The attorney bent to say something in his client’s ear, and his dad said, “No.”
Harlan would bet that wasn’t normal. His dad just wanted to cause trouble, to make this as hard as possible for everybody else.
The judge, a middle-aged, thin-necked guy with glasses who looked like an insurance adjuster whose only pronunciation of judgment would be whether your car was a total writeoff or not, read the familiar lines of the Miranda warning. And then came the charge. The words washed through the courtroom, and Harlan forced himself to listen to every one.
His mom deserved to be heard. She deserved to be avenged.
“… That the defendant, Axel Andreas Kristiansen, on or about October seventh … did willfully, unlawfully, deliberately, and with malice aforethought, kill and murder Nikki Layne Kristiansen, a human being, by choking her by the neck until she was dead …”
On and on, the words striking his flesh like the leather strap of that belt. The physical pain was the easy part. It was the malice in the hand wielding it that never left you.
Finally, it was over, and the judge asked, “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.” That voice was the same as always. Firm. Loud.
“Have you hired an attorney, or do you require one to be appointed for you?”
“I have an attorney,” his dad said. “Obviously. He’s sitting right beside me.”
A little stir at that, and the attorney saying something sharp and short. Probably regretting taking this case, except that murder would be good money.
A discussion about bail, then. The lawyer arguing for a bail reduction. Talking about his father’s ties to the community, about his lack of a criminal record, his property ownership, his solid-citizen reputation—Yeah, Harlan thought, other than murdering his wife, he’s a great guy—and on and on. By the time he’d finished, you wondered why the mayor hadn’t given Axel the keys to the city yet.
The judge said, “I’m not convinced, Mr. Kristiansen, that you’re not a flight risk. You have a wealthy son, isn’t that correct?’
Axel said, “Yes,” and then, reluctantly, “Your Honor.” His back, the orange scrubs printed with Burleigh County Jail in black, like a bizarre Halloween costume, was rigid.
How does it feel, Harlan wondered, to be the one with no power? I hope it burns.
The judge said, “Is your son providing funds for your bond?”
Harlan stood up. The judge glanced at him, and a bailiff took a step in his direction.
“Yes?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor,” Harlan said, “I’m the son. Harlan Kristiansen.”
“Yes?” the judge asked again.
His dad had turned to look at him. Harlan felt his eyes burning through him. His sisters’ presence, too, his grandparents, the weight of this place, of this day. Everything that had descended on all of them. Of a past he wanted to erase, and a house he wanted to burn to the ground.
And the shame of not loving his mother enough.
He said, “I want to say for the record that I’m not paying for any of it. The lawyer. The bail. Nothing. Not now, and not ever. He could still be a flight risk. I don’t know. I’d say anything’s possible, and if I were you, I’d look into it. But it’s not going to be because of me.”
His dad said, “You little son of a bitch.” Rising in his seat, his lawyer speaking urgently in his ear, another bailiff coming forward. The excited rustle in the remaining crowd, Harlan’s famous name making it through their private misery. The judge’s gavel. The judge’s voice, and, finally, quiet.
The judge said, “Request to reduce bail is denied. Bail is set at one million dollars.”
Harlan told his sisters, “Let’s get out of here.”
Maybe they’d arrest him for walking out while the judge was still talking. He didn’t care. He’d done what he had to do, but his dad was going to be getting out, and they needed to be gone before it happened.
Four hours later, and Jennifer was back on a jet. The plane was about two-thirds full of Annabelle’s possessions, her textbooks, and her shut-down, anxious, overwhelmed self. She was sitting in one of the front seats, watching a movie with headphones on.
Harlan asked Jennifer, once Annabelle had claimed her space, plugged in, and tuned out, “Should I be doing something different here? Talking to her, or something?”
“No,” she said. “I’m guessing she’s doing exactly what she needs to be doing. She’s seventeen. Old enough to decide for herself on some things, and not enough to have good judgment on others.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but which is which?”
“Ah.” She smiled tiredly. “That’s the question.”
“Want to go lie down? Flight time’s a couple hours, and there’s a couch back there.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” She yawned. “Work tomorrow. It has been a long weekend.”
She’d have asked him how he felt, she thought as she stretched out on the leather couch and pulled a blanket over herself, letting the plane’s vibration, the steady roar of the engines, rock her to sleep, but she was pretty sure she knew the answer. Completely overwhelmed. He couldn’t even put it all down once he got home, because he did have Annabelle with him. He had the faces of his sisters and his grandparents burned into his brain, too, when they’d found out that it could be months before they were allowed to bury what was left of their mother, until the defense’s experts had finished doing their own examination, and everybody was sure there was nothing left to get out of those bones. He had the knowledge that there was too much out there still undone. That their father would be back in his house, back selling his farm equipment, telling everybody that it was a mistake, and that some people would believe him.
She thought about it, saw the somberness of his face, looking out the window of the aircraft and seeing nothing but a blanket of gray cloud, then the moment when he caught her looking and smiled at her. In that moment, he wasn’t Harlan Kristiansen, NFL wide receiver and star. He was the man who’d asked her to stay with him, because he didn’t want to sleep alone.
For a night.
Another goodbye on the tarmac, a long, tight hug and no kiss, and nothing but a car and a driver to meet her. No luggage, just a plastic bag with a few items of clothing in it. And, somewhere, a couple of test tubes with labels on them that would decide whether she’d see him again or whether this was it, because anything else would be throwing her heart into a trash compactor and flipping the switch.
She didn’t want to care.
How could she not?
39
Not Eating the Lasagna
The last day of April, and it felt, finally, like spring was … well, not here, but like it might eventually show up. It had perversely decided to snow last week instead, but today, Jennifer had seen daffodils.
Saturday evening, and Dakota and Blake had come over for dinner. It wasn’t exactly the most professional way to ask your former boss for a job, but Blake hadn’t been in Wild Horse much. He and Dakota were mostly in Portland now, but they were in town for the weekend, and you had to grab your chances where you found them.