To: Todd Lancaster

From: Lisa Frank

Re: Audrey Bierman Discovery Petition

Todd—I have looked over the latest materials the DA sent you. You must be desperate! Are you sure this is everything? As you know, I scoured the depositions and interrogatories last week, and Phil has my report on those. Did you guys even talk to each other?  How are you planning to defend Mrs. Bierman? Given the physical evidence, I do not see how these new materials will substantially help your case. The crime scene audio in particular cuts to the bone. She as much as admits she killed LaTonya Simmons.

I am returning everything you sent me, having done my best to sort everything into chronological order—only the transcripts were dated—and added my notes, which for the most part you will not like. If you are looking to establish diminished capacity for Mrs. Bierman, you owe me a steak dinner. Organizing those notecards was a nightmare! It’s clear now what torture it must have been for her to live with her wacko husband. I have no doubt you will agree I’ve worn my forensics hat rather well.

However, in all the discovery consults I have given Pate & Lancaster over the years, this may be the least promising. The crime scene forensics are damning. Mrs. Bierman’s fingerprints were on the knife, and LaTonya Simmons’ blood was on her skin and clothing, consistent with the effects of multiple violent stabbing thrusts. The gun was her husband’s, and Mrs. Bierman’s fingerprints were among the four sets pulled from the bloody handgrip.

The police have ignored the other prints, and there you may have an opening. LaTonya’s older son Carl Jr. may at one time have had possession of the gun, right up to the time of the murders. If he can be found, you could make the case that it was Carl Jr.—and not Audrey—who shot Brad Bierman. There was a history there, detailed in Brad Bierman’s notecards, best described as ideas for stories or some kind of novel, drawn from his job as a social worker. You’ll need to snoop around the neighborhood, if there’s time before the trial start date. In Exhibit 4, I’ve highlighted a short section in yellow. Not much, but it’s a thread to pull on. What have you got to lose?

Despite our best efforts, Audrey Bierman is probably going to be found guilty of one murder, diminished capacity or no. And without any sensible alternative explanation, probably two. Your chances of getting a postponement from Judge Barkley are slim to none, at this late stage. I feel like a drowning woman flailing for a life preserver that has not yet been thrown. And there you are, thinking I am your life preserver!

Good luck with your final preparations. As always, should you want me to join your team in an advisory capacity as you move forward, I am always agreeable.

Yours truly.

Lisa

Lisa Frank Consulting

1.

[13 4x6 white note cards handwritten one side each   1-7 recovered in bureau drawer at crime scene 1-7 w/prints of Victim A and Accused   8-13 from top drawer in Victim A’s office]:

[1] Francine was on the front stoop of the 3-flat she lived in, across from the projects, calling for her ten-year old son to come home, when she heard a scream coming from inside her apartment. She had left her three-year-old in the kitchen.  She ran inside and he was still screaming, standing next to the sink, holding his face, and blood was spilling out from between his fingers.  She didn’t call 911. Instead she wrapped his face in a towel and carried him, like, eight blocks to the Midtown Hospital ER. I think it should be eighteen blocks, more dramatic. An ER admitting nurse called me. I was at home, with my wife. But, true to form, I left her and went to the ER.

[2] The hero’s a social worker. Like me. Sad stories every day. Horror stories. If I didn't write this stuff out, I'd need therapy for sure.  My clients all live in the projects. They don't tell me what they're feeling—I'm not the person they share innermost feelings with.  I'm the action guy. Check late?  I follow up. Lazy landlord?  I sic the Fire Department on him.  Old man harassing you?  I help you get a restraining order. I fix up what's messed up.  I'm the nails and boards.

No real names, that’s my rule.  I just listen to their tales of woe, and the story names come to me.  Not that if they ever read my stories, they wouldn’t be able to guess. These are not dumb people, just—it’s like this: Have you ever woken up in the morning feeling exhausted, and you say to yourself “just five more minutes, and I’ll get up,” and you fall back asleep and don’t wake up for another hour?  That’s what my clients’ whole lives are like.

[3] Clients are very factual with me. They don't want my sympathy.  They want results.  For poor people, sympathy is a precursor to disappointment. For everyone else, it’s the other way around.

Sometimes I have to break a family up. In my office the default rule is to get kids put in foster homes; if you want to be politically correct, that’s what you do. It’s all about the kids.  Me? I’ve seen some twelve- or thirteen-year-olds could give a committed terrorist some pause. They come into my office and I keep my gun drawer open and my hand on the butt of my 9mm.

