Chapter 19: The Complaint

Brenda lived in a brick house in Parma with a ceramic goose on the porch.

I drove there on Saturday at four in the afternoon.

Cyrus was asleep in the vault across town, and my statement lay in a manila envelope on the passenger seat.

She opened the door in a sweatshirt that said CLEVELAND BROWNS on the front and a hole in the sleeve.

"Come in," she said. "I just made soup."

"Is it from a can?"

"It is from a very respectable can."

We sat at her kitchen table.

She put a bowl in front of me and turned her laptop around so I could read the complaint.

*CASEWORKER MISCONDUCT: Falsified statement to supervisor. Improper relationship with an assigned case. Filed by A. Abercrombie, Deputy Director.*

Attached were six photographs.

The lake lot, the Buick, a blur of fogged glass.

"Is that you?" Brenda asked.

"You can't tell."

"I can tell from the parka on the seat."

I looked at the photos.

Then I looked at her.

"He's going to read the swipe logs aloud," I said. "And the timestamps. And he's going to make it sound like I planned it."

"Yes."

"I want to speak first."

"You get the floor if you ask for it. The rule is the accused speaks last."

"Then I'll ask for the floor before he finishes his opening."

"That's a risk."

"It is. I'll take it."

"What are you going to say?"

"The truth."

"All of it?"

"All of it. And I'll say what's on the pad, and why."

"That's Morvath's secret, not yours."

"He gave me permission."

She raised her eyebrows.

"He told me last night to tell it all."

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