Ted had of course lost his share of cases. That didn’t mean he was used to it. Because Ted hated losing, more than anything else. And to keep from losing, Ted had a three-part strategy: preparation, preparation, and preparation. Now, Ted was to depose J. Gill’s accountant in the morning. That is, the man was his accountant until he accused Gill of financial malfeasance, and Gill’s wife, the only other shareholder in Gill’s corporation, sued him. Ted needed to devise a questioning strategy that would uncover the accountant’s motives as well as nail his feet to the floor, so he can’t backpedal at trial. And he needed to accomplish this without cluing the witness, at least not until it’s too late. Ted needed to anticipate what the witness might say, and what Ted might ask in response, and what the witness might answer. Planning for a deposition is like playing a game of chess, except that you don’t know where the pieces are until after you’ve made your move. Clyde would forgive him, he was sure, for reneging on their dinner plans.
Before he left the courthouse, however, his now vindicated client had asked him for a quick word in private.
“So, that’s it?” Gordon Hill asked once they were in a witness room.
“That’s it,” Ted confirmed.
“It’s all over?”
“It’s all over.”
“They can’t do anything else to me.”
“Right,” Ted said. “You’ve been found not guilty.”
“Even if they got additional evidence, they couldn’t do anything about it.”
“That’s correct.” Ted mentally went through the list of loopholes the government sometimes uses to get around double-jeopardy. None seemed significant here.
“But I can still tell you something and have it be covered by lawyer-client privilege, right?”
“Of course.” Ted gathered that Gordon wanted to ask him a deeper legal question, and now he waited for it.
“I’m not… not guilty,” he said. “I was guilty. I did it.”
Ted had experienced this before, a client declared “not guilty” who now wanted to make restitution, felt his conscience pinging at him, to be absolved of his misdeeds. Ted nodded and explained matter-of-factly, “Even though the government can’t prosecute you again for the same crime, you still probably want to keep that quiet. For example, the victim could still sue you under civil law, and that has a whole different set of rules. There are also many who unfortunately would take it upon themselves to punish you, any way they can think of. So you need to lay low and stay out of trouble.”
“I’ve done this before, you know.”
“Done what?”
“Other… similar crimes.”
Ted thought a moment, then he asked, “You weren’t tried on any of those charges?”
“No. Was never even arrested.”
“Those crimes could still be prosecuted, up to 15 years after the events occurred, under the same charges, if someone files charges and there’s enough evidence. And a confession would count as evidence. So you don’t want to go around talking about them. As I said, you want to keep quiet, lay low, stay out of trouble.”
Gordon seemed to consider these words. Then he said, “I want to stop. I just don’t know how.”
“I have a list of criminal psychiatrists who can—“
“N— uh… No, no, no.” Gordon was shaking his head. “Psychologists freak me out.”
“These gentlemen are medical doctors. They’ll keep your secret as safe as I will. You’ll enjoy complete privilege with them, just as you do with me. Now, I can’t recommend or refer you to any doctor in particular. But call my office first thing in the morning, and my assistant will get you a list of names, okay?”
Gordon waited a moment, then smiled. “Okay. I’ll do that. Thanks.” Then he added, “It’s not my place to say, but… You should go home, be with your wife. She deserves to have someone with her tonight.”
Ted chuckled. “Well, I’ll think about that.” This was Ted’s version of diplomatic. He had already made up his mind.
Clyde didn’t feel like going home to an empty house. She drove around for untold minutes—or was it hours?—feeling sorry for herself, listening to the radio, a long string of nondescript pop love songs bombarding her ears. Occasionally, the DJ took a call from a sickening woman gushing about true love, or an infuriating man dedicating a very special song to it. Finally, Clyde had heard enough of this parade of affection, and she wended her way back home. Even an empty, lonely house has to be more fun than this. She never considered turning off the radio.
The blue Camry parked in the driveway, a gentle tick-tick resonating under the hood, Clydene sulked as she fiddled with her keys in the dark. She paused at the foot of the walkway. The gentle breeze felt like Winter but smelled like Spring. She looked up into the clear sky and identified Orion, the archer, keeping watch over her from directly overhead. It was the only constellation she had ever learned to locate in the chill, Winter, night sky. She sighed a deep, sad sigh and felt her lower lip involuntarily collapse under the weight of her cheeks.
“Well, my friend,” she said to the picture in the stars, “at least we have each other.”
