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  Alain at the Caravelle’s front desk handed me a message today. It was from Peter, who phoned it in. He had been called out on a special assignment out at Xuân Lộc at the time of the takeover and didn’t have a chance to contact me until now. He is safe and will be returning tomorrow.

  Saigon: April 26, 1975

  Today, with the sympathetic help of the cafeteria staff, I prepared a special meal for Peter—a Western dish that Alain said any American man would surely love. Hamburgers and french fries. The only place I could think of getting ground beef was a butchers market just outside of Cholon, the Chinese quarter.

  I left a message for Peter, saying I must speak with him concerning a matter of great urgency, and could he please meet me at my dormitory room. The room gave off an exotic aroma of fried onions and deep-fried potatoes sliced into little strips. Alain wrapped a little good-luck present especially for tonight’s dinner. A red bottle with the words Heinz Tomato Ketchup, which is supposed to go with the meal.

  I chose to wear my one and only ao dai. The gold silk fit tightly around me and accentuated my figure in a way that made me blush when looking at myself in the mirror. Giselle, the resident administrator, helped me put my hair into a french braid. The entire arrangement seemed strangely decadent and in a secret way sensual.

  I have overprepared, I thought. He will think I am childish and pretentious. Perhaps I should change out of my ao dai and wear my ordinary student clothes—dungarees and a short-sleeved shirt. All I accomplished was to pace around my room for ten minutes and then stare at the wall clock for another fifteen.

  At last, at about six fifteen, a knock came at the door. Giselle checked my hair, straightened my ao dai, and beheld me with an enormous smile. “You are beautiful, Grace.”

  “I am afraid.”

  “You will charm him completely.” She led me to the door. After two deep breaths, I opened it slightly and peered through the crack.

  “Peter!”

  “Hello, Grace. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your note said it was urgent.”

  “It is.”

  “Can I come in, or should we continue this way?”

  I let out a nervous giggle. “Of course. Please, come in.”

  As I opened the door and let him in, Giselle rushed past him and stopped for a moment, staring up at his height.

  “Hello?” Peter said, confused.

  “I’m Giselle.” She offered her hand.

  “Peter Carrick.”

  “Just leaving.”

  Peter removed his hat and inclined his head ever so slightly. Such elegance. “A pleasure.”

  As Giselle left, she turned and from behind his back gave me a mischievous look, pointed at him, and shook her hand as if it were on fire. I am not certain what that gesture meant, but I think she approved of him.

  “Wow, Grace.” He stood back and looked at me from head to toe. “You look terrific.”

  I lowered my eyes to the floor, pretending to be bashful. The truth was, I rather enjoyed his attention. “It is a traditional outfit.”

  “Ao dai? Yes. And they are lovely.” His eye wandered to the table by the window and quickly shot back to me, as if embarrassed that he noticed the meal I prepared. “What’s the urgent matter?”

  “Please, won’t you have a seat?” I struck a match, lit the candle in the center of the table, then sat down. “First, I wish to apologize for not responding earlier—”

  “Oh.” Peter let out a sigh of relief. “I was worried that you might be upset with me because you thought I’d left Saigon.”

  “Then you are not upset?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” I reached out and touched his hand. At first, tentatively. But when his eyes lit up, I held it tight. “Then we are … okay?”

  “It wasn’t fair for me to propose like that, with so little preparation. And even though we’ve known each other for a couple of years … well, I hope you will forgive me if I was presumptuous.”

  “No, you were not.” I poured him a glass of Schlitz beer, courtesy of Alain’s friend at the Caravelle’s bar.

  “Schlitz, my favorite. How did you know?”

  “I have some spies.” I patted his hands and squeezed his fingers playfully. “I hope you won’t mind my attempt at American food.”

  “It smells great.”

  “Then let us eat.”

  He reached for his hamburger with great anticipation, but as soon as I folded my hands and bowed my head to say blessing over the meal, he put it back down. “Oh.”

  With one eye open, I grinned and said, “My parents taught me to pray before meals.” At first he seemed a bit uncomfortable. But he eventually joined me, bowing his head as I gave thanks.

  After two bites, Peter held the hamburger up and looked at it with scrutiny. It must taste terrible, I thought. But he turned to me, pointed, and said, “That’s a fine burger, Grace.” Immediately he took a few more healthy bites.

  In the quiet moments when we looked out the window at the streets of Saigon, the last stand of the South Vietnamese people, countless questions arose in my mind. Will I be enough for him? And will he know and care about what is important to me?

  Annoyed at my own thoughts, I decided to draw out some of his. “American women are so beautiful.”

  “I guess.”

  “They have lovely golden hair, long legs, full and round—”

  “You’re describing Marilyn Monroe, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Admittedly, the Hollywood star was my sole point of reference.

  He took the last bite and then started on his french fries. “That’s not true beauty.”

  “Oh? Then what is?”

