Chapter 18
“As I said to the last girly I spoke to, and the girly before that, I don’t want to make an appointment!”
Truly, I’ve never understood people’s fixation with in-person meetings. Under ideal circumstances, a telephone call is more than enough to convey information. And these are far from ideal circumstances.
It’s been twenty-four hours since those YouTube interlopers knocked on my door with their camera-ready teeth and cheerful accusations, and since then, my street has turned into a live set for some true crime melodrama.
Reporters, strangers, people with boom mics and bad intentions—hovering, whispering, snapping photos.
I’ve always preferred to keep to myself. But now, I’m not just hiding for comfort. I’m hiding because I’m scared. Not that I’d admit it out loud. Not even to Daphne. But it’s not the first time the world has turned on me. I don’t know if I could withstand it a second time.
“We really do prefer clients to come in—”
“I’m eighty-one!” I snap. “A crotchety, slightly confused, possibly deranged murder suspect! And you think I should what—catch the tram down and queue up like I’m getting my blood pressure checked?”
“You tell ’em, Else,” Daphne chimes in, pumping a fist.
She’s planted herself next to me on the sofa, close enough to hear every word and—more important—to keep an eye on me. She made it through the crowd this morning wearing a neon green poncho with the hood drawn so tightly she looked like an incognito tennis ball.
“Going undercover,” she’d said, tapping her nose like she was MI5.
God love her. I don’t know where I’d be without her in my corner.
There’s a long sigh from the other end of the line. Then: “Hold, please.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a migraine.
I can’t believe this is happening. Ishaan’s death was the definition of an expected death.
Case in point: A bloody seven-year-old was the one to call it!
And yet, part of me knows that nothing can be done.
The court of public opinion has handed down its verdict. Again.
We’d called the police first. It seemed the sensible place to start to find out what could be done, if anything, about the gross miscarriage of justice that had been delivered in the headline of that article.
We encountered a slight issue with the receptionist when we couldn’t remember Hairy’s or Baldy’s actual names, so after being passed around from pillar to post, I ended up speaking to an idiot named Greg.
“What I want to know,” I’d said to Greg, after he’d introduced himself, “is if the death is suspicious.”
“Sorry?” he said. “Which death?”
“Ishaan’s death. The headline in the article I read called it a suspicious death. So I want to know how you define suspicious.”
“You’re inquiring about the death of Ishaan Patel?”
“Keep up, Charlie.”
“Greg.”
“It was an expression,” I said. Told you Greg was an idiot.
“Well,” Greg said, “it is still an open investigation at this point, so I can’t really say if it’s suspicious.”
“And yet someone did say. To the media. How else would they have known that I was Ishaan’s neighbor? And that he was my nemesis!”
“She’s got you there,” Daphne said.
I’ll admit, I was feeling rather good at that point, especially when Greg put me on hold to see what he could find out. When he returned, though, he had nothing. “Ms. Fitzpatrick, I’ve spoken to the detectives on this case, and they have assured me that they have not spoken to the media.”
“Then how did the media get this information?”
“I couldn’t say. A member of the public may have reported something. A neighbor, perhaps?”
Joan, I realized. It was Joan. “I’m going to kill her.”
“Pardon?” Greg said.
Daphne snatched the phone out of my hand. “Gotta go, Greg,” she said, and ended the call.
“Kill her later,” she said. “First, we need legal advice.”
Which led us to this call.
We found the law firm, BrennanWhiteMcDonald, in the Yellow Pages.
When I explained my predicament to the receptionist, she’d made her boredom patently clear through her nonverbal language—the long pauses, the sighs, the length at which she forced me to listen to their in-house ad for their own legal firm.
When I am finally connected to a fourth girly, she is equally rude and disinterested until I mention my name.
Or, rather, use the name Mad Mabel Waller.
“Mad Mabel Waller,” she repeats, her voice dripping in disbelief. In the background I can hear the thwack of her long fingernails against the plastic-coated desk. “You are Mad Mabel Waller?”
