Warning: This chapter contains violence and sexual situations that are inappropriate for children (and also for some adults). See the parental warning.
From the defendant’s table, Ted watched Nona Williams take the stand. A tailored jacket showed off her well proportioned figure, and a gray, tweed, mid-length skirt showed off her shapely legs. A bailiff swore her in, and in response to the oath, she intoned, “I do.” She took a moment before being seated. Her straight, yellow hair flowed around lightly freckled, porcelain cheeks. Pale eyebrows hung over eyes of brown, looking down a simple, straight nose at Ted and the Italian-American seated next to him. Despite her snobbish vibe, Ted understood what young Anthony saw in her. Even marred, her beauty filled the room. A butterfly bandage held together the skin above her right eyebrow, and a purple bruise covered her chin and left jaw. Still, her natural radiance shone through. Neither did her upper lip, still swollen, affect her speech. She spoke elegantly, with grace and authority, as a woman of class and etiquette.
Press packed the gallery, which Ted had expected. Nona Williams was the daughter of town selectman Gerald Williams, who had built a real-estate management empire before getting into politics. It was said that the Williams family owned half the town. As a result, the story of Nona’s assault and Anthony’s arrest remained discrete only not even until the day that charges were filed.
Next to Ted sat Anthony Giordano. Anthony’s parents occupied gallery seats just behind them. Ted had explained to them all that Miss Williams would take the stand, would look and sound sympathetic, would tear into Anthony, might even lie. But Ted would have his say, and they had to trust Ted to deal with the situation. Ted knew that Rico had a short temper and loved his son, and Ted needed him to keep control.
The Assistant District Attorney trying the case was a short, balding man named Brian Chambers. He and Ted used to be cordial, if not friendly. But over the years, their cordiality had morphed into antagonism. Brian’s boss constantly pressured him to put suspected criminals away for longer and longer sentences, an objective that Ted took great satisfaction in thwarting, even if they were guilty. Meanwhile, Brian’s cozy relationship with Baedes made Ted sometimes angry and always suspicious. Now, whenever Ted and Brian went head to head, the case was no longer just a job. They both took the battle personally, and both took losing personally.
Brian Chambers asked Miss Williams to describe the events of two nights ago. She began:
“I was at home, reading. At between ten-thirty and eleven o’clock, someone rang my apartment, from the front door of my building.” She looked for approval from the prosecutor.
“Go on,” he said.
“Well, I suppose it was a stupid thing to do, but I was expecting a visit from my suitor, Paul Randolph, sitting over there.” She pointed to a well dressed, grim-faced, young man seated in the gallery.
Brian Chambers prompted her, “You were expecting a visit from Mr. Randolph, so what did you do when you heard the buzzing from the front door?”
“I pushed the button to open the front door. I didn’t first ask who was there, because I assumed it was Paul.”
“Then what happened?”
“I opened the door to my apartment so that he could get in, and I sat back down on the couch to continue with a book I had been reading. I was deeply involved in reading when someone entered the room. Naturally, I thought it was Paul.” She paused at this point in the story.
“But it wasn’t Paul, was it?”
“No,” she said.
“Who had entered your apartment?”
She delayed before answering. She inhaled, a short, sharp breath. “He did,” pointing at Anthony. “The defendant.”
Brian Chambers spoke with sympathy. “What did you do when you realized who was there?”
“I began to run to the phone to call the police.”
“You didn’t ask the man who he was or what he wanted?”
“Well, he was coming at me, and he grabbed me before I could get to the phone. And then—“ She choked up.
The prosecutor placed his hand on her forearm. “When you’re ready, tell us, what then?”
The young woman took a deep, uneven breath. She swallowed and stared at the ceiling, to her left, away from Anthony and his lawyer.
“He grabbed my hair and threw me against the table. Then he pulled me up and threw me against the wall.”
She returned her gaze to the prosecutor.
“I screamed, but he punched me in the face. I thought he was going to kill me.”
She was visibly weeping now.
“I begged him to stop, told him it wasn’t my fault. But he wouldn’t listen. He hit me repeatedly.”