Todd—no doubt the same 9mm found in the Bierman’s apartment!

[4] My wife thinks I am crazy to keep doing this after ten years. She was hoping I'd have evolved—her word—but she knows as long as writing works as an outlet, I'll continue the good-deed life.  She thinks I need to work with people less fortunate than me, that I am awkward and quiet when we’re with people like ourselves. She’s right. I'm drawn to people who have nothing, or little more than nothing.

Anyway, about Francine. And Ben—the social worker. Freddy is Francine’s ten-year-old boy. And Michael is the three-year-old—his real name. I’m breaking my rule with him. Why can’t I think of a make-up name for him? Why is it so hard? Maybe because of what happens to him. I’ll find a name when I finish the story.

[5] So I got to the ER and the docs were stitching up Michael and I asked a nurse how bad is it and she said “critical” and I strung a bunch of curse words together until I was interrupted by the admitting ER nurse who had placed the call to me. In the story, I am not going to have Ben curse. He will be more stoic, more resolute. More of a contrast to the people he works with. Anyway, the nurse told me because the police would be arriving any minute to investigate. Francine requested I be called, but hospital staff are required by law to notify the police of any suspected child abuse.

[6] I found Francine outside the curtained-off bed where Michael was being worked on. Her arms were folded across her midsection, pressed against her body. I asked her how was Michael. “I dint do nothing!” she said, unfolding her arms but clenching her fists. “What I gotta do? Lock up them knives?”

I kept my distance. I told her I would stay with her when the police asked their questions. She nodded and smiled, but said nothing. She made no attempt to look in on her boy.

“Where’s Freddy?” I asked.

“Who fuckin’ knows?” said Francine. “I axed them men when I come here. What else could I do? I brung the boy here, dint I?” I did not ask her who them men was.

[7] Something in me wanted to hold her until she began crying, which is what I knew I should have done. When people are angry, they’re just creating a hard shell over something soft and vulnerable. I felt that if she didn’t soften, she would break—but I could not bring myself to do the one human thing that was needed. Fact was, she repelled me at that moment. With her words, her actions, her self-centeredness. And I didn’t believe her.

In my story, Ben will hold her, and she will soften. And she will cry. And Michael will live. I’m not a believer in the Greek-type tragedies, where everyone dies and the Gods are honored. Or even some of Shakespeare where close to everyone dies. In the story, Michael will live and Francine will die. I don’t know how yet. Some writers know from the start—they know how to tell a story so that it makes sense, more sense than real life.  That’s what I want. That’s what I need.  That’s what everyone needs.

[8] I imagine what Francine might have been feeling. She—like most of the people in that neighborhood—is a complex tangle of emotions and unresolved conflicts. How can anyone possibly uncover a person’s original intent, hidden by such a state of confusion? That’s why I had to invent Ben. When he acts, he creates an understanding in the reader.  Real life, when you look at it closely, never quite gels on its own. You have to shape it into stories so you can keep on living.

[9] Francine should have been devastated. She should have been crying. In the story she will be, and Ben will hold her. Me—I’m a coward, I know it. She was wounded and needed care, but I stepped back, away from the ugliness she projected. But the story I want to tell isn’t about actual stuff that happened.  You read a newspaper for that.  It's a story about feelings.  I’m projecting, but I think I understand my clients pretty well. I am pretty empathetic. I can sense things. Read the opening sentence of the story.  It sets the tone.  I’ve been crafting it for days: “The knife was too pretty, too dangerous, too available for Michael to resist.”

[10] Sense of foreboding, eh?  I wait to introduce Francine. “She was partial to flowered dresses. ‘Folks tell me I shouldn't wear flowers in the winter,’ she says. ‘But I find a way.  Flowers make me feel pretty.  I never got rid of a flowered dress yet. I keep my size, I don't eat stupid, and I fix up what gets worn.’  Francine was wearing her begonia sundress that evening, which had attracted the attention of the three men from across the street.  She knew all three.  They were sweet and out of work. She called out for her older son and waited. She couldn't see him, but he had to be in the neighborhood.  She waited.  She leaned over the railing of the front porch of her apartment building.  The three men were staring at her.  She had a terrific figure—”

[11] Being sexy doesn’t of itself make Francine a sympathetic character. In her sexiness, there is a toughness. When I visit her apartment, when I sit with her on the front stoop, she flirts with the same three men, especially Carl. He must have fathered half-a-dozen kids in this neighborhood. I know nothing for sure, though.  I'm not the type to pry.  I empathize.  I surmise.  Maybe if the three men weren't always there walking up and down the street, she might have spent less time on the stoop. Maybe Carl is Michael’s father. What a mess, eh?  With fiction, life’s a lot less messy.  (Note: make Francine the victim of rape when she was a child. Age twelve. Might actually be true! She seduces Ben in his office, and they begin an affair, but not because he needs the sex, but because Francine needs the love.)  Not that I haven’t thought about it myself! Ha!

