Reasonable Doubt

       I always took being a professional typographer for granted until the day my town’s most infamous alleged psychopath asked me for reassurance that she wasn’t crazy.       

* * * * *

            I got the summons during my usual morning jog at the gym. My phone, resting on the side of the treadmill, lit up and the words “You’ve been selected to…’” flashed across my screen. I flipped the phone over. I try not to think about anything during my morning workout. Instead, I gazed at the “Have the bod you pretend to have online” sign ahead of me, focusing on the white space behind the words and letters until I could no longer process their meaning.

            I didn’t look at my phone again until I got to work. And by work, I mean home. Or rather, the office in the corner of my apartment that I only allow myself to enter between 8:30 and 4:30 from Monday to Friday.

            My work is designing typeface. It’s okay if that’s meaningless to you-- it is to most people. I didn’t even learn the word “typography” until halfway through college. When I did, it was like recognizing my own breath. But I was never normal.  

            I grew up haunted by letters. The letters on my cereal box were different from the letters on TV commercials were different from the letters in the books we read at school, and no one seemed to care but me.

My parents thought I was only pretending to know how to read because I would stare so hard at one page for so long. I could read, but I didn’t care much for it. I preferred to spend hours tracing the shape and style of the letters with my eyes, over and over again. The typefaces spoke to me, hypnotized me, taunted me, until I learned to design my own and could finally control them. It’s a self-indulgent profession, yes. I keep to a tight schedule so I don’t have time to dwell on how most days, I’m really only amusing myself.   

            That Tuesday, I was working on a typeface for a CEO’s son’s wedding – developing fonts that would subtly unify the invitations, the menu, the thank you cards. I had asked both grooms to fill out a survey about their interests and their relationship.  All my typefaces follow my own distinctive brand, of course, but I try to match each design to thepersonality and interests of the client as much as possible. According to my client, I asked for more information from the couple than the pastor had. I was so engrossed in kerning that I may have forgotten to eat if my alarm hadn’t gone off for lunch.

            I stretched while my leftover stir-fry heated in the microwave. Then I sat at my kitchen table with my food and absent mindedly opened the text on my phone.

            “You’ve been selected to testify as a typeface expert in the McCory murder trial. Please text or call me to set up a time to discuss.”

            Krystal McCory had been accused of murdering her girlfriend Delilah, the town’s favorite bakery owner.  Krystal was a well-known attorney before the murder. Her photograph greeted people on a huge billboard by the main highway.  Everyone knew her headshot: long blonde hair pulled back and striking green reptilian eyes that said “I will kill for you.” Now the same headshot was all over the newspapers and even got a “human interest” filler on the national nightly news. The hook with this story was that the full body was never found. Just a lot of Delilah’s blood and two of her toes in Krystal’s basement.

            I just stared at the text, not sure if I could believe it. And then I got another text: “Kim, did you get this message? We don’t have much time.”

            If my heart rate were a font, the letters would be too close together to be legible. I barely thought – I dialed the number. I only had 20 minutes left of lunch and I wanted to settle this before returning to work. The recipient picked upon the first ring.

            “Kim! Thank you for calling.”

            Her voice was bold, wide, tall. Not all caps, but vivid. The type of voice that catches your attention and makes you trust whatever comes next.

            “Who is this?”

            “This is Krystal McCory,” the voice said. “I need your help.”

            I stopped breathing.   Just for a few seconds.

            “Hello?” she asked.

            “I’m here.” It felt like a lie.

            “I bet you don’t get calls like this often. Asking for your expertise.”

            Now that I knew who I was talking to, every word sounded sinisterly italicized. But I tried not to panic. I didn’t actually know much about Krystal, besides what I saw in the newspaper and on the news. And I knew better than anyone the power of media to influence you. You can be repulsed or enticed by a font, without even realizing the thing you’re staring directly at is affecting your mood. I told myself not to judge too quickly.

            “What expertise is that?”

            Krystal laughed in a way I’m sure was supposed to be winning.

            “Typography, of course!”

            For the first time, this word that I had built my life around sounded like a murder weapon.

            “I doubt I can help much,” I said.

            “I didn’t kill Delilah,” she said. “Because Delilah is still alive.”

            I knew I should just hang up. My lunch was almost over. But I had a feeling she would keep calling me until shegot what she wanted.

            “Have you told your lawyer this?”

            This time, Krystal’s laugh was less winning and more genuine. An exasperated outburst. “I’m doing some behind the scenes research,” she said. “To help out my lawyer. She doesn’t quite understand what’s at stake here. Are you at your computer?”

            I had fifteen minutes left of lunch. I opened my personal tablet. “Yes.”

            “Look up the Arizona Dandelion Bakery.”

            First, I looked up “Krystal McCory murder.” The trial was in a week but there weren’t any new updates. Her headshot from the billboard came up, as well as her mugshot. She was smiling in her mugshot. I didn’t even know that was allowed.

            “Anything look familiar?”

            “One second,” I said, and opened up a new tab. The Arizona Dandelion Bakery. The first search result brought me to an amateur website, a pink background with a cheery typeface giving the name of the bakery, hours, location, and menu.

            After studying it for a few seconds, I opened another tab and search Delilah’s Delites. The design of the websitewas very, very similar, but not identical. More noticeably, the typeface was very, very similar. Not identical, but too similar to be a coincidence.

            “Where did these typefaces come from?” I asked.

            “Delilah made them, of course.  She wanted a similar aesthetic to the handwriting she writes on special message cakes.”

            “It’s quite a coincidence,” I said, looking at the height of the capital letters, the size of the dots, the curves of thelines.

