Claim of Innocence Read online

  “I’m an only child. My parents are both dead.” She closed her eyes, as if stopping herself from seeing something horrible. She opened them again. “I’m glad my mother isn’t alive to see this.”

  “When did she die?”

  “About a year after my father. They were an unusual couple. My mom was black, my dad Mexican. No one really supported their relationship, but she was very much in love. After he was gone, she was never herself again. She simply withered away.”

  “That’s what happened to my mom, too, for a while, after my father died. Or, we thought he did…”

  Valerie looked at me with a question in her eyes.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  Valerie made a rueful smile. “So I’m not the only one with a checkered family history.”

  “Oh, no. You’ve got company.”

  We both laughed a bit. I liked connecting with her, especially on something that didn’t have to do with the trial.

  “For some reason, that makes me feel better.” She looked at me, her expression eager, as if hungry for this kind of conversation.

  “How did your father pass away?” I asked.

  A long exhale. “Well…” She turned her face slightly, as if she didn’t want to see my reaction to what she was about to say. “My father left my life a long time ago for prison. He was… He was a convicted murderer. And he was executed.”

  24

  My mind whirred with questions.

  “Can you talk about it?” I asked Valerie. “I mean…” I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start. Who did your father kill? Does violence run in families? Does evil? So many more suspicions had presented themselves now. “So this happened before the moratorium on the death penalty in Illinois?”

  “Yes. He was accused of killing my neighbor. Her name was Marilee.” Her eyes drifted away, as if seeing the girl. “I always thought that was such a pretty name. She was fifteen, three years older than me. I thought she was the most beautiful girl around. Everyone did.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “We lived in an unincorporated area of Cook County. It was south of the city, near a big forest preserve. They called it Timsville back then.” She pursed her lips, then kept talking. “When it happened, it was terrifying. There was a killer on the loose, they said, and so everyone kept their children inside. They closed the schools for weeks. And then…” She swung her head back and forth, back and forth. “And then they came for my father. The police said he did it. He denied it. I believed him. So did my mom. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t like that at all.”

  “But there was evidence?” The way there’s evidence against you?

  “Two people testified they saw him near Marilee’s backyard, but of course that was true, because our yard was right next to theirs. He had a couple of old cars that he worked on back there.” Still she shook her head. “Someone said they saw the two of them later in his car, but that was normal, too. Marilee’s parents were gone a lot, and we would pick her up and drive her home or take her to town when she needed.” She sighed. “Then Marilee’s mother said she’d been suspicious of my father after Marilee babysat for me a few times. My mother said it was crazy—if that were true, why hadn’t this woman said anything at the time? And why did she keep letting her daughter come to our house after school to watch me?”

  “Was there a murder weapon?” Poison?

  “Marilee was stabbed. The police never found the knife, but they said the stabbing had been done with a very sharp knife, one with a rounded edge instead of a pointed tip. My father was a cook—not as a career, but he was always cooking tamales and moles and tostados. Nopalitos were his favorite.” As she spoke the names of the dishes, you could hear from her pronunciation that she spoke Spanish fluently.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nopales are a flat plant, like a cactus. When my dad could get his hands on some, he loved to make nopalitos. But you had to use a special knife to get the thorns off. It was a very sharp knife.”

  “With a rounded edge?”

  She nodded. “The police took pictures of all the knives in our house. There wasn’t blood on them or anything, but they showed his nopalito knife at trial. But even then, I didn’t believe it. Javier Solara was not that kind of man.”

  I thought of my mom. She had said the same thing the other night—that she had known my father wasn’t dead, and yet she had buried him, she had forced herself to go on. And so she ignored that voice that told her his death wasn’t real. Ultimately, she found out she was right. And yet I knew that many people believed their family members incapable of committing crimes, even when everything pointed to the contrary. Was the same true for Valerie?

  I looked at her. “Maggie said you wanted to talk to me.”

  She paused a moment, as if considering something. “Yes, that’s true. I’ve been thinking of what you said yesterday, about wanting to know anything that could help with the case. I kept thinking how you said you wanted to believe me. And I loved hearing that. Because I did not kill Amanda.”

  I held my teacup near my mouth, but didn’t take a sip, hoping to keep her talking.

  “So far, no one has said that to me, Izzy,” she said. “About believing me. Not even Martin, although I know he does.”

  I put the cup on the saucer. “Maggie and Martin are exceptional criminal lawyers, the best. But sometimes it’s easier for them not to hear every little detail. They want to ensure your constitutional rights are being upheld. They want to give you the best defense possible. And if they hear every detail, they might not be able to do that.”

  “I understand.” Valerie held one of my mother’s thin, light blue teacups. “I really do. Because of my dad, I’ve had experience with the criminal justice system before.”

  Valerie played with the dainty handle on the teacup, drawing circles inside it with her finger, lost in thought.

  Just then the back door opened and Spence came into the room. “Darling girl!” He came to the table and gave me one of his bear hugs. “Twice in one day. A delight!”

  “Hi, Spence.”

  He beamed one of his big, patented smiles at Valerie, who blinked rapidly.