[12] Damn, I have been so busy writing. The cops are here. They are walking Francine into an empty room nearby. I catch Francine saying:

“How could I go off lookin’ for one boy when I got another boy home?”

One of the two policemen has a tape recorder. I am distracted by a doctor and two nurses who rush by me into the curtained-off area where Michael is being worked on.

In the story, Michael will live. And Francine will die. That’s the way it should be, and that’s why lots of stories get written or told—to make things right. Say I include the bit where she is flirting with the three men, bending over the railing of the stoop, wearing her flowered dress and showing cleavage. They want her. Which is what she wants—more than to be a mother. Which is why the boy has to live. There's enough senseless tragedy in the world.  Why add to it?

[13] Ben should be assigned Francine's case just a few weeks before the incident.  He’s a veteran, overloaded, but eager to help. Her spirits are buoyed.  He's a hard worker.  He cares. He's not one of those burnt-out caseworkers she has seen enough of.

2.

[2 typed pages    Edited transcript of interview with LaTonya Simmons   6-6-09   Officers Bulger and Convito Northwestern Hospital    5:53pm—6:32pm]:

[1]Bulger: What is your son’s name?

[2]Ms. Simmons: [Standin’].

3.

[16  4 x 6 yellow notecards    lined   paper-clipped together    Found in victim A’s  sports jacket   Victim A’s prints    Two other sets of prints   unidentified   No blood or residue]:

Todd—Victim A is Brad Bierman. Victim B LaTonya Simmons.  

[1] I’ve been real Francine’s caseworker for over a year. I think I know her as well as anyone can. These relationships are intense, and although emotional involvement is considered unprofessional, it happens. Ben should be quicker than I was to pick up on the problems. Ben can’t have the affair with Francine, though, because what would that say about his principles?

He should be tempted, though. She is aggressive sexually. She is aggressive, period.

Real Francine clammed up after the first interview with the cops in the hospital. She wouldn’t talk to anyone, not me, not her court-appointed lawyer. After I left, she bolted from the hospital, and I heard she was in County an hour later. Then somebody bailed her out just a few hours later, about the time the DA upped the charges from abuse of a minor and battery to murder, and as of right now, nobody knows where the real Francine is.

Todd—Who bailed her out? Carl?

[2] I will have her open up to Ben. It’s better if the lead character is complex; no one is all bad or all good. I cannot think of anything positive to say about Francine, though, so I will have to be creative! Ben should see something good in her, worth trying to save, if she were a good—a nurturing—mother, but I never saw signs of it. In the hospital, tears will well up in Ben’s eyes when he looks at Michael; Francine will be numb with fear. Ben will comfort her in the hospital, which I couldn’t do. It’s a better story.

[3] Later, down the hall from the E.R., Ben phoned his wife, to explain why he wasn’t home.  She reacted with sarcasm and a long sigh. "This is not the best way to get to know people," she said. Ben could imagine that her eyes were closed and that his wife might even be doodling on the phone pad, spelling out D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Once last year he had seen those letters impressed on the pad next to the phone, the telltale sheet itself having been torn off the top. "It is what it is," replied Ben. “People need me.” I wonder if Audrey suspects. What name for Ben’s wife? Something old-fashioned, like Cora? Light, like Winnie? Grace! That’s it!

[4] Grace. Grace is Ben’s wife. She sees things very objectively and loves her husband.  He carries home his hurt, and that in turn hurts her.  From the child to the mother to the social worker to the social worker's wife.  And to the reader. The hurt spreads, it radiates, ripples outward.  Then the ripples gradually smooth, and the surface is calm again.  Nice metaphor. Is it necessary? No. But quality writing has those elements, doesn’t it?

Ben should be blind to the fact that he is burnt out.  He's like those adrenaline junkies, bungee jumpers and windsurfers and the like, who risk their lives performing dangerous stunts for camcorders.  He’s attracted to lost causes the same way. And also the hurt. He really believes he can make the hurt go away, he can make things better. It’s an addiction! And a tragic flaw!

Note—Jesus, now I’m starting to feel bad for the guy.

