Chapter 40
“I can’t believe you’re back here so soon,” I exclaim as I help Amaya get out of her taxi.
I know she is back here for me. Between her and Alex, I’m not sure how I got so lucky.
Amaya discharged herself out of the hospital this morning.
Later this afternoon is the big grand jury presentation we’ve been counting down to.
“Oof, that guy didn’t drive so great. We need you back out there, Siriwathi,” she says with a smile.
“Besides, I wasn’t going to miss this very important meeting with the district attorney’s office about your case today.
Usually my cases are only worth a phone call.
I guess when you’re representing the alleged murderer on the front of the New York Post, you get a little better treatment. ”
“Thank you for at least saying ‘alleged.’ ”
“I certainly wasn’t going to let another attorney take credit for the outcome of this case. I paid my dues,” Amaya says, pointing to her shoulder.
I brighten at this. “Do you think this meeting will be positive?” I’ve learned not to assume I know what will happen next.
This isn’t a carefully edited podcast directed to maximize anticipation.
Today, the grand jury could vote to indict me.
I may be heading back to jail. We know Harvey tried to murder Amaya, but did he also kill James?
“It better be,” Amaya says as she drags herself up the front steps of the courthouse with effort, grunting a little but refusing any help. “Just don’t say anything. I’ll do the talking.” This time we both look at each other and laugh.
“Honestly, at this point you can say whatever you want to these idiots,” she jokes.
This time, I’ll leave the talking to Amaya, glad that I won’t have to fumble with my words in front of the assistant district attorneys.
Amaya cautions me about how my words can be used against me, a spiel I’ve heard dozens of times on the cop procedurals my parents still religiously watch but that now make me uncomfortable.
If you’re not guilty, I’d once naively thought, it doesn’t matter if you say something to the cops.
It’s hard to believe I was so uninformed only five days ago.
Harvey, who I can’t help but think of as Magnus Mouse still, has been arrested for the attack on Amaya.
“Mickey Mouse?” Amaya asks quizzically, before I can explain that Magnus is Mickey’s cheaper and unauthorized brother.
Thanks to Alex’s sleuthing, we turned over the Rolex documents that prove a definitive connection between Harvey and Charlie.
The watch was paid for through an offshore Cayman Islands account, apparently standard practice for rich people.
But we can’t yet prove that Charlie hired Harvey to kill James or even Amaya.
I pray that this meeting is happening because that final piece of the puzzle is in place.
Maybe the police have decided to dig deeper, though I don’t feel entirely confident in that.
The other urgent question is how my DNA ended up on the murder weapon. I can’t be cleared until that is solved. My hand is sweaty, and I fidget nervously. Every bad scenario, which I went over many times during my sleepless night courses through my head.
The district attorney’s office isn’t what I expected.
Perhaps I thought that I’d be going through some gilded chamber of justice that resembles the ornate and beautiful US Senate building I once saw on a tour of the Capitol.
Instead, it’s just an ordinary office building for ordinary prosecutors who don’t always get it right.
I see a roach scuttle on the stairs out front.
The security guard lets Amaya in without going through the metal detectors as soon as she flashes her public defender badge, but I’m forced to place all my items in a plastic bin.
I set off the metal detector, and the officers pat me down.
I can’t help but think back to my pat-down at the police precinct.
Try as I might, I cannot excise it from my memory.
I know that no matter what happens in this meeting, even if the case is dismissed, the trauma and fear of what happened will stay with me forever.
I think about all those women in the cell with me who may still be incarcerated.
After I get through security, beltless and shoeless, Amaya guides me toward the elevator.
I scramble to get my belt and shoes back on.
Everyone is wearing suits, and almost all the people are white.
They either look at me with disdain, maybe having recognized me from the newspaper coverage, or they ignore me, which I much prefer.
I’m wearing a nice blouse and slacks, hoping to convey that I am taking this meeting seriously.
I can’t help but feel uncomfortable in them.
The shirt is Ammi’s and feels foreign on my body.
I firmly refused Alex’s Gucci belt, one he claims an ex left at his house, which I’m sure the ADA on the case would assume I stole.
Besides, I can’t pull off Gucci. My skin only seems to feel at home in itchy, cheap fabric.
I realize I am sweating, and not just my hands anymore.
My heart is pounding. I am glad, if not a bit embarrassed, that Ammi encouraged me to wear a little extra deodorant today.
Even still, I’m going to have to dry-clean this shirt for her.
My nerves must be showing. “It’s going to be okay,” Amaya whispers to me. She feels like the only safe person here, the only person I can trust. “If at any time you need to talk, just let me know. We can step out and have a conversation privately.”
My mouth is dry. I nod. I am going to meet with the very people who want to see me in prison.
Amaya opens the door to a large conference room.
Three men, all white, stand up. No one bothers to introduce themselves, and I figure they are important enough at the district attorney’s office that they have never thought to do so.
I recognize the man sitting in the middle from the DA’s website—he’s second-in-command to the DA himself.
He’s short but seems to have the confidence of a much taller man with that smirk that’s plastered across his face.
During my sleepless night, I was curious about what the people who were prosecuting me looked like.
I tried to search their online photos for any hint of kindness; instead they all looked like they belonged in one of those fraternity class composite photos.
I wonder which of them can do the longest keg stand.
“Thank you for meeting with us today,” the man in the middle says, extending his arm for a handshake.
Amaya shakes it, but based on her poorly covered grimace, she does it against her better judgment.
The man does not extend a hand to me, something I’m perfectly fine with. I didn’t want to shake his hand either.
“Obviously, this case has garnered a lot of attention,” the man closest to the door says.
“Yes, obviously,” Amaya says, the irritation oozing out of her voice. I appreciate how Amaya is past pleasantries.
