Dangerous Girls
Page 46
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I swallow, chilled. “Thank you,” I say, my voice coming out a broken whisper. “For trying, for believing in me . . .”
Lee manages a smile, reaching again for the files. “Back to work,” he says, as if embarrassed by his confession. “I was thinking, we should try to do something about all these biased reports on the news shows. I know your old lawyer didn’t want you making any comment, but right now, you’re getting slammed, and I don’t like how it might look to a judge. Maybe we should do an interview,” he suggests, “here in prison. Pick an American network, let you tell your side of the story.”
I hear his words but they barely register. Instead, I’m still caught in the horror of his sister’s story. A girl like me, a case like mine—far from home, adrift in a foreign legal system—and she was found guilty. Abandoned. Left to rot.
Ten years.
Even six months in this place has been unbearable, but year after year after year stretching into the distant black future . . . ?
Now, for the first time, I wonder if this is how my mother felt. If cancer was her prison; the chemo treatments, torture.
I understand it.
I would rather die.
THE INTERVIEW
“Just lift your head, just a little more . . . okay, perfect.”
A bright bulb flashes in my face, blinding me, and the woman holding a gadget near my face takes another reading. “Less on the blues,” she yells across the room at the guy fixing the lighting rig. “Let’s try it again.”
Another light flashes, this time leaving dark circles hovering in the air in front of my eyes. I blink, disoriented. The woman clicks again and then nods briskly. “Okay, we’ve got it! Don’t move.” She directs that last part to me, before hurrying away.
I look around. Where would I even go? I’m sitting in the prison cafeteria, except the plastic tables and mealtime madness is gone, replaced with chaos of a different kind. Spotlights, sound cables, boom mikes and cameras: the room is a flurry of noise and activity, and it’s all I can do after so many silent, still days just to watch, drinking it all in. People, regular people, chatting brightly, checking clipboards, scurrying around with papers and coffee cups and reels of cable. I feel like my mind just got an electric shock, jolted awake after so many weeks spent numb and drifting, asleep.
“Let me give you a touch-up.” The makeup lady materializes, holding a tray of pots and brushes. She’s already spent thirty minutes dabbing at me with foundation and mascara, now she dips a blusher brush into some loose powder and dusts at my face. “I know it seems like a lot,” she chats, smiling and friendly. “But these lights get crazy hot; we don’t want any shine.”
I smile back hesitantly. For all the bustle and activity, most people have stayed away from me: orbiting at a safe distance, as if I’m surrounded by an invisible forcefield. I guess a prison jumpsuit and handcuffs will do that to you. I’d hoped I’d be getting regular clothes, like the ones I wore for my hearing, but the show insisted on keeping me in my prison gear—and filming in here, with the wire visible on the window, and metal bars instead of walls. They want to show the reality of my everyday life, they told Gates and my dad, but if that was true, we’d be filming the interview in my isolation cell: crammed into the tiny room with the camera guy balancing over the steel open toilet.
“Are you nervous?” the makeup lady chats, still dusting powder on my face. I nod, embarrassed. “Don’t be,” she reassures me. “You’ll do great. Just keep looking at her, and try to ignore the cameras.”
“Don’t cover her bruises!” A sharp Southern voice cuts through the noise, and suddenly, there she is, striding toward us on blue patent heels, a paper bib fixed around her neck, and curlers still resting in her blond bobbed hair.
Clara Rose.
On TV, she’s larger than life, but in the flesh, she’s short: tiny and compact in a bright pink Chanel suit and blue eye shadow. “I told you, nothing on the face,” she scolds the makeup lady, snatching the brush away. “She’s been rotting in jail the past three months, not competing in the Junior Miss America pageant.”
The makeup woman cringes and quickly begins blotting at my face. Clara looks at me and suddenly breaks into a wide, honey-sweet smile. “Anna, it’s so great to finally meet you,” she coos. “And thank you so much for agreeing to take part in this. You’ve been so brave; it’s time America got to hear your side of the story.”
She holds out her hand, and reluctantly, I shake it. “Thank you for having me,” I reply politely.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to sit down earlier,” she says, and beams at me with dazzlingly white teeth. “But I’m sure we’ll— Kenny, no!” She suddenly barks, looking up at where the lighting guy is fixing the lamps. “What did I tell you about washing me out with the yellow?” She strides off toward him, her stilettos tap-tapping on the dull linoleum floors.
I exhale slowly, watching her walk away. It wasn’t my choice: to do the interview, or that it be broadcast as a special extended exclusive edition of the Clara Rose Show. After all the things she’s said about me, I figured she would be the last person we’d go to, but Lee argued that was the exact reason we need her to do the profile. All of the news channels back home are painting me in a bad light, but Clara’s the worst, hammering her cold-blooded killer theories almost every night of the week with so-called experts and Akshay’s swaggering guest spots. If we can get her to at least present the possibility that I’m innocent, then maybe people will sit up and start paying attention: petition the American government to get involved, put pressure on the Dutch to throw out the case.
It’s a long shot, I know, but they say it could make all the difference. Dekker has been playing the press like a pro—“leaking” photos of me out partying, slipping them information about Elise’s body, the beach house, Tate’s affair. He holds court on the front steps of the precinct, talking about justice, and morality, and how he won’t let outsiders ruin the peaceful tranquility of his home island. I’ve sat here in prison, silent, for long enough. Now I need to tell my side of the story.
“You ready for this?” Lee comes over with Gates, who looks bewildered at all this activity.
I take a deep breath. “I guess.”
“Just remember what we talked about,” Gates adds, serious. “Take your time, speak slowly, and ask for breaks if you feel overwhelmed. They’re going to edit this together later, so it’s fine to stop and then start again, if you get flustered.”