[5] Creating the past for Francine: From a circus family. Father a high-wire performer from Hungary. Mother African royalty. Met in Switzerland when the circus came to Lucerne. She ran away with him. From age 6 to 13, Francine trained to be a contortionist. Too obvious? Then, her father died in a fall during practice—one of the guy wires was unsecured and the main wire sagged. It happened in in Saratoga, N.Y., and since her mother was not officially a member of the circus, or a performer herself, Francine and her mother were left in the U.S. when the circus folded up and went back to Europe. They moved to Chicago to live as undocumented immigrants, with cousins, but within a year her mother had abandoned her. She became a prostitute at 16. Single mother at 17. You can’t tell me that isn’t a great backstory!

[6] Clients tell all sorts of stories. For the same reason I do. To feel better about themselves. They are good storytellers. It’s easy to be seduced. I stopped trying to get real Francine to stick to one story, but the truth is, I didn’t know if all the stories were lies, or if some of them were true; I only knew that they couldn’t all be true. Even now, I can’t tell what part of the background story is real and what I made up. That’s sad. But I can use that. If she tells many stories about herself, she’ll seem more tragic, because characters seem more tragic if they are self-aware. They can’t be saved by their own insight.

[7] Ben is sensitive to Francine’s fragile hold on reality. Which is just me wondering how she does it, with all the hurt she lives with. Ben will have the strength to act, to persevere, uncomfortably aware of how stable his own life is compared to hers. He should feel humbled by her acceptance of the daily horrors she endures. In Greek tragedy, she’d perform a heroic act before she dies, but I can’t see that in my story. She hasn’t got it in her. Ben does, however. Towards the end, there should be a scene like this:  “Leaving the hospital with her three-year-old in a wheelchair—he looks like a doll, stiff legs sticking out parallel to the ground, arms hanging limp by his sides—Francine spies her friend Ramona entering the E.R.  Great name, Ramona! Her son LeVon—let’s make him twelve—is being brought in on a stretcher.  His arms and legs are strapped down. Francine snaps out of her stupor.

[8] “Oh my God, Ramona, oh my God," she screams. Or something like that. The two women hug. LeVon isn’t really injured. He’s been shot with a stun gun! I’ve never read a story with that in it.

[9] They are in the ER to remove the little metal probes. Ramona says, "I wish they'd a shot him for real. Put me outta my misery.”  That’s how bad it can get in Francine’s neighborhood. I’ll have Ben console Ramona too. (It’s all about timing!)  He's been signing insurance forms for Francine because evidently her ex-husband had taken her off his policy. (Everyone can relate to that!) Ramona can add, “And right now it's easier to hurt than to worry."

[10] “Easier to hurt than worry.” That could be the title! But what really happened was, Francine said she needed to get “some air” and could she and I go outside, and on the way out I saw Carl speaking with one of the policemen. In the story, she is never sure who the father is. That’s sadder. As I rounded the corner, I could see those other two guys, the ones Carl was always hanging around with in front of Francine’s stoop. They were probably gangbangers, and you don’t mess with gangbangers, but I asked if they knew where Francine’s’s older boy was, and when I turned around, she was gone.  Michael died an hour later.

[11] Write that the little boy’s screams must have caught the ear of the three men hanging around her porch. That’s good. Francine had to wrap him up and take him to the ER after she realized the three men had been outside her apartment when it happened.  They don’t know what really happened, but she didn’t know that they didn’t know. That’s a believable coincidence. Sometimes real life doesn’t work in fiction, though. In good writing, the reader has to feel what you want him or her to feel, is what my writing teacher in college said. Real Francine is cold, calculating. Desperate. She stuck a kitchen knife in her son’s neck and ripped it sideways. In the story, her older boy gets out of the gang—but not for her. He has learned to stay away to save himself. I wish that were true!

[12] You have to think like a reader, is something else my writing teacher said. If you hate her, and she dies, what does the reader care? But if she is good and dies—well, we are all naturally attracted to what is good. We pick the ripe fruit to eat, don’t we?  Ben should always be looking for the good in people. That makes him likeable. But it makes him vulnerable. I should know!  Real Francine is still alive and what can fiction do to balance the account? Ben will act differently. His actions will change her story. People will empathize. They should feel for Francine before she dies. Because of Ben. He’s the hero! They’ll feel sad when she dies. Life will improve. A little. I really believe that. She was at our townhome earlier today, when I was out with Audrey, my wife. Audrey, Audrey, my patient and forgiving wife. What will I call you in the story? Grace? That’s a beautiful name. Anyway, real Francine left me a message. I will use it in the story.