  “It’s not easy to define. But I’ll tell you this. When I stand on a beach at sunset and it’s completely quiet, that moment when the day’s final rays crest the Pacific horizon, something happens. Something that reaches inside of me and makes me aware of how incomplete I am, how much I yearn to be completed. For that short time, I wonder if there might actually be a God out there, who created all this so that for just that minute or so I get a glimpse into something eternal.”

  “How beautiful.”

  “For years I’ve tried with my camera to capture this feeling—no, it’s so much more than a feeling. It’s a recognition of my finiteness, my longing for fulfillment, to become part of something greater than myself. But so far, I haven’t been able to re-create that experience with any visual fidelity.”

  “You seem to do so with words.”

  “Don’t you see, Grace?” He leaned over the table and held my hands. “That’s how I feel when I’m with you.”

  Unwilling to release the enchantment in our eyes, I smiled and realized I was crying. I must tell him now, I thought, before I allow my mind to start reasoning against my heart. “Peter, can you do one thing for me please?”

  “I would do a million things for you.”

  “The urgent matter.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you please ask me again?”

  His eyes shimmered intensely in the candlelight. And as he did seventeen days ago, Peter stepped away from his chair, took my hand, and knelt. “Grace Th’am Ai Le, you are the one true beauty in my life. You’re the setting sun on the horizon of my life, the warmth and light that comforts me and gives me a reason to go on. You complete me.” He took out the diamond ring and placed it on my finger, this time with confidence. “Will you marry me?”

  Overcome with emotion, I stepped out of my chair and joined him on the floor. We embraced. “I love you.” Never in my life had I uttered these words to anyone in this way. But I meant it and wanted nothing more than for him to know, beyond any trace of a doubt.

  “Grace?”

  Leaning on his chest, I was basking in the warmth of our mutuality. “Yes?”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes, Peter Carrick. I will gladly be your wife.”

  29

/>   XANDRA CARRICK

  Kyle must have done something, because after the detectives brought me in for processing, they didn’t do much in the way of questioning. He advises me to get an attorney.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “All right. Just … don’t say anything until you get a lawyer, okay?”

  “As though you cared.”

  “I keep telling you—”

  “And I keep telling you, leave me alone! Haven’t you done enough harm?”

  He exhales long and slow and walks away as I’m led to a door.

  From across the table in the interrogation room, Detective Nuñez fastens a cold stare on me. “It’ll reflect a lot better on you if you cooperate.”

  “I would like to make a phone call.”

  “That’s fine. But first, just tell me this. What was it, money? Or did she threaten to expose a dirty little secret?”

  “I’m not obligated to speak without legal representation.”

  “Of course.” She steps out, and a minute later her partner, Detective Bryant, brings in a phone and plugs it into a wall jack.

  “What number would you like?”

  I’m still cuffed, which makes it difficult to dial. So I tell him the number and he dials it and then puts it on speaker.

  After five rings I know the answering machine will pick up. “You’ve reached the home of Peter and [Mom’s voice:] Grace Carrick. [Together:] We can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll be sure to get back to you.” I haven’t heard Mom’s voice for some time. It makes me want to cry. “Never mind.” I motion for Detective Bryant to hang up. “Could I try another number?”

  He’s kind enough to consent and dials it for me. My heart leaps when the call is answered. “Oh, thank God!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Daddy, I’m in trouble.”

  30

  I can’t describe the feeling of waking up in a holding cell, not knowing how exactly things are going to go. Thankfully, I didn’t have to share it with anyone overnight.

  Upon Dad’s advice, I’ve declined a public defender. I’m now waiting for someone he’s called to represent me. I’m sitting on a wooden bench in a little room on the side of the Arraignment Courtroom—Part 49, waiting to meet this attorney. The armed officer stands close enough to remind me of his presence.

  On the other end of the corridor, the door opens and a woman who resembles a young Hillary Clinton approaches, stops right in front of me, and extends a hand. “Xandra Carrick? My name is Danielle Reid. I’ll be representing you.”

  “Did my father send you?”

  “He called last night.”

  “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Let’s go over the facts.” Danielle takes a seat next to me and pulls out a yellow memo pad. “We’re going to try to get this whole thing dropped, if possible.”

  “If possible?”

  “I’ll do my best, but there are no guarantees. The priority is to keep you out of jail if this goes to trial.”

  Reluctantly, I tell her about the events that led to my arrest. When I get to the part about my visions, I pause. None of it will make sense unless I tell her.

  But I don’t know what else to do besides tell the truth and hope things work out.

  So I do.

  Her pen stops midstroke. “Excuse me, did you say visions?”

  “I’m not making this up. It sounds crazy, I know. But it’s because I had knowledge of things that only the killer could know that they think I did it.”

  “We’ll have to focus on the circumstances and facts surrounding the arrest, probable cause—”

  A door on the courtroom side opens and an African American court officer steps in. “Showtime.”

  “Docket number 08N734598.” The bailiff’s voice resonates in the room. “The people versus Xandra Carrick.” His words impale me. I can’t believe my name is being called in a murder case. This is nothing like the movies or TV. The sweat in my palms is real. Standing next to my attorney and facing the very annoyed looking judge, the Honorable Victor Calloway, my knees grow weak.

