Nothing to Lose (4 page)

Jury Selection Difficult in Highly Publicized Monroe Case

Trial may begin next week

There’s a photograph of a guy, maybe Mom’s lawyer, and one of Mom and Walker, taken at some party she and Walker went to once. I stare at it. Other than my one photo, I haven’t seen her face in a year. I wonder if she’s changed as much as I have.

“Robert Frost?”

I look up.

“It’s your turn for the computer again.” The woman smiles. “And I love your name.”

“Thanks. My mom was into poetry.”

She glances at what I’m reading, then at my face. I’m sure she knows who I am. I’m him. I’m the kid. I can’t make my hands pull down my baseball cap, and even if I could, it wouldn’t matter.

“Fascinating case,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Do you think she’s guilty?”

I fold the newspaper and put it back onto the rack. “You know, I found what I need after all. You can let someone else take my turn.”

I wait until her back is turned before I walk out.

The dining room at Walker’s house (I never called it
our
house) overlooked Biscayne Bay. It was only a few feet from the study where, according to today’s
Miami Herald
(though they used the word
allegedly
), Walker would soon lie, murdered by his gold-digging wife. But that day Walker was in perfect health. He sat in his armchair, holding a glass of Jack in one hand, a cancer stick in the other, waiting for my mother to get dinner on the table.

I sat with him. “Those things will kill you, Walk,” I said.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Walker checked his watch, and I checked mine. Six fifty-eight. Mom always had dinner on the table at seven—no earlier, and definitely no later.

I laughed. “Just concerned for your health’s all. They say lung cancer’s a slow, painful way to go.”

“Don’t worry, kid. I’m going to live forever.”

“I know it, Walk. You’re too mean to die.”

I laughed again—just kidding. The house rule was pleasant dinner conversation. This was what passed for it. I was counting the nanoseconds until I could go back to my room, cram for a history test I now needed to ace. Walker made me eat with them. I knew I shouldn’t bait him like I did, like poking an alligator with a stick. But I hated it, hated sitting there every night, pretending things were beautiful. I hated myself for pretending too.

“Remember that,” Walker said.

“Almost ready!” my mother called from the kitchen.

Walker exhaled smoke in my face. “No hurry, hon. Better to do it right than do it quick.” He glanced at his watch. Six fifty-nine. “It smells wonderful.”

“I’ll help you,” I said to her.

“I’m fine.” That came from the kitchen. “You two talk.”

Talk. I knew I was going to have to tell them about football. Otherwise there’d be questions about missed practices. And besides, I wanted to tell them, wanted to let Walker know I’d be around, whatever good that would do. So I sat in silence, planning to spit out the information over dessert, then bail to my room. That was my plan, anyway.

Within the minute, my mother had the feast on the table. Tonight it was lamb, the kind with little paper booties on its feet. Blood pooled beside it on the plate. She scooped roast potatoes on top, and the bloody mess disappeared.

“Looks great, Mom.” I missed the days when we’d lived on spaghetti and peanut butter.

“Thanks.” She glanced at Walker. We both did. He sawed his meat, then chewed the first bite. Would it be too tough? Underdone? I cut a potato with my fork, then held one half aloft. I wasn’t watching Walker. I wasn’t waiting for him.

Finally, he spoke.

“Good stuff, Lisa. I always tell people I got the prettiest gal and the best cook, too.”

“No, you don’t. That would be too embarrassing.”

“I sure do,” he insisted. “Everyone wishes they were me.” He reached for her ass, and she sort of screamed, but laughed, too.

I grimaced. No one noticed. When Walker finished groping her, Mom started in with the whole
Leave It to Beaver
family routine.

“Anything interesting happen at school, Michael?”

I started to tell her about quitting the team, then stopped. There was time.

“We’re reading
The Great Gatsby
in English.”

Mom smiled. “I loved that book in high school. It’s a great love story.”

“You think?” I said. “I thought … wasn’t the guy sort of … obsessed? I mean, it’s been a while since I read it.”

“You said you were reading it now,” Walker said.

“I already read it. I did a report on it in eighth grade.”

“You should read it again,” Walker said. “A good student would read it again. That’s your problem—always taking the easy way out.”

“I am a good student,” I said, pushing back thoughts of history. I’d
been
a good student before Walker. But Mom was giving me a look, so I added, “I planned to read it again.”

Walker nodded, and I stuffed the potato into my mouth. Mom turned to Walker.

“And how was your day?”

Which was enough to set the Walk-man off on his favorite topic.

“I am a victim of affirmative action,” he said. “What does it take for a non-Latin, white male to get ahead in this town?”

I’m sure you’re going to tell us.
I tried to get the paper off the lamb chop.

“What happened?” Mom asked.

“Lost my motion. Damn Judge
Hernandez
, of course, finds for the plaintiff, who is—of course—another bean eater, represented by a third bean eater.”

I twisted the paper, first one way, then the next, remembering some kiddie show I saw once with a lamb named
Lamb Chop.
Did Lamb Chop end up as lamb chops? I almost laughed.

