Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2021-03-25 10:51 am
white_oleander) wrote2021-03-25 10:51 am
Los Angeles, California, 1994. Thursday Afternoon [03/25 FT].
As Astrid approached the coffee shop, the agreed-upon location for this meeting, just a few blocks away from a portalocity office she was sure would cease to exist once she was finished with it, she couldn't help but notice the dark green Jaguar sedan parked out front, and she knew that had to be hers. And then she stepped inside, and she saw the explosion of black curls, her bright red lipstick, and she recognized her from the news. She wore a white-trimmed navy blue Chanel suit that might even have been real. She was sitting at one of the tables by the window, writing a check, writing something off, Astrid wasn't sure, but she was sure she'd find out.
She stood and held out her hand to Astrid, short red nails garish against her white skin. She was shorter than Astrid, which wasn't hard, but still a surprise. She wore a good, green-scented perfume, a hint of citrus, almost like a man’s aftershave. She had on a gold necklace thick as a bike chain, with a square-cut emerald embedded in it. Her teeth were unnaturally white.
“Susan D. Valeris.”
Her voice was higher than you’d think, girlish for a lawyer’s.
Astrid shook her hand. It was very small and dry. She wore a wide wedding band on her forefinger, and an onyx intaglio signet on the pinky of the other hand.
Susan D. gestured to the other chair at the table for Astrid to sit down. She didn’t.
The lawyer took her seat again, looking up at Astrid frankly. "You’ve avoided my calls for a while,” she said. "I'm surprised you even showed up." To Astrid's surprise, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her Hermes Kelly bag, which Astrid couldn't help wondering if Tahani or Alexis would clock as strictly genuine or not. “Mind if I smoke?”
Astrid shook her head, noting that it felt a little weird, the idea that people could still smoke in restaurants and coffee shops here. Susan D. lit up with a gold lighter. Carrier-—the gold pleats. “Cigarette?” she offered. Astrid shook her head again. Susan D. put the pack and the lighter down on the cluttered table, exhaled into the afternoon light. “I don’t know why I never got around to quitting,” she said.
“All the prisoners smoke,” Astrid said. “You can offer them a cigarette.”
She nodded. “Your mother said you were bright. I think it was an underestimation.” She looked around the coffee shop, very bo-ho chic, thrift store ordered chaos, a beaded lamp and a fringed lamp and a poodle lamp with a milk glass shade. “Looking forward to graduation, Astrid? You still have, what? A year? Making your plans for the future yet?”
“Thought I might become a criminal lawyer,” she said. “That or a hooker. Maybe a garbage collector.”
She made no parry, kept her mind on her purpose. “May I ask why you took so long to return my calls?”
Astrid carefully watched Susan D.'s quick, confident movements. “Go ahead and ask,” she said.
Susan D. put her slim red leather briefcase on the table and opened it, removed a folder and a yellow legal pad. “Your mother said you might be difficult,” she said. “That you blame her for what’s happened.” Susan gazed into Astrid's eyes, as if she got a point for every second of eye contact she could maintain. Astrid could see her practicing in front of a mirror when she was in law school and waited to hear the rest of the story they’d concocted.
“I know you’ve been through some terrible ordeals,” she said. She looked down at the file. “Two foster homes, this boarding school, MacLaren Hall. The suicide of your foster mother, Claire Richards, was it? Your mother said you were close to her. It must have been devastating.”
Astrid felt the wave of anger rise through her. Claire’s death was hers. This woman had no right to handle it, to bring it up and somehow relate it to Ingrid’s case. But maybe this too was a tactic. To get it all out in the open to begin with, so Astrid wouldn’t be sullen, withholding her feelings about Claire, difficult to draw out. An aggressive opening at chess. She saw that Susan knew just what she was doing. Going for the sore spot right away. “Did you ask your client about her involvement with that?”
“Surely you don’t blame your mother for the death of a woman she only met once,” Susan said, as if there was no question about the absurdity of such a statement. “She’s not a sorcerer, is she?” She settled back in her chair, took a drag on her cigarette, watching Astrid through the smoke, evaluating her reaction.