Clyde trudged the remainder of the way to the doorway, pulled open the storm door, inserted her key in the lock, turned the knob. She pushed the door into darkness, listening to it creak on its hinges.
“I’ll have to do something about that,” she said to herself, knowing she would forget all about it in five or ten minutes.
Stepped up the little step into the foyer, dropped her keys into her purse, closed the door, debated for a moment whether she should lock it and force Ted to use his own key when he finally arrived home, God-knows-when. She elected to leave the door unlocked, just in case Ted got home before she went to bed. She didn’t want to feel guilty about forcing him to fiddle with the lock when she was right there.
Into the kitchen, up to the refrigerator, swung open the door. There must be something in here. Leftovers? She scanned the shelves of the chill chest, empty except for some raw vegetables and staples like milk and butter. She opened the deli drawer. Some sliced turkey and cheese, which she swiped up. Grabbed a loaf of bread from the counter, lumbered over to the kitchen table, and set about making a sandwich.
“Damn! Forgot the mustard,” she said. Back to the fridge.
Having procured a plate from the cabinet and assembled her dinner thereon, she brought it into the living room, collapsed on the sofa, grabbed the television remote, clicked on, bit into her sandwich, chewed thoroughly.
On screen, Alan Shore passed around a self-portrait of an expressionless, nine-year-old girl, a picture entitled “Happy Girl.” Marissa could not smile, and no one wanted her. Somehow, Clyde could sympathize. She took another bite of sandwich. If she closed her eyes, Alan Shore reminded her a little of Ted, except that Ted wasn’t so passive-aggressive. Just misunderstood. And missed.
A commercial came on. Clyde couldn’t tell what they were advertising. This was not the exciting evening she had planned. This was the lonely night she had thought she had avoided, upon her now, and nothing she could do would fix it. Her anger stewed.
I don’t ask for much, do I? I don’t want him to give up his career. Hell! I just want a little time, that’s all. Is that unreasonable? God! I’m his wife, for crying out loud. Damn it! That little bastard! He can’t find just a couple hours for me? For us!? Just once a year?
She felt angry, not only because of Ted, but also because she had doubted herself, that she was entitled to his affection. She knew this wasn’t his fault, but she was hurt and upset. And she wanted to blame him for anything she could think of.
Commercial over, at trial, another lawyer slapped down a copy of the national protocol for treating victims of sexual assault. Apparently, a raped woman had become pregnant with her attacker’s baby, because the hospital wouldn’t provide emergency contraception. Already angry, Clyde set her teeth. Even though it was make-believe, somehow she couldn’t help but become part of the drama.
A knock sounded at the door, jolting her from her thoughts.
Strange, Clyde thought. Who could that be, this late at night?
Without leaving the couch, she pulled back the curtain behind her. She had to push herself up a little to see through the window, holding her sandwich and plate in her lap so that it wouldn’t slide to the floor. She couldn’t see anything, because it was dark outside.
“Damn,” she said. Forgot to turn on the outside light.
She set the plate on the couch and strode up to the front door, flicked the switch for the outside light, peered through the peephole. Nothing there, as far as she could see.
She pulled open the door. Still nothing. Pushed open the storm door and craned her head through the gap, sweeping it from side to side in order to take in the whole yard. Still nothing. No one there.
“Hmm,” Clyde said, puzzled. I did hear a knock, right? Maybe it was the TV. Yes, she was sure it had been the TV. She had just been so deep in her own thoughts, she wasn’t paying attention to what was going on in the room, on the tube. Rewinding the experience in her memory, she now remembered the scene that was on. One of the characters had come through a door, and he must have knocked first.
Clyde shook her head at herself, thinking she was going to need a shrink if she kept this up. She stepped back into the foyer, letting the storm door wheeze shut, and she swung the creaky front door closed, pushing it until the latch clicked. Clyde paused a moment, thought about her sanity, shook her head again at herself, snorted, and turned back toward the living room.
From nowhere, something soft and mildly sweet-smelling hit her in the face. She had run into it, and now she couldn’t get it off her. She gasped for breath, choked, coughed, pushed at the thing. Someone was behind her, pressing himself to her back, smothering her with his hand. She knew she should do… What was it she should do? She couldn’t remember. Even if she were able to remember what she should do, she couldn’t think of it. Or something like that. Her mind was a blurred jumble of thoughts, sounds, and images. Or was the room actually dissolving into chaos? She continued hacking under the thick, empty smell that was suffocating her, struggling against it, ever more desperate, ever weaker.
