks as well to Ed Cohen, retired NYPD Sergeant Edward Devlin, Jen Forbus, Jonathan Hayes, McKenna Jordan, Ruth and Jon Jordan, NYPD Detective Lucas Miller, Erin Mitchell, and Richard Rhorer. Thank you, Duffer, for lending your name and image to the Duffer Awards. (Check Google. Trust me.)
And, finally, thank you to my husband, Sean Simpson. If I were to write down all the mushy stuff I feel for you, my readers might never forgive me.
A Special Note to My Readers
I try to block out all the doom-and-gloom forecasts for the future (or lack thereof) of books, reading, publishing, and, gosh, even literacy. But I know enough to realize how lucky I am to have my words moved to paper pages and digital screens so I can tell my stories to you. And I know enough to understand that wouldn’t happen without your tremendous and often vocal support. Every writer thinks he or she has the very best readers, but I surely do.
I’ve gotten to know many of you through my Web site, Facebook, and Twitter. Writing is a solitary activity, but I’m not a solitary person. Where I used to pop into the hallway for quick comedic relief back at the prosecutors’ office, I now pop onto the interwebs to chat with many of you when I need a little break. My thanks go to Holden Richards at Kitchen Media, Steffen Rasile at SRA Design Studios, and Catherine Cairns of Cairns Designs for their technical assistance in creating an interactive, online community.