The Advocate's Daughter (7 page)

Sean ran to the stairs, but he felt hands on his arms. Two officers, one holding each bicep, were saying something, but he couldn't process the words. Pacini also was yelling something he couldn't make out. Their grip tightened as he started up the stairs. But he managed to break away.

“No, Sean, no!”
Pacini yelled as Sean pushed through to the dark crevice between two massive bookshelves.

Abby's body was twisted, shoved into the bottom shelf. Blood was smeared on her face, her hair matted. She was pale white.

And that's the last thing Sean would remember from that day. That terrible day.

 

CHAPTER 15

“Are they still out there?” Emily asked. She was bundled under the covers, looking toward the bedroom window. Long rays of sun hit the bed through an opening in the curtains, and she shielded her eyes with a hand.

Sean looped his tie. It was supposed to be a return to the morning routine, but nothing felt the same. Had it really been only two weeks? He glanced out the window.

“They're still there, but it looks like the village manager shooed away the van.” A FOX 5 News van had blocked their single-lane street for the past week. Sean finished knotting the tie and sat on the bed. Emily's eyes were hollowed out and the lines on her face more pronounced than he'd ever seen them. He put his hand on her arm, but she rolled over, her back to him.

Everyone had assumed that
she
would be the strong one, the one holding their family together. And why not? That's what Sean would have predicted. She was the center of the family. She kept the trains moving while Sean spent his days, evenings, and most weekends on the fifth floor of the Justice Department building. And more than that, she had mettle that he did not, emotionally and physically. When they were in law school and Emily got pregnant, he panicked while she took charge and made sure her pregnancy didn't interfere with either of them graduating. When Ryan was rushed to the ER with an asthma attack, she was the one who sprang to action while Sean floundered. If Emily had a migraine, she'd still go about her day—she had natural births for all three children, no epidurals for Christ's sake—while Sean would be curled up in a ball if hit with a minor cold. She was Superwoman.

But the death of Abby was the ultimate devastation to Emily, and Sean didn't resent her for not living up to expectations. In an odd way, Sean loved her more for it. For now, and for a change, it would fall on him. Sean would have to be the strong one. Emily had found her Kryptonite: the knowledge that she would never again see or speak to their beloved daughter.

He stood and gazed out the window again. “Oh shit,” he said.

Emily rolled back over. “What?”

“Cecilia's chewing out one of the reporters.” Sean pulled his suit jacket over his arm and shuttled downstairs. He opened the door right as the bell rang, and Cecilia barged in.

Before Sean shut the door, Cecilia turned toward the small group huddled on the sidewalk outside his picket fence. “Just try to get a fucking quote from me ever again, Steve. You're dead to me—and I'll make sure you're dead to every single one of the Supreme Court Bar. See how you'll do reporting the appellate beat when no one will talk to you.” She slammed the door.

“What was that about?” Sean asked.

“I just asked him what the fuck he's doing. He's the goddamned Supreme Court correspondent for the network, yet he's out there like some grimy TMZ paparazzi.”

“I don't like it, but he's got a boss and a job to do like the rest of us,” Sean said.

“Bullshit,” she said. Debating with Cecilia never had an upside, so he dropped it. Her eyes fluttered about the living room at all the flowers. “It looks like a funeral home in here.” She paused, at a rare loss for words, seeming to realize the insensitivity of the remark.

“We've got enough flowers and casseroles for a lifetime,” Sean said. “Sorry for calling on short notice. Emily's still not feeling well, and I didn't want Ryan to have to take the bus to school. Not yet, anyway.”

“I'm happy to help. Are you sure they're ready to get back to school? And I'm sure the law firm will survive without you for a while.”

“Ryan's therapist said it'll be best for both boys to get back to their routine. And what am I going to do? Sit around all day? I'd rather be busy.” Sean had already read two books on how to cope with losing a child. Both said that men often throw themselves into their work out of a misguided idea that they need to appear strong. And to avoid dealing with the grief. The books advised against going back to work too soon. But the books were wrong.