The girl seemed about to bawl. Tears, genuine tears, flowed freely down her cheeks. But she didn’t stop. Rather, her words became faster, louder, more intense. She looked to the ceiling again.
“I tried to fall. I tried to curl up, to cover myself. But he yanked me— He struck me again.”
She brought her red-stained eyes square with the sad eyes of the prosecutor.
“He continued to strike me, pummeled me.”
Brian said nothing. He simply waited.
She looked back up at the ceiling, this time at the opposite corner, above where Ted and Anthony were seated.
“He pushed me to the floor. He pulled down his pants, and he got on top of me. And he pushed his way up under my skirt. And he—“ She swallowed. “He went inside me.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then returned her gaze to Brian Chambers. “I don’t really remember what happened after that. The next thing I remember, Paul talking on the phone to an emergency operator, and then an ambulance arrived and took me to the hospital.”
Brian nodded, patted her on the arm, said, “Thank you, Miss Williams.” Then he sat down.
Ted rose. “Your Honor, I suggest we take a short break.”
“No. I’m ready now,” she interrupted. She was patting her eye with a tissue.
“Your Honor,” Ted pleaded.
Judge Spiller, who had been quietly observing the proceedings, now spoke. “We’ll recess until after lunch. Reconvene at 1:30.” He banged his gavel.
Ted ushered Anthony and his parents toward a witness room. On the way, several reporters tried unsuccessfully to get a quote, and several cameras did get a shot. Ted silently held the door, as the family entered the private room.
Rico began the discussion. “She’s lying.”
His wife, clearly upset, seemed to doubt. “But those things,” she said. “Those things happened.”
Rico gazed warmly at her. “But Anthony didn’t do them.”
“You’re right of course,” Ted said.
Rico eyeballed Ted hopefully. “You believe me, then?”
Ted explained. “I believe that she made up the part about her being raped. Because of her eyes. It wasn’t recorded in the record, but I noticed her eyes. While she was telling her story, her eyes looked off in the same direction, toward the ceiling. But when she got to the part about Anthony, she looked in the opposite direction.” Now he addressed Anthony. “We know that you and she were lovers, but we also know that you didn’t do this to her. She’s covering up for someone.”
Before Anthony and his parents could process Ted’s chain of logic, however, he commented, “Unfortunately, as far as the court is concerned, we would have more luck with pixie dust.”
“So how do you prove it?” Anthony asked, his eyes so full of worry that even Ted could see it.
“I had a private investigator check out your story,” Ted said confidently. “Don’t worry. We can prove it.”
After lunch, Ted stood, buttoned his suit, casually approached the witness stand, in which Nona Williams once again sat.
“Miss Williams, you testified that when you saw my client in your apartment, you immediately ran for the phone.”
“Yes,” she replied confidently.
“So then, you didn’t know who he was.”
“No.” She shook her head as she said it.
“You didn’t know him?”
“I didn’t know him,” she reaffirmed.
“You had never seen him before?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Objection,” said the prosecutor. “Asked and answered.”
Ted explained. “I just want to make sure we’re crystal clear on this point, judge.”
“I get the point, Mr. Jackson. Objection sustained. Please, move it along,” said the judge.
Ted pursed his lips and nodded. “Now, you see, that’s funny.”
“How so?” she asked. Even Ted could detect the smugness in her voice.
“At least three different people can place you with my client, in a restaurant in Palmer, earlier that very evening, between 7 and 8 o’clock.”
Ted waited for a response, but she seemed tongue-tied.
Ted continued. “Perhaps you would like to amend your testimony.”
“Well…” And then nothing.
“You do know that lying under oath is perjury.”
“I’m not lying!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I don’t know who they think they saw, but it wasn’t me! Maybe he found someone who looked like me so he could stalk me and say I knew him, the pervert.” She glared at Anthony.
Anthony remained stoic.
Ted continued. “I don’t think so. But maybe if several eyewitnesses confused you and this mystery woman, maybe you mistook some other man for Mr. Giordano? Because he certainly wasn’t at your apartment that night.”
