AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The long hot summer came. Instead of going to work, every day Mama took me to this big, gloomy building in downtown Los Angeles where I sat next to her toward the front in these hard wooden pews. Mama told me to sit still and be very quiet. Dressed in my Sunday finest, my hair neatly braided, I thought it was some sort of church, thinking the gray-haired, bespectacled man in the long, somber black robe who strode into the room was a priest. Then, some fat guy in a too-tight tan uniform with a gold-star badge cried out, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Harold Williams.” But after we took our seats again, there were none of the pretty psalms and songs that filled the parish when we went to Sunday mass. And I was the only kid there. I had no idea what was going on.
Over the next couple of months, two men questioned a lot of people, mostly women, and argued in front of the bogus priest, who sat behind a gigantic raised desk called a bench (though it didn’t look anything like a park bench), using big words I didn’t understand.
One was tall, lanky, and handsome. His salt-and-pepper hair gelled back. Always dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit, the kind my mother’s clients wore, and a shiny, dark tie tucked inside his vest. His name was Arthur Holbrook. My sister had a word for men like him. Slick. So, in my head, I called him Mr. Slick.
The other was short, paunchy, and balding, dressed day after day in a rumpled suit, his tie always crooked. His name was Joseph DeVito. My sister would have called him a shlump, a funny word a friend taught her, so in my head I called him Mr. Shlumpy.
Slick and Shlumpy. It sounded like a Nickelodeon cartoon.
I soon found out this was a court of law, not a church, that this was a trial not a worship gathering, and that those two argumentative men, who sometimes seemed like actors to me with their theatrics and booming voices, were lawyers. And those people sitting in a gallery to the left of us were members of the jury—not a choir—and would be deciding the fate of the scary-looking man in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, who, day after day, sat next to one of the lawyers. Mr. Slick, the well-dressed one.
Once, the man in the orange jumpsuit stared at me. I’d never seen eyes so green except for those of the evil witches in Disney movies or those spooky black cat Halloween decorations. They looked like they could eat me. I’d never been so frightened by anyone in my life. That night I had a horrible nightmare where an ugly monster with orange scales, glowing green eyes, and long, sharp fangs came after me. I woke up screaming, wishing I could climb into my sister’s bed and have her comfort me. Mama didn’t hear me. She was sound asleep. Almost comatose. By this time, her depression had overtaken her and she’d resorted to sedatives and alcohol. Yet each day in the courthouse, she sat as sober as a judge. Well, almost.
Every day in front of me sat another woman. Unlike my mother, who sometimes came to court disheveled and fraught with emotion, this woman sat as rigid as a rod and was always composed, well-dressed in ladylike suits, and perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place. Once, when Mama was on a bathroom break, she looked over her shoulder and talked to me.
“What’s your name, little girl?”
“Marlena,” I replied hesitantly, remembering Mama always told me never talk to strangers.
She nodded. “What pretty eyes you have.”
People had always complimented me on my eyes. They were unusual. The color of amethysts, my birthstone. I’d just turned six in February. Mama always told me to thank someone who gave you a compliment, so I did.
Then she told me she had a daughter—a few years older than me—and commented on the cute doll I was holding. The one that came with me every day to court.
“What’s her name?” she asked. Before I could tell her she was a Baby Reborn doll, a gift from one of Mama’s rich clients, my mother returned. She narrowed her eyes at the pretty lady, who abruptly turned around and faced forward.
Sitting back down beside me, Mama scolded me, “Don’t you ever talk to that woman.” I’d never heard her speak in that tone of voice before. It frightened me. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned the woman was the wife of the man in the orange jumpsuit.
The trial went on throughout the summer. One day, in late August, just before school started, Mama was called to the witness stand to testify. Though haggard, she’d bought a new dress from an upscale thrift store and looked pretty. The lawyers took turns asking her a lot of questions, and one of them—Mr. Slick, who always sat next to the man in the orange jumpsuit—produced a letter, handwritten by my sister. “Exhibit B,” he called it.
I listened as he read it. As he did, I heard my sister’s animated voice in my head, though he sounded nothing like her.
The letter talked about how scared she was in the dark basement where she was seated and penning the letter. She could hear a girl screaming and saw a rat skitter by. And when she went to the bathroom, there was blood in the toilet. Lots of it! She told Mama how much she loved me and wanted her never to forget the man who did this to her. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but Mama burst into tears and began crying in front of all the people in the courtroom. She looked so sad. So broken.
“And who is the man your late daughter is referring to?” asked Mr. Slick. “To quote…‘the man who did this to me.’” He looked her in the eye. “My client, the esteemed Dr. Yzak Milov?” Then pointed at the man in orange.
Mama wiped her tears with a hanky and shook her head. “No. My daughter was referring to the man who got her pregnant…Edward Sinclair II. Ned for short.”
As soon as she said it, that name was branded on my brain. I told myself I would never forget it.
“Is this Edward Sinclair in any way related to the actor-slash-director Edward Sinclair and his wife, actress Isabelle Laurent?”
“Yes. He is their only son.”
The spectators in the courtroom gasped as did the jury.
The other lawyer, Mr. Shlumpy, leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, objection! I don’t see how this line of questioning is relevant.”
The judge banged his hammer. I learned it was called a gavel. “Objection overruled. Counsel, please continue.”
Mr. Slick went back to questioning Mama.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” He tugged at his tie. “Mrs. Mann, what did this Ned Sinclair do?”
“He was a fourth-year student at USC. A senior.”
“I see. How did he and your daughter meet?”