Now Astrid was scared. The two of them could really pull this off, couldn't they? She saw how easily this bouquet of oleander and nightshade could be twisted around into a laurel wreath. “But I do blame her, Susan.”
“Tell me,” she said, holding the cigarette in the left hand, making some notes on the yellow pad with the right.
“My mother did everything she could do to get Claire out of my life,” Astrid said. “Just like she did everything to take me away from Fandom, the first time. Claire was fragile and my mother knew exactly where to push.”
Susan took a drag, squinted against the smoke. “And why would she do that?”
Astrid turned slightly and moved away from the table. She didn’t want to look at her anymore, or rather, have Susan looking at her, sizing her up. She watched her through a mirror on one of the walls.
“Because Claire loved me.”
“You felt she was jealous,” Susan said in a motherly way, spewing smoke into the air, an octopus spraying ink.
Astrid adjusted her hair, tucking it behind her ear, where she knew it wouldn't stay. “She was extremely jealous. Claire was nice to me, and I loved her. She couldn’t stand that. Not that she ever paid attention to me when she had the chance, but when someone else did, she couldn’t take it.”
Susan leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes lifted to the rough, cottage-cheese ceiling, and Astrid could hear her brain clicking, a mechanical readjustment, tapping and turning what she had just told her, searching for the advantage. “But what mother wouldn’t be jealous,” she said. “Of a daughter growing fond of a foster mother. Honestly speaking.” She flicked her ash into a beanbag ashtray, shaping the cherry on the bottom.
Astrid turned to her, hoping she couldn't see the fear in her eyes. “Honestly speaking, she killed Claire. She shoved her over the cliff, okay? Maybe she can’t be prosecuted for it, but don’t try to sell me this new and improved spin. She killed Claire and she killed Barry. Let’s just get on with it.”
Susan sighed and put her pen down. She took another hit of her cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray. “You’re a tough nut, aren’t you.”
“You’re the one who wants to let a murderer go free,” Astrid said.
“She was denied due process. It’s in the record,” Susan said, striking the edge of her hand into the other palm. Astrid could see her in court, her hands translating her for the hearing impaired. “The public defender didn’t even raise a sweat in her defense.” The accusing finger, red-tipped. “She was drugged, my God, she could barely speak. It’s in the file, the dose and everything. Nobody said a word. The prosecution’s case was completely circumstantial.” Hands palm down, crossed and cut outward, like a baseball refs 'safe.' She was building momentum, but Astrid had heard enough.
“So what’s in it for you?” she interrupted, in as dry and unimpressed a voice as she could register.
“Justice has not been served,” Susan said firmly. Astrid could see her on the steps of the courthouse, performing for the TV crews.
“But it has,” Astrid said. “Blindly, and maybe even by mistake, but it has been served. Rare, I know. A modern miracle.”
Susan slumped to the back of her chair, as if Astrid's comments had drained her of all her righteous vigor. A car with the radio up loud, spewing ranchero music, cruised by outside, and Susan quickly turned to look out the window at the dark green Jaguar parked in front. When she was satisfied that it was still there, still safe, gleaming by the curb, she returned to the girl.
Slowly, and wearily. “Astrid, when young people are so cynical, it makes me despair for the future of this country.”
It was the funniest thing Astrid had heard all day. She had to laugh.
She didn’t find much funny these days, but this definitely was bizarre by anyone’s standards.
Suddenly the weariness disappeared like the courthouse righteousness before it. Now Astrid was looking at a cold and clever strategist, not so very unlike Ingrid Magnussen herself. “Barry Kolker could have died of heart failure,” Susan said calmly. “The autopsy was not conclusive. He was overweight, and a drug user, was he not?”
“Whatever you say.”
The truth is whatever I say it is.
“Look," Astrid almost sighed, but held it back. "You want me to lie for her. Let’s go on from there and see if we have anything to talk about.”
