Lydia brought her. They both came in through the garage, and Pippa went straight past me to the workbench, where the big monitor was still set up, and said, "Is this where it happened? Can I see it? Can I see Marigold with the underwear?"
"It's a slip," I said.
"Can I see Marigold with the slip?"
I showed her. She watched it eleven times. On the seventh, Lydia, who had been standing behind us with her arms crossed and her mouth pressed into a line, finally broke and laughed so hard she had to sit on the step stool.
At dinner that night Pippa put down her fork and asked, "Is Mrs. Kinsella going to jail?"
"No. Probably not."
"Good," she said, which surprised me.
"Good?"
"She's sad," Pippa said, with the terrible clarity of ten-year-olds. "She keeps looking at our roses. Sad people should get in trouble and then get help. Not jail." She picked her fork up again. "That's what Mom says about Grandpa."
Lydia and I looked at each other across the table, and neither of us said anything, and that was fine.
The district attorney did offer a deferred prosecution agreement. I got the letter, as Quist had said I would, and I went to the courthouse on a gray morning in November and sat in the back of a small courtroom while Sheryl Kinsella stood at a table beside a lawyer in a good suit and said "Yes, Your Honor" five times in a voice I could barely hear. Sixty hours of community service. No contact with me or my property except through counsel. A written apology. Twelve months. If she kept to the conditions, the charge would be dismissed.
The judge asked if the victim wished to be heard. I stood up. I'd written something, but I didn't read it.