“It can’t be that bad,” my mother told Walker.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Walker snapped.

Mom crossed her arms to her chest. “I just meant…”

“Who cares what you meant? Just shut up.”

We ate in silence a minute. Or at least Walker and Mom ate. I stared at my food.

Then Mom tried again. She spoke slowly, like she wasn’t sure if he’d get mad.

“I just meant you’re a wonderful lawyer. I’ve worked for lots, so I know. Your clients know—didn’t Ray Cobo just bring all his product liability work to you?” She glanced up, not speaking, until Walker nodded. “And the judges respect you. You know you win a lot more than you lose.”

“Of course I do.” Walker laughed, relaxing. “I always win. We wouldn’t live here if I didn’t.” He leaned toward her. “I wouldn’t have you if I didn’t.”

“You’d always have me.”

“Oh, of course. Pretty girl like you with an old geezer like me—if I lost my practice, you’d be out of here so quick the door wouldn’t have time to slam.”

“You aren’t losing your practice.” Confident now, she stroked his arm, playing with the hairs, leaning close to speak into his ear. “I’d love you even if you didn’t have a cent.”

Walker shook his head, but he turned to kiss her, his fat, hairy hand reaching out.

That’s when he met my eyes.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped. I looked down. My hands were still working on the lamb chop paper. I’d managed to remove it. Then I’d shredded it, scattered the pieces across the floor. I didn’t even remember doing it. I thought I was being careful, trying not to set him off like Mom always said. But I couldn’t stand watching her suck up to him, and it was like the anger and fear inside me were living creatures that made my hands move by themselves.

Then they made me speak. “It looked dumb.”

I actually
saw
a vein jump in Walker’s neck. One hand still held Mom’s. With the other, he clutched his fork.

“Clean it up.” He banged the fork on the table.

“I’ll do it,” Mom said.

“No, you won’t. He made the mess. He should clean it. It’s the only way he’ll learn.”

I sat there, feeling my fingers still shredding the paper, making the last tiny piece into two. Four.
Stop it!

“You little shit!” Walker rose from his seat.

I picked up a few pieces of paper, and Walker settled back down.

“That’s better.”

I ripped a piece in half.

Walker stood again. I flinched, but in a way, I wanted him to hit me so I wouldn’t have to watch it anymore, so I could be the one hurting. The room was dead silent except for breathing and the sound of paper being ripped. I kept shredding the paper. I stared at him, daring him.

“Michael!” My mother looked first at me, then Walker. “It’s okay. I’ll get it.” She knelt on the floor and started picking up the paper. I just kept shredding, smaller and smaller.

“Who in the hell asked you to do anything?” Walker threw down his fork. He stood, yanking her up by the arm, and I saw his fist clench. She winced.

“I just thought…”

“You just thought. You’re so damn stupid. I tell you what to think.” He shoved her to the floor. Then he looked at me, the anger cool in his eyes. “Quit it, I said.”

Quit. I quit.

“Hey, you know… I quit the football team today.”

Silence. I knew it would get a reaction, and it did. Walker stopped, maybe because I’d stopped shredding the paper, and Mom stared at me, getting up from the floor.

“What?” she said.

“I … quit … the … team.” I said it slow. I’d thought about saying I’d gotten cut, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t. I couldn’t give Walker the satisfaction of thinking I wasn’t good enough, and more, I couldn’t let her get off thinking it wasn’t her fault. I wanted her to know it was. I’d given up football because of her, her weakness. I wanted her to know I was staying home to take care of her when it should have been the other way around.

“Quit?” The paper petals fell from Mom’s fingers and floated down. “But I thought—”

“I have other things to do now, more important things. Football’s for kids. I don’t have time for kids’ stuff anymore, do I?”

Mom looked from Walker to me. “Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry. I know you loved it.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” Walker demanded. “Little wuss went and quit because that’s just the kind of little wuss he is.”

“I quit because I need to take care of other stuff.”

“Michael, please…” My mother shifted in her seat.

“Wuss. Pansy.” Walker stalked back to his seat and started cutting meat off the bone. “What’s the matter? Didn’t want to hurt your pretty face, Pretty Boy?”

“What would you know about it?”

“I played football in school, faggot.”

“They let fat, bald guys play when you were in school?”

That stopped him a second, and it made me happy. Seeing the wiped-off smile on Walker’s face made me want to shout in the street.

My mother picked up the vegetable bowl—broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots mixed together—not the canned mixed veggies she used to buy, but fresh ones she made in a special bamboo steamer. She offered it first to Walker. “Well, I’m sorry to hear—”

“You’re always sorry!” Walker shoved her away, hard. She stumbled, and the bowl shattered on the marble floor. He raised his arm. “Clumsy bitch. Clean it up!”

Tears of humiliation filled her eyes. Still, I knew better than to try and help. She went for the broom, and I just watched. I could tell by the way she moved that he’d hurt her. I was trembling by then, sitting in my seat watching the blood pooled on my plate.

“Eat your dinner,” he demanded.

So much blood. Just looking at it, I felt my insides come up. “I can’t,” I said through my teeth.