4:30 PM
Eames and Goren watched their suspect from the observation room. She sat at the table, reading a book, legs crossed, making occasional notes in a stenographer's notebook. Concentrating on whatever task she was engaged in. Steady and calm.
"She's cool." Eames said. "What are you thinking?"
"She's the only one who makes sense but . . . she's a good actress. The only question is, what's she covering up?" HE tapped his finger against his lips. "I have to question her alone. You'll distract her, shake her up too much."
"That's what we usually want, right? They start making mistakes?"
"She won't make that kind of mistake. I need her to be thinking. The only way to convince her that she has no more options is to let her think them through to their . . . logical conclusion."
She looked up when the detective stepped in, then closed both books, placing them to her right and folding her hands on the table. She watched him, meeting his eyes only briefly before focusing somewhere on his left cheek. Goren closed the door and circled around behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of the title.
"Shakespeare for Idiots? As an actress, I would think you'd be above
all that?"
She had stiffened as he paused behind her, clearly not liking having a
stranger in that close proximity, but she answered steadily. "It's a novel. An acquaintance wrote it and someone's thinking of making a movie about it."
"A movie for you to star in?" He asked breathlessly.
She pursed her lips at his mocking of Hollywood enthusiasm. She might mock it herself, of course, but she at least knew something about it from the inside. Her voice had dropped a few degrees when she decided it merited an answer. "Mostly, I'm interested in helping to write the screenplay."
"A woman of many talents." He declared, circling the table and sitting directly across from her, slamming his own book on the table, then placing a stack of files beside it.. He leaned forward. "You helped write this, too, right? You finished it for your brother, after he died."
"I helped the editor put the final touches on it. It was complete when he died." Her voice was not annoyed or defensive; it was matter of fact, almost off-hand. The only wavering was at the word "died", hardly surprising. Her eyes kept moving. His eyes, his nose, her hands, the top left hand corner of the mirror.
Goren leaned back in his chair, flipping through the book. "I loved your brother's writing, so I bought this as soon as it came out. It's a great book. Smart, compelling, and only minimally voyeuristic." He glanced at her, looking for any reaction to the voyeurism remark. There was none. She was looking at him - his chin now - politely expectant. Either she was acting, or she was too well aware of the aspects of the genre to even be insulted by the remark. "I especially liked the personal preface, disclosing his own bias. Most things like that are self-pitying and whiny." He mimicked, "My childhood sucked, I deserve something to make up for it, boo-hoo."
She actually smiled at this. "Daytime TV at its worst."
"Exactly." He smiled, too, creating a moment of fellow feeling that was only partly a put-on. "He just lays a few sketchy details out there, says some of his own experience's parallel his subject's , including feelings of guilt at having left someone else - in his case, you - behind to suffer a worse fate."
She wasn't smiling now. Her eyebrows were drawn almost imperceptibly closer together, creating a small wrinkle at the bridge of her nose. Her eyes at stopped shifting and she was know contemplating his tie.
"But then he throws in that comment about having gone back for you. Saved you, in fact. It didn't fit with the rest of the preface."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Did you add it?"
She answered coolly, eyes still focused on his tie. "Yes. I wanted him," she paused and apparently rephrased. To be more precise, he thought. "It was how he should have remembered himself and it is how I want him remembered."
"You want to guard his memory?"
"I want to be sure the information out there is accurate." "I understand." He said hurriedly. "You want to be sure people can see him . . . in the best light. Control his reputation."
The last sentence was perhaps a mistake. Later, he would pinpoint its completion as the moment Amy realized exactly where he was heading. She knew before that she was a possible suspect, but she had been relatively relaxed, for her, as though she was thoroughly convinced that he had no coherent theory and thus lacked any real commitment to proving her guilt. Now she could see at least the beginnings of a plausible theory and it worried her.
That was not in itself incriminating. He would be worried if someone had begun to construct a theory of his guilt that walked and talked like it was plausible, even if it would ultimately prove false. To be accused is to be convicted in such cases.
"I don't . . . suffer the delusion that I can control anything beyond myself," she finally said softly.
"Of course you don't, of course." He stood again, making his way back to her side of the table. He pulled his chair beside her and straddled it, leaning too close to her. She stiffened again, but did not flinch away. She turned her head towards him. "That would be profoundly egotistical." He craned his neck, trying to get her to meet his gaze. She kept shifting her own, jaw clenching in annoyance. "You have trouble meeting my eyes," he observed slyly.
"It's a conditioned response to authority."
"Because of your parents? Did they not like it when you met their eyes?"
"They didn't like it when I woke up in the morning." She answered flatly. "Meeting their eyes just aggravated them."
"It made you more visible. That's why you sit so still." He nodded. "Trying not to offend, to become part of the background. And yet you're an actress. I find that curious. You're supposed to be very good."
"I work very hard."
"Still, it's an odd profession for someone who spends so much time trying to fade into the background."
"Not really." She paused, again choosing her words. "When my brother took me away, after my mother died, I was 11 and a total basket case. I couldn't express my own feelings or thoughts, verbally or otherwise. I went to therapists, but nothing helped until Claire, my brother's first wife, had me read a poem. It gave her the idea of drama. If I could express other people's feelings, she figured I could learn to express my own in ways people would understand."
"Makes it a little artificial, doesn't it?"
"All the world's a stage. We express things according to conventions and rules that have developed over time. It's called communication, it's necessary to order our world."
