Chapter 8: The Weight of Twenty Witnesses
The assault charge against Adrian was filed on a Friday.
Patricia called me while I was at my desk at work, and I stepped into the hallway to take it.
"It's done," she said.
"Felony domestic violence.
The DA's office accepted the case this morning."
"The witnesses?"
"Fourteen of the twenty people present that night have given statements.
Three of them — including Adrian's own cousin — confirmed the sequence of events in detail.
The medical report, the 911 recording, and the responding officers' accounts are all consistent." A pause.
"Claire, this is a strong case.
Adrian's attorney is already talking about a plea, which tells you everything you need to know about how strong it is."
I looked through the glass door at my colleagues working inside.
Normal afternoon.
Someone was laughing at something on a screen.
"What about the foundation?" I asked.
"Dr.
Marsh's full report went to the DA's office and a copy was forwarded to the IRS Criminal Investigation division this morning.
The FBI has been notified.
This is moving faster than I expected, which means the records Maya provided were more complete than anyone anticipated." She paused again.
"Charles's personal attorney — not Fosse, a different one — contacted my office this morning.
He did not offer a settlement.
He asked for a timeline."
"What does that mean?"
"It means Charles is trying to understand how much time he has before the formal inquiry begins.
He's not fighting anymore.
He's calculating."
I thought of him at the head of the table.
Both hands flat.
The wineglass finally set down.
"And Fosse?"
"The bar association has been notified of the witness intimidation.
That is his problem now, not ours."
After I hung up, I stood in the hallway for a moment.
Through the glass, I could see the ordinary afternoon continuing without me.
I had been standing outside of ordinary for eleven days now, and I was not sure when I would step back into it, or whether the version I stepped back into would look the same.
My phone lit up.
Maya.
*Daniel came home last night.
He wants to talk to me.
I don't know what he knows.*
I called her immediately.
"Are you safe?" I asked.
"Yes.
He's not — he's not like Adrian.
He's never been like that." Her voice was careful.
"He looked at me for a long time and then he said he needed to understand what I knew and when I knew it.
And I told him everything."
"How did he respond?"
A long pause.
"He cried," she said.
"He sat at the kitchen table and he put his face in his hands and he cried." Another pause.
"He said he knew the foundation numbers were wrong.
He said he told his father two years ago that something needed to be fixed.
He said Charles told him it was being handled." Her voice was very quiet.
"He believed him."
"Maya—"
"I know.
I know what that sounds like.
But Daniel — he is not his father, Claire.
He has spent his whole life trying not to be his father and I think he has been so afraid of becoming him that he looked away from things he should have looked at." She stopped.
"I'm not excusing it.
I'm just telling you what I saw in his face last night."
"What is he going to do?"
"He's going to cooperate," she said.
"He called his own attorney this morning.
Not Fosse.
Someone new." A breath.
"He said if his father has been doing what those records show, then he needs to answer for it.
He said he was sorry he didn't say that two years ago when he had the chance."
I sat with that for a moment.
"How are you?" I asked.
"I slept last night," she said.
"For the first time in a long time, I actually slept."
After we hung up, I went back to my desk.
I opened my laptop.
I did my work.
At six o'clock I closed it, put on my coat, and walked out into the evening.
Diane had invited me for dinner.
Nothing special — pasta, a bottle of wine, her dog underfoot.
I had said yes without hesitation.
On the way there, my phone rang.
Adrian.
I looked at the screen for two full rings.
Then I forwarded the call to Patricia's voicemail and put the phone in my pocket.
He had nothing to say to me that I needed to hear.
May you like
Whatever he wanted to offer or threaten or explain, the time for it had passed at a dinner table eleven days ago, the moment he picked up that plate.
I walked the rest of the way to Diane's in the cold evening air, and I did not think about him again.