  I introduced them, glad that Spence seemed to have recovered his buoyant personality.

  Valerie, however, said little and shook his hand lightly.

  “What can I get you two?” Spence rubbed his hands together, then glanced at his watch. “Let’s see. Is it too early for wine?”

  In Spence’s world, it was always five o’clock somewhere.

  “It’s a little early for us. We’re trying to get some work done.”

  “Work? What? It’s a Saturday.”

  Spence had retired from his real estate developing business years ago. His profession now was to enjoy life, and to make sure everyone else did, too.

  “What are you working on?” he asked. He stopped. Surprise and recognition appeared on his face. “Oh. The trial.”

  “Yes,” I said, “we’re discussing a few things. We didn’t feel like going to Maggie’s office.”

  Spence clapped his hands together. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

  He patted me on the back and grasped Valerie’s hand for another quick pump. “Help yourself to anything. Anything at all.”

  When he was gone, I turned back to Valerie. “Sorry about that. I guess he didn’t know we were coming. He really is the most wonderful man.”

  Valerie didn’t look so convinced. She said nothing.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable when he brought up the trial.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that men tend to make me uncomfortable. Well, except for Martin. And Brian.”

  “Your husband?”

  Valerie let a small smile take over her face. “Yes. Brian was my husband.” She sat there, as if she wanted the words to sink into the room, into herself.

  “They mentioned him in openings, right? He passed away of L
ou Gehrig’s disease.”

  “Yes.”

  I noticed Valerie twisting a platinum band around her finger. I pointed at it. “Your wedding ring. You still wear it?”

  She nodded. “I’ll never get married again. I don’t want to. Brian was all I ever wanted.”

  What about Zavy?

  She shrugged, twisting her wedding band once more. “Brian was one of the only men I’ve ever been able to trust in my life. If I’m honest, he’s one of the few people I’ve been able to trust.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. If anything, I had the opposite problem. I tended to trust people, maybe more than I should.

  “What about girlfriends?” It was out of my mouth before I remembered that Valerie was on trial for killing a girlfriend. Nice, Iz. Very nice.

  “Actually,” Valerie said, “I’m glad you mentioned that. Two of the people I did trust, implicitly, were Bridget and Amanda.”

  I watched her face for some reaction when she mentioned Amanda. There was none. What did that mean?

  “Maggie said in her opening statement that you and Bridget and Amanda met at a gym?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It was like the stars aligning—us in that class, talking afterward, deciding to have coffee. God, thinking back on that, I feel so different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Layla was four, and I was happy being a mom.”

  “Did you have help from Layla’s father?”

  She shook her head. “He sent occasional checks, made occasional efforts to visit, but he didn’t want to be a father. Eventually he ceased to be anything to either of us. It was Brian who changed everything.”

  “When did you meet him?”

  A smile. “The day before I met the girls. I think that’s why I was so open to them, because I’d just met Brian and it had lightened my world a little. We met at a park. Layla was in the sandbox, and Brian’s dog ran up to Layla and we both panicked, thinking the dog could bite her. But he just bowed his head and Layla petted him.” She laughed. “The dog’s name turned out to be Kayla.”

  “No way. Kayla and Layla?”

  “Yes. Brian and I let them play and we talked and…we had a wonderful thing until he died eight years later.”

  “That must have been awful.”

  She raised the teacup again and put it to her mouth, took a sip. “It was. He got Lou Gehrig’s disease very young, and it took him fast.” She shook her head as if trying to dislodge a vision of her sick husband. “But I had Amanda then, and Bridget and Zavy. They were wonderful.” She stared ahead now, blankly, her teacup suspended, and for a moment it seemed she’d disappeared, as if only the shell of Valerie Solara were sitting there. “They took care of so many things. We called Amanda ‘Demanda’ because she could be bossy, but boy, she knew how to get things done. I don’t think I could have handled it without them.”

  “But still, the loss of a husband.” I thought of the time when Sam had disappeared and shivered. “That kind of thing is hard to get over.” Could I get over it if I needed to? Where was Sam now? Why hadn’t he called?

  “Yes.” She put the cup back on the saucer and looked at me. “But that wasn’t when everything went wrong.” She looked to be fighting tears. “It was later. And then I had to tell Bridget and Amanda about it.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m confused. Tell them about what?”

  Her eyes were a little glazed, staring at the tabletop. “It was horrible.”

  25

  That night she went to Bridget’s house. It seemed a lifetime ago. Things were so different now. Yet she remembered easily how she walked into the house, unannounced, on that November night. They never knocked at each other’s homes, always simply strolled inside.

  They’d been meeting every other Tuesday night for so many years by then. Amanda was usually on time, sometimes even early. Valerie tended to run a little late, but those nights in Bridget’s blue room were the sun in her life, for many reasons.

  “You’re late,” Bridget had said good-naturedly when she walked in the kitchen.

  Valerie had paused then in the kitchen, her eyes suddenly filmy. Neither of her friends seemed to notice anything amiss right away.

  Bridget handed Valerie a waiting glass of cabernet and kept talking to Amanda, apparently about a doctor at work who had hit on her. “He actually said, ‘C’mon, all surgical nurses sleep around.’”

