THEN
The arrest of his sister’s killer did not bring the comfort and closure DJ had hoped for. His mom still spent days in bed, only emerging to dump out her overflowing ashtray (she’d resumed a pack-a-day habit when her daughter’s body was found). His father still went to work every day at the meatpacking plant, but when he returned home, he sat in his tattered armchair and drank beer in silence. At school, DJ had become a pariah. The kids avoided him as if tragedy were contagious.
I invited him over one day, and then my sister was murdered!
DJ didn’t mind; he had no interest in Power Rangers or Legos anymore. His dad had bought him a PlayStation shortly after Shane Nelson’s arrest. His mom said a boy his age should be playing outside, breathing fresh air, experiencing nature. But his dad said it would “keep him out of our hair.” And besides, there was no nature in their scorched Arizona suburb.
He was playing Tomb Raider that afternoon when a tall, distinguished black man arrived at their house. His name was Neil Givens, and he was the state prosecutor. His parents already knew this man, knew that his presence on their doorstep meant something crucial had happened with the case. There was a woman with him. She looked about the same age as DJ’s mom, but, unlike his pale, wispy mother, this lady was strong and healthy and chewed gum aggressively. She was introduced as Detective Margot Williams. His parents quickly ushered the pair inside, inviting them to sit in the living room.
“Go to your room,” his dad said absently, but DJ didn’t. He’d gained weight when he’d stopped playing with his friends, choosing video games over socializing and physical activity. But, despite his girth, he had a knack for invisibility. He hovered, like a ghost, just outside the seating area, listening.
“What’s going on, Neil?” his mother asked.
The prosecutor cleared his throat before he spoke. “An eyewitness has come forward in your daughter’s murder.”
DJ heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath, heard her grab for her cigarettes and light one.
“Nelson’s girlfriend was there,” the female detective explained. “She saw everything he did to Courtney.”
“She was there?” His father’s voice was hoarse.
“Why didn’t she do something?” his mom asked. “Why didn’t she stop him?”
“She couldn’t,” Neil Givens said. “She was terrified of Nelson. He’d been physically and psychologically abusing her for over a year.”
“When she came forward, she was black and blue,” Detective Williams elaborated. “She had to do what Nelson told her, or she’d be beaten and raped. She was petrified. She was broken.”
They pitied her, felt protective of her. DJ could hear it in their voices.
The attorney continued. “We’ve had the girlfriend examined by a team of psychiatrists. She shows signs of post-traumatic stress and battered-woman syndrome.”
The detective picked up the slack. “Nelson tortured her. He beat her up. He kept her isolated, drunk, high, sleep-deprived. . . . He threatened to kill her family and friends.”
“She’s what we call a compliant victim,” Givens said.
“What does that mean,” DJ’s dad grumbled, “a compliant victim?”
Detective Williams answered. “It means that she didn’t want to hurt your daughter; in fact, she wanted to help her. But she couldn’t. She was too afraid.”
“My daughter was afraid!” DJ’s mom cried. “My daughter was tortured and raped and murdered! And this . . . this girl watched it happen. Now she gets to walk away scot-free?”
“No,” the prosecutor said, his voice calm, almost patronizing. “She’ll be charged for her role in the crime. But with your approval, the state would like to agree to a plea bargain.”
DJ’s dad growled, “What kind of plea bargain?”
“She’s willing to testify, to tell the jury everything Shane Nelson did to Courtney.”
“He assaulted other girls, too,” Detective Williams added. “He raped and beat them.”
“This girl’s testimony will ensure Nelson’s put away for good.” The lawyer paused here, and DJ could hear his own heart beating in the silence. “In exchange, her lawyer has convinced her to plead guilty to a charge of manslaughter.”
“Her lawyer?” DJ’s dad snapped. “If she’s innocent, why does she have a lawyer?”
His mother’s voice overlapped his dad’s. “What does that mean? Manslaughter?”
The cop laid it out in quantitative terms. “It means max ten years. Minimum four.”
“Four years?” DJ’s mom shrieked. “Four years for watching my baby get tortured and raped and murdered? Four years for standing by and letting her die?”
“We’ll push for the maximum sentence,” the prosecutor offered. “She may serve the full term.”
“My daughter will be dead forever!”
The female detective’s voice was gentle. “This girl just turned twenty. She’s a kid herself. I don’t believe she could have stopped Shane Nelson. She wasn’t strong enough, mentally or physically. . . . But she can stop him now.”
“We have a lot of circumstantial evidence against Nelson,” Neil Givens added, “but it might not be enough. The girlfriend’s testimony is crucial if we want to put him away for life.”
“Which we do.” Margot Williams stated the obvious.
No one spoke for a moment. The smack of the detective’s gum and the puff of DJ’s mom’s cigarette filled the void.
“You’re sure she wasn’t in on it?” His dad’s voice was quiet but angry. DJ felt angry, too, but he stayed silent, loitering unseen.
“She wasn’t in on it.” The female detective was adamant.
“Definitely not,” Neil Givens affirmed.
“What’s this girl’s name?” His mother’s voice was soft.
“Amber Kunik,” the prosecutor replied.
Amber Kunik. The girl who had watched his sister die.
His father gave a heavy sigh. “Can we think about it?”
“Of course.” DJ could hear them getting to their feet. He stepped farther back into the shadows as his parents walked their guests to the door.
Neil Givens spoke. “We’ll need your answer within a couple of days.”
The next day, his parents agreed to the deal.