He spreads his hands, looks at his feet. “Do I look like I was blown up?”
All right. Stupid question. “Did you quit? Get thrown out?”
“Enough questions.”
I cackle as quietly as I can. “You were thrown out! I wonder what for. Insubordination? Going AWOL?”
“Do you understand what’s going to happen in court today?” he counters.
“Oh,” I sigh. “Dad said something about it being a preliminary hearing. The prosecution is going to tell the judge that there’s enough evidence for a trial, and his defense is going to say there’s not.”
“Not just that. The Crown Prosecution Service is going to argue that he shouldn’t be given bail. That he’s a flight risk, and he should be remanded in custody until the trial.”
I chew my lip. “So he won’t be coming home today?”
“It’s possible. How do you feel about that?”
I don’t know how I feel about any of this. I’ve always detested my father’s sleazy newspaper and the things he prints. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s ended up in court, though I still don’t want him to go to jail. “I don’t feel much at all,” I say, and look up at Dieter. “I mean, I’m keyed up, but I can’t anticipate what’s going to happen next. What do you think’s going to happen?”
He thinks for a moment. “I think there will be a trial, but the judge will probably release your father on bail today. He’s not a danger to the community.”
A trial. That means this will drag on for at least a year. Another year or more of this. I grimace. I just want to paint and be left alone so I can figure my life out. Fat chance of that.
A few minutes later we’re allowed to file into the public gallery, and we sit on hard little seats above the court floor. The judge walks in through a studded green leather door, stately in black robes and a wig. There are several other people in wigs and robes, too, seated before him. At the back of the court, behind a glass partition, is my father. He’s dressed in a somber suit and has a pen and notepad on his lap. I can tell by the way he’s clicking the pen that he’s agitated.
I try to follow the proceedings but they’re very dry and technical. The barristers are all speaking a private language that I can’t penetrate. I gather that there are emails between my father and his staff and a number of private investigators that have been deemed suspect, as well as some bank transactions, phone calls and text messages. The judge takes notes. Every time a certain wigged man gets up to speak, his hands braced on a baize-topped lectern, my father’s eyes narrow. I presume that he’s prosecution.
Things drone on for two hours like this, and my mind drifts. Dieter’s hand is resting on his thigh, very close to mine. I can’t focus on the proceedings, so I listen to his quiet breathing beside me, and enjoy his solid presence. Dieter’s the only thing that’s not terrible about this whole experience.
I snap to attention when I hear the words “bail granted.” My father seems to relax a little. But the prosecution isn’t done talking.
“Then, my lord, we request that certain restrictions be placed on Mr. Westley. As the investigation is still ongoing we would ask that, in the interests of justice, he not be permitted within one hundred feet of the offices of the Herald, and to cease all communications, electronic or otherwise, with any members of his staff.”
My father’s eyes bug out of his head at this.
The judge consults his notes. “I have the same concerns about the investigation. The request is granted.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Dieter raise his eyebrows, and I anticipate that my father is going to be in a very, very bad mood when we collect him outside the court.
Chapter Five
I haven’t taken a good look at the hate mail that’s been coming in for a few days, so I do that first thing. There were about two dozen letters yesterday, which is a dozen more than the day before. I presume it’s because of newspaper articles about the court case.
Some are directed at Mr. Westley, but most at Adrienne. Predictably, they turn my stomach. People threatening to take a shotgun to her face, scalping and various other kinds of violent torture. One letter is particularly vile: it contains a drawing of Adrienne in a hangman’s noose, dead. It’s a very good drawing, technically speaking. Someone took care over it. Sickening care. Across the top of the page is scrawled die bitch in red ink. Something about it gives me pause and I stare at it a long time, wondering what it is that I’m missing. But a few minutes la
ter I have nothing, so I put it aside.
I throw all the letters in a drawer, lock it, and then scrub a hand over my face. I don’t understand why Adrienne is the object of so much hatred when it’s her father who’s been arrested. It’s as if people feel safer or more entitled in directing their abuse at a woman instead of a man.
I go back downstairs to get some coffee. I’m still stewing over the letters when I hear someone softly call, “Dieter.”
I turn and see Adrienne. She’s wearing a fluffy white jumper and she’s walking on tiptoe toward me, a look of mischief on her face.
“Hey. Why are you whispering?” I ask. I feel a throb of protectiveness, seeing her smiling. I want her always to be smiling, not worried about death threats and court dates and the media. She looked so goddamn sweet the day her father was arrested, lying on her belly and drawing. Carefree—angelic, even. I hated destroying it by telling her what had happened. I’d expected tears, a tantrum, her nails across my face. But she’d just swallowed it all down as if she was used to disappointment. That was worse somehow.
Adrienne comes in close. Surprisingly close. She smooths her hands up the front of my shirt, twines them around my neck and kisses me. The gesture is so sweet and ingenuous that I don’t push her off right away.
Her mouth opens beneath mine, inviting me in, but I finally regain my senses and push her away.