Exposure (39 page)

“I want to say ‘I don’t see how it could,’ but I do see how it could.”

“Have you thought of what it’s like to be a registered sex offender?” Amelia said. “People think you’ve snatched toddlers from playgrounds and done awful things to them. Do you remember that movie,
Little Children
? They’d think you’re like that poor man—the creepy one the ex-cop was out to get. And me, they’d see me as a sick, sex-crazed slut looking for action wherever she could find it. Cameron says sex offenders aren’t allowed to use any social media, ever. No matter what. Apparently everyone convicted of a sex crime is a creeper who finds victims on My Space and Facebook.”

He laid one arm across the back of the bench, and with his other hand he stroked the smooth skin from her knee to where her shorts ended at the upper part of her thigh. She had skin like pale rose petals. “I remember the film,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t plead out. The deal they offered was a mandatory sex addiction counseling program, four hundred hours of community service, and offender registration for five years—like they were doing me a favor by not making it more. You can’t ever get
away
from that record. That’s why I’m going to have to take my chances in court. If I caved to that offer, imagine what they’d want for the felonies.”

“Yesterday, before my dad left, he said my lawyer’s concerned I might have to go to trial—but that he’s not going to let it come to that. As if it’s up to him,” she said, shaking her head. “He thinks he runs the universe. He can’t understand how the DA could charge me when I’m obviously a victim. He’s … He’s just so
sure
he’s right.”

Anthony reached for her hand and twined her fingers with his. “I’m sorry. I hate that this is happening to you.”

“And to you! God.” She tilted her head, looking up at the top of the fountain. “I can hardly believe it’s real.”

“How long do you have?” he asked.

She sat up straighter and scanned the area around them, then became very still. “Not long,” she said.

He followed her gaze to a spot maybe fifty yards away, where Sheri Wilkes stood, mouth slightly open, staring at them. He said, “Do you think she’s been watching us?”

“I don’t know.” Amelia looked at him again. “She’s just standing there like she doesn’t know what to do. I hate this,” she said fiercely. “Anthony, I don’t want to
do
this anymore. I want our life back. I want our plans. Did I tell you I got a letter from Duke saying they ‘could not consider admitting me at this time’?”

“You weren’t going there anyway,” he said.

“It won’t be any different with NYU.”

“No,” he admitted, “it probably won’t.”

His phone rang: it was his mother. He answered, saying, “I’ll call you right back, okay?”

“Sure,” his mother said, then, “Oh, never mind, there you—”

He saw her, walking toward him with his grandmother, at the same time she saw him. Then she looked past him and stopped still. “Damn,” he said, pocketing his phone. “She sees your mom. I hope this doesn’t get ugly.”

“My mom won’t say anything, she’d never make a scene—but I better go,” Amelia said, standing. He stood too, keeping a wary eye on their mothers, who hadn’t moved from their spots. She said, “I thought something like this might happen,” her voice thickening, “but it was worth it, to get to see you.”

He put his arms around her and held her against him. “I don’t want to let you leave. There has to be a way out of this. People can’t really be this stupid, can they?” He pulled back so he could look at her, and laughed mirthlessly as he said, “Listen to me—it’s like I’m in denial. I sound like your dad, don’t I?”

She pressed her forehead to his collarbone. Her arms were tight around his waist. “Let’s go,” she said, and he could feel the warmth of her breath through his shirt. “Tonight. Before my dad gets back. Once she tells him what I did here, I won’t even be able to breathe without him knowing it.”

“Go? Where?”

“Maybe New York? I have some money, and a friend who I bet will put us up for a while. I’ll pick you up at … eleven,” she said, pulling back and looking over at her mother, who still hadn’t made a move to separate them and was, it seemed, now looking away. Amelia said, “She’s always in bed by ten.”

He watched his mother shift awkwardly and speak to his grandmother, who nodded. Despite their support of him, their generosity and willingness to see him through his ordeal, the idea of running away with Amelia, which he’d dismissed so easily that morning in the school parking lot a few weeks ago, now looked like the most sensible action possible amid the chaos their lives had become. Get away, get some relief, figure it all out then.

“I’ll pick
you
up,” he said, already formulating a plan that would protect Amelia if they didn’t succeed.

She looked up at him, eyes bright with hope but flecked with fear. “Can we really do this?”

Could
they do it? The odds weren’t in their favor—but that was true regardless, wasn’t it? A strange emotion, something like terror and joy combined, made him feel suddenly ravenous.

“I will if you want to.”

“The fact is, now we really don’t have anything to lose,” she said, determination replacing uncertainty.

“What about our court dates? If we don’t show—”

“We’ll figure it out. Maybe once we get out of here and get a chance to think straight, we’ll get some fresh ideas,” she said, echoing his own thoughts. “We aren’t jumping bail as long as we don’t miss our next appearances, right?”

“Right.” He wasn’t as optimistic as she was, however. Hadn’t they all been looking for a solution all these weeks, and come up with nothing? He breathed out heavily. There were so many things to consider—but either way, it would be a lot better considering them with Amelia beside him. He said, “So, okay, let’s go, and see what happens.”

Her answering smile was a reward in itself. “Pack warm clothes,” she said.

He kissed her as if it was going to be the last time, reveling in it and at the same time hoping the display would offset any suspicions their mothers might have that he and Amelia would think they could do this again. Then he took her hands as she backed away slowly, reluctance radiating from her. Good, she’d understood that they needed to put on an act, the sad lovers parting for who knew how long, maybe forever. She turned toward her mother then, letting go, pausing, looking back at him over her shoulder, and then walking away slowly without looking back again. He watched Sheri Wilkes fight off showing any emotion, but sympathy shaped her mouth into a sad frown, and when Amelia was close, Sheri Wilkes extended a hand and touched Amelia’s bowed head.