            “Now look at the South Dakota Donut Diner.”

            I did. Again, a very similar website with only a slight variation in the typeface. 

            “There’s a voice here,” I said, without thinking. “These all come from the same designer. The same artist. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

            “Check the dates,” Krystal said.

            I toggled between tabs. The murder was two years ago. Both websites were made within the last year.

            “Delilah faked her death,” Krystal said. “And listen, she has some reasons. Fraud and stuff. I don’t think it’s in either of our best interests to go into detail, but I know she wouldn’t want me in jail. But she’s in too deep to come forward. So she’s going around the country, trying to start a bakery – just trying to spread some joy and cupcakes.”

            Delilah’s face had also been all over the news. She looked like an Irish mermaid. As gorgeous and intense as Krystal – not someone who could easily hide.

            “I don’t know what to say. My best guess is that all three typefaces were created by the same designer. But I don’t know how that helps.”

            “That’s all I need,” Krystal said. “Say that in court.”

            By now, my stir-fry had gotten cold.

            “I don’t know,” I said. “My schedule’s pretty packed.” This was a lie. I usually preferred doing typefaces for non-profits and media outlets over individual short term events, like weddings, but I was going through a dry spell.

            “I would greatly appreciate it. I think Delilah would greatly appreciate it, wherever she is. It would really make a difference to us.”  

            My lunch break was over. I needed to go back to work.

            “There were two toes,” I said, because I’m an idiot sometimes. “Detached.”

            “I know where you live,” she said. Then she sighed. “I’m sorry, that’s a lie. The worst thing about being accused of murder is giving up my dark humor. I don’t actually know where you live. Just where you work.” Beat. “Another joke.”

            “I have to go back to work,” I said.

            “This is your lunch break? But this is a work call! Please, take another twenty minutes off after this.”

            “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not really a work call, since I can’t help you.”

            “I understand,” Krystal said. She sighed again. “I’m not surprised, I guess. But you do see it, don’t you? She’s still alive. And using those designs – it’s like she wants me to find her.  I’m not crazy for thinking that, am I? The typefaces do look like Delilah’s handiwork?”

            No one has ever spoken so longingly to me about typeface. After hanging up, I took a twenty minute walk to clear my head before returning to the wedding designs.

* * * * *

            I wear my nicest shoes to court, which means my toes are uncomfortably squished when I take the stand. I vow to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Then I fangirl about typefaces for about ten minutes.

            Krystal’s lawyer presents the bakery websites on a screen. There are two more than the ones Krystal showed me. She gives some background on when they were published, her inability to find the person who made them as all of the bakeries have been shut down. Then she asks me what I think.

            “Look at the shape of the curves, how they tend to bend up in all three,” I say. “Look at how the dots are always a little bigger than you’d expect. Notice the asymmetry of the capital letters. There’s variation across all three but the energy. The energy is the same.”

            Krystal’s lawyer smiles encouragingly at me. The prosecutor is not as nice. She looks like a less intense Krystal – white, tall, blonde, but with some face acne. I keep forgetting the color of her eyes because they’re hiding behind thickglasses. Not the sexy kind. She looks like someone who has spent her entire career in Krystal’s shadow, and she is clearly glad to see Krystal on the stand.

            Her first question for me: “Do you have a license? In fonts?”

            I cringe. “No, but I have a Master’s degree.”

            “Not a doctorate?”

            The trial is being live streamed. I told some friends from grad school about the event, and I can imagine my former MFA cohorts watching and drinking, shouting at the screen.

            “I have a Master of Fine Arts. It’s the terminal degree in my field.”

            “Are you a professor? Have you published in your area?”

            “I’m a freelancer.”

            I glance at Krystal. She’s taking notes. 

            “How can you prove the same person designed all three fonts?”

            “It would take an exceptional forger to reproduce that style. And frankly, I’m not sure who would care enough about Delilah’s Delites to copy the typeface aesthetic.”

            “Someone trying to make it look like Delilah is still alive would care.”

            The judge hits the gavel. “Speculation.”

            The prosecutor nods, then looks at me. Eyes narrow. She probably thinks a font is the same thing as a typeface.

"Why are you here?" she asks. "What do you contribute to the case?"

I straighten my spine.

“All I can say is, my expert opinion is that these are not forged. The same designer made all of them. Use your eyes. Look at what I showed you. You can see for yourself.”

During the closing defense, the prosecutor looks right at me when she says, “Don’t be distracted with decorations and designs, or unlicensed people who claim to be experts in them.  They’re just details meant to distract you.  They’re unimportant.”

            Krystal slides her notes over to her lawyer. When it’s time for the final defense, the lawyer holds up the notes from Krystal as she pleads.

            “Sometimes, you need to trust your eyes,” she says. “I’d like to thank our expert witness for pointing out some details which show it is reasonable to assume the same person, no, the same artist, created all five bakery fonts. That artist is Delilah.  This means there’s a reasonable doubt that Delilah is dead, and thus that Krystal McCory is guilty of her murder.”

            I read the faces of the jury – the lines between their eyes, the curve of their mouths. They hear what the lawyer says. There’s more energy in their faces than when the prosecutor speaks. That’s how I know, before the verdict is revealed, that Krystal McCory will go free.

* * * * *

About a week later, I receive an email from an unknown address. The subject line says “thank you.” The body of the email contains nothing but a link. It brings me to an amateur website, a huge magenta background with a font that I haven’t seen before but immediately recognize. The page says “Your expertise was greatly appreciated, Kim.” The typeface was made just for me.