Part 18 (1/2)

Chapter 44.

Liz O'Keefe drove down the ramp from the George Was.h.i.+ngton Bridge, rolled down the window of her Honda CR-V, and inhaled deeply.

”You smell that, kiddo?” she said.

Her sister, Rachael, wrapped in an oversized gray sweat suit, slouched lower in the pa.s.senger seat. ”Liz, it's Jersey,” she said. ”Close the window. I know what it smells like.”

”Not tonight, honey. Tonight Jersey smells like freedom.”

”Great,” Rachael muttered. ”Call Springsteen. Maybe he'll write a song about it.”

”I thought that after eleven months in jail you might feel at least halfway good about getting out,” Liz said, taking the Main Street exit toward Leonia.

”What should I feel good about? That Kimi is dead? That I'm the most hated mother in America? Or that the jury found me not guilty, but if I try to walk around like a free woman, someone from the NRA or the Christian Coalition or maybe Rush Limbaugh himself will try to kill me?”

”You want to go back to jail? You think you'll be safer there?”

Rachael broke into a smile. ”h.e.l.l, Lizzie, at least half of those women wanted to kill me. They'd look at me with this att.i.tude like 'Hey, b.i.t.c.h, I might be a crack wh.o.r.e, but I was still a better mom than you.'”

”Well, guess what?” Liz said. ”They're still in jail, and you're not. Another forty-five days and the judge will hand down his sentence on the endangerment charge, and you heard what Mr. Woloch said-it's probably going to be time served. Then you'll be free to really start getting on with your life.”

”You mean my life without Kimi? Or you mean my life as a moving target every time I walk down the aisle in a supermarket?”

The Honda cruised along Fort Lee Road for less than a minute and turned left onto Broad Avenue.

”Look, the judge set down the rules. So whether you like it or not, you're going to be locked up in Aunt Pearl's house for the next forty-five days. After that, he'll probably cut you loose, and you can go where you want. But if I were you, I'd stay put till April when Pearl gets back from Florida.”

”Are you serious? I'll go bats.h.i.+t crazy just hanging around an empty house doing nothing for six months,” Rachael said.

Liz jammed on the brakes, and the CR-V stopped hard.

She spun around in her seat and grabbed her sister by both shoulders. ”I don't give a s.h.i.+t how crazy you get. You're in hiding. You're a G.o.dd.a.m.n celebrity, Rachael, and not in a good way like Lady G.o.dd.a.m.n Gaga. How many death threats have you gotten in the past twenty-four hours? You think you'll be doing nothing? Staying alive isn't nothing. Besides, Mr. Woloch said he's already fielding book deal offers. You'll have plenty to do when you sit down with a writer every day and tell your story.”

”Why bother? n.o.body will believe me. They all think I killed Kimi.”

Liz didn't answer. She checked her rearview for the millionth time since she'd picked Rachael up. Broad Avenue was deserted. She had stopped the car directly across the street from BonChon Chicken.

”Have you ever had that spicy Korean chicken?” she asked Rachael, pointing at the dark storefront.

”No.”

”I'll bring some home tonight. It's to die for.”

Rachael slouched back down in her seat. ”Can't wait.”

Liz put the car in gear, drove another four blocks, and made a right onto Harold Avenue. Calling Harold an avenue was overly generous. It was a dead-end, tree-lined street with only sixteen houses on it. A quiet middle-cla.s.s patch of Bergen County, New Jersey, where one of America's most notorious accused child murderers could live in anonymity.

Aunt Pearl's house was the last one on the left. Liz pulled the car into the far side of the two-car garage, then keyed the door shut, and the two sisters walked through the breezeway into the kitchen.

”This place hasn't changed since I was a kid,” Rachael said.

”Baby, this place hasn't changed since Aunt Pearl was a kid. It's all part of the joy of living in relative obscurity,” Liz said, opening the refrigerator door. ”I bought you a welcome-home snack-Mia Figlia Bella cheesecake and a bottle of Chardonnay.”

”Sounds like you were expecting The Real Housewives of New Jersey. Give me a sliver of the cake and supersize the wine.”

Liz grinned. Supersize the wine. That was the kid sister she knew and loved. She found the corkscrew and grabbed two cake plates and winegla.s.ses from an overhead cabinet.

”f.u.c.k them,” Rachael said.

”f.u.c.k who, sweetie?” Liz asked, cutting the seal around the rim of the bottle.

”Did you read this?” Rachael asked, picking up a copy of that morning's New York Post from the kitchen table.

The two-word headline practically filled the front page: NOT GUILTY???.

Rachael opened to page three and read out loud. ”'In a shocking turn of events in the Kimi O'Keefe murder trial, the jury brought back a verdict n.o.body expected. They found her mother, Rachael, not guilty. Judge Steven Levine sounded halfhearted and totally insincere when he thanked the jury for their service. It was as if His Honor, like virtually everyone else in this city, believed the jury got it wrong.' Well, that certainly sounds like fair and balanced journalism.”

”Honey, a lot of people thought you were guilty,” Liz said, turning the corkscrew so the wings spread to the sides. ”Why do you think they snuck you out in the middle of the night? Whatever the verdict, there's always someone who says it's wrong. Look at O.J.”

”O.J. was guilty,” Rachael said. ”I'm not.”

Liz pulled out the cork.

”Did you hear me say I'm not guilty?” Rachael said.

”Of course,” Liz said. ”I was there when the jury brought in the verdict.”

”d.a.m.n it, Lizzie, that's not what I'm asking. I said I'm not guilty, and you clammed up. Tell me the truth-do you believe I'm not guilty?”

”Rachael, I am so happy that you're free and not in jail,” Liz said. ”And that is the truth.”

Rachael shook her head. ”I don't believe it,” she said. ”My own sister. You think I'm guilty of murdering Kimi, don't you?”

”It's been a long day. A little wine will take the edge off,” Liz said, removing the dead cork from the corkscrew and tossing it in the garbage. No sense saving it. The two sisters had never recorked a bottle in their lives.

”A little wine will not bring my daughter back,” Rachael said, and she flung the newspaper across the room. ”I asked you a question. Yes or no-do you think I'm guilty?”

The door between the kitchen and the breezeway crashed open, and two masked men stormed in, guns in hand.