She didn’t remember what happened next.
The air smacked of dirt, sweat, and stale urine. The guard slid open the cage door, and Ted entered the cell. Anthony was sitting on a bench physically attached to the structure. Ted sat across from him.
“Anthony.” He spoke softly. “We have a probable cause hearing tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” he said.
“That means the prosecution will set forth their evidence, or rather, just enough to show that they can make a case at trial. The hearing poses little risk to us, because even if they win, we get a sneak peek at what their case will be at trial. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“However, if we win at probable cause, we won’t go to trial.”
“Yeah,” said Anthony with a grin, “That’s what I want.”
“It’s by no means guaranteed…” Then Ted saw the grin on Anthony’s face. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”
“Please just try your best. I don’t want to wait in jail for God knows how long while you get a trial ready. I hate it here. Whatever I can do. If you want me testify—“
“I don’t think so. It’s very unusual for a defendant to testify at his own probable cause hearing, because it usually doesn’t do any good, and it could give the prosecution more ammunition that they use against you.” Ted took a breath. “And as far as rotting in this cell, your father’s already working on raising bail.”
“Bail or no, I hate the idea of this hanging over my head even one hour longer than necessary. You know just having these accusations being reported in the press is ruining my reputation, and my father’s. What’s it going to do for his business?”
“I don’t know. But what you can do is to tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do what they say I did.” His words began spilling out faster than usual.
“Okay. Do you know Nona Williams?”
Anthony hesitated.
“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’ A jury surely would.”
“You’re not the jury,” Anthony objected, angry.
“Correct. I’m not the jury. I’m your lawyer, and that means whatever you tell me, I will only use it to help you. That’s my job. So please tell me what happened.”
Anthony stared at the steel bars for several seconds. “Yes, I know Nona. But we’ve kept our relationship a secret.”
“I have a feeling the truth will out.”
“There’s no way to keep it a secret?”
“Not if she’s telling the police about it,” Ted replied. “Just how deep did this relationship go?”
Anthony stared into Ted’s eyes. “We were having an affair.”
This puzzled Ted. “Why have an affair? Neither of you is married. If you want to be together, why not just be together?”
“Because she has a boyfriend, Paul Randolph.”
Ted took out a notepad and pen, and he wrote down the name. “And she didn’t want to break up with him?”
Anthony stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Look at me. She’s out of my league.” He looked back at Ted. “I don’t think she wanted to be embarrassed. So we kept it a secret.”
“I see. Let’s talk about Tuesday night. I understand that someone raped her and beat her up pretty badly.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Okay. Did you see Nona on Tuesday?”
“Yes, that evening.”
“Tell me about it,” Ted said.
“We met at a place called China Gardens, out in Palmer.”
“So, someplace where no one would recognize you.” Ted made another note.
“Yeah. We ate at about seven o’clock. We were done by about eight-thirty or nine.”
“Okay. Then what happened?” Ted kept writing.
“Then I rented a room, at the Park Street Inn. I brought Nona up the back entrance.” He paused. “After a while, she went home. I stayed the night.”
“What time did she leave?”
“I’m not sure. I was pretty out of it. But it must have been before 11.”
“Could it have been closer to 10?”
“Yes.”
“And did you have sex?” Ted asked pointedly.
Anthony nodded, with that body language that says, “I’m supposed to be adult about this, but I’m really uncomfortable.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then I woke up early the next morning, took a shower, and went to work.”
“You wore the same clothes?” Ted asked.
“Huh?”
“Your clothes. Did you bring a change of clothes to the hotel? Or did you wear the same clothes two days in a row?”
“Uh. Same clothes.”
“Who did you see yesterday? Or rather, did anyone see you wear the same clothes yesterday, the same clothes you were wearing on Tuesday?”
“I saw my uncle, but he doesn’t notice what I’m wearing.”
“Still couldn’t hurt to ask him. One more thing: If what you’re telling me is true, someone attacked Nona after she left you.”
Anthony nodded sadly.
“And she’s covering up for him,” Ted continued.
“I guess so.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be?”
Anthony thought for a minute. “No, I don’t know.”
