Chapter 5
The interrogation room is cold and the metal table is bare. The district attorney sits across from me with a laptop in front of her. Her eyes are filled with determination. I feel like a frog that’s about to be dissected in biology class. I shiver and rub my arms. Maybe I should have taken a hoodie with me. I grimace as I peer down at the black ankle length casual dress and the white sandals. I look more dressed for a church service. But this is the most comfortable outfit that I own. Besides, I feel like me wearing my old clothes.
“Chelsea, describe your relationship with Adam Smith.” She gets right to the point, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
“It was very volatile. Adam was abusive both physically and emotionally,” I answer truthfully.
“Give me an instance,” she encourages softly. I wince when I think of when Adam had punched me in the face. Mom had asked me about the black eye. But I told her that it was none of her business. If only she had known. None of this would be happening.
“One afternoon, I went over his house to hang out. His video games were all over the living room floor. I wasn’t being careful and stepped on one of the disks and it cracked. He punched me in the face and called me stupid,” I tell her, a tear dripping onto the table top.
“Who did you tell?”
“Rain. She told me to leave him but I told her to go to hell. My cousin didn’t speak to me for two weeks.” The woman jots down some notes in her laptop and continues.
“How was Adam Smith emotionally abusive?”
“He called me stupid, useless and ugly whenever I turned him down. He was always mad that I didn’t want to go all the way.”
“Were you ever sexually involved with Adam Smith?”
“No. We only made out. I’m a virgin. I haven’t been with anyone,” I confess just to let the woman know that I did not sleep with anyone’s boyfriend.
“Tell me what happened on the night of junior prom,” she encourages.
“Adam and I were sitting at the table when Ivy approached. She showed me a video of Adam and her dry humping. I got mad and ran into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and hated myself for not being what Adam needed so I began punching the glass. It broke and I picked up a shard and slit my wrist,” I explain and the woman flinches. She hadn’t expected me to say what I did.
“Did Adam break up with you?” she asks.
“No. He was angry at Ivy. In fact, he tossed her iPhone against the wall hard enough for it to break,” I tell the woman and she nods.
“When did the two of you break up?”
“We never really verbally ended the relationship. It was more of an understanding. After I got released from the hospital, I didn’t make any effort to contact him and he didn’t call me,” I respond, finding that it isn’t easy talking about my past.
“How did the two of you come into contact again?”
“He saw me at the grocery store while I was buying snacks. Adam told me that we had to talk sometime. But I refused,” I said.
“What happened after that?” she inquires.
“The mugging.” The prosecutor makes me go over the mugging, and I cringe. To be honest, I had forgotten about the incident until today. I kind of wish that the prosecutor hadn’t brought it up.
“Did you see Adam after you were mugged?” she asks.
“Three weeks later, I stopped by his house. I was moving to Gately and wanted to bury the hatchet. We talked, made out, and Grandmother broke it up.”
“Did Adam tell you that he had gotten Ivy pregnant?” The surprise on my face catches the woman off guard. Pregnant? What is the woman talking about? Ivy wasn’t fat back then.
“No. He didn’t even mention it. This is actually my first time hearing about this.”
“So, you and Adam were back on?”
“Yes. We talked every day even though my grandmother had a theory that he was stealing from her,” I say.
“Why did she think that?”
“My cousin Tia claimed that she saw Adam and me making out by the pool. But she was mistaken.”
“Right. I believe that the Elmview police paid Mr. Smith a visit and checked him out. Tell me, how did you react to being accused of stealing?”
“I stormed off and had lunch with Peter. We went to a diner and we talked.” This line of questioning goes on and on. I tell her all about my romance with Peter and subsequent break up with Adam. I tell her about how Adam begged me for money and threatened Malcolm and his family. When I get to the part about Ivy attempting to stab Malcolm, the prosecutor holds up a hand.
“Did you mean to stab Adam?” she asks.
“No. It was an accident,” I admit, feeling stupid. If only I had been careful.
“Chelsea, I hate to ask, but were you in any way involved in your uncle’s plot to kidnap and kill your family?”
“No,” I respond, my intense gaze locking with hers. She has to know that I’m innocent. She makes me relive the horrible day. When we get to the part when I jump out of the Limo, I frown. I can’t remember anything that happened moments before my jump. The prosecutor frowns.
“Chelsea, according to your Uncle Kenny, you were having a fight with your father about your choices. Do you remember that?”
“No, are they going to ask me about that?” I ask.
“Probably. But you can’t answer a question about what you can’t remember. Chelsea, why did you jump?”
“It all was too much. I tend to hurt myself when things get too much for me to handle,” I respond. The woman nods.
“Do you by any chance know what gambling debts Adam inherited?”
“No. He was afraid and begged me for the money. But he didn’t mention who was shaking him down,” I say. The woman is clearly interested. She never had this piece of information. She must not have questioned Malcolm. Then again, why would she? The interview only came out two days ago. Her main focus had been interviewing me.
