Chapter 23
Amaya calls about fifteen minutes later, when I’m already on the subway back home. The connection is spotty as my train winds its way through tunnels underground.
“We need to talk. Do you want to come to my office?” Amaya asks.
“Uh, sure,” I respond. “I can come now.” I can’t help but feel that this is big news if she wants to discuss it in person.
People always want to tell you important news to your face, like a doctor with a cancer diagnosis.
Well…not always. I guess my ex-boyfriend of two years did break up with me over text.
Normal, mature, adult people tell you important news face-to-face.
Amaya’s tone sounds bad, or maybe it’s just professionally neutral.
Everything is probably fine and the spotty reception and static are just distorting her voice.
I make it to Amaya’s shabby, windowless office. Legal documents and papers are everywhere—though they are in an orderly fashion—and I can tell whatever she is about to say is going to be decidedly bad news. As usual, her face, unlike her tone, is easy to read.
If we were friends, I’d comment on the Best of Celine Dion CD, a bag of Cheetos Puffs, which are an excellent snack choice, and her fancy French press.
But this is a serious professional relationship, and the news she has for me looks like it may be worse than getting dumped over text because the man in question was cheating on me with my “friend.”
“I’ve got some bad news.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, wondering how this case could get worse.
“They tested the knife. They found your DNA on it.”
My mouth hangs open like I’ve been slapped. She says it so quickly I’m not sure if I heard correctly.
“That’s…that’s…impossible,” I stutter like I did when I saw Lindsay Lohan’s incredible career comeback and makeover, though this shock and awe are quite different.
She looks at me incredulously. “Are you sure you didn’t at any point touch the knife, even accidentally?
Maybe you touched it when you were going to check on him?
Maybe you tried to pull it out to help him?
If so, we can explain that.” Her voice is almost pleading.
Tell me something I can work with, she seems to say.
I go back to that terrible night, replaying the whole horrific scene again and again.
No. I didn’t touch anything, except the man’s wrist to see if he had a pulse.
I got a little blood on my hands then, but I didn’t touch the knife.
I remember thinking, thanks to my true crime podcasts, that I must not contaminate the scene by touching anything.
I wanted to be as far away from the blood as possible.
Even through my shock, I know I was careful. I’m positive I never touched the knife.
“No. I didn’t. It has to be a mistake. They must have made a mistake with the testing.” I don’t know anything about DNA, but I do know that I’m grasping at straws. I know how I sound.
Amaya shakes her head a little, as if disappointed.
“Mistakes like that don’t happen, Siri. Tampering happens in cases sometimes, but we need proof of that before we go accusing the state-run laboratory that deals with all of the criminal court samples. We’ll sound insane if that’s our only defense.”
She looks at me, her eyes probably searching for a shred of something redeemable. She must think I’ve made a fool of her. Maybe she is usually cautious or wary, but with me she let her guard down, hence letting me tag along with her.
“You think I did it, don’t you?” I ask. I am angry about the news, but somehow my voice comes out in a meek whisper, as if I should be ashamed by the situation.
I would be, if I had killed him. “What about the camera footage from where I stopped?” I know that’s where it had to happen. That intersection.
“I got the footage surprisingly quickly. I, too, was convinced it would show someone else stabbing James. It shows you almost hitting someone with your car, but no one going in or out of your taxi except for you.” She pauses. “No one ever approaches the taxi.”
I am stupefied, and my mouth hangs open for the second time in this conversation, like one of those poor fish that dudes pose with in photos on dating apps.
“I am your lawyer, and I am assigned to represent you and provide you with the best outcome no matter what. However, this relationship is a two-way street. I need to be honest with you, and you also need to be honest with me. I understand that it can be difficult to trust a stranger like me—”
“You’re not a stranger! I trust you!” I protest quickly. I know she wants me to come clean, confess all. But I didn’t do this. I can’t tell her what she seemingly wants to hear.
Amaya ignores me and continues, “I will be honest with you. I will let you know about your options. Siri, they are not great. You’re in a locked taxicab.
You pick up a man and he is alive, and then drive him to the airport and he’s dead.
Your DNA is on the weapon.” Her voice sounds mechanical, as if now that she’s decided I’m guilty, she’s flying on autopilot.
Get me the best plea deal she can or go to trial.
This new information has changed everything.
My innocence was already improbable and now it seems impossible.