Clydene paced across the kitchen floor, down the back hallway, through her tiny office, up to the window. She caught a glimpse of the picket fence dividing their property from the neighbors’ as she whipped her body around and headed back to the kitchen. As she made this round trip again and again, she had a conversation with the air around her.
“Don’t tell me not to take it personally. Beady-eyes made it personal! He comes after innocent people, because he hates us. Anything he can get away with, he just does it. It doesn’t matter whether you’re innocent. But if you’re not on his side, God help you! God help us all! ‘But we promise never to abuse this power!’? God! He tortures the innocent, locks them up without council, without sleep, badgers them until they give in. He punishes his enemies at will. He is lawless, a criminal in uniform.
“And they support him! Don’t they realize that anyone who approves of him approves of what he does? Don’t they know we will all be held accountable for the things of which we approve? And if you vote for him, you have signed your own warrant. I would not choose to face the Great and Mighty with that record on my account.
“Eventually, he’ll come after us all, hunt you down.” She set her teeth. “And there won’t be anything you can do.”
She was stomping by now. A tear streamed down the side of her nose. She felt angry and hurt, helpless and victimized.
“Damn it! I did this… But if I had not, how much worse off would we be?“
The doorbell rang. Clyde wiped the tears from her eyes and sniffled. She reached the door, paused, breathed, then opened it. Cold air wafted over her body, mixed with a hint of perfume. On the landing just outside stood small, dark-haired woman, bundled in a puffy, blue, winter coat. Because the landing was a step lower than the house proper, she looked even shorter than she actually was. Her head came up to Clyde’s chest. Despite that, the woman stood tall and proud. Clyde reminisced for a moment, noticing for the first time in a long time how big her friend made her feel, regardless of her physical stature.
“Mira,” Clyde said. “What’s up?”
“I need your advice.” Then a look of concern spread across her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Come in,” Clyde said. “Don’t mind me.” Then she made an excuse. “Sad movie. What’s up?”
“I had lunch with Ike.”
“I thought you couldn’t be around him.”
“Yeah, I know,” Mira said.
“You changed your mind?”
“Kinda.” Mira paused, then blurted out, “He kissed me.”
Clyde stood, nonplussed, mouth gaping wide. That reaction just seemed right for the occasion. But truthfully, Clyde wasn’t surprised.
Mira beamed, radiated, as though she had just had sex.
“Are you sure it was just a kiss?” Clyde asked salaciously.
“No, it was just… He just kissed me. He put his arm around me and ran his fingers through my hair, and we kissed, just like that.”
“At lunch.”
“Well…” Mira giggled like a teenager.
So Mira told Clyde all that had happened that afternoon. Clyde interjected occasionally with comments like “It would be like hugging Poppin’ Fresh,” or “Was he wearing tight jeans?” or “So, on a scale of 1 to 10…” Clyde knew she could be crude, sometimes inappropriately so. As long as they didn’t actually say the word sex or any of its synonyms. But Mira kept talking. It felt like they were having a slumber party.
“So, what do you think I should do?” Mira asked.
That sobered Clyde. She thought about it. There was a good reason Mira had stopped calling Ike, had stopped carpooling with him, had stopped talking to him, had cut him out of her life. When Mira was around Ike, something happened to her. His presence made her lose control of her feelings. Mira had fallen in love with this man, this man who had shown so little interest in her, and she had drenched Clyde’s shoulder with her tears. That had been months ago, and Mira was just beginning to get back on her feet. Clyde shuddered.
Clydene understood how her friend felt. Which one of us hasn’t fallen inexplicably for someone? Mira never lost that adolescent innocence. Mira was a visionary, and she felt deep feelings. Both sometimes got her into trouble.
“Clyde?” Mira interrupted.
“Yeah… What was the question again?”
“I’m too close to it to think straight. What should I do?”
Well, she could do as Nancy Reagan and just say no. But what if things would have worked out? Mira lived in loneliness, and Clyde had often felt lonely for her friend. Clyde glanced at the tulips Ted had sent, now displayed on the coffee table. She remembered what it was like in the beginning, before Ted, before the end of loneliness.
On the other hand, she would hate for Mira to get hurt again. Yes, to love and be loved entails a certain risk. You risk getting hurt, just as surely as you risk living happily ever after. Still, why allow yourself to fall in love with the wrong guy? It would be a shame if Mira allowed herself to fall in love again, only to be hurt again…
That is, if she hadn’t already fallen in love.
“Do you love him?” Clyde asked.