Eames and Goren watched their suspect from the observation room. She sat at the table, reading a book, legs crossed, making occasional notes in a stenographer's notebook. Concentrating on whatever task she was engaged in. Steady and calm.
"She's cool." Eames said. "What are you thinking?"
"She's the only one who makes sense but . . . she's a good actress. The only question is, what's she covering up?" HE tapped his finger against his lips. "I have to question her alone. You'll distract her, shake her up too much."
"That's what we usually want, right? They start making mistakes?"
"She won't make that kind of mistake. I need her to be thinking. The only way to convince her that she has no more options is to let her think them through to their . . . logical conclusion."
She looked up when the detective stepped in, then closed both books, placing them to her right and folding her hands on the table. She watched him, meeting his eyes only briefly before focusing somewhere on his left cheek. Goren closed the door and circled around behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of the title.
"Shakespeare for Idiots? As an actress, I would think you'd be above
all that?"
She had stiffened as he paused behind her, clearly not liking having a
stranger in that close proximity, but she answered steadily. "It's a novel. An acquaintance wrote it and someone's thinking of making a movie about it."
"A movie for you to star in?" He asked breathlessly.
She pursed her lips at his mocking of Hollywood enthusiasm. She might mock it herself, of course, but she at least knew something about it from the inside. Her voice had dropped a few degrees when she decided it merited an answer. "Mostly, I'm interested in helping to write the screenplay."
"A woman of many talents." He declared, circling the table and sitting directly across from her, slamming his own book on the table, then placing a stack of files beside it.. He leaned forward. "You helped write this, too, right? You finished it for your brother, after he died."
"I helped the editor put the final touches on it. It was complete when he died." Her voice was not annoyed or defensive; it was matter of fact, almost off-hand. The only wavering was at the word "died", hardly surprising. Her eyes kept moving. His eyes, his nose, her hands, the top left hand corner of the mirror.
Goren leaned back in his chair, flipping through the book. "I loved your brother's writing, so I bought this as soon as it came out. It's a great book. Smart, compelling, and only minimally voyeuristic." He glanced at her, looking for any reaction to the voyeurism remark. There was none. She was looking at him - his chin now - politely expectant. Either she was acting, or she was too well aware of the aspects of the genre to even be insulted by the remark. "I especially liked the personal preface, disclosing his own bias. Most things like that are self-pitying and whiny." He mimicked, "My childhood sucked, I deserve something to make up for it, boo-hoo."
She actually smiled at this. "Daytime TV at its worst."
"Exactly." He smiled, too, creating a moment of fellow feeling that was only partly a put-on. "He just lays a few sketchy details out there, says some of his own experience's parallel his subject's , including feelings of guilt at having left someone else - in his case, you - behind to suffer a worse fate."
She wasn't smiling now. Her eyebrows were drawn almost imperceptibly closer together, creating a small wrinkle at the bridge of her nose. Her eyes at stopped shifting and she was know contemplating his tie.
"But then he throws in that comment about having gone back for you. Saved you, in fact. It didn't fit with the rest of the preface."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Did you add it?"
She answered coolly, eyes still focused on his tie. "Yes. I wanted him," she paused and apparently rephrased. To be more precise, he thought. "It was how he should have remembered himself and it is how I want him remembered."
"You want to guard his memory?"
"I want to be sure the information out there is accurate." "I understand." He said hurriedly. "You want to be sure people can see him . . . in the best light. Control his reputation."
The last sentence was perhaps a mistake. Later, he would pinpoint its completion as the moment Amy realized exactly where he was heading. She knew before that she was a possible suspect, but she had been relatively relaxed, for her, as though she was thoroughly convinced that he had no coherent theory and thus lacked any real commitment to proving her guilt. Now she could see at least the beginnings of a plausible theory and it worried her.
That was not in itself incriminating. He would be worried if someone had begun to construct a theory of his guilt that walked and talked like it was plausible, even if it would ultimately prove false. To be accused is to be convicted in such cases.
"I don't . . . suffer the delusion that I can control anything beyond myself," she finally said softly.
"Of course you don't, of course." He stood again, making his way back to her side of the table. He pulled his chair beside her and straddled it, leaning too close to her. She stiffened again, but did not flinch away. She turned her head towards him. "That would be profoundly egotistical." He craned his neck, trying to get her to meet his gaze. She kept shifting her own, jaw clenching in annoyance. "You have trouble meeting my eyes," he observed slyly.
"It's a conditioned response to authority."
"Because of your parents? Did they not like it when you met their eyes?"
"They didn't like it when I woke up in the morning." She answered flatly. "Meeting their eyes just aggravated them."
"It made you more visible. That's why you sit so still." He nodded. "Trying not to offend, to become part of the background. And yet you're an actress. I find that curious. You're supposed to be very good."
"I work very hard."
"Still, it's an odd profession for someone who spends so much time trying to fade into the background."
"Not really." She paused, again choosing her words. "When my brother took me away, after my mother died, I was 11 and a total basket case. I couldn't express my own feelings or thoughts, verbally or otherwise. I went to therapists, but nothing helped until Claire, my brother's first wife, had me read a poem. It gave her the idea of drama. If I could express other people's feelings, she figured I could learn to express my own in ways people would understand."
"Makes it a little artificial, doesn't it?"
"All the world's a stage. We express things according to conventions and rules that have developed over time. It's called communication, it's necessary to order our world."