“As you know, we arrested the man, Harvey Pembroke, who tried to attack you in the hospital,” the man at the end of the table says.
He nods to Amaya’s arm, as if she possibly could have forgotten.
The man speaking looks like he’s the youngest, the least senior.
He’s wearing pants that are so fitted they don’t leave much to the imagination.
Ew. I don’t recognize his profile from the website.
Probably the line assistant district attorney actually in charge of trying the case, unlike the other, older men at the table managing the office.
“Harvey refuses to talk, but we feel as if we have enough information to charge him in Ms. Fernando’s attack.
We captured him on his motorcycle on a variety of surveillance cameras leaving the scene of the stabbing.
He was easy to find in that…mouse suit.” He chuckles as he says this, but stops when he sees our scowls.
“What was his connection to James’s murder?” Amaya asks. She seems to care less about what happens to her knife- and gun-wielding attacker and more about what’s going to happen to me.
“Even though Harvey is lawyered up and won’t speak, we believe we’ll have enough to charge both him and Charlie for the murder of James Wilkerson-Taylor. We believe the Rolex was payment for everything.”
Amaya blinks. My mouth—like the world before me—falls open.
This is what we wanted. I never expected it, but I’m delighted…
though I still feel unsettled. Could it be this easy?
I almost laugh to myself at this question.
I’ve been asking for an easy and simple solution this entire time, and when it presents itself, I can’t help questioning it. It’s too surreal.
“How did you get Harvey on the murder?” I ask.
“His DNA was on the knife.”
“You said my DNA was on the knife!” I’m confused.
“That was a happy accident,” he says this time, as if we’re talking about Bob Ross painting on PBS and not about a murder investigation. “Well, for Harvey at least. Have you heard of touch DNA?”
The ADA continues, a little too smugly for my taste, “Our DNA is everywhere. We have it in our hair roots, in our skin cells…” This is beginning to sound like an obnoxious science lecture.
“So when you touch something, you sometimes leave behind traces of your DNA from the skin cells you shed. In years past, it was just too little DNA to do anything about. With today’s DNA technology, a swab can give you a profile. So, yes, your DNA was on the knife.”
My mouth drops. “I didn’t touch the knife.”
“We believe you. Your DNA was probably all over your cab. So when James touched the cab, the door handle, the seats, whatever, he picked up your DNA on his hands. And then when he was stabbed, he touched the handle of the knife. Either to pull it out, or in surprise.” I think back to all the things I touch in my cab every single day.
Even though I wipe down the seats regularly, my DNA is still all over my taxi.
I look at Amaya, dumbstruck. My DNA was on the weapon after all. Completely innocently.
“So there were three people’s DNA on the knife?”
“Yes.” The ADA smiles, probably happy to show off again in front of his bosses.
“Your DNA, James’s DNA, and Harvey’s DNA were all on the knife.
We didn’t know about Harvey because we compared the DNA on the knife to James, the victim, of course, and also to you, our suspect.
We didn’t have Harvey’s DNA until we arrested him two days ago. ”
“And Charlie? You believe the Rolex was payment for the murders? As in you don’t know for sure?” I ask.
“Harvey has no money in his bank accounts. The Rolex was worth thousands. We are working to connect the Cayman bank account to Charlie as we speak.”
“You have proof from the store?” Amaya interjects.
“Yes. We strongly believe Charlie bought the watch, but we haven’t been able to question him directly since he lawyered up too,” the line assistant district attorney says with an eye roll as if Charlie asserting his basic constitutional rights is so inconvenient.
I want to tell them that the police probably tried to continue to question him anyway.
I wonder why Harvey didn’t ask for cash. Maybe he thought a watch would be harder to trace.
I’m elated that I’m off the hook, but it still feels a little unsatisfying somehow.
Charlie seemed disgruntled, and his history of unpeaceful protests and a pending manslaughter case did not play in his favor, but could he really hire someone to kill his best friend even after the falling-out? The evidence seems to suggest as much.
“We’re willing to admit a mistake when we’ve made one, and here it seems we’ve arrested the wrong guy.” The man says this so easily, as if it’s just a wrong order at a restaurant and not something that has fundamentally changed my life forever. I half expect him to shrug and say, “Whoopsie daisy.”
“We are hoping in exchange for dropping the charges you will consider avoiding a civil lawsuit.”
I am willing to do or say anything for this ordeal to be over. I look over at Amaya, though, and am wondering if she will transform into the Incredible Hulk. I can see her seething with anger and appreciate the big breath she takes in so she won’t start screaming.
“You’re not doing us a favor here,” Amaya says. “She’s innocent, we’re not waiving anything. You’re dropping the charges because you’ve made a grave error with lasting repercussions.”
I nod along dramatically as if I totally understand what’s happening.
I’d have agreed to anything to get the charges dropped.
It’s why I’m glad Amaya is here. Before this arrest, I may have even thought Charlie lawyering up was incriminating.
Now I know that is a ridiculous thought.
People need lawyers to protect them at every stage.
Being innocent doesn’t matter if the police think you’re guilty.
“Understood,” the middle man says gruffly, probably unused to being told what to do, unused to being challenged.
“So the charges will be dropped? You’ll be making a statement to the press?” Amaya demands.
The men shift uncomfortably but don’t say anything.
“You’ve put this woman through hell. Her face has been splashed on the front page, she dealt with the trauma of being arrested. You better right your wrongs now.” I nod again. I’ll need a full public retraction to ever get a date in this town again.
“Yes, we will put out a statement that your client is no longer a suspect. We’re officially dropping all charges.”
I exhale sharply. Relief washes over me like a wave. For a second, I feel dizzy.
“We are sorry for this…inconvenience.”
“It’s much more than an inconvenience,” Amaya retorts, clearly restraining herself from saying anything worse.