Lost Girls Read Free Page B

dismissed the idea.
    “Forget it. She’s fuckin’ nuts. Besides, my wife don’t know about her,” was Leonard’s exact phrasing.
    It wasn’t clear to me how Mrs. Busch would be more upset over the disclosure of a mistress than the conviction of her husband as a rapist, but I said no more about it.
    Until today. When I arrive at the court I descend to the basement holding cells, shake my head at Leonard and voice my suggestion through a hole in the Plexiglass wall between us.
    “We got anything else?” he asks.
    “Not a thing.”
    “Then talk to her. But I dunno what she could say to help. I didn’t even see her that night.”
    When the court convenes the judge begins by asking if I’m prepared to deliver final submissions. I advise him that I require a brief adjournment to make a final survey of the defense’s evidence before concluding the case. The judge orders us all back following lunch. I have three hours.
    After the few courtroom spectators mill out into the hallway I snake up behind my prey and, bendinglow enough for my nose to be filled with the lemon styling gel of her perm-crinkled, bleach-yellowed hair, whisper an invitation for her to follow. Without a word she steps behind me to an interview room at the end of the hall where she sits and I lock the door with an echoing clack. Shuffle over to the chair opposite hers and settle myself in its cup of orange plastic.
    “I’m not going to waste any time here, Lisa, because frankly we don’t have any time to waste,” I start with a beleaguered sigh. “Can you appreciate that?”
    “Yes, Mr. Crane.”
    There is a tingle of pleasure with her voicing of “Mr. Crane.” (I am still young and vain enough to enjoy the sound of my surname spoken by others.)
    “Then let me tell you that I’d like you to be the final witness in this trial. I’d like you to tell your side of the story, Lisa.” Inhale deeply. “That Leonard couldn’t have committed the crime of which he is accused, because he was with you on the fourteenth of August. That’s what I’m asking you to do for me.”
    “But I can’t say that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s not true.”
    In one movement I stand, kick my chair back and send it sliding over the waxed marble floor into the wall behind me.
    “You can say whatever you want, Lisa. Let me show you.” Lean forward over the table so that my face is all that she can see. “Open your mouth.”
    “What?”
    “Just open your mouth.”
    The mouth opens.
    “Now, say ‘This whole thing is my fault.’”
    “No—he—”
    “Just say it!”
    “This whole thing is my fault.”
    “Lovely! You see? You just said this whole thing is your fault, when we know that it’s Leonard’s. And therein lies the lesson of the day: it is possible to tell a different story from that which we know.”
    I move back from the table and cross my arms in my football coach pose, the whole time holding the girl’s black-pupiled eyes in mine. “And you’re going to say he was with you that night. That you two met as you usually did, that he drove you down to the docks as usual, that you had sex in all the usual positions until around three, at which point he drove you uptown and dropped you off a couple blocks from your house as per usual.”
    “But that’s not true,” she attempts, lower lip trembling and voice cracking wide open. “Mr. Crane, that didn’t happen . Not that night.”
    Then the tears start, a shaking torrent, and I know I’ve won. In my experience, tears are a strong sign of a mind willing to be changed.
    “You’ve forgotten your lesson already, Lisa! Listen to me. Listen to me now.” Move forward again so that the closeness of my voice cuts off her sobbing. “I wouldn’t want you to make a very big mistake because you failed to appreciate the seriousness of the situation, so let me make this extremely clear. We—you and I—are going to save Leonard’s life. Because if Leonard goes to jail, he will die. And you