Chapter 44

Twenty Years Ago

As far back as I can remember, it was only Mama, my sister, and me. My father, a custodian at our local church, died shortly after I was conceived, from an aneurysm. I’ve always suspected my struggling parents never planned on having more kids, that I was an accident, but because Mama was devoutly Catholic, she gave birth to me.

My father left Mama with very little money. To make ends meet, she worked as a housekeeper for wealthy families who paid her well but overworked her. She was never home during the day—even on weekends because she made overtime on Saturday and Sunday. Hence, I was raised by my sister, who was twelve years older than me.

I loved my sister, Mabel. I thought she was the prettiest girl in the world. With her long blonde hair and lithe body, she reminded me of Cinderella. Even her beautiful singing voice reminded me of a Disney princess. I remember her reading me books and acting out all the parts…watching movies and TV shows with me in our rinky-dink Fresno apartment where we shared a tiny bedroom…and letting me snuggle in bed with her where she shared her dreams of going to Hollywood and becoming an actress.

“Em,” she told me, “one day, I’m going to be rich and famous, and you and Mama are going to live with me in my Beverly Hills mansion and have everything.”

Then, one day, when I was five, she left us to pursue her dream. Just like that. The next time I saw her I was almost six… her bodylying in an open casket at our church, next to the tiny casket bearing her newborn child. The little girl she never had the chance to name.

My sister, her face paler than I remember, was as beautiful in death as she was in life. I didn’t understand what had happened to her. And how could she have had a baby? I thought only married people had babies. I wanted Mama to explain everything to me, but she was too distraught to form words. I had never seen her, despite all the hardships she’d endured, sob. Let alone shed a tear. She was never the same after that day. A curtain fell and she went into a downward spiral.

The long hot summer came. Instead of going to work, every day Mama took me to this big, gloomy building in downtown Los Angeles where I sat next to her toward the front in these hard wooden pews. Mama told me to sit still and be very quiet. Dressed in my Sunday finest, my hair neatly braided, I thought it was some sort of church, thinking the gray-haired, bespectacled man in the long, somber black robe who strode into the room was a priest. Then, some fat guy in a too-tight tan uniform with a gold-star badge cried out, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Harold Williams.” But after we took our seats again, there were none of the pretty psalms and songs that filled the parish when we went to Sunday mass. And I was the only kid there. I had no idea what was going on.

Over the next couple of months, two men questioned a lot of people, mostly women, and argued in front of the bogus priest, who sat behind a gigantic raised desk called a bench (though it didn’t look anything like a park bench), using big words I didn’t understand.

One was tall, lanky, and handsome. His salt-and-pepper hair gelled back. Always dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit, the kind my mother’s clients wore, and a shiny, dark tie tucked inside his vest. His name was Arthur Holbrook. My sister had a word for men like him. Slick. So, in my head, I called him Mr. Slick.

The other was short, paunchy, and balding, dressed day after day in a rumpled suit, his tie always crooked. His name was Joseph DeVito. My sister would have called him a shlump, a funny word a friend taught her, so in my head I called him Mr. Shlumpy.

Slick and Shlumpy.It sounded like a Nickelodeon cartoon.

I soon found out this was a court of law, not a church, that this was a trial not a worship gathering, and that those two argumentative men, who sometimes seemed like actors to me with their theatrics and booming voices, were lawyers. And those people sitting in a gallery to the left of us were members of the jury—not a choir—and would be deciding the fate of the scary-looking man in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, who, day after day, sat next to one of the lawyers. Mr. Slick, the well-dressed one.

Once, the man in the orange jumpsuit stared at me. I’d never seen eyes so green except for those of the evil witches in Disney movies or those spooky black cat Halloween decorations. They looked like they could eat me. I’d never been so frightened by anyone in my life. That night I had a horrible nightmare where an ugly monster with orange scales, glowing green eyes, and long, sharp fangs came after me. I woke up screaming, wishing I could climb into my sister’s bed and have her comfort me. Mama didn’t hear me. She was sound asleep. Almost comatose. By this time, her depression had overtaken her and she’d resorted to sedatives and alcohol. Yet each day in the courthouse, she sat as sober as a judge. Well, almost.

Every day in front of me sat another woman. Unlike my mother, who sometimes came to court disheveled and fraught with emotion, this woman sat as rigid as a rod and was always composed, well-dressed in ladylike suits, and perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place. Once, when Mama was on a bathroom break, she looked over her shoulder and talked to me.

“What’s your name, little girl?”

“Marlena,” I replied hesitantly, remembering Mama always told me never talk to strangers.

She nodded. “What pretty eyes you have.”

People had always complimented me on my eyes. They were unusual. The color of amethysts, my birthstone. I’d just turned six in February. Mama always told me to thank someone who gave you a compliment, so I did.

Then she told me she had a daughter—a few years older than me—and commented on the cute doll I was holding. The one that came with me every day to court.

“What’s her name?” she asked. Before I could tell her she was a Baby Reborn doll, a gift from one of Mama’s rich clients, my mother returned. She narrowed her eyes at the pretty lady, who abruptly turned around and faced forward.

Sitting back down beside me, Mama scolded me, “Don’t you ever talk to that woman.” I’d never heard her speak in that tone of voice before. It frightened me. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned the woman was the wife of the man in the orange jumpsuit.

The trial went on throughout the summer. One day, in late August, just before school started, Mama was called to the witness stand to testify. Though haggard, she’d bought a new dress from an upscale thrift store and looked pretty. The lawyers took turns asking her a lot of questions, and one of them—Mr. Slick, who always sat next to the man in the orange jumpsuit—produced a letter, handwritten by my sister. “Exhibit B,” he called it.

I listened as he read it. As he did, I heard my sister’s animated voice in my head, though he sounded nothing like her.