Susan slowly smiled in her red lipstick, pushing her black curls back from her face with one hand, her lashes very black against her white face. As if a bit ashamed of herself, but also somewhat relieved that she did not have to sell Astrid as hard as she thought she might.
“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.
[[ Part I of II. taken and slightly edited from Chapter 29 of "White Oleander" by Janet Fitch, wherein I officially get the timeline of the latter chapters all mixed up, but OHWELL. NFB for distance, NFI for now. ]]
She stood and held out her hand to Astrid, short red nails garish against her white skin. She was shorter than Astrid, which wasn't hard, but still a surprise. She wore a good, green-scented perfume, a hint of citrus, almost like a man’s aftershave. She had on a gold necklace thick as a bike chain, with a square-cut emerald embedded in it. Her teeth were unnaturally white.
“Susan D. Valeris.”
Her voice was higher than you’d think, girlish for a lawyer’s.
Astrid shook her hand. It was very small and dry. She wore a wide wedding band on her forefinger, and an onyx intaglio signet on the pinky of the other hand.
Susan D. gestured to the other chair at the table for Astrid to sit down. She didn’t.
The lawyer took her seat again, looking up at Astrid frankly. "You’ve avoided my calls for a while,” she said. "I'm surprised you even showed up." To Astrid's surprise, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her Hermes Kelly bag, which Astrid couldn't help wondering if Tahani or Alexis would clock as strictly genuine or not. “Mind if I smoke?”
Astrid shook her head, noting that it felt a little weird, the idea that people could still smoke in restaurants and coffee shops here. Susan D. lit up with a gold lighter. Carrier-—the gold pleats. “Cigarette?” she offered. Astrid shook her head again. Susan D. put the pack and the lighter down on the cluttered table, exhaled into the afternoon light. “I don’t know why I never got around to quitting,” she said.
“All the prisoners smoke,” Astrid said. “You can offer them a cigarette.”
She nodded. “Your mother said you were bright. I think it was an underestimation.” She looked around the coffee shop, very bo-ho chic, thrift store ordered chaos, a beaded lamp and a fringed lamp and a poodle lamp with a milk glass shade. “Looking forward to graduation, Astrid? You still have, what? A year? Making your plans for the future yet?”
“Thought I might become a criminal lawyer,” she said. “That or a hooker. Maybe a garbage collector.”
She made no parry, kept her mind on her purpose. “May I ask why you took so long to return my calls?”
Astrid carefully watched Susan D.'s quick, confident movements. “Go ahead and ask,” she said.
Susan D. put her slim red leather briefcase on the table and opened it, removed a folder and a yellow legal pad. “Your mother said you might be difficult,” she said. “That you blame her for what’s happened.” Susan gazed into Astrid's eyes, as if she got a point for every second of eye contact she could maintain. Astrid could see her practicing in front of a mirror when she was in law school and waited to hear the rest of the story they’d concocted.
“I know you’ve been through some terrible ordeals,” she said. She looked down at the file. “Two foster homes, this boarding school, MacLaren Hall. The suicide of your foster mother, Claire Richards, was it? Your mother said you were close to her. It must have been devastating.”
Astrid felt the wave of anger rise through her. Claire’s death was hers. This woman had no right to handle it, to bring it up and somehow relate it to Ingrid’s case. But maybe this too was a tactic. To get it all out in the open to begin with, so Astrid wouldn’t be sullen, withholding her feelings about Claire, difficult to draw out. An aggressive opening at chess. She saw that Susan knew just what she was doing. Going for the sore spot right away. “Did you ask your client about her involvement with that?”
“Surely you don’t blame your mother for the death of a woman she only met once,” Susan said, as if there was no question about the absurdity of such a statement. “She’s not a sorcerer, is she?” She settled back in her chair, took a drag on her cigarette, watching Astrid through the smoke, evaluating her reaction.
Now Astrid was scared. The two of them could really pull this off, couldn't they? She saw how easily this bouquet of oleander and nightshade could be twisted around into a laurel wreath. “But I do blame her, Susan.”
“Tell me,” she said, holding the cigarette in the left hand, making some notes on the yellow pad with the right.