Hearing motion behind him, Anthony turned and saw his mother and grandmother near the bench. There were tears in both women’s eyes. “Oh, honey,” his mother said. She looked stricken.

“Come on, let’s go find some lunch.” He checked his phone for the time: only twelve hours to go, twelve hours of acting like nothing had changed. He didn’t like deceiving his mother, but he would do it if it meant an end to living like outcasts. He would do anything if it meant Amelia might somehow go free.

ACT III

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime’s by action dignified
.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
ROMEO AND JULIET

26

ARLAN BOARDED THE RED-EYE OUT OF
S
AN
F
RANCISCO AT
ten o’clock on Saturday night and found his seat in first class, happy enough with the results of his trip. He’d gone for the usual reasons—firsthand looks at everything the world’s automakers had going, including concept cars, hybrids, and limited editions. But his main goal this time was to get a look at a 1952 Nash-Healey roadster being offered by a guy who lived in Novato and was bringing the car down for prospective buyers to view. At $195,000 the Nash was an indulgence, sure. Harlan couldn’t justify it right now, what with the money he’d put out for Clem’s nightclub and for Amelia’s bail. He’d already planned to be here, though, so no harm in taking a look. With all that was going on at home, he felt like he deserved a little break, a day off to forget the stress and the news and the everyday grind. He hadn’t bid on the car—but neither had anyone else, so it might yet be that when his upside-down life righted itself, the car would still be available, waiting for him.

The Moscone Center, where the show was still ongoing into next week, had been bustling with middle-aged men, Harlan included, along with a fair number of younger, single guys, and lots of families with small children who, just like in Harlan’s showrooms, insisted on touching every part of the cars they could reach. Reps stood by anxiously, waiting for each kid to move on so they could polish away the fingerprints. This would go on endlessly for the duration of the show, and it amused Harlan to see it in action. He empathized with the reps, but still, it was funny. He’d also had a good time watching a trio of women in short-shorts or hot pants or whatever they were calling the things these days, the garments that left very little—but just enough—to a man’s imagination—talk to a group of well-dressed guys standing next to a yellow Lamborghini. Prostitutes, he figured. Lonely and displaced as he felt, an island in the sea of attendees despite his having plenty to say and plenty of people to say it to, he didn’t go in for that mess. He didn’t, even though he could have, even though Sheri had been uninterested in getting together since that morning in the shower. Unlike some guys he could think of, some whose initials were the same as his girl’s, he had too much self-esteem to go about getting sex in any dishonorable way.

“That’s right, I mean you, Anthony Winter,” he muttered, snapping open a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
.

A flight attendant nearby asked, “Did you say something, sir?”

Harlan smiled up at her. “I said you would save my life if you’d bring me a scotch while we wait for this puppy to load.”

The plane lifted off on schedule, and for the five hours until he changed planes in D.C., Harlan tried his best to shut down his brain and get a little sleep. It would be almost ten in the morning when they got to Raleigh, and he had to go straight from the airport to a little chat he’d set up with a reporter. He hoped they’d put some makeup on him, do a little something about the bags he’d surely have under his eyes. But then again, he thought, maybe it’d play better if he looked like the wreck he was.

———

Harlan had scheduled this first on-camera defensive interview for Sunday at eleven, in response to five different reporters’ messages requesting some comment, some response to the outcome of Anthony Winter’s court appearance. Did he have an opinion? How did he think this would affect Amelia’s case? Was Winter’s refusal to plead on the first charge, one of them asked, a declaration of war?

Harlan liked that question, and so he’d decided he would see this reporter, a sharp young guy from the Fox affiliate, in person. The others he’d spoken with briefly by phone. He had no qualms about taking advantage of the media’s interest in his reaction—which he knew full well had little to do with him and everything to do with manufacturing controversy—so word would get out even faster that Amelia was nothing like she was being portrayed in the news.

The TV crew arrived to set up at Wilkes Rolls/Bentley moments after Harlan got there himself. His flight had gotten in fifteen minutes early and still he’d had to hustle from the airport. Usually, he’d call Sheri to let her know he was in, but this time he’d told a white lie, said he was coming on a later flight because he hadn’t told her about the interview and didn’t want to hear from her about anything, not until after the interview was done. He wasn’t happy that he felt this way. This business with Amelia was doing nothing for his marriage—which was all the more reason to strike fast and hot, and if need be, apologize later.

The news folks had asked to come to the house—makes it all more personable, the producer said—but Harlan hadn’t fallen for that line. What they really wanted was access to his daughter, and that just was not going to happen. So he was having them set up in the showroom in front of a trio of the finest cars any manufacturer had to offer outside of Italy. Inside of Italy, for that matter, with the exception of Lamborghini. Harlan would love to sell those, too—the profit margin was ridiculous, but so was the insurance, and there weren’t enough buyers in the area right now to justify the investment. Behind Harlan were a Rolls Phantom convertible, a Rolls Ghost, and a Bentley Continental—a million-dollar display of class and power, and if he knew anything about people, it was that they associated those things with authority. Whatever he said in this interview would be taken as gospel. Amelia’s arraignment next week would then most likely turn into a dismissal of all charges against her, because there was no way Liles would want to swim against that tide.