Chapter 9: What the Notebook Held
Detective Okafor came back at noon.
She sat across from me and Carol, and I handed her the notebook without preamble.
She opened it to the first page.
The entries began three years ago.
October.
A Tuesday.
I had written the date, the time, what had happened, and what I had told myself afterward to make it smaller.
That last part — the minimizing, written in the same hand as the facts — was, I realized now, its own kind of evidence.
She read for several minutes without speaking.
"You kept this contemporaneously," she said.
"As it happened."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I thought about it.
"I think I knew, somewhere, that I would need it.
And I think I was also trying to convince myself that I was remembering correctly.
That I wasn't exaggerating."
She turned another page.
"You weren't," she said.
She read to the end.
Then she closed the notebook carefully and set it on the table beside her.
"Nora, I spoke with Diane Voss this morning."
Carol's hand found mine on the blanket.
"She's willing to speak with us formally," Okafor said.
"She retained a new attorney last week.
Before last night — before she knew about you.
She's been building toward this for several months."
"She was waiting," I said.
"She was waiting for corroboration.
A pattern is harder to dismiss than a single incident.
She knew that.
She was waiting for someone else to come forward."
"And I fell down eleven stairs," I said.
"And you told the truth about it." Okafor's voice was matter-of-fact.
"That's what changed."
She reached into her bag and produced a folder.
"I'm going to tell you where this stands.
Graham Mercer is currently at the family home.
His attorney contacted my department at nine this morning.
They are preparing a statement characterizing last night as a domestic accident and your subsequent statements as the result of pain medication and emotional distress."
Carol made a sound.
"That's their position," Okafor said.
"It's not an unusual one.
It also doesn't account for the notebook, the X-ray history, Diane Voss, or the documents from the drawer." She paused.
"Russell Mercer is a more immediate problem.
He is a licensed attorney and he understands exactly how much exposure the family has right now.
He will move quickly."
"What does quickly look like?" Carol asked.
"Pressure on Diane Voss to re-invoke her NDA.
Possibly a motion to suppress the documents from the drawer on the grounds of unlawful entry — though that's a weak argument given that Carol had implicit permission as Nora's representative.
And—" She looked at me.
"An attempt to discredit you.
Your medical history.
Your mental health history, if there is one they can use.
Your relationship with your sister.
Anything that creates doubt."
"There's nothing," I said.
"There rarely is, with people like Graham.
That won't stop them from looking."
She closed the folder.
"Here is what I want you to understand.
You have a notebook.
You have X-rays showing a documented pattern of injury over multiple years.
You have a second victim willing to speak.
You have financial documents showing a prior settlement designed to conceal the same pattern.
And you have a patient advocate's contemporaneous notes documenting Russell Mercer's attempt to purchase your silence at midnight in a hospital room."
She looked at me steadily.
"This is not a weak case, Nora."
I exhaled.
My ribs reminded me, as they had every hour, that they were fractured.
"What happens next?" I asked.
"I present the evidence to the DA's office.
They decide on charges.
That process takes days, not hours.
In the meantime—" She leaned forward slightly.
"You need somewhere safe to stay.
Not a hotel Graham knows about.
Not anywhere the Mercer family could locate easily."
"She's staying with me," Carol said.
"We'll leave today."
Okafor nodded.
"Good.
Keep your phone on.
Don't contact Graham or Russell directly.
If they contact you, forward it to me immediately." She stood.
"One more thing."
She reached back into her bag and produced a business card — different from the one Dr.
Alvarez had given me.
A name I didn't recognize, and below it: *Family Violence Unit, Civil Division.*
"This attorney handles protective orders and civil proceedings," she said.
"She works with my unit regularly.
Call her today.
Not tomorrow."
She shook my hand, then Carol's.
At the door, she paused.
"Graham Mercer called this a domestic accident," she said.
"His own words, in his attorney's statement, this morning." She looked at me.
"He said that before he knew about the notebook."
Then she left.
Carol and I sat in the quiet for a moment.
"She's good," Carol said.
"Yes."
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number — different from Diane Voss's.
I answered carefully.
A man's voice.
Smooth.
Practiced.
"Mrs.
Mercer, my name is Thomas Greer.
I'm the Mercer family's lead attorney.
I'd like to speak with you about a resolution that would—"
"My attorney's name is—" I looked at the card Okafor had just given me.
"—is the civil attorney Detective Okafor referred me to.
Please contact her directly."
A pause.
"Mrs.
Mercer, I strongly advise you to hear what I have to say before—"
"Goodbye, Mr.
Greer."
I ended the call.
Carol looked at me.
"You don't have that attorney yet," she said.
May you like
"I know." I was already dialing.
"I'm getting her now."
