Angel Landing by Alice Hoffman
“Maybe I should have given this to you before,” Minnie said. “But what good would that have done? You would have been upset, it would have been terrible for your blood pressure.”
I looked from my aunt’s sympathetic face to the envelope she held. Even before I opened it, I knew it was my subpoena, since LeKnight had warned me I would soon be called; but I had had no idea the court date was to be the very next day.
The conversations in the parlor seemed terribly far away, I could no longer hear them. Minnie had to ask me three times if I was all right before I could understand her; every word sounded like broken English. And even when I had deciphered my aunt’s question, I found I could not answer; I didn’t yet trust myself to speak.
FOUR
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK THE next morning, every bit of clothing I owned was strewn over the unmade bed. I started out the day unable to decide what to wear; and before the sun had risen I, too, sat on that bed, wondering how I would make it through the day.
When Minnie knocked on my door, I pretended to be asleep.
“I know you’re in there,” Minnie called through the door. “I heard your closet door slamming.”
I let her into my room. “But don’t talk,” I warned her. “It’s too early to talk.”
“Anxiety shows itself in mysterious ways,” Minnie said as she surveyed the mess in my room. “Come downstairs. We can have tea and rehearse your testimony. And if you ask me,” she said as she walked out the door, “you should wear the tweed.”
A little while later I came down to the kitchen, wearing the tweed suit Minnie had suggested.
“Ask me whatever questions you want, but promise me you won’t come to the trial today. I don’t want anyone I know to be there.”
“Carter will be there,” Minnie said. “He wouldn’t miss your testimony for the world.”
“But not you,” I said. “A relative.”
“That’s fine with me,” Minnie agreed. “I’ve got better things to do with my time. Now sit down,” she said after I poured myself a cup of tea. “How long have you been acquainted with the defendant?” She paused to sip her apple juice. “You can bet they’ll ask you that one.”
“Two and a half months,” I said.
“Really? That’s not so long,” Minnie said. “All right then,” she continued, waving a slice of wholewheat toast in the air, “what is your relationship with the defendant?”
“Mr. Finn was my client since early November.”
“Are you sure you know him long enough to be in love?” Minnie asked. “One month, two months, this is a very short time.”
“How long did you know Alex before you were in love with him?” I asked.
“We were cousins. I knew him all my life,” Minnie said, before going on with her next question. “At the time Mr. Finn was your client, did you know that he was the bomber, pardon me, the accused bomber?”
“No,” I said. “I did not.”
“Not too bad,” Minnie said admiringly. “No one would guess that you were lying.”
“He had told me but I had no proof,” I said. “For all I knew he could have been crazy, a psychopath. How can you say I’m lying?”
“Natalie,” Minnie said. “You’re lying.”
“All right,” I said.
“It’s okay,” Minnie said, “as long as you know what you’re doing.”
The quizzing continued until Evie and Yolanda came down from their rooms. The sisters were both dressed in chenille robes; they seemed much more relaxed than the evening before.
“What a pleasure not to have to face seventy-five other residents in the morning.” Evie sighed.
“How wonderful to wear a bathrobe to breakfast,” Yolanda added.
I was too distracted to speak to the sisters; I had begun to talk to myself, repeating my testimony in a jittery voice.
“She doesn’t always act like this,” Minnie explained to Evie and Yolanda. “But today she takes the stand in the bombing trial.”
“Oh my,” Evie said with real sympathy.
“Break a leg,” Yolanda called gaily as I slipped on my coat and left through the back door. Minnie stood behind the screen and waved solemnly, as if I were a soldier off to war. I went straight to Outreach before the office opened so I could pick up my files on Michael Finn without having to face any co-workers. I used my passkey and opened Emily’s filing cabinets. I sat at Emily’s desk and began to leaf through Finn’s file. Then I heard a key click in the door. It was too early for the workday to begin; there was no watchman. The door opened and a shadow fell over the floorboards. I wondered if some masked marauder was about to hush my testimony forever. I dropped Finn’s file, picked up a vase which stood on Emily’s desk, and waited behind the door, ready to defend myself, or at least to try. The door opened wider, a head came into view: it was Lark. She blinked and looked up at the vase I held over her.
“Do you intend to give me a concussion?” Lark said, when she realized it was I who held the vase. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to pick up Finn’s files, in case the court requests them,” I told her. “I take the stand today. Why are you sneaking around here so early in the morning?”
“Sneaking?” Lark said. “You have to watch that paranoia of yours,” she advised as she headed toward the filing cabinets. “I have a friend at the court who told me you’d be on the stand today, and I wanted to be ready. I need my best case studies.” Lark looked at me sharply. “You do remember promising to send the reporters to me?”
“Of course I remember,” I said.
“I thought you might have changed your mind,” Lark said as she stacked her most interesting files into a brown leather bag. “I thought you might have been upset by the EMOTE meeting you came to.”
“Upset?” I said.
“Come on. Admit it. The meeting got to you.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
“I do get some results, you know,” Lark said. “I’m getting results with Susan Wolf.”