“I’m innocent. Please. I know it sounds crazy. I know it sounds impossible. I promise you, I promise you…I didn’t do it.” I sound like the desperate people on some of my podcasts, with not a shred of evidence on my side. “Didn’t they find other DNA in the cab? Fingerprints?”
“No fingerprints other than yours and James’s.”
“I wipe down my cab because it’s dirty!” I had done it right before James got in. Does she not remember when I told her that people try to get freaky in the back of my cab?
Amaya shoots me a look like, That’s what they all say.
I want to be annoyed with her, but I know I wouldn’t feel any differently if the roles were reversed, if she were in my shoes.
I can only assume the investigation is over.
This is the end of the road. She can’t investigate anymore on a dead-end case when so many other clients demand her time and attention.
I wouldn’t know where to begin to investigate on my own.
I’d probably be charged with another crime if I started interrogating witnesses solo.
I can already hear the prosecution screaming, “Witness intimidation.”
“In that case, we still have some more leads to pursue, some more investigations we can conduct. I did a background search on James and found a woman named Darla who appears to be his sister. She lives in Staten Island. I’m going to go talk to her today.”
I am relieved and surprised that Amaya is going to continue to investigate, but her demeanor has changed.
She stands stiffly facing me, the glimpses of a relaxed persona she showed yesterday has totally vanished.
The cursory friendship we started to develop has unraveled in an instant.
There’s irrefutable proof of my guilt. I know, at this moment, she’s convinced I killed my midnight passenger.
—
As if Amaya couldn’t be more annoyed, I have the audacity to insist on joining her.
I beg, quite literally, and I take advantage of the fact that she is exhausted and fighting with me is something she doesn’t have the energy to do.
“I fight with prosecutors and judges all day,” she tells me when she finally relents.
Her face is plastered with a sense of exhaustion that I didn’t see yesterday.
Maybe she’s allowed me to come because she figures there is nothing to lose in this dead-end case.
Maybe she wants me to watch as she proves me guilty.
On the ferry ride over, Amaya decides, really and truly, that this time I’m not to say anything.
I say “really” and “truly” because I have received similar instructions for nearly everyone else we have spoken to, and I continue to do the exact opposite.
I justify my behavior by knowing that my questions usually elicit a helpful answer, but now I vow to stay in line because this time Amaya is probably entirely fed up with me.
My DNA on the murder weapon gives her the trump card to definitively kick me out of this investigation at any time.
I’m wearing my glasses and Amaya’s baseball cap and look different enough from my New York Post photo that I hope my presence will go unnoticed.
Staten Island feels like a different world to me.
Unlike the bustle of the other four boroughs, Staten Island is only accessible by car, ferry, and chronically late MTA buses.
Today, we have opted for the ferry. As the boat moves along, we get a beautiful view of the Statue of Liberty.
I relate to the statue inscription’s opening line, addressing immigrants both tired and poor. Check and check.
Amaya’s hair is blowing wildly in the wind. We decided to stand outside on the ferry deck, as the weather is unseasonably warm, and the sunshine seems to help lift both of our spirits. We do not speak for the first several minutes of the ride, until I break the silence.
“Have you done many murder cases before?” I ask, turning to Amaya. I want to get to know her, regardless of what she thinks of me in this moment. I think about all the times people underestimate us—young Sri Lankan women.
“Uh…actually, no.” I catch her blushing, as if she is ashamed she didn’t tell me before. She looks like she has been hiding some secret, and exhales audibly now that it’s off her chest. “This is my first.”
In any other circumstance, I would cheer her on, telling her she’s an absolute girlboss—actually just a boss—and that she can do anything she sets her mind to.
However, it is my life in her hands. I think about my parents’ offer to mortgage everything they own just to hire one of those old white men in an expensive suit.
For a brief second, I want to call them.
Tell them to do it. But Amaya, her stance on my guilt or innocence still unclear, is the person here, by my side, investigating leads.
She is going to each place herself. There are few people out there with the fortitude to keep investigating in the face of near-certain guilt.
We don’t have many clues, but at least we’re doing something.
“You may not believe it, but I really am going to do everything I can for you,” Amaya says as she looks on toward the Statue of Liberty, again avoiding my eyes.
I’m certain she is saying this because of her professional obligations to me.
I can’t help hoping that it is also because of something more—a kinship she sees with me.
“I know you are,” I say, my voice lost in the wind.