[13] Character development: One Sunday, Ben followed Francine to her church.  He followed at a distance. She's Catholic.  He’s a Unitarian—don’t be judgmental here—which is like a sheep to a Catholic's wolf. He was like a spy.  She was smiling and talking to herself, singing occasionally, but Ben was too far away to understand the words.

Inside the chapel, she entered the confessional.  Ben crept close and positioned himself so he could hear her and the priest. Mixed in among the petty sins she listed for the priest, were two big ones.  She said she had “lusted” after a white man. She didn’t say “had sex” or “fucked.” Why did she say it like that? Maybe it wasn’t about Ben.

[14] In the story, she should confess she slept with several different men, not just Ben. Ben accepts that sex is Francine’s way of working through her grief over her little boy being disfigured for life. (Better than dead!) Ben follows her when she leaves the church. He circles across the street and pretends to bump into her at the next street corner. She tells him he must be in the wrong neighborhood, made a wrong turn. He asks her why she is so happy. Could she possibly know how fast his heart is beating? “I been to church.  I always feel good after confession," Francine could say. They walk together. Great scene.

[15] He tells her she is amazing. She laughs.  "You want amazing?  I'll tell you amazing.  I gonna have another baby.  That's amazing." Ben feels dizzy, almost loses his balance.  He stops, grabs her arm gently, masking his fear. He pictures the three men who are always hanging around her stoop, looking at her breasts when she leans over the railing. They have all probably had sex with her. Instead, he asks her if she’s expecting a boy or girl. "No point worryin’ ‘bout that," says Francine.  She pats his arm, the one anchoring him to her, and pushes him away.  She floats off, riding an invisible wave.  A wave of pain and laughter.  It is not his life.

[16] That will be the ending. It is not his life. How sad is that?  This makes me think: Ben should come home where his wife is waiting to tell him she’s leaving him. She’s finally given up on him, on his "evolving" into something better than a social worker. Sad, but readers love that stuff.  Ben has to be someone you can root for. She can’t see the goodness in him, because it’s that very quality that has led to this. Like I said. Sad.

4.

[Full transcript of CSR Detective Carlyle’s audio taken at crime scene 6-10-09 10:22pm—11:02pm]:

Todd—The yellow highlight is mine.

[1](DC): “Entering Townhome at 3445 Van Gogh. 10P.M. Detective Erskine

[2]out of West Side. Age 42. Victim B is LaTonya Simmons of 1222 North

[3](AB): “Here is OK.”

[4](DC): “Did you assault her with a knife?”

[5](DC): “Let me get this straight. You attacked the woman

[6](DC): “Worst, how?”

[7](SW – Sergeant Williamson): “Yes sir.”

5.

[Found in office desk drawer of Brad Bierman   LSW, Dept. of Social Services   Employee since 1996    6 typed pages, City of Chicago Stationery writing in margins]:

[1] An injured animal, when cornered—though it needs comfort— lashes out when approached. Francine needs help. She is pregnant, again! What can Ben do? He reaches out to her, but she resists, shows her claws. These are her claws: “You wanna fuck me, Ben? Everybody else does.” He denies it and begs her: “What do you want?” “What do I want?” says Francine. She should be crying here. Really bawling. His opportunity to comfort her.  “I want money! I want freedom. I want to move around and I don’t want no more fuckin’ children. I axed you already get me some help for my kids, and you told me that cuz Freddy a gangbanger, he needs me even more! What I gotta do to get you to take them kids from me? Kill em?” This is his chance. A rare moment of vulnerability. He asks her: “Did you take my gun, Francine? Did you take it so you could give it to Freddy?” What makes him think Francine took it was that the boy had been so casual, so interested, the one time that he had accompanied her to a meeting in Ben’s office. Freddy had asked why you keep your hand in your drawer?  And Ben had answered him, dangerously, truthfully. “Because that is where I keep my gun, and in this job, you never know."

[2] when you might need to protect yourself.” Freddy had said, “You scared of me? Or Momma?  Lemme see it. I seen guns. Anything they show you on TV, I has had in my hand. For real. Lemme see it.”  But Ben had said no, and had closed the drawer and locked it. Freddy had continued: “I bet you show that gun off, most people they just shit they pants, right? Probably it ain’t even real. I ain’t afraid of no gun, anyway. Fuck this shit.”

Freddy had left, and that was the last time he had seen the boy. Two days later, Ben was in the hospital watching the docs pull a sheet over Michael’s body.”