“I know what I saw,” she insisted. “You don’t forget—“
“How can you be so sure, if you had never seen him before?”
“You don’t forget,” she said. “And you’re ignoring the DNA evidence. And if that all weren’t enough, you can identify him from his scar.”
“Beg pardon?” Ted asked.
“His scar,” she repeated. “He has a scar on… on his thing.”
A chuckle rippled through the room.
Frowning, she looked down her nose sideways at Ted, as though that were code for what she had just tried to say.
But Ted was unperturbed. “Hmm…” He shook his head slowly. “The problem is, it seems your recent fame has gotten the better of you. As it turns out, everyone loves to talk about the famous. And if it involves a scandal…” Ted raised his eyebrows at her, as though he were speaking code right back at her.
“Objection,” moaned the Assistant District Attorney, who had been sitting quietly, taking notes.
The judge said, “Sustained. Mr. Jackson, if you have a question, please ask it.”
“If that wasn’t you in the restaurant, I guess that also wasn’t you who was seen waiting in a car at a nearby hotel later that night?”
“No!” She stared, aghast, back at Ted. “Do you mean to imply— How dare you?! You take that back!”
Now it was Ted’s turn to glare smugly back at her. Or rather, he felt like glaring smugly, and he thought he had a right to. However, he had one more point, and he needed to look sympathetic to make it stick with the judge and the press.
“Nona,” Ted said softly. “Who really did this to you?”
“He did!”
“No he didn’t. Who are you covering for?”
“No one! He— I don’t know.”
“Miss Williams,” Ted said, “we know that you and the defendant had sex that night. You’re right: The DNA is in evidence. But we also know that it didn’t happen in your apartment.”
“No,” she protested. “It happened just as I said.”
“Someone hurt you, and once you were at the hospital, you had to claim that it wasn’t consensual in order to cover up the fact that you and he were having an affair.”
“No!” she repeated.
“Nona…“ Ted sighed. “Nona,”—with his most compassionate face—“no one could blame you for wanting to cover that up, but an innocent man’s future is at stake.”
“Please don’t call me Nona.”
“Nona, how did this really happen to you?”
“Please call me ‘Miss Williams.’” She frowned sternly and glared even more steeply down her nose. Once beautiful, now it appeared pointy.
Ted wasn’t one for sentiment. But even he had to admit, this was sad.
Mira lowered herself onto her chair, as Ike held it, brushing the back of her little black dress forward as she sat. The air smelled of garlic and Parmesan cheese. And candlelight cast flickering shadows on the white tablecloth and ceramic dishes. Ike sat across from her, modern gray suit, peach shirt, red-orange striped silk tie. A waiter named Giovanni arrived, asking if they would like to start with wine or an appetizer.
“Have you ever had escargot?” Ike asked.
“No.” Mira was mildly amused. She didn’t actually believe that snails were an aphrodisiac, but she felt feisty and enjoyed playing along.
Ike grinned handsomely. “Do you trust me?”
Mira grinned back. “Implicitly,” she breathed, as seductively as she could muster.
Ike turned to the waiter. “Please bring us escargot for two, and a bottle Pinot Noir.”
Mira was worried about the bill. Who was bankrolling this fancy dinner? Was Ike suddenly irresponsible with money? Or did he have an unknown source of cash? Oh my God! Mira thought. I hope he didn’t steal it.
She spoke up. “I, uh, don’t want to spoil the mood.”
“Okay,” Ike said. “So don’t, then.” He chuckled.
Mira sighed. “Where are you getting the money to pay for this— this?” She opened her hands as if to wrap them around the table, to indicate what this was.
“I have a job,” Ike said, clearly perturbed.
“Yeah, I know.” Mira began to feel a tightness in her chest. “I just meant… This is really extravagant. Are you sure it’s alright?” Her countenance reflected her distress.
Ike’s expression relaxed. “Yes, it’s fine. It’s a special occasion with a special woman. I’ve got it covered.” Then he added, “Trust me. You said you did, right?”
“Yes,” Mira agreed. “Okay, but just promise me you haven’t done anything that will get you into trouble.”