  Calloway clears his throat, his eyes glued to the papers in his hand. “Would the defense like to waive reading of the charges?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Calloway asks questions of both Danielle and the assistant district attorney. The ADA then produces a bunch of notices to which Danielle responds with a set of papers of her own. A confusing exchange of papers ensues, then Calloway asks the prosecutor to make a statement.

  “Due to the nature of this crime,” says the ADA, “I’m recommending that the suspect be held without bail.”

  “Your Honor,” Danielle Reid says, “that’s hardly reasonable. The arresting officer’s probable cause is paper thin. None of their evidence is direct.”

  The ADA smirks. “The suspect was privy to information that only the killer could have known.”

  “Something you’ve inferred, at best. My client was instrumental in solving a missing-person case. At the very least, she should get ROR.”

  With each exchange, the perspiration rolling down my spine grows colder. This can’t be happening. Danielle’s voice sounds like a distant echo as she argues my complete lack of priors, my ties to the community.

  Finally, the judge takes a moment to render his decision. This short silence seems to take an eternity. I am disturbingly aware of background sounds: papers ruffling, pens scribbling, my heart pounding. If I’m to be held without bail, I could be stuck at Rikers for months until my trial. Where I will probably get beaten, raped, and perhaps killed before my trial ever starts. All this because I decided not to keep this vision to myself. To share my gift, as Mom always taught. Well, perhaps these visions are not so much a gift as they are a curse!

  Finally, the judge looks up. “Bail is set at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He raps the gavel, and the sound jolts me back into the moment. My attorney and the ADA exchange a few more arguments, and then it’s over.

  Danielle pats my shoulder. “I’ll see you back there. Your father’s already wired the money.”

  “Did we win?”

  “This wasn’t a trial. But considering the gravity of the charges, I’d say we did pretty well.”

  “A hundred and fifty thousand is doing well?”

  “We only need a fraction of that.”

  The bailiff takes my arm and leads me back to the door to the holding area. I’m not processing it all. Until panic seizes me. “No, wait! I can’t go to jail. The real killer’s still out there. I saw—!”

  “Keep quiet!” Danielle hisses. “I’m making all the arrangements. Sit tight, and I’ll be back to get you as soon as possible.”

  The whole arraignment is over so fast I can hardly believe it. According to the clock, from the moment I stepped into the courtroom till the moment I left, a mere ten minutes have elapsed.

  The court officer leads me through the corridor to the holding area where I sit at a splintered desk, the varnish of which sticks to my palms and smells like pickled cabbage. His hand rests conspicuously near his gun.

  It is now that random thoughts coagulate into coherent words. They flash through my consciousness like a flickering neon sign in the dead of night.

  I’m a murder suspect.

  31

  As soon as possible.

  That’s when Danielle said she’d return. But as the minute hand rakes across the face of the clock, I’m beginning to doubt. Everything has been rushed, and I barely had a chance to speak to her.

  An hour has passed. Idle hands may be the tool of the devil, but idle time turns the mind into his playground.

  She’s not coming back.

  Something’s gone wrong with the bail.

  Dad’s probably thinking, I always knew that girl was going to be trouble. My daughter, a murderer. Perhaps he’s changed his mind. He’s not posting my bail. That’s fine. If he’s going to be like that, I don’t want hi
s help.

  An angry tear falls from my eye and spreads on the sticky wooden table. Quickly, I wipe my face and sniff. The brawny African American guard pulls a pocket-size pack of tissues from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. His stoic expression belies his kindness. I take the tissue and wipe my eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be okay, Miss. Have faith.”

  I scoff. “In what?”

  Not a moment too soon, someone knocks on the door and opens it. It’s Danielle.

  “Finally! Where have you been?”

  “There was a problem with the wire transfer. The bank used the wrong receive code and … anyway. We’re set to go.” She hands the guard a slip of paper. Like some kind of claim ticket. I’m a faux fur in the coat check room at the Met.

  “That’s it, it’s over?”

  “For now. Let’s go.”

  Hard to believe that I am simply walking out of the courthouse as though nothing happened. Harder still to accept the fact that I’m not truly free. As the elevator doors slide shut, a million thoughts afflict me—not my own.

  I can almost see the faces to whom those thoughts belong. They’re angry, opportunistic, curious. Not curious with a desire to learn, but morbid, like rubberneckers gawking at bloody corpses being pulled from a multivehicle crash.

  Danielle catches me as I falter. “Are you all right, Xandra?”

  “This can’t be happening.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re going to beat this. You keep saying that to yourself. And anyone you might run into. You hear? We’re going to beat this.”

  “What was I thinking? I should have kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t any of my business.” No matter how hard I resist, I can’t stop from crying again.

  Danielle turns to me and takes my hand. “No, listen carefully. You gave the Dellafinas something they couldn’t have otherwise had.”

  “Someone to condemn for their daughter’s murder?”