Page 19 of Fifty-Fifty

After biting through her wrist in the precinct, Sofia had spent a night in the hospital under NYPD guard. While her wrist didn’t look pretty, she hadn’t lost

that much blood – it always looks worse than it is. She didn’t need a transfusion, but the docs made sure there was no chance of hypovolemic shock. They pumped her full of isotonic fluids and antibiotics. Her wound stitched, stats level, she was deemed fit for discharge. I couldn’t speak to Sofia at the hospital, but I did get talking to the doc – a short, blonde woman called Dietrich. She had spoken to Sofia, and as far as she could tell this wasn’t a suicide attempt – this was an extreme reaction to the loss of her father and her arrest.

She was charged with murder and brought to court for arraignment at noon.

Bail wasn’t going to be a problem. Levy had done the work for me by getting Alexandra bail an hour before. The prosecutor, Wesley Dreyer, objected to bail

on the same grounds, but knew the judge would give them the same bail terms –

a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bond. Why make a new decision when you could

follow another? When the judge set bail for the same bond, Dreyer looked despondent. The prosecutor was a young man with an earnest look on his face.

He was slim, small, and neat. He chose his words carefully, took time to annunciate and project his voice. A diligent prosecutor is always to be feared.

Sofia posted bail.

She was out, but she wasn’t talking. She hadn’t said a word to me in the consultation before the bail hearing, just nodding her head. She had pleaded not guilty. When the hearing was over she disappeared back into the cells so she could be taken to the court office to wait until the bond was deposited and then she could sign bail for release.

I had waited for Sofia in the winter sun on Center Street, in the shadow of the Central Criminal Court building, and ate lunch at Mori’s hotdog stand, which bore a faded sign with my name and number on it. Behind me, the ragged stars

and stripes flapped in a light breeze.

I thought I heard a raven’s call, and then turned to see Sofia.

Sofia left the court building via the loading dock at the rear, avoiding the bank of photographers outside. She wore a black sweater, black jeans and cheap shoes, which I’d bought for her and left with the corrections department. The cops had taken her blood-soaked clothes from last night for forensics. I asked if she was alright. She nodded and we walked in silence to my car. I’d driven her

to her apartment without her saying a word. I pulled up outside, killed the engine and leaned back in the driver’s seat.

‘Let’s make a deal, Sofia. I’ll defend you, but I need you to try and keep things together. I don’t know how the trial is going to pan out. Not yet. We have to wait until we get all the prosecution’s evidence. I don’t want you to think about that yet. Just go home and rest for now. You’ll have a million questions for me in a day or two. Let’s meet then. For now, I have a friend who’s going to get you settled in, make sure you’re okay. Her name is Harper. Don’t worry, she’s not a lawyer. She helps me with cases, looks after witnesses, that kind of thing.’

Sitting on the steps outside the building with a brown paper sack beside her, Harper took her eyes away from her cell phone and nodded in my direction.

Sofia turned her head toward me and I saw the tears on her face. She wiped them away, drawing a pale hand over her shocking white skin. I thought of her sister, Alexandra: tall, tanned, and healthy. It was as if Alexandra had caught every drop of sun, and Sofia had lived all her life pale and hungry in the long, cold shadow of her sister.

‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself last night,’ she said.

I said nothing. It was the most I’d gotten out of her in hours. If she was going to talk, I wanted to listen.

‘I told that to the doctor at Saint Vincent’s last night. Sometimes pressure builds up – in my head. I have to let it out some way. I’m not suicidal.’

By way of explanation she yanked up her sleeves and let me see her arms.

The inside of her forearms were covered in thin scars. Some remained pink and slightly raised – still in their keloid state – while others were older and an even starker shade of white. The marks were lateral, across the arm, from just below the elbow to the wrist. Both arms. Hundreds of cuts. A few looked as though they had been deeper than others. The bandage on her wrist obscured some of the scarring.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. Thank you for helping me,’ she said.

Then she leaned forward, looking past me toward Harper.

‘Is she your girlfriend?’ asked Sofia.

At first, I didn’t know what to say. Sofia had a child’s directness – no bullshit – she told you exactly what she was thinking.

‘Ah, no, we’re just friends,’ I said, suddenly feeling my cheeks flood red.

We were friends, but every now and again I caught myself staring into Harper’s eyes or taking a moment to let her scent linger in my nose. When we

hugged, as friends, I had a strange feeling as she put her arms around me. My ex-wife, Christine, was in a new relationship and, judging by what little I could pick up from my daughter, Amy, it was going well. Christine was happy with Kevin. She was in a state of contentment that I could never give her.