Page 10 of Roses in Summer

I take the same path home; the same stop signs force me to stand still while the traffic signals dictate my speed. When I finally pull to a stop in front of my house twenty minutes later, I’m surprised to see both my parents’ cars in the driveway. I don’t believe in coincidences, not when I was raised in a household where red ribbons were tied around every coat hanger and holy water was splashed in every doorway.

Mitch’s words, his threat, and my parents’ absence from the office, followed by their appearance home at one of the busiest times of their workday, are unnerving and too telling to be a coincidence. Swallowing down my questions, I pull into the driveway behind my parents’ cars and cut the engine. In minutes, I’m across the lawn and slipping inside. I’m greeted with three things all at once.

First, my mother’s voice is raised to a volume and tone she reserves for the courtroom.

The second is there’s a voice I don’t recognize; it’s deep and gruff and goes back at my mom sternly. For every word she yells, the unidentified male responds with equal passion.

And the third thing I realize is that my father’s silence is the loudest of them all. I know he’s here because both of their cars are parked feet from the garage. But he’s not speaking, not defending my mother or telling the other voice to stop their censure. I’m not sure which aspect is most concerning.

Keeping my footsteps light, I tiptoe to the dining room, where I press against the wall and can have a visual of the conversation unfolding. From years spent hiding from my siblings, I know the wall I’m pressed against hides me from their view.

“After fifteen years, why would she come forward now? What’s in it for her?”

“The truth, Deborah. The goddamn truth. One you two should have told fifteen fucking years ago,” the unnamed voice yells. I can’t see his face, but based on the well-tailored suit, gleaming gold cufflinks with bold G.A. initials, and slicked-back, salt-and-pepper hair, it’s fairly easy to guess the district attorney, George Anderson, followed my parents home.

“George, you were part of the review committee; you know that her testimony could jeopardize his sentence. We had him for the murders, and we couldn’t risk him getting back out on the streets.”

“And now he’s going to be released on prosecutorial misconduct, and your licenses will be put into question. Was that better? For fuck’s sake, Deborah. What about your kids? All your cases are going to be reviewed with a fine-tooth comb if this gets out, and every inch of credibility you have will be demolished. Is that what you wanted?”

“What I wanted was for a killer to be taken off the goddamn street, George. That’s more important than any bullshit ethics counsel hearing. How can they even entertain this? He killed six women. We had his prints,” my mom sneers. “This will never go anywhere, not after all these years. She was an unreliable witness with questionable testimony. Her story changed six times, and the only consistency was the car Jacobi used.”

“She said there was a second person with Jacobi that night, Deborah. You didn’t use her claim in the trial. You didn’t submit it to the defense. You. Were. Wrong,” he bellows, silencing my mother’s argument.

A sigh breaks through the silence. “Deborah,” my dad says softly. “There are documentaries, books, and sleuths dedicated to uncovering idiosyncrasies and inconsistencies with cases. You remember when Jacobi was first arrested, the fan base he had. It’s going to start all over again. And if there was an accomplice, we’ve let a killer get away with murder.” My dad’s voice is resigned, almost dejected.

“The only hope you have is Judge Abernathy keeping this woman quiet. Otherwise, your careers are over.”

“That man won’t help us. There’s no incentive for him. You know it, and I know it.” My mom adopts my dad’s tone, the severity of withholding a witness and testimony finally hitting her.

“Then may the law be on our side. I’ll contact you if I hear anything.” With that parting comment, the DA strides out the back door, walking across the expansive backyard and out the back fence. It hits me that his car must be parked elsewhere to avoid any questions as to why he’s at the Gregori household at ten in the morning on a Thursday.

“I’m sorry,” my mom whispers, all the indignation and bravado gone from her voice. “She was unreliable, and I thought she would jeopardize our prosecution.”

My dad doesn’t respond right away, leaving a heavy tension hanging between them until his voice rings out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was—”

“No. You knew you had an obligation to tell me. What I want to know is why. We could have discussed this. But now, our entire livelihood is in jeopardy because you wanted to end the big case. I remember how you were fifteen years ago, Debbie. You were hooked on Jacobi and wouldn’t entertain anyone’s theories other than your own. You handled the witnesses, the testimonies. I should have been more involved. I—” He stops abruptly, taking a deep breath. “Come here, Deb.”

I hear my mom’s footsteps cross the floor, and I peer around the corner, chancing a glance at my parents. My heart cracks when I see my dad holding onto my mom, holding her to him in an embrace so strong I can see the veins on his forearms. “Deb, I need to know, could there be an accomplice out there? None of this is worth it if we let someone get away with something this heinous.”

Her reply is instant. “No. I’m telling you, she changed her testimony so many times that I couldn’t use a single thing she said. She mentioned a second person in the vehicle once but then retracted her statement. I reviewed the surveillance tapes and traffic footage, and in every frame, there was only one person in the car at all times. I have the interview notes, but nothing substantial could be used, so I didn’t submit them. I don’t know why she’s come forward now after all this time. I don’t know why she went to Abernathy, of all people, and I have no damn clue how he’d be able to keep this from getting out or why. Ethically, rationally, none of this makes sense.”

“One day at a time, Deb. We’ll get through this and figure it out one day at a time. For now, we need to review the case documents and be prepared if anything comes our way.”

“I know.” My mom sighs, squeezing my dad once more before dropping her hands and stepping back. I watch her wipe moisture from beneath her eyes, stray tears that must have fallen during their embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Deb, I know.” They leave the kitchen, walking toward the front hall on the right side of the kitchen. I keep my place in the dining room, hidden from all other viewpoints on the lower level of the house, and process the information I just heard.

My mind trips over the accusations and reports, racing with the enormity of what I just learned in the last hour. Sinking against the wall, I let my weight fall, sliding down until I sit on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chin. How is it possible that so much has changed in such a short period?

This morning, I was excited about graduating, giddy about the prospects of what could be with Lincoln, and looking toward the future with an optimism I hadn’t had since I was a freshman.

But now, not two hours later, everything I thought I knew was shattered. How do I move forward with my life, doing whatIwant, when I have the exact thing my parents need: a reason for Judge Abernathy, Mitch’s asshole father, to help them?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I let my tears drag down my face, knowing that helping my parents would end so many things: my autonomy, my happiness, and my friendship with Lincoln Simmons. I allow myself five minutes to wallow, to hurt for the decision I know has to be made to protect my family. I don’t know if it’s ethical, moral, or right, but how do I let my parents and my siblings suffer for a man who confessed and was proven to have killed so many women in such a brutal way? Regardless of what my mom did, I’ve been a spectator to the legal world long enough to know that any potential whisper of misconduct during a trial could cause a bad man—one of the worst criminals in the twenty-first century—to potentially go free.

Despite what I want and how I feel, there’s no world where I’ll allow that to happen.

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