Lee manages a smile, reaching again for the files. “Back to work,” he says, as if embarrassed by his confession. “I was thinking, we should try to do something about all these biased reports on the news shows. I know your old lawyer didn’t want you making any comment, but right now, you’re getting slammed, and I don’t like how it might look to a judge. Maybe we should do an interview,” he suggests, “here in prison. Pick an American network, let you tell your side of the story.”
I hear his words but they barely register. Instead, I’m still caught in the horror of his sister’s story. A girl like me, a case like mine—far from home, adrift in a foreign legal system—and she was found guilty. Abandoned. Left to rot.
Ten years.
Even six months in this place has been unbearable, but year after year after year stretching into the distant black future . . . ?
Now, for the first time, I wonder if this is how my mother felt. If cancer was her prison; the chemo treatments, torture.
I understand it.
I would rather die.
THE INTERVIEW
“Just lift your head, just a little more . . . okay, perfect.”
A bright bulb flashes in my face, blinding me, and the woman holding a gadget near my face takes another reading. “Less on the blues,” she yells across the room at the guy fixing the lighting rig. “Let’s try it again.”
Another light flashes, this time leaving dark circles hovering in the air in front of my eyes. I blink, disoriented. The woman clicks again and then nods briskly. “Okay, we’ve got it! Don’t move.” She directs that last part to me, before hurrying away.
I look around. Where would I even go? I’m sitting in the prison cafeteria, except the plastic tables and mealtime madness is gone, replaced with chaos of a different kind. Spotlights, sound cables, boom mikes and cameras: the room is a flurry of noise and activity, and it’s all I can do after so many silent, still days just to watch, drinking it all in. People, regular people, chatting brightly, checking clipboards, scurrying around with papers and coffee cups and reels of cable. I feel like my mind just got an electric shock, jolted awake after so many weeks spent numb and drifting, asleep.
“Let me give you a touch-up.” The makeup lady materializes, holding a tray of pots and brushes. She’s already spent thirty minutes dabbing at me with foundation and mascara, now she dips a blusher brush into some loose powder and dusts at my face. “I know it seems like a lot,” she chats, smiling and friendly. “But these lights get crazy hot; we don’t want any shine.”
I smile back hesitantly. For all the bustle and activity, most people have stayed away from me: orbiting at a safe distance, as if I’m surrounded by an invisible forcefield. I guess a prison jumpsuit and handcuffs will do that to you. I’d hoped I’d be getting regular clothes, like the ones I wore for my hearing, but the show insisted on keeping me in my prison gear—and filming in here, with the wire visible on the window, and metal bars instead of walls. They want to show the reality of my everyday life, they told Gates and my dad, but if that was true, we’d be filming the interview in my isolation cell: crammed into the tiny room with the camera guy balancing over the steel open toilet.
“Are you nervous?” the makeup lady chats, still dusting powder on my face. I nod, embarrassed. “Don’t be,” she reassures me. “You’ll do great. Just keep looking at her, and try to ignore the cameras.”
“Don’t cover her bruises!” A sharp Southern voice cuts through the noise, and suddenly, there she is, striding toward us on blue patent heels, a paper bib fixed around her neck, and curlers still resting in her blond bobbed hair.
Clara Rose.
On TV, she’s larger than life, but in the flesh, she’s short: tiny and compact in a bright pink Chanel suit and blue eye shadow. “I told you, nothing on the face,” she scolds the makeup lady, snatching the brush away. “She’s been rotting in jail the past three months, not competing in the Junior Miss America pageant.”
The makeup woman cringes and quickly begins blotting at my face. Clara looks at me and suddenly breaks into a wide, honey-sweet smile. “Anna, it’s so great to finally meet you,” she coos. “And thank you so much for agreeing to take part in this. You’ve been so brave; it’s time America got to hear your side of the story.”
She holds out her hand, and reluctantly, I shake it. “Thank you for having me,” I reply politely.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to sit down earlier,” she says, and beams at me with dazzlingly white teeth. “But I’m sure we’ll— Kenny, no!” She suddenly barks, looking up at where the lighting guy is fixing the lamps. “What did I tell you about washing me out with the yellow?” She strides off toward him, her stilettos tap-tapping on the dull linoleum floors.
I exhale slowly, watching her walk away. It wasn’t my choice: to do the interview, or that it be broadcast as a special extended exclusive edition of the Clara Rose Show. After all the things she’s said about me, I figured she would be the last person we’d go to, but Lee argued that was the exact reason we need her to do the profile. All of the news channels back home are painting me in a bad light, but Clara’s the worst, hammering her cold-blooded killer theories almost every night of the week with so-called experts and Akshay’s swaggering guest spots. If we can get her to at least present the possibility that I’m innocent, then maybe people will sit up and start paying attention: petition the American government to get involved, put pressure on the Dutch to throw out the case.
It’s a long shot, I know, but they say it could make all the difference. Dekker has been playing the press like a pro—“leaking” photos of me out partying, slipping them information about Elise’s body, the beach house, Tate’s affair. He holds court on the front steps of the precinct, talking about justice, and morality, and how he won’t let outsiders ruin the peaceful tranquility of his home island. I’ve sat here in prison, silent, for long enough. Now I need to tell my side of the story.
“You ready for this?” Lee comes over with Gates, who looks bewildered at all this activity.
I take a deep breath. “I guess.”
“Just remember what we talked about,” Gates adds, serious. “Take your time, speak slowly, and ask for breaks if you feel overwhelmed. They’re going to edit this together later, so it’s fine to stop and then start again, if you get flustered.”