  “He didn’t!” Amanda said. She put down her glass and turned to Valerie. “How are you?” She pulled Valerie into a hug.

  Valerie remembered how she had embraced Amanda tight with her one free arm. When Amanda started to pull away, she pulled her friend back to her, squeezing her again.

  When they finally broke apart, Amanda looked into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Valerie didn’t even try to say, “Nothing,” because it wasn’t true, and both Amanda and Bridget would see that.

  She took a gulp of the cabernet. It tasted rancid. She put the glass on the counter and reached into Bridget’s cabinet for a water glass.

  When she turned on the faucet, Bridget said, “There’s filtered water.”

  Valerie said nothing in response, just filled up the water glass, drank it down, then filled it up again.

  She turned to her friends, glancing back and forth between them. Then her gaze rested on Amanda and stayed there. “Let’s go to the blue room.”

  November had just turned cold and Bridget had a fire going, as Valerie knew she would. Bridget had grown up on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and her family room looked more like a cabin in the woods than a Chicago apartment. The walls were painted Wedgwood blue, but the color was muted by the battered brown leather chair which sat to the right of the fireplace, a velvety couch, chocolate-colored ottomans, the wide-planked wood floors.

  Bridget took her seat in the leather chair as she always did, stopping to stoke the fire with a huge iron poker. Amanda and Valerie sank onto the couch, Amanda putting her feet on the old trunk that served as Bridget’s coffee table.

  They both looked at her.

  “What is it?” Amanda said.

  “Oh, God,” was the only thing Valerie could say. She stared into Amanda’s eyes.

  She had thought her tale would reveal itself in a rush, since it had been waiting and waiting in her mouth. She looked at Amanda, and found no words would come.

  “Hey!” Charlie bounded into the kitchen with a loud series of footsteps.

  I had heard the front door open while Valerie talked about that night at Bridget’s house, but I hoped it was my mom and she would quietly slip up the front stairs. Valerie had been absorbed in her words, telling me about Bridget and Amanda and how she had to tell them…something. What?

  She clearly hadn’t heard the door open.

  Now she flinched as Charlie entered the kitchen, looking at him in a fearful way.

  “Charlie, this is Valerie,” I said. “Valerie, my brother.”

  “Hey,” Charlie said again. He loped over to Valerie and shook her hand. She seemed to suffer the gesture.

  “So how do you guys know each other?” Charlie asked.

  “Valerie and I are working on something.”

  “Cool,” Charlie said.

  I knew, with Charlie’s inquisitive nature, that the next words out of his mouth would be a flurry of questions about what, exactly, we were working on. To distract him from talk about the trial, I searched my mind for a topic shift. “How’s work?” I looked at Valerie to explain. “Charlie has been working for a few months at WGN. You know, the radio station on Michigan Avenue?”

  She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head.

  “Yeah, I can’t believe how much I love it,” Charlie said. “But it’s exhausting. I mean today is my day off and I just got out of bed. I’ve been sleeping since last night at seven-thirty.” He opened the fridge. “I’m starving.”

  Valerie was silent.

  “You’re okay with being up early every day?” It still seemed o
dd—Charlie’s sudden devotion to his professional life.

  “It’s killing me, but the job is great.” He lifted a small roasted chicken and turned to us. “Do you realize that some people get up at 5:00 or 6:00 a.m. for work every single day for, like, twenty years?”

  I laughed. “Yes, Charlie. I do know that.”

  I looked at Valerie, thinking she might chuckle, too, but she stared at the table. Then she whispered, “I have to go.”

  And before I could stop her, she stood, muttered her thanks and left.

  26

  As soon as I got home, I went to my computer and typed in a search for Javier Solara. The first result that appeared was from Wikipedia.

  Javier Solara (c. 1944–1990) was convicted of the murder of Marilee Travis, 15, of Timsville, Illinois. Solara, a neighbor of the Travis family, became obsessed after Marilee began babysitting his daughter. After attempting to assault her in his car, he stabbed her repeatedly on a back road behind their homes. Solara was executed in Stateville Prison in 1990 by the State of Illinois by lethal injection at the age of 56.

  I sat there, thought about Valerie’s dad. It was just too strange.

  I called Maggie. “Did you know that Valerie’s father murdered some girl?”

  “What?”

  I told her the story.

  “Damn,” Maggie said. “Thank God the prosecution doesn’t seem to know. It’s totally irrelevant, of course, but I wouldn’t put it past them to try to introduce it anyway, just to draw a negative inference.”

  Just like I’d done today, at my mom’s. “Do you want me to write a motion in limine?” I asked. “To make sure they don’t mention it?” Limine is Latin for “at the outset,” meaning motions in limine are usually brought before trial to limit or prohibit certain testimony or exhibits.

  She thought about it. “No. Clearly, they don’t know, and I don’t want to put it on their radar.”

  “How’s Martin?”

  “They say he’ll be okay. They’re going to discharge him today. Actually, I gotta go, Iz. I’m at the hospital and I see my grandma coming out of his room now.”