“Do you have any information to add?” she asks.
“No,” I respond. The prosecutor sighs and Detective Green enters the room. He’s still tall and imposing as ever. His kind- hearted partner isn’t here. I think that he’s going to interview me, but he gestures for me to stand. I follow suit and nearly fall back into my chair. During my sleep over last night, sleep alluded me. All of the drama that my parents are starting over Peter is becoming overwhelming. He shoots me a forced smile.
“The reporters are out there. Whatever you do, don’t make a comment,” he orders.
“But, Adam’s interview. He lied. Doesn’t the public need to hear the truth?” I ask.
“Save it for trial. We will present all of the information and the public will see that he’s full of it,” the man says. I don’t feel right about this. At least if people heard both sides of the story, they would have two sides to debate. I feel like by me not commenting, people will automatically assume that I’m guilty. In my gut, I know that someone believed Adam’s story and this person hates me. It’s amazing how far hatred can go.
“Okay, I won’t comment,” I force myself to say. Detective Green is after all the professional. He would know how to deal with this. We leave the interrogation room, walk down the hallway and exit through the back door. I guess the reporters have caught on to how I have been evading them because a group of them are blocking my path to freedom. Camera men stand at attention and reporters begin firing off questions.
Chelsea, is what Adam said true?” “Did you kill Otis Saint Paul and Vincent Philips?” “Are you being charged?” “Did you really abuse Adam Smith?” “Where have you been?” “How is your relationship with your family?” “Did you stalk Adam Smith?” “Are you still in love with Adam Smith?” “Did you get a lawyer?” The questions just hit me all at once. I want to move or say “No comment” but I just freeze up. All of these questions are uncalled for. I’m a victim not a criminal! Why did Adam do this to me? There is an answer somewhere. Maybe Carmen can figure it out for me.
“Chelsea,”
the detective prods as a microphone is shoved in my face.
“No comment. I have no comment at this time.” As soon as I say that, I receive skeptical looks and glares. The detectives order for the mob of press to disperse and they do. His sharp voice parts the sea of reporters and I walk down the concrete stairs to the convertible in the parking lot. I’m exhausted and don’t want to see my father right now. He’s not very nice and won’t give me any kind words. It may be wrong to say, but I sort of wish that he was in Minnesota. Life would be so much easier that way. After sliding into the car, I don’t bother messing with the top. Though the afternoon is sunny and hot, I don’t feel like rolling around with the top down. Maybe I should have had Bob drive me. That’s a laugh. He is out to get me. But still, I don’t think that I’m up to it. Having to recall all of those memories have drained me. As soon as I start the car, my cell rings. I hit answer without checking the caller ID and hear my father’s voice.
“Detective Green told me that you’re on your way home,” he says, his voice stern.
“And?” My words are hostile because he’s driving me nuts.
“Don’t be late for dinner. We’re having ribs,” he informs me without an ounce of warmth.
“I don’t plan on showing up.” He pauses and doesn’t say anything.
“Chelsea, we need to talk to you,” he says. “Come home, now.”
“Dad, I need a break from you. I’m not ready to talk.” I hear nothing but silence on the other end of the line. He clearly doesn’t know how to respond to that.
“Chelsea,” Mom pleads. “Please come to dinner. I haven’t seen you for months. I want to catch up. I…”
“The only way I’m showing is if it’s just the two of us, Mom,” I announce. The detective told me that Dad said something to me before I jumped. Instincts tells me that it was important. I need to hear those words again so that I can truly understand what happened.
“Chelsea, he’s your father. I can’t ask him not to come to dinner.”
“Choose. Either I sit with the two of you or hit a drive through on the way home,” I threaten.
“Chelsea, come home. I guarantee that neither your father nor I will be in your room,” Grandmother says, and I feel guilty. She thinks that I don’t want to talk to her.
“I don’t care if you’re there. I just don’t want to talk to him,” I hiss. The woman pauses then sighs.
“Your father and I will enjoy dinner in my quarters. Have fun with your mother.” Success. I tell Mom that I’ll be there in a few and drive home.
The police must have put some kind of restriction on the mansion. It’s blissfully free of the press. I roll down my window and enter the access code. As soon as the gate opens, I’m flying down the winding driveway. Not wanting Bob to handle my ride, I park it in the massive garage that stands behind the house. Eliza is hopping out of her Range Rover at the same time I slide out of the convertible. She winks at me.
“How did it go?” she asks.
“I think it went well. The press were outside waiting for me. Detective Green told me not to comment.” I’m still wrestling with that decision. Is it best to be tight lipped until the trial? What if the public assumes that my silence is proof that I’m guilty? Will they believe the evidence at trial? Maybe they will assume I’ve concocted a story that made me the victim.
