I wait for Monty in the interview room. Today, like every other day, the trial did not go well for us. Monty made small victories, but they were Pyrrhic. We lost more ground than we gained. There is much criticism in the press. Criticism of my brother’s handling of my case. They say it is a weak defense he has mounted on my behalf. I read with interest the coverage of Anne Hunter. She has been particularly unmerciful in her writings of every aspect of the trial. In the paper today, the Hunter woman continues her tirade. She slants her story toward the “weird sex acts” that transpired between me and Violet, and the “buried rage” that drove me to torture and degradation. She is, of course, quite right in her assessment. She criticizes Monty for not prefiguring the disastrous consequences of a line of questioning that opens the door to sexual histories. Again, she is correct in her assessment. Monty is performing poorly. There is, however, a certain line in her article that reverberates in my mind. A legal analyst, when referring to Monty’s ineptitude, says, “it is almost as if he wants his brother to be caught.” The words echo in my mind, picking up speed, and I find myself thinking of a time when we were boys. Of a girl I cared for. Of sexual awakenings. Of sexual cruelties.
Monty enters the interview cell, his face a mask of despondency. He has not contacted me since our last disastrous day in court. I wait for him to speak.
“Well, I won’t lie to you. I mean, we blew the Perkins woman’s credibility all to hell. Made her look like the slut she is. But what was that shit about you tying her up and peeing on her?”
“It was lies.”
“Well, it sounded like lies. I hope it sounded like lies to the jury. Like she was desperate to make you look bad. But that old woman hurt us. Hurt us bad. Jesus, did you really say that? That Rachel was dead?”
“I wasn’t myself. It was a joke. I didn’t mean it.”
“Believe me, you don’t come across as the joking type. That old woman is going to sink us. How the fuck did they find that old bat? Jesus, I should never have called that bastard Leo.”
“No, I would say that was a mistake. One of several.” This is the first time I have commented on his performance in a negative light. Indeed, it is the first time I have ever dared criticize my brother.
“What are you trying to say? If you’re trying to say something, just fucking say it.”
“I’m trying to say that several mistakes have been made.”
“Yeah, taking some tramp for a weekend of S amp;M and water sports, that was a mistake. Running around to the geriatric twins and bragging about how your wife was dead and it didn’t really matter because she was a real bitch anyway, that was a mistake. Thinking a jury is gonna believe you if you get on the stand and tell them how you cleaned every microdrop of blood off Albert and washed all of his clothes before the police got to the crime scene, that was a mistake. And you know what else was a mistake, Adam? Killing your wife, that was a mistake.”
“It sounds like I need a new lawyer. No wonder you can’t convince anybody I’m innocent; you don’t believe it yourself.”
“What do you expect, Adam? You sure as hell look guilty.”
“I expect my lawyer to make me look not guilty.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that the case is going so badly. I guess I’d rather believe you’re guilty than believe I might lose the case. That you might go to prison. Or worse. Because of me. Because I failed.”
The moment has passed. Neither of us likes this sort of tension. We assume our old roles of weak and strong. “I have faith in you,” I tell him. “It will be because of you that I am set free.”
“I pray you’re right.” He prepares to leave. He has had enough of me for one day. I sicken him. I represent his own failure. “Look, I’ve got to get to the office. I’m supposed to meet with your shrink, what’s his name, Doctor-?”
“Salinger.”
“He says he’ll tell the jury you’re not crazy and he doesn’t believe, based on his professional opinion, that you’re capable of premeditated murder.”
“Premeditated?”
“Well, that’s what you’re accused of, and Salinger won’t testify without the qualification. He says we’re all capable of murder given the right amount of rage and provocation.”
“You don’t think that it will make me look bad, the fact that I’ve consulted a psychiatrist?”
“Believe me, at this point, it’s the last of our worries. He’ll also say that your having the affair was a way for you to work through your marriage difficulties, and I’m pretty sure that we can get him to say that what you said to Mrs. Oldster was just a way of letting off steam or some such bullshit. Don’t worry. I’m thinking ahead. All is not lost. I still have hope.”
Monty clasps my shoulders and gives me a halfhearted hug. I know that in his eyes, I am already lost.
“Anyway, I’ll try to come back tonight.”
He opens his briefcase and takes out a pair of sunglasses. He puts them on and I remember. I remember the last time I saw those glasses. He was passing me in his car, on my drive-way, and the light reflected off them so that his eyes were like two holes of white light. I remember. I-
“What is it?”
“What were you doing at my house that day?”
“What? What day?”
“I passed you in the drive. The weekend Rachel died.”
“Oh. She called me over. You know. She was half crazy. Drinking. The pills. I’m sorry, but you know how she was.”
“And what exactly did she call you over for?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“About how you wanted me to be Albert’s godfather. I dropped off the papers. You remember, the ones I refused to sign. Because I was afraid you were planning to do something crazy. Afraid you were up to something bad. And here we are.”
“You weren’t sleeping with my wife, were you, Monty? My crazy rich wife?”
“You’re talking out of your head. You know, of all people, you know how Rachel was. An affair? Come on, Adam. You’re under a lot of strain. Are you trying to say that I had something to do with Rachel’s death? Adam, you know who killed her. You cleaned the blood off your son, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I’m just trying to get things straight in my mind.”
“Look, just try to get some rest. I was going to tell you later, but I think we’ll have to put you on the stand. It’s always a big risk, but with everything that’s happened, they’re going to have to hear it from you. They’re going to have to hear you say that you didn’t kill her.”
“Yes. They will have to hear me say that. I want something from you. I want you to call Anne Hunter. I want to talk to her. I want to tell her my story.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“I want to do it.”
“It’s a very bad idea. These people in the press, they twist things around. They’re worse than lawyers. You’ll regret it.”
“Call her for me. It’s what I want.”
Finally, he agrees. His agreement tells me more than anything else that he believes all is lost. What is one more mistake in an endless series of mistakes? I nod to him as he leaves, and I think of those glasses, the circles of light, like twin summer suns. I think about that summer at the lake when we were boys and the girl we knew. I think about what happened that summer and wonder how it shaped me. I think about that summer and I wonder what my brother, my handsome, handsome brother is capable of.