Chapter 8 - The Settlement of the Account
Marcus Vance’s voice had been dry, precise, and entirely devoid of theatricality when I called him back from the study.
"The plea agreement was entered this morning before Judge Sullivan in Phoenix," Marcus said, the rustle of legal bond paper clear over the speakerphone. "Your mother accepted the state's offer on all four counts."
"What are the terms?" I asked, leaning against the pine sill of the window that looked out toward the red bluffs.
"Twelve years at the Arizona State Prison Complex in Perryville," Marcus replied. "Class Two Felony Child Abuse with domestic violence enhancements. Under the mandatory sentencing guidelines for dangerous crimes against children, she is not eligible for earned-time release or administrative parole until she has served eighty-five percent of the calendar term."
I calculated the numbers in my head.
Eighty-five percent of twelve years was ten point two years.
Carmen was sixty-two. She would be seventy-two years old before she walked through the security gates of the Perryville facility.
"And the federal charges?"
"The United States Attorney agreed to run their sentence concurrent with the state term," Marcus said, "on the condition that she executed an unconditional, permanent waiver of all parental and familial claims. She has signed an irrevocable civil covenant never to initiate contact—by mail, electronic transmission, third party, or personal appearance—with you, Jessica, or Olivia for the remainder of her natural life."
"And the assets?"
"Her personal accounts in Baltimore—the sixty-eight thousand dollars from the sale of her rowhouse—have been placed into a judicial escrow account," Marcus said, a faint, grim satisfaction touching his voice. "Pursuant to the civil restitution judgment we filed last month, forty thousand dollars will be transferred directly to the Olivia Ferris Educational and Trauma Recovery Trust. The remainder will cover her state-appointed defense fees and the medical liens from Maricopa County."
Marcus paused. I could hear him capping his fountain pen.
"She asked to speak to you, Zayden," he added softly. "Before they processed the transport to Perryville. Her attorney asked if you would accept a three-minute monitored telephone call from the holding facility."
I looked out the window.
On the terrace, Jessica was laughing—a clean, deep, uninhibited laugh that I hadn't heard since our wedding in Albuquerque six years ago. Olivia had picked up a red windfall apple and was trying to balance it on the head of an old terracotta garden gnome, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, her small, unbandaged hands steady and sure against the clay.
"No, Marcus," I said.
My voice was completely quiet. It had no anger in it; it had no hatred; it had only the flat, clean finality of a surveyor marking the boundary line of a completed road.
"Tell the court that the Ferris family has no forwarding address."
I hung up the phone.
I walked out of the study, through the cedar kitchen where the afternoon sun was painting long, golden rectangles across the stone floor, and stepped out onto the flagstones.
The wind was coming down from the north canyon now, cool and sweet, carrying the first scent of the winter snow that was already dusting the high peaks of the San Francisco Mountains sixty miles away.
I sat down on the bench beside Jessica, slipped my arm around her wool-clad shoulders, and pulled her against my side.
She leaned her head against my collarbone, her breath warm against my neck.
"Is it done?" she whispered.
"It's done, baby," I said.
Down on the woven blanket, Olivia gave a small, triumphant shout.
The red apple had stayed on the gnome's head.
May you like
She stood up on her bare feet, her toes gripping the warm stone of the terrace, threw her arms high into the clean, sapphire-blue Arizona sky, and began to dance—a wild, unbalanced, beautiful five-year-old dance that had no choreography, no rules, and no purpose other than the sheer, miraculous joy of standing in the sun.
And beneath the red earth of Sedona, the mint roots were already reaching down into the cold stone, holding the ground tight against the coming winter.
