The bedroom was identically furnished. There was a basket of fruits and chocolates on one of the side tables and a card that read “Thank you for joining us.” It was signed “Murder Town.”
That’s when she saw it, right beside the basket.
Maya had to step back.
“H-O-P-E” read the small, square button, its red, white, and blue lettering smudged and worn.
“What the fuck?” Maya said.
Shannon hurried into the bedroom. When she saw what Maya was staring at, she relaxed. “That was yours, wasn’t it? We thought it would be another fun reminder.”
“I used to have one of these on my backpack,” Maya said.
“Yes! I totally remember seeing it when you left the courtroom, after the verdict. That image of all twelve of you, walking away … I mean, that shit was iconic.” She paused. “Sorry.”
Maya couldn’t take her eyes off the button. “I still have this. I still have mine.”
“For saying ‘shit,’ I mean.”
“You got this online or something?”
“eBay. They’re collector’s items now. That was fifty bucks.”
It occurred to Maya that what once had been her actual life had been reduced to collectibles. Her memories had become memorabilia. They’d been commodified, boxed and traded, sold at a healthy markup.
She cringed.
She was complicit, wasn’t she, by being here? She was selling her past, or at least the only part of her past that anyone cared about, which was the part devoted to someone else’s tragedy. She’d watched in horror, over the years, as other people made fortunes off what she’d done. The networks, the memoirists, the journalists with “access.” How many people had gotten rich off the murder of Jessica Silver? There was the New York Times reporter whose book contextualized Jessica’s death within the nationwide epidemic of sexual violence against women—for a two-million-dollar advance. Who could doubt that reporter’s good intentions? And who wouldn’t be envious of her new brownstone in Cobble Hill? Or what about the famed documentarian whose six-part HBO examination of the case took such pains to highlight the LAPD’s long history of racial discrimination—surely his two Emmys and expanding production company were but the by-products of his honest convictions? There wasn’t a cause in this world so pure that someone couldn’t figure out how to make it profitable.
Maya had considered them all grave robbers. But now, standing inside the television re-creation of her former life, how could she claim to be any better? The fact that she’d given away her fee for being on this show, anonymously, to a Skid Row charity, did not absolve her of guilt. If the faded button in Maya’s hand proved anything, it was that her youthful good intentions had been worse than useless. The button was a reminder of the dangers of believing yourself to be better than you were. Salvaged, it had become a curiosity, like a rusted spoon recovered from the wreckage of the Titanic. It was now an object to be studied by scholars of a once-promising history.
What she missed the most about the person she’d been, Maya realized, was her hope for a coming world that turned out never to have been possible. She was nostalgic for an imaginary future.
Maya looked at Shannon, trying to guess just how young she was. Twenty-three, maybe. “Did you follow the trial?” Maya asked.
The girl brightened. “Oh my God, follow it? I was in junior high but yeah, I was obsessed. I still am. I begged for this job. To be assigned to you. I hope you don’t mind my saying … I mean, I don’t want to … If it’s unprofessional or whatever …”
“What?”
Shannon took a breath. “You’re my hero.”
Maya had no idea what to say in response to something so absurd.
“Why would I be your hero?”
“Because you took a stand. If everything Rick Leonard said is true … Well, you believed something, and you stood up for it. Maybe you were wrong. But you believed that Bobby Nock was innocent. And because you believed it, you talked all the others into seeing it your way—you fought not to let an innocent man be convicted and you won.” Shannon became suddenly embarrassed. “You know … right or wrong, you won. Fair and square.”
“I won,” Maya said. “Yeah … look at what I won.”
She gestured to the re-creation of a mid-priced corporate hotel suite around them. This wasn’t a canonization; it was an embalming.
Shannon frowned. The Maya she’d met had clearly not lived up to her expectations.
Then it was Maya’s turn to feel embarrassed. She ran her thumb over the smooth edge of the H-O-P-E button. “Some advice?”
Shannon crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Never meet your heroes?”
Maya smiled. Maybe this girl was tougher than she’d thought. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “If you can manage never to have any in the first place.”
THE FIRST TIME Maya had debated the evidence in the case of The People v. Robert Nock, she been without legal training. Now, she had the advantage of both law school and four years as a practicing criminal defense attorney.
After ushering Shannon out, she performed a familiar pretrial ritual. She’d printed each major point of evidence out on a separate sheet of paper, and now she laid them out on the coffee table.
She’d had a month to gather it all together. Not that she’d needed so much time. She’d been amazed by how little of it she’d forgotten. Looking over the actual, concrete physical evidence, she felt more confident than ever that Bobby’s acquittal had not only been just, it had been necessary.
AT JUST AFTER 3 P.M., Maya pushed open the double doors to the hotel restaurant’s private dining room and steeled herself to confront the timeworn faces from her former life.
There was Cal Barro standing with Peter Wilkie by the bar. Kathy Wing, Yasmine Sarraf, and Fran Goldenberg sat at a table against the far wall, picking at crudités. Trisha Harold and Lila Rosales were at a separate table, sipping from glasses of beer.
Rick wasn’t there yet.
Maya’s initial reaction was relief.
There was a little boy too, maybe five years old, pushing a toy truck across the floor, coming right for Maya’s feet.
“Aaron! Careful!” Lila Rosales chased after the boy as he scurried along with his truck. “Sorry,” she said to Maya as she passed. “That’s Aaron.” She whispered something in his ear, pointed at Maya, then took his hand and led him back toward her, his truck trailing behind him.
“Aaron,” Lila said, “say hello to Mommy’s friend.”
The boy extended his hand formally. “My name is Aaron.”
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. My name is Maya.” She gave his hand a good shake. “You know what they say about a man with a firm handshake? He’s honest.”
Lila laughed. “He likes trucks.” They watched him propel the toy across the room again. “In case you couldn’t guess.” She leaned in to give Maya a warm hug. “Hi, by the way.”
Nineteen years old at the time of the trial, Lila Rosales had been the youngest member of the jury. She had been in beauty school back then, and Maya had once marveled at how much effort it must have taken to prepare her immaculately made-up face every morning. Now, Lila looked worn. Her dark eyes seemed tired. The lines on her pretty face were not as well kept, or perhaps kept so effortfully that the labors showed. The pint glass in her hand was empty.