As hard as I tried, I could not imagine the anorectic at an EMOTE meeting. But perhaps when Susan tried to keep the rest of the group away with her evasions, they would have forced her right up to the front of the room. And when she stood in front of the mirror and saw who she was—a terrified, skinny girl—Susan might have broken down and cried.
“Is Susan doing well?” I asked.
“Is she doing well?” Lark smiled. “She’s gained four pounds already.”
Four pounds with Lark, and if she had stayed with me Susan might have turned into a skeleton. During one of our sessions I might have had to call an ambulance to take her away.
“Maybe EMOTE can work for some people,” I said.
“It worked for me,” Lark said.
“You?” I said.
“I used to steal,” Lark said. “I used to steal a lot.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Up until last year,” Lark said. “Until I began EMOTE.”
“You were stealing while you were working here as a therapist?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” Lark said. “It had nothing to do with money. Do you see this coat? Bloomingdale’s,” she said. “I wear it to remind me of what I used to be.”
“It is beautiful,” I had to admit.
“Sometimes the reasons why you do something don’t matter; the important thing is to get control of your life. I was so out of control I was afraid to go to the market; I would slip cans of Alaska king crab into my purse, I would steal Dutch chocolate I knew I would never eat.”
“I would never have guessed,” I said.
“Last year, about this time, I sat down in front of a mirror and listed every horrible thing I had ever done. I did it every day for a week, and by the end of the week I was so depressed I couldn’t move, I couldn’t get out of my chair. But on the eighth day in front of the mirror something happened—I began to list my good qualities. I had broken through, and only then could I buil
“EMOTE,” I said.
“EMOTE,” Lark nodded.
“Amazing,” I said.
“I know you think I’m an opportunist,” Lark said to me. “You don’t even think I’m a good therapist.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Lark smiled.
“I’ll never be behind EMOTE,” I said. “I’ll never really trust it, but you”—I shrugged—“I think I could trust you.”
“Do you want me to go with you to the courthouse?” Lark asked. “I could give you a ride, my car’s right outside.”
“I’m going to walk,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
“I didn’t make that offer because I thought we’d run into a reporter from the Herald,” Lark said. “I just thought you might want someone with you. For courage,” she added. “For company.”
I shook my head. “I need to walk,” I said. “To go alone.”
We walked outside together, and I waited as Lark locked the door to Outreach.
“Remember,” she said as we stood on the sidewalk. “I’ll be right outside the courthouse.”
“Don’t worry,” I smiled. “I’ll send the reporters to you.”
“But also if you need me,” Lark said.
Standing on the sidewalk, I felt so lonely I almost accepted Lark’s offer of a ride; but my head seemed too hot, it spun slightly, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to take the rocking of Lark’s car as she drove down Main Street.
The day was dreary, the sky threatened to turn into a terrible storm. When I reached the already crowded courthouse steps, Reno LeKnight’s Lincoln was just pulling up. The attorney bounded out of the car, ready to do battle; behind him came Michael Finn, dressed in a blue serge suit which might have belonged to Reno, for it was much too big, and Finn looked frail beneath the yards of material. Flashbulbs hissed and the crowd came together to encircle Finn and his attorney; but it was Reno LeKnight who smiled for the photographers and drew the eyes of the crowd; Michael Finn seemed little more than a shadow. I saw Carter across the crowd, and waved, and when Reno had led Finn into the courthouse, Carter came over to me.
“You’re going to be great today,” he told me. “I’ll be rooting for you all the way.”
Carter offered to walk me into the courthouse and sit by my side. I thanked him but I had to refuse. An objective professional, I figured, I couldn’t risk being associated with Soft Skies. But there was more: I couldn’t risk the urge to hold Carter’s hand and take advantage of a kindness I would never repay. I walked into the courthouse alone and sat in the front row, on the district attorney’s side of the room so that I could see Finn more clearly: when he moved his head, when he coughed or turned to consult Reno LeKnight, I could get a glimpse of his frown, I could see the shadow of the scar across his cheek. There was nothing unusual about that morning; I would be called to the stand just after the testimony of a welding instructor, who would admit under Reno’s careful questioning that although it was unlikely for an experienced welder to make an error such as the one Reno claimed Finn had made, it was, all the same, quite possible. In fact, mistakes such as Finn’s happened all the time.
I wordlessly rehearsed my testimony as the welding instructor spoke, so I did not hear the beginning of Carter’s outburst. I looked up just as Carter stood and began to walk down the aisle of the courtroom.
“Are you idiots?” Carter called. “Are you fools?” Carter’s face was flushed, his eyes glowed with dedication. “Don’t you understand what this welding instructor has just admitted? He’s admitted that errors can exist in every nuclear power plant in this country.”
The judge nodded, the district attorney wiped his brow with a linen handkerchief, Reno LeKnight shuddered beneath his fine silk shirt. Two bailiffs walked briskly down the aisle, their handcuffs chiming with every step. I had no idea that Carter intended to disrupt the trial; it was the first time he hadn’t told me his plans.