Cecilia frowned. “How are the boys?”

Sean lowered his voice since his sons were in the kitchen nearby eating breakfast. “Jack's doing pretty well. I think he doesn't fully understand. Ryan is trickier. He's putting on a strong front, but he's hurting.”

“Can I say hello?”

In the kitchen, the boys were at the granite counter with the Cheerios, bagels, and orange juice. Like
Before.

“Hi boys.”

“Cici!” Jack said. “Are you giving me a ride to school?”

“Nope,” Cecilia said. “Your dad's taking you. I've got to take this creature.” Cecilia tousled Ryan's hair. He normally would have laughed and feigned struggle, but today he just tolerated it.

“Hey Dad,” Ryan said.

“Yes, buddy.”

“Malik Montgomery's got a good lawyer.” Ryan looked toward the small television on the kitchen counter. “The news said his lawyer refused to comment about his arrest, and you said a good lawyer would never comment or appear on the
Today
show.”

“No, I said, you know you have a
bad
lawyer if he
wants
to comment or go on those shows. But you're not supposed to be watching this stuff.” Sean clicked off the set and tilted his head toward Jack, a signal to Ryan that the two of them were a team protecting the little guy. It was manipulative, Sean knew, but it also worked. Ryan was right, though. Malik Montgomery had hired a good lawyer—one of the best criminal lawyers in the country, actually, an old Washington hand named Blake Hellstrom.

“Cici,” Jack said, “when are those news people outside gonna leave?”

Cecilia furrowed her brow. “I'm not sure. Maybe we should go get the water hose and encourage them to go.”

“Yeah!” Jack climbed off the kitchen stool until Sean grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him back up.

“Cecilia was just kidding,” Sean said. He eyed Cecilia, whose cocked eyebrow said,
No I wasn't.

The boys chomped down the last of their breakfast and left the kitchen to gather their backpacks. Sean looked at Cecilia. “When
do
you think they'll go away, Cel? It's not good for the boys.” At OSG Sean wasn't permitted to comment on the government's cases, so he had little experience with the press. Cel, though, knew the game well. With her gift for quotable one-liners and her lack of filter, she was a reporter's dream and quite popular with the press corps.

“I honestly don't know when they'll give up,” Cecilia said.

“You deal with the press all the time, you've got no idea?”

Cecilia considered the question. “I suppose they'll stay until they hear from you. Have you thought about a press release? You've gotta feed the beast.”

Sean exhaled. “You really think that will do it? If I talk, they'll go away?”

“Why would they stay? How many guys want to stay the night after they've convinced the girl to have sex?”

A terrible metaphor. Cecilia was famous for them. He glanced out the square windowpanes on the front door. Without thinking any further, he marched outside. Cecilia was calling after him, but it was too late. He found himself standing on his porch, waving the half-dozen reporters to enter through his front gate. They approached cautiously at first, but once they realized it was an invitation to an impromptu press conference, they began to jockey for position, holding up their mikes, camera operators jostling for the best view.

The reporters started shouting questions over one another. Sean held up a hand. It took a moment, but they went quiet. He then cleared his throat. “I'm speaking to you today for one reason and one reason only: the hope that doing so will get you off my front sidewalk and give my family some privacy. I have two young sons—boys who are grieving the loss of their big sister—and I really hope and expect that you will give them the opportunity to return to their routine; to leave for school without a media spectacle outside their front door.”

A reporter with a thin waist and blonde bobbed hair tucked behind her ears didn't waste time. “Mr. Serrat, Jane McKnight from News Channel Eight. How do you feel now that Malik Montgomery has been released on bail?”

“To be honest,” Sean said, “I've been focused on my family, and I think it's best that I not comment on the proceedings.” That was a lie. Sean thought about Malik a lot. About driving to Malik's row house. About charging the man as he answered the door. About jumping on top of him. Pounding his head against the ground. The way Malik did to Abby. How quickly the old instincts returned. The punch-first-think-later impulses of a fourteen-year-old coursed through his forty-four-year-old body.