He chuckled again. “I promise,” he replied sweetly.
The wine was smooth, soft, earthy, and full. The escargot tasted like garlic-and-butter gummy worms. Mira gathered, that was how snails were supposed to taste, at least when they were cooked in garlic and butter. For an entrée, they each had the Chicken Parmesan with ziti. They talked about other strange foods, table manners, people who annoy you at parties, embarrassing episodes from their pasts, and anything else that could deepen Mira’s feelings without forcing her to ask about Ike’s. Mira told herself that she didn’t want to plunge into that discussion until later, even though she had promised herself that before the night was over, she would ask him how he really felt. Therefore, “later” couldn’t last forever.
Clyde had elicited that promise from her. Mira needed to promise Clyde, because she was terrified of the answer. She was terrified that Ike would see in her eyes how deeply he had won her, and that he would freak out and bolt. She was terrified that he might say they were just having fun and that they shouldn’t get too attached. She was afraid that if she didn’t ask, he would decide later that they were “just having fun,” and she would get hurt. She had been here before. She had been here before with Ike, though he didn’t know it. Most of all, she feared he would shun the danger she represented, because anyone who got involved with her was in danger of being charged with a crime, and Ike was still technically on probation, still vulnerable to threats Baedes could make.
Mira was terrified, so she put off the uncomfortable subject as long as she could. But by the time they were each sipping a cappuccino and sharing a tiramisù, Mira knew she needed to address the issue.
“Something wrong with the tiramisù?” Ike interrupted her thoughts, and Mira suddenly realized she had been daydreaming.
“No, everything’s wonderful.” She forced herself to smile.
“You look sad,” Ike said.
“I’m sorry. I just—“ Mira searched for words.
“You wish it didn’t have to end?” Ike gazed hopefully.
“Yes, kind of, but—“
“It doesn’t have to end,” Ike said. He reached across the table and caressed the back of Mira’s hand with his fingers.
“Do you love me?” Mira blurted, suddenly overcome.
If Mira didn’t have Ike’s full attention, she had it now. He pulled his hand back, and a look of dismay covered his face.
“I’m sorry,” Mira said. “I shouldn’t have… Forget it.”
Ike said, “I like you, Mira. I like you a lot. I want to spend time with you. I—“ He paused. “I don’t know if—“
“That’s okay,” Mira said. “I get it.” She could feel her face burning red. She began to stand.
“Wait,” Ike said, and touched her hand again. “Please.”
His cavernous eyes pleaded with her.
Ike continued. “Can’t we take it slow? Just get to know each other? At least for a short while? It’s important to me.”
Mira could see that he was sincere, desperate even.
“I— I’m afraid,” Mira admitted.
Ike considered this. “Is that why you were so upset about kissing me yesterday?”
Mira nodded.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“I know.” But Mira knew that didn’t change anything.
“At least let me drive you home.”
Mira hesitated. But when she stared into his desperate eyes, she finally consented.
Ike paid the bill, helped Mira on with her coat, walked her out to his car, opened the passenger’s door. He placed his hand on her upper back as she was about to step into the car. She stopped, felt the pressure of his hand through her coat. His touch. A simple touch. How could such a simple thing evoke such powerful emotions? Mira felt her eyes begin to well up. Ike wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. She tried to push away, but he tenderly shushed her, caressed her hair. She could feel him weeping, too, deep inside his chest.
“If you only knew, Mira,” he said. Then he whispered, “But I’m trouble, I’ve always been trouble. You don’t want to be with me.” He was crying. “You should leave, just leave, and save yourself.”
When the evil man threatened Clyde again, threatened to strike her unless she told him her name, she grumbled, “You already know my name,” which was true.
Unfortunately, that was not the answer he was looking for.
Still reeling from the sting of his strap on her left forearm, she heard him ask again, “What’s your name?”
“My name is Justice,” she scoffed. It sounded stupid coming out of her mouth, but she was on a roll and unwilling to admit she sounded stupid. “I’m going to come after you and tear you to shreds, you little bug.”