“Are you going to wait until a working power plant explodes?” Carter called out to the courtroom. “Is that what you’re waiting for? Michael Finn shouldn’t be on trial,” Carter went on, even though the bailiffs were so close that their breath fogged up his glasses. “The oil companies should be on trial,” Carter cried as the first bailiff grabbed his arm. “The utilities companies should be on the stand,” he screamed as the second bailiff held his shoulders in a tight embrace.
The court was quiet as Carter was dragged from the room, still calling out accusations. Minutes after he was removed from the courthouse, the welding instructor was excused from the stand and my name was called out. It was a bad beginning. Carter’s screams echoed, they stayed with me; and when I took that long walk down the aisle, past Michael Finn, who did not even bother to turn and look at me, I knew that my testimony would not go as easily as I had planned.
As soon as Reno LeKnight asked his first question about my professional relationship with Finn, I began to feel that I was stuck in molasses; both Reno’s voice and my own seemed too slow, the judge eased into the distance, like some faraway eagle, and the spectators in the front rows of the court seemed hidden in slow-moving spectrums of color. I concentrated as hard as I could, I gave the answers I had given Minnie earlier that day: I had seen Michael Finn on twelve occasions, I had seen progress during these therapy sessions. It was true that the defendant was a moody character, and that he often felt guilty, but quite often he felt guilty when he was not at fault. Most certainly, I had known nothing about Mr. Finn’s association with the bombing until his official statement to the authorities. Most definitely Mr. Finn was insightful and responsible; he had never mentioned any hostility toward the power plant for nuclear energy.
When Reno LeKnight was quite satisfied, he thanked me with a brisk nod, and I knew that I had done well, no matter how odd I felt. My voice had had the correct professional inflection, my tweed suit was not too fashionable, and I had presented Finn as a man who certainly wasn’t angry enough or bright enough to blow up a power plant, or even imagine such a thing.
The real trouble began during the cross-examination. What happened was not brought about by the art of the district attorney, a man in his sixties who was used to dealing with tax evasion and petty larceny. When I confessed, it was not because I was badgered or tricked, for the district attorney stuttered noticeably, and he seemed more surprised than anyone that he was prosecuting a case as important as Finn’s.
“So you say that you saw Mr. Finn twelve times,” the district attorney began, as much to refresh his own memory, it seemed, as to question mine.
I felt quite dizzy; when I looked over at the defendant’s table there were two Michael Finns. “Perhaps a few more times,” I now told him.
“A few more times,” the district attorney said pleasantly.
“All right, all right,” I said, pinching my tweed skirt between my fingers. “Several more times.”
“I see. But just what do you mean by ‘several’?” The district attorney smiled. “Exactly how many times did you see the defendant?” The courtroom was much too hot, my head was spinning, and I imagined that the district attorney could see Finn and me that first night in the field, he could see us beneath Minnie’s goosedown quilt.
“All right,” I said. My own voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else, the words I spoke echoed off the mahogany that paneled the courthouse ceiling and walls. “I admit it,” I cried. “We were lovers.”
Reno LeKnight sat up so fast that he nearly shot out of his seat. The district attorney eyed me carefully. “Would you please repeat that,” he asked.
“What?” I said, hoping that I had not actually spoken. Perhaps my guilt was so strong that the words I thought inside my head had begun to echo. “Repeat what?”
“I believe you just said that you and Mr. Finn were lovers?” the district attorney said tentatively.
Reno LeKnight jumped up. “
But the judge denied the motion, and the district attorney certainly didn’t plan to let me go now. Reno LeKnight did manage to win a twenty-minute recess; and when the court was adjourned, Reno took my arm and led me from the witness stand to a corner in the outside hallway.
“Are you crazy?” he asked. “Are you mad?”
I shook my head, though I myself was not certain just what it was that had possessed me on the witness stand.
“Listen to me, just listen to me,” LeKnight said. He spoke slowly, as if I might no longer be capable of understanding the language. “Do not give out any more information. The damage has been done. Not only is your credibility as a witness worthless but you’ve also cast doubt on the entire defense. Don’t make it worse than it already is.” LeKnight went on, shaking my shoulders for emphasis. “Answer all the D.A.’s questions as briefly as you can.”
Reno turned and walked away, clearly disgusted with me. I walked outside. If I didn’t have fresh air I would sink to the floor in a faint; but out on the courthouse stairs, immediately encircled by reporters, I still had trouble breathing. I ran over to Lark, who was waiting for me and the reporters I would bring her.
“Come with me for a minute,” I said, tugging on Lark’s coat sleeve.
“Introduce me,” Lark said, nodding toward the reporters who had followed me. Lark smiled broadly and reached into her bag of case histories, but I kept walking to Lark’s parked station wagon, where I sat in the driver’s seat, rolled up all the windows, and locked all the doors. If I had had the key, I might have turned on the ignition and driven away from the courthouse, and Michael Finn. But instead I sat without moving until Lark came up to tap at the window; then I unlocked the passenger door.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lark asked.
“Lock the door.”
“We had an agreement, didn’t we? You told me that you weren’t interested in publicity, though Lord knows those media people seem to be interested in you.” Lark eyed the photographers who leaned on the hood of the car.