A media case? It was worse than I thought. Why the hell hadn’t I heard about it?
“A media case? Really?” I said.
“Justin Harris? That’s right. I heard about it on Channel Four,” Jane said. “Get out of here. You got the Jump Killer case?”
“Yes,” Mary Ann said, annoyed. “Do you want to switch?”
“Spend some personal time with a sexually sadistic serial killer? Gee, let me think about that. Uh, no,” the tall brunette said.
Mary Ann turned back to me. “Please? For old times’ sake?”
That’s when I noticed on the cover contact sheet that Harris’s lawyer lived in Key West. Fear of Mary Ann recognizing my photograph was replaced instantaneously with fear of death. My mind flashed on a memory. Elena’s bullet-riddled, bloody body splayed out on the gas station floor.
Go back to Key West? I thought, failing to banish the image with a sip of latte.
Not after seventeen years. Not after seventy.
If I bumped into Peter, I’d be the one receiving the death penalty.
I handed the case file back to her as if it burned my fingers.
“I can’t,” I said emphatically. “Sorry. Emma’s got the SAT coming up.”
The lies came as easily as always. I guess I should have felt guilty. I didn’t.
“Fine,” Mary Ann said. “Fine. Of course, I’d get the short straw. I always get the short straw.”
No, I felt like saying to her. I’d just missed it for once.
Chapter 58
I DECIDED TO WALK back to work. It was one of those bright, iconic New York spring days that make you forget about things like triple-digit parking tickets and transit strikes and construction crane accidents.
But for some strange reason, I wasn’t in the mood for thinking about April showers or stopping to smell the Park Avenue tulips.
Back inside my small office on the forty-fourth floor of my Lexington Avenue office building, I closed the door and just stood at the window, staring down at the people scurrying in and out of Grand Central Station. Beyond the Empire State Building to the south, downtown Manhattan sprawled and glinted under the midday sun, intricate and magical, like Monopoly pieces placed on a giant Oriental carpet.
Gazing on it, I thought about the Eighth Avenue pimps and potholes that formed my first vista on my first night in New York and how much I’d accomplished since then.
I continued to stand at the window, hugging myself. At first, I felt sad, then suddenly furious. For all this to get dredged up now, so close to home, just when my life was starting to take off, felt beyond coincidence. It felt intentional.
A media case? I thought. Hadn’t I suffered enough? I thought about the life I’d struggled to put together. All the comments and lewd offers I’d received from asshole restaurant managers and customers. The eyebrow raises I’d had to endure from my co-op board for the crime of being a young single mom. All the packed buses and subway cars and work, housework and homework, that never seemed to give me a moment’s peace.
Most of all, I thought about all the abject terror that I’d gone through in the middle of the night with Emma those first few months when she was colicky. Night after night, I would rock my swaddled baby, weeping along with her, convinced that I was a day away from failing, losing Emma, being fired, being found out.
That wasn’t enough, huh? I thought, staring up at the blue sky. Sacrificing for my daughter, constantly having to look over my shoulder as I worked my fingers to the bone? I haven’t paid enough?
Besides, it wasn’t like I’d done nothing to try to set things straight. After about a year, when I’d scored a decent studio rental and a solidly paying waitressing job at a SoHo supper club, I saw an article in the Post about the Jump Killer. As guilt started to eat away at me one night after I picked up Emma from day care, I took the PATH train out to Hoboken. From an I-95 highway pay phone, I called the New York office of the FBI and gave an answering machine a description of the Jump Killer and his dog and his car.
Over the years, from time to time, I’d think about doing the same thing about Peter, but in the end, I feared that he—with all his law enforcement contacts—might somehow find out. The call would be traced. Peter would know that I wasn’t dead and come looking for me and Emma.
I let out a breath as I finally sat at my desk. My brow beaded up with cold sweat as I remembered the Jump Killer’s face. The office seemed to fade, and there I was again, homeless and pregnant, running for my life in a pair of secondhand Doc Martens.
After a while, I tried to console myself. Things could be worse. At least I hadn’t actually been assigned the Jump Killer case. I’d definitely dodged a bullet there.
What was I getting so upset over? I’d just have to concentrate on my own case, I decided. Keep my head down and my fingers crossed that Mary Ann wouldn’t recognize me. This whole thing would blow over like a freak storm.
I lifted Randall King’s heavy case file and dropped it on my desk.
I even opened it.
Then I stopped kidding myself.
I shoved the file aside and turned on my computer. I clicked open Internet Explorer and typed “Justin Harris” into the Google search box.
A fraction of a second later, I pushed the hair out of my shocked eyes.
Harris’s ten-year-old arrest really was a big media case. There were dozens of newspaper articles. There was even an ongoing segment on the Today show about Harris’s impending execution.
I didn’t really watch the news, but the Today show! How the hell had I missed it?
I didn’t want to know, was how, I realized. I hadn’t checked up on the Jump Killer in seventeen years. I never even once tried to find out what happened to Peter. I knew it was a childish notion, but I thought that if I stopped thinking about all of it, there would be some sort of karmic reciprocity, and everyone I had known would, in turn, stop thinking about me. Subconsciously, I’d made the decision that if I didn’t dwell on it, it would be like it never happened.
But it had happened, I thought as I stared sourly at the computer screen. And wouldn’t ever stop.
I opened a taped 2006 Fox News story about Harris on YouTube. I was hovering my finger over the mouse’s left-click button to play it when my secretary, Gloria “Go-To” Walsh, came in. I immediately minimized the article with a guilty click.
“I thought you had that ProGen prospectus meeting,” she said.
“Tom put me on a pro bono case,” I told her. “No more ProGen for me.”
“Yes!” Gloria said. “Maybe I’ll get home before seven this week. Anything interesting?”
No, more like life-threatening, I thought.
“Sort of, Gloria. I’m kind of in the middle of something. I’ll let you know, OK?”
I turned up the volume on my computer as she closed the door behind her. Shepard Smith was finishing up an intro about the Jump Killer murders. I took a breath, steeling myself to come face-to-face again with the man who tried to kill me that night.
When a picture of Justin Harris filled the screen, I hit the Pause button, puzzled.
Because the man on the screen wasn’t the Jump Killer who’d given me a ride all those years ago on the Overseas Highway.
Wearing an orange jumpsuit above the “Justin Harris” caption was a very sad-looking, very African American man.