The blonde reporter pressed on: “But as a father, aren't you angry that the man who raped and killed—who
allegedly
raped and killed—your daughter is on the streets?”

Sean felt his thumb digging into his palm, the rough scar on his soft, uncalloused hand. “I'm not going to second-guess the prosecutors or judge. It's not productive. I think the best course right now is to let them do their jobs.”

Another reporter pushed in front of the blonde. He had puffy bags under his eyes and wore faded jeans and a tight blazer. “Reverend Al Coleman says that bail was granted because the evidence against Mr. Montgomery is flimsy. He said there's no DNA, no witnesses, no physical evidence, and that Malik Montgomery was arrested only because he is black and your daughter was—I quote—‘a pretty white girl.' Do you care to comment on that?”

Sean's stomach clenched. He stared at the reporter for what seemed like a long time, deciding not to engage with the man. But then he began to speak.

“For starters, I think that people who didn't know my daughter should really ask themselves if they are helping or hurting the investigation with comments like that. And if they did know my daughter, they would never suggest she was just a pretty face.” He swallowed hard. “Let me tell you what the world lost when my Abby was stolen.” At this everything seemed to go quiet, not just the reporters, but the birds, the sounds on the street. As if Sean's mind was filtering out the world.

“Everything came easy to Abby,” he said finally. “She was first to walk and talk in daycare, graduated high school and college early and with honors, she was already at the top of her class in law school. We used to marvel at her. But her success isn't what made us so proud. It was her heart, her lovely, kind heart.” He looked out at nothing. “When she was ten years old she would stop on the soccer field to help a kid who fell down, even if it meant losing the game. In high school she worked with special-needs kids, but didn't want to include that work on her college applications because she thought it cheapened the relationships she'd built with the children. She went to law school not to get rich or land on Wall Street, but to help the underprivileged. She made mistakes, and she wasn't perfect. But anyone who'd ever met Abby would tell you she was special. So, to call her just some ‘pretty white girl' is”—Sean searched for the word—“well, it's disgusting.”

The reporter pushed forward unfazed. “But do you think Malik Montgomery's race played a role in his arrest, Mr. Serrat?”

Sean glared at the man. “The color of Mr. Montgomery's skin meant nothing to me when he dated my daughter, and it means nothing to me now.” It was getting harder to speak. “Abby went to law school because she still believed in justice—in the rule of law—and she didn't let pessimism sway her trust in the system. And, for her, I refuse to partake in the cynical speculation by people who seem more intent on their own agendas than getting justice for my murdered daughter.” His voice broke, but then he recovered. He stared directly into the camera and added, “They didn't arrest Malik Montgomery because he's black. They simply followed the evidence. Now please, give my family some privacy.” Sean felt a hand on his arm.

Cecilia led him inside, slamming the door behind them. She hugged him tight. Then she eased back and examined his face.

“What's the look for?” Sean said. “Was it that bad?”

“No,” Cecilia said. “I think you've accidently just become a media star.”

 

CHAPTER 16

Sean sat behind the glass-topped desk in his new office at Harrington & Caine. The space was all packed boxes and bare walls. His lunch, a limp sandwich he'd bought in the firm's cafeteria, was still in its plastic container at the corner of the desk. He studied the visitor who sat across from him.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Serrat. I know this must seem, well, unusual. A surprise.”

Sean was surprised—mainly that
this
was the famous defense lawyer Blake Hellstrom, the go-to hired gun for politicians caught with their hand in the cookie jar (or up an intern's blouse) and for multinational corporations centered in the DOJ's crosshairs. This was the lawyer representing Malik Montgomery: portly, with a bad comb-over. His suit, navy with pinstripes, was presumably expensive, but Hellstrom was the kind of guy who could make a $6,000 Brioni look cheap.

“To tell the truth,” Hellstrom continued, “in my forty years in practice, I've never showed up unannounced to speak with the victim's family.”