“Yes.”
I sound huffy, which annoys me. There’s so little dignity in being huffy. And yet, if people don’t listen, that’s how I end up.
The fingernails cease their thwacking on the desk. “Just a moment.”
A few seconds later, I’m finally greeted by a fifth girly, who sounds like she is paid more than fifteen dollars per hour.
“Good afternoon, this is Senior Partner Linda Raiti.”
“Linda. I hope you are more helpful than the last four girlys I’ve spoken to.”
“I’ll certainly try. I understand that you have questions around the legalities of an article written about you?”
“That’s right.”
“And … to confirm … I’m speaking with Mabel Waller?”
“I go by the name Elsie Fitzpatrick nowadays. But yes, we are one and the same.”
“So how can I help you, Ms. Fitzpatrick?”
“I want to know my legal rights. An article has been written about me that I believe is defamatory.”
“All right. Tell me about the article.”
“Well, I didn’t read the whole thing,” I admit. “But the headline said: ‘Eighty-two-year-old convicted murderer Mad Mabel Waller questioned over the suspicious death of nemesis neighbor.’ ”
Daphne growls, newly appalled.
“I see.”
“Now there are media swarming all over my little street and I’m a prisoner in my own house. Are they entitled to use my name in association with this crime? Which, by the way, is not actually a crime, my neighbor died of natural causes.”
“Well,” she says. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On a number of things. Which is why it’s better for you to—”
“I don’t want to come into the office. I’m an elderly lady with mobility issues.” Small white lie, but what does Linda know? “I’m happy to pay for your time if you can tell me over the phone.”
Another white lie. I’m not happy to pay, what fool would be? But of course I will if push comes to shove.
She sighs. “Right, well … my first questions would be around the accuracy of the headline. So let’s start there. Were you questioned over your neighbor’s death?”
“I was. I was the one who found him.”
“I see. And they called him your …”
“Nemesis. That part was correct, at least.”
“Hmm.”
“They said I was eighty-two!” I say. “I’m not. I’m eighty-one.”
Linda doesn’t reply.
“What?” I say, finally.
“Given that the headline—save for your age—is accurate, you’ll have a hard time suing for defamation. We can search for other headlines, but given the notoriety of your … story, you’ll have a hard time suing anyone for defamation.”
“Why is that?”
“Because your story will more than likely be deemed to be in the public domain, which means it’s fair game.”
I don’t dislike Linda Raiti, even if I dislike what she is saying. She strikes me as a pragmatic and considered woman, and I admire this sort of person. It’s unfortunate, because if she’d been rude or unreasonable, I’d have had a place to focus the burning ball of emotion in my chest.
“So I can’t sue?”
“Strictly speaking, you can. Whether you succeed is another matter.”
“You don’t think I’d succeed?”
“What is she saying?” Daphne says. I hold my finger to my lips.
“I’m not saying you couldn’t succeed,” Linda replies carefully.
“But if you decided to take this on, you’d have a pretty big fight on your hands.
I imagine more than one media outlet would be involved.
It would be a long fight. Given your age, it almost certainly would be a fight that outlives you. ”
I open my mouth, but my response gets stuck in my throat. Daphne’s hand grips the hand not holding the phone and squeezes it.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick?” Linda says gently.
I clear my throat. “Mmm?”
“I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”
I clear my throat again. “Not to worry. Right then. How much do I owe you for your time?”
“Nothing,” she says.
“Nonsense. I understand how it is, billable hours and all of that.”
“I’ll write this up as a coffee break.”
I nod silently. Daphne’s thumb strokes the inner part of my wrist.
“I …” appreciate it, I want to say. But the words don’t project. A silent tear slips down my cheek. It strikes me that, with all the cruelties in this world, there is still nothing quite as dangerous as kindness.
“All the best, Ms. Fitzpatrick.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
Daphne takes the phone and ends the call.
“Are we fucked?” she asks, handing me a handkerchief.
“Yep.” I blow my nose like a foghorn. “We’re totally fucked.”