The letter talked about how scared she was in the dark basement where she was seated and penning the letter. She could hear a girl screaming and saw a rat skitter by. And when she went to the bathroom, there was blood in the toilet. Lots of it! She told Mama how much she loved me and wanted her never to forget the man who did this to her. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but Mama burst into tears and began crying in front of all the people in the courtroom. She looked so sad. So broken.

“And who is the man your late daughter is referring to?” asked Mr. Slick. “To quote…‘the man who did this to me.’” He looked her in the eye. “My client, the esteemed Dr. Yzak Milov?” Then pointed at the man in orange.

Mama wiped her tears with a hanky and shook her head. “No. My daughter was referring to the man who got her pregnant…Edward Sinclair II. Ned for short.”

As soon as she said it, that name was branded on my brain. I told myself I would never forget it.

“Is this Edward Sinclair in any way related to the actor-slash-director Edward Sinclair and his wife, actress Isabelle Laurent?”

“Yes. He is their only son.”

The spectators in the courtroom gasped as did the jury.

The other lawyer, Mr. Shlumpy, leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, objection! I don’t see how this line of questioning is relevant.”

The judge banged his hammer. I learned it was called a gavel. “Objection overruled. Counsel, please continue.”

Mr. Slick went back to questioning Mama.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He tugged at his tie. “Mrs. Mann, what did this Ned Sinclair do?”

“He was a fourth-year student at USC. A senior.”

“I see. How did he and your daughter meet?”

“They met at a bar close to the university where my daughter was waitressing. She had just moved to Los Angeles to pursue her dream of becoming an actress.”

“And what happened?”

“He brought her to his dorm room and had sex with her.”

“Was it forced?”

“No, it was consensual.” Another word I didn’t understand.

Mr. Slick continued to pace, his hands in his pockets. “For how long did Mr. Sinclair—Ned—continue to see your daughter and have sex with her?”

“A month.”

“And what happened?”

“My daughter got pregnant.”

“How old was Mr. Sinclair at the time?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And your daughter?”

“She was seventeen…a virgin.”

“Why didn’t you or your daughter report him?”

“I—I don’t understand your question.”

“She was a minor. In the state of California, having sex with a minor is considered statutory rape. A felony.”

I memorized the big words in my head. Virgin.Statutory rape. Felony. Maybe I’d ask my new teacher what they meant, I thought to myself as Mr. Shlumpy, the other lawyer, jumped up from his seat.

“Objection, Your Honor. I don’t know what this has to do with the charges brought against the defendant.”

Mr. Slick looked up and met the judge’s narrowed eyes. “Objection overruled. Please proceed, Mr. Holbrook.”

Mr. Shlumpy sat back down. He didn’t look happy.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Mr. Slick, redirecting his attention to my mother. She squirmed in her chair and wrung her hands.

“Mrs. Mann, why didn’t you tell your daughter to abort the baby? It was early on in the pregnancy, correct?”

“Yes…but like me, she was a devout Christian and wanted to keep it.”

“Did you approve of that decision?”

Nodding, Mama tugged at the rosary-bead necklace around her neck. The silver one she wore every day with the dangling locket. “Yes. I wanted the baby as much as she did.”

“Did your daughter confront Mr. Sinclair?”

“Yes. She knew where he lived.”

“Did she tell him she was pregnant with his baby?”

“Yes, but he wanted nothing to do with her…or it.”

“Did she ask him for financial help?”

“She did, but he refused. She persisted. Finally, he gave her a check for five thousand dollars—it was written out to cash by his father.”

My mother fiddled with her locket. Inside it was a photo of her with my sister. “He told her that if she ever contacted him again, he’d make sure that she never worked in this town…that he’d do everything in his power to ruin her acting career if she didn’t leave him alone.”

Mr. Slick clapped his hands together. “So, let’s jump forward, Mrs. Mann. Tell me about your daughter’s pregnancy.”

Mama’s eyes grew misty. She picked at a hangnail. “It was very difficult and she was scared she was going to lose the baby. I begged her to come home, but she wanted to stay in LA. She was up for some acting roles.”

“Did your daughter see a doctor?”

“Y-yes,” Mama stuttered. “She was referred by a friend to a doctor who ran a clinic in Riverside County who could help high-risk, low-income pregnant women like her…who didn’t have medical insurance.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Yes. Dr. Yzak Milov. That man!” Tears forming in her eyes, she pointed at the man in orange, who looked at her blankly. She jumped to her feet.

“Murderer!” she shrieked, her lips quivering.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Mann.” Shaking, Mama did as he asked.

I clung to my Baby Reborn doll as I watched Slick swagger back to the spot where he always sat and collect a Ziploc bag. Exhibit C. He withdrew a photo and told Mama it was a headshot of Edward Sinclair II.

“Do you see this man here today?”

Mama looked up and scanned the courtroom. Suddenly, the double doors to the courtroom burst open. In strode a handsome young man in an elegant suit who looked like a movie star. Everyone turned to look at him. Including me and Mama.

The court rumbled. The judge banged his gavel and roared, “Order in the court!”

The court quieting, Mama looked back down at the photo and gasped. She clasped a hand to her mouth and, with the other, pointed at the man.

“Oh my Lord! That’s him!”

Mr. Slick broke into a smarmy smile.

“Now, wouldn’t you say that’s the real murderer? The man who impregnated your daughter. The monster who paid her off and deserted her…let her be mutilated. Edward Sinclair II?”

Mr. Shlumpy vehemently objected. Spittle sprayed from his mouth.

“Objection sustained,” said the stern judge. “And the jury will strike that question from the record.”

My gaze stayed on the handsome young man as he took a seat in the back of the courtroom. A smirk crossed his lips as his eyes burned into mine.

I swore I would never forget him.

And never forgive him.