“My mother did everything she could do to get Claire out of my life,” Astrid said. “Just like she did everything to take me away from Fandom, the first time. Claire was fragile and my mother knew exactly where to push.”
Susan took a drag, squinted against the smoke. “And why would she do that?”
Astrid turned slightly and moved away from the table. She didn’t want to look at her anymore, or rather, have Susan looking at her, sizing her up. She watched her through a mirror on one of the walls.
“Because Claire loved me.”
“You felt she was jealous,” Susan said in a motherly way, spewing smoke into the air, an octopus spraying ink.
Astrid adjusted her hair, tucking it behind her ear, where she knew it wouldn't stay. “She was extremely jealous. Claire was nice to me, and I loved her. She couldn’t stand that. Not that she ever paid attention to me when she had the chance, but when someone else did, she couldn’t take it.”
Susan leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes lifted to the rough, cottage-cheese ceiling, and Astrid could hear her brain clicking, a mechanical readjustment, tapping and turning what she had just told her, searching for the advantage. “But what mother wouldn’t be jealous,” she said. “Of a daughter growing fond of a foster mother. Honestly speaking.” She flicked her ash into a beanbag ashtray, shaping the cherry on the bottom.
Astrid turned to her, hoping she couldn't see the fear in her eyes. “Honestly speaking, she killed Claire. She shoved her over the cliff, okay? Maybe she can’t be prosecuted for it, but don’t try to sell me this new and improved spin. She killed Claire and she killed Barry. Let’s just get on with it.”
Susan sighed and put her pen down. She took another hit of her cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray. “You’re a tough nut, aren’t you.”
“You’re the one who wants to let a murderer go free,” Astrid said.
“She was denied due process. It’s in the record,” Susan said, striking the edge of her hand into the other palm. Astrid could see her in court, her hands translating her for the hearing impaired. “The public defender didn’t even raise a sweat in her defense.” The accusing finger, red-tipped. “She was drugged, my God, she could barely speak. It’s in the file, the dose and everything. Nobody said a word. The prosecution’s case was completely circumstantial.” Hands palm down, crossed and cut outward, like a baseball refs 'safe.' She was building momentum, but Astrid had heard enough.
“So what’s in it for you?” she interrupted, in as dry and unimpressed a voice as she could register.
“Justice has not been served,” Susan said firmly. Astrid could see her on the steps of the courthouse, performing for the TV crews.
“But it has,” Astrid said. “Blindly, and maybe even by mistake, but it has been served. Rare, I know. A modern miracle.”
Susan slumped to the back of her chair, as if Astrid's comments had drained her of all her righteous vigor. A car with the radio up loud, spewing ranchero music, cruised by outside, and Susan quickly turned to look out the window at the dark green Jaguar parked in front. When she was satisfied that it was still there, still safe, gleaming by the curb, she returned to the girl.
Slowly, and wearily. “Astrid, when young people are so cynical, it makes me despair for the future of this country.”
It was the funniest thing Astrid had heard all day. She had to laugh.
She didn’t find much funny these days, but this definitely was bizarre by anyone’s standards.
Suddenly the weariness disappeared like the courthouse righteousness before it. Now Astrid was looking at a cold and clever strategist, not so very unlike Ingrid Magnussen herself. “Barry Kolker could have died of heart failure,” Susan said calmly. “The autopsy was not conclusive. He was overweight, and a drug user, was he not?”
“Whatever you say.”
The truth is whatever I say it is.
“Look," Astrid almost sighed, but held it back. "You want me to lie for her. Let’s go on from there and see if we have anything to talk about.”
Susan slowly smiled in her red lipstick, pushing her black curls back from her face with one hand, her lashes very black against her white face. As if a bit ashamed of herself, but also somewhat relieved that she did not have to sell Astrid as hard as she thought she might.
“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.
[[ Part I of II. taken and slightly edited from Chapter 29 of "White Oleander" by Janet Fitch, wherein I officially get the timeline of the latter chapters all mixed up, but OHWELL. NFB for distance, NFI for now. ]]