He just sneered, with a maniacal laugh that said he thought he was beyond the reach of anything so puny and insignificant as her. “Do you think I’ve never done this before? I know exactly what I’m doing. That’s why they can’t catch me. I even leave them little clues. But they’ll never catch up to me. And you won’t catch up to me either, my deeeer.”
Clyde snarled, “I bet that’s how you got that gash across your face. Someone caught up to you. Am I right?!”
That was also not the answer he wanted. Clyde clenched her teeth, her fists, panted against repeated stings of his strap. A tear ran down her cheek.
He wiped away the tear. “My Deeeer, please don’t do this. I don’t you to get hurt. But you must admit what you feel and what you want. And this is the only way. Please make it easy on yourself. Cooperate. Answer my question. A simple question. Your name. That’s all I want. What is it?”
Why should she hold out for this? He already knew her name. If she answered, she would not actually be revealing anything to him. The information would not profit him any. Why should she not tell him what he wanted to hear?
“Clyde,” she said. That was her first mistake.
It was also not the answer he wanted to hear.
“Clydene.” She tried again, desperately wanting to ignore the stinging in her right arm now.
Still the wrong answer. She got the strap across her face.
What the hell is wrong with this pervert? Clyde seethed.
“Go to hell!” she yelled through clenched teethe.
That was definitely not the right answer.
The blows continued. The strike across the left side of her neck was the first that made her scream. And to avoid crying, she began to fume. She spat at him. With renewed strength she pulled at her bonds. She imagined that if she only tried hard enough, she could bite him again, this time for good. She conjured up every one of the basest obscenities a good Christian girl might ever have heard and blasted them at his ugly, scar-marred face.
None of it did any good.
A brief respite. Still seething, Clyde ached, burned. Her heart beat fast and hard. She breathed as fast as she could. Anger gave way to panic. She had worked herself into a tizzy, and she needed to calm herself down. But she didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to be angry. It was the only way she knew to fight back.
The assaulter grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled back her head until she could reach neither to the right nor left. So she spat at him. She felt her heart go thump-thump through her scalp.
With his other hand he ripped her blouse open at the front.
Her chest heaved up and down with each hyperventilating breath.
He let go, strolled behind her, came back with a pocket knife, which he pulled open. The sharp edge of the blade traced a smooth, menacing arc from the pinpoint tip down to its base. He pointed the knife at Clyde’s throat. “Let’s try this agayyyyn,” he said.
She breathed quickly and heavily. Panic set fully in now, and she struggled to calm herself.
“Okay,” she said as soothingly as she could muster. “If you tell me what you want to know, I’ll do my best to tell you.”
He grinned, brushed the knife softly up Clyde’s throat. She dared not move. She tried to hold her breath, but to little avail.
“Don’t make me slip,” he warned, still in that same cool, menacing voice. Holding the knife still to her throat with one hand, with the other, he caressed her torso.
Clyde closed her eyes and winced, but did not struggle, felt her heart thump-thump, thump-thump, like Poe at 78 RPM.
Gently, tenderly, the knife still pressed to her throat, his arm embracing her, his hand at her back. She had been arching her back, without realizing, leaving enough room for his hand between her and the back of the chair. Still, eyes closed, she dared not move, even as he unhooked her brassiere, even as she felt the cool air upon her naked breasts, even as she heard him sigh with pleasure. She fought nausea, but she dared not move. She felt seasick. Indeed, worse than seasick.
Once, when she was in college, a date took her on a tour of Boston Harbor. He was an awful date, rich kid and proud of it, more interested in impressing her with his immense means than in being with her, and most interested in how she made him look. Fortunately, Clydene, who had never been on a ship before, developed acute nausea. She spent almost the entire tour hunched over, dizzy, holding in the bile, all of which gave her an excellent excuse to ignore her date.
Now, strapped to this chair, Clyde would have loved to have felt that good.
The knife left her throat, but Clyde still didn’t want to open her eyes. She feared the shame and embarrassment she knew she would feel. She prayed a silent, desperate prayer for hope, and a lone tear trickled from her right eye.
“Let’s try this