[3] Ben finds two of the three men hanging out across the street from Francine’s place. Ben asks them if they’ve seen Francine. She’s in a lot of trouble. “Man, that woman ain’t in no trouble. That woman is trouble,” says the tall one. That really happened. He really said that, maybe not that day, but he did say it. What a great line! Anyways Ben hands each of them his card, and asks for their help, because at this time, he still thinks Francine is worth saving.

“I got two kids. I got two old ladies. Why don’t you help me?” says the short one. “I got arrested for stealing. I was little y’know?  I did it. I ain’t saying I didn’t do it. The judge asks me if I got anything to say to them folks I stole from before he tells me how much time I’m gonna do. But I feel like shit. Them folks, they looked like I had stole something from them again!”

[4] The short guy adds, “Fuck them, and fuck you!” Time to move on, no? But Ben stays. He can’t help it. The last “fuck you” is meant to drive Ben off.  They would rather beat him up than take his help. In the end, Francine will die, Michael will live, and Ben will go on, to help this man, and others like him. That’s what a hero looks like in real life. That’s what makes a good story.

(Handwritten note, smaller, in margin. Continues on reverse side:

(Not sure how this is going to turn out. I have to report the missing firearm to the police. Should I do that now? I’ve set Ben off to be the savior, but he can’t make this right. Who could? What’s the most I could have Ben do? In the story he’s got to find Francine, but where? She’s no longer in her apartment. Should I put her in a shelter? Maybe I should have her go back to the hospital to see about her son. No, wait! I got it! It’s Shakespearean! Tragedy!)  Ben got the call around 10P.M. The M.E. assistant opened the heavy steel door and pulled out the draped body. Lifting the sheet to expose the head, he looked at Ben and held the sheet up until Ben nodded. “That’s her,” he said solemnly.

[5] The assistant gently laid the cloth back over Francine’s head, but waited until Ben had turned to leave before pushing the steel bed back into the casement. The squeaking noise it made caused Ben to wince. It seemed forever until the steel door shut with an echoing clang that stayed with him until he fell asleep later that night. The stolen gun report could wait until tomorrow. Then he could resume his search for the older boy. If he could be found, maybe he could be saved.

Just below—handwritten, smaller, continues on reverse side: Good. Good ending.

Review: Ben gets a tough case. Wife is on the fence and he feels the pressure from her about continuing in this job. But this is a case where he feels he can help. The mom is a beautiful African American — Francine—although that name is sounding less right the further I get into this. Two boys, one a gangbanger in the making, the other a 3-year old bundle of energy. She has no job, very little education (I like the circus story—it explains a lot). She needs rent money, food money, a school counselor for the older boy. Ben starts out all objective but because of trouble at home, he begins loosening up a bit and forgets his principles. Classic fall from grace. Tragic flaw? The very quality that propels him to do good: his sensitivity to suffering. Myself? I hope only as much as my clients hope. I take my cues from their behavior, not some ideal. That is why my life is dull. Why Audrey wants a divorce. I am not heroic. Therefore, not tragic. I am nothing, really. That’s why I write.

I used to write Audrey letters. I wooed her with words. She fell for my “big heart”—was what she told everyone—but didn’t realize that she wouldn’t be getting all of it. Our marriage has been one big slow slide from hope to despair for her. And one long horizontal hum for me. I haven’t changed. Not at all. A week ago, a mother killed her 3-year old child. No one blames me. So in the story Michael will live. I am not a reporter. This is not a newspaper article. Who wants to read about a mother who kills her child?  Who needs that?

[6] Finally, I have it! I will make it Ben’s last hurrah, as they say. He saves his marriage by quitting his thankless, stressful, job, and carries a wounded Michael (Kevin! Kevin will be his name! Note to self: Change all the Michaels to Kevins and see how it sounds) out of the hospital, into his wife’s arms. Francine dies—how? I don’t know yet. But the boy becomes the child Ben never had. He is saved! Kevin is saved!

6.

[Single notecard 3x5 in 6 torn pieces Hand-printed both sides tiny block letters    Recovered from bathroom trashcan in Victim A’s apartment]:

[1]Brad— I came by and you wasnt here. And you wasn’t in your

7.

[Crumpled notepaper, recovered from kitchen garbage bag in townhome    Handwritten   One thumb and one forefinger print, bloodstained, belonging to Audrey Bierman   Piece of scotch tape stuck to one side]:

[1]“Sweetie—Client coming by for a chat tonight. Be nice. She’s