Mira blushed. “No. That’s silly.”
“But it’s Ike,” Clyde protested.
“So? How much can you fall in love during lunch? It wasn’t even a real date.” Mira’s eyes seemed to light up at the thought of a date with Ike.
The next words came out of Clyde’s mouth almost without a thought. “Does he love you?”
Mira’s face froze for a few seconds. Then it fell. The color seemed to drain out of Mira’s cheeks. Then she forced a smile and said, “I don’t know. What does it matter? We can figure that out later.”
“You asked me what I thought you should do. I think you should find out how he really feels about you and how far he’s willing to take this relationship.”
Ted arrived home well after midnight. He pulled into the driveway, in the same spot he always parked, noticing the empty spot where Clyde’s car usually sat. Approaching the front door, he noticed flashes cast by the television onto the living room curtains. He tried the knob. It opened easily. Peeking around the corner, he made out the couch, empty except for a half-eaten sandwich on a plate.
“Clyde?” Ted called.
No answer. Just some guy on TV interviewing some comedienne.
He tried again. “Clyde!”
Still no answer.
Must have gone out, he thought. Leaving the door open and the television on?
Maybe she was asleep. Ted bounded up the stairs. “Clyde!” he called into the darkness. He didn’t know why he was so anxious to hear her voice.
No answer.
He dashed into the master bedroom, flipped the light on. The bed had not been slept in. Darted over to the guest bedroom, flipped on the switch. Still nothing.
He rushed back downstairs, dodged into the spare downstairs room. Switched on a lamp, illuminating the big comfy couch and armchair, stacked with papers and miscellaneous nicknacks.
“Clyde?” he begged, even though he could see the room clearly devoid of life.
Then he canvassed the rest of the house: the office, the kitchen, even the basement. Clyde was nowhere to be found. Neither was any indication of where she went, and why in such a hurry. He knew it had been in a hurry, because she left the door unlocked and the TV on. No note. No message on the answering machine.
Ted picked up the cordless telephone and dialed Clyde’s cellphone. He heard first, then he saw it, sitting on the living room coffee table, Clyde’s purse. Her phone was ringing from within, audible even through the layers of fabric. Ted walked over to it, flipped open the top, looked inside, and saw the cell. He pulled it out. By that time, Clyde’s cellphone had switched over to voice-mail. Through the cordless receiver, Ted heard his wife’s voice invite him to leave a message.
Strange, that after so desperately desiring to hear her voice, he should be so horrified by it. Ted pushed the feeling away. With his thumb, he pressed the “off” button on the cordless.
He paused. Something else wasn’t right. Something in the purse. Something he had seen. Ted peered inside again, and he immediately realized what was wrong. He set down the cellphone, reached into the bag, and pulled out a ruffled, white handkerchief.
This isn’t Clyde’s.
Then he brought the white cloth near his face and sniffed it. Ted had no good reason for doing so. But he did so nonetheless, maybe in hopes of some clue. Maybe because this was his only clue. Or maybe because his brain was only half in control of his mind. He was operating on automatic pilot. The cloth smelled mildly sweet. Ted felt suddenly dizzy. It could have been the stress of the situation taking away his balance. But what his mind was telling him was something different, the worst thing that could have happened. He loathed to admit it, but he knew the truth and knew that he couldn’t escape it.
Ted dropped the handkerchief back into the open purse, and with the thumb of his other hand he simultaneously pushed the “on” button on the phone. In court, he always referred to his opponent as “the prosecutor.” But now, Ted couldn’t punch the man’s home phone number fast enough.
He brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring.
Pick up! Damn it! Pick up!
“Hello?” said a groggy voice on the other end.
“Brian,” Ted bellowed. “I need you. Now!”
Clyde half woke up, groggy. She was moving, subtly jouncing, a steady hum droning in her ears. She groaned. A heavy strap was digging into her clavicle. She opened her eyes—or were they already open? She couldn’t see.
“Where am I?” she said.
“I thought you should be with someone you love on Valentine’s day,” a voice said.
“Ted?” she asked.
She now realized something was covering her eyes, and she could not move her hands.
“No, Ted’s at work, honeeee.” The word had an eerie quality. The man speaking it drew out the last syllable like a vocal exercise. She had heard something like that before, but in her stupor, she couldn’t place it.
Not only was something covering her eyes, it was covering her face, too. She sighed deeply.