“I went to the bridal shop today,” Eliza says, dragging me out of my head.
“Oh.”
“I had my last fitting today.” Her blue eyes are filled with joy and peace. I know that she’s trying to acquire an inheritance. Part of me wants to beg Eli to find another way. But this plan has been in motion long before I woke up from the coma. And besides, she doesn’t seem overly distraught about the arrangement. Nathan and Eliza love each other.
“How wonderful!” I exclaim, just to sound supportive. Honestly, things have been awkward between Eli and me. She keeps her distance emotionally. It’s almost like she’s afraid to get too close.
“I know. I wanted to put you in the wedding. But your mother told me that it would be too much for you. I…”
“If you wanted me in your wedding, you could have asked me. I would have let you know if it was. She has hit a sore spot. I personally don’t know how much more of this I can take. People can’t continue to treat me as though I can’t make any of my own decisions. Something’s got to give.
“Oh. Chelsea, I…”
“Why didn’t you e-mail me, Eli? Why didn’t you write any letters? You dropped me like a bad habit as soon as I left,” I point out, wanting the answer. Carmen had been there for me. Since she has a heavy work load, most of our communications were done through E-mail. Once a month, I would update her and she would tell me all about the fun things that she’s doing at NYU. She is proud that she got accepted to a college without anyone’s help. I’m proud that Carmen’s majoring in journalism. She will seriously make a good reporter someday. The best part of that is I know Carmen will report only the truth. Had she been in that reporter’s shoes, she wouldn’t have given a criminal like Adam Smith an interview. Knowing my cousin, she would have recorded an interview with the victim and the defendant. My attitude catches my cousin by surprise.
“Chelsea, look, I love you. You’re my cousin. But dealing with you is too much. You have to put yourself in my shoes. You tried to kill yourself. With everything going on… I don’t know. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with you,” Eliza confesses. She awkwardly jiggles the keys to her car and shifts from foot to foot.
“That’s fine, Eliza. At least I know now.” She’s confused by my easy acceptance. But really, I want to toss myself in my room and cry. She thinks dealing with me is too much. That hurts. I turn around and stiffly walk out of the garage and nearly plow into Bob. I’m so not in the mood to deal with him.
“Chelsea, your mother is waiting for you,” he says, his dark eyes shooting sparks of hostility.
“Move,” is the only word that comes out. The word is hoarse and my throat aches. Bob doesn’t bother commenting on my emotional state. He simply moves out of my way and I dash to the house.
Mom’s sitting at the round table, a glass of water in front of her. When she sees me, she glares. I fight the desire to jump into bed and go to sleep. Today has been filled with drama and heart ache. How could Eli say something like that? How could she leave me out like that?
“Chelsea, sit,” Mom sternly orders. Who does she think she is? I scowl at her before sitting in the chair across from her. Mom takes a sip of her water and slams the glass down on the table. Water droplets splashes onto the table. “Chelsea, I have no idea what has gotten into you. Your father is trying to help. We’ve both been really worried about you… And…”
“So you’re controlling my life?” I ask.
“Chelsea, I realize the error of my ways. I wasn’t involved in your life as much as I should have been. And I’m sorry for that. Your father feels the same way. That’s why we will have dinner with you every night. Think of it as bonding time.” Her eyes are filled with sincerity and it touches my heart. Mom is scared of losing me. She’s trying to prevent me from going off the deep end.
“Mom what…” The door opens and Sandra, the same maid from yesterday, rolls in a cart. She places two dishes of vegetables, steak, and garlic mashed potatoes in front of the both of us. I want to groan at the amount of green on my plate. The woman smiles at us then exits taking the cart with her.
“Why can’t I order my own meals?” I ask.
“We want you to start eating healthier, Chelsea. Studies show that if you eat healthily and work out, it can affect your mental state,” she tells me.
“Work out?”
“That’s one of the rules. You have to exercise every day. Your grandmother isn’t going to assign you a trainer, if you honor that request.” I cut into my steak and begin chewing. The food tastes like led. Or maybe it’s just that I’m so tired. Mom digs in with enthusiasm and tells me about the benefits of fit
ness between bites. I’m just relieved that we aren’t having a conversation about Peter. I don’t think that I can argue with her right now.
“Mom, can I ask you a question?” I ask, just because I really don’t want to bring this up.
“What is it, Chelsea?”
“What did Dad say to me before I jumped?” Her face goes pale and she looks as though she’s going to hyper ventilate.
“Chelsea, it doesn’t matter what he said. You're back. I think you two should try to get along for the sake of this family.” After she gives me a lecture, Mom stands and flees my room. I get a cold feeling in my stomach and have the feeling that whatever Dad said probably driven me over the edge. Is there another reason why Dad doesn’t want me to see Peter? As I prepare for bed, I know that I can’t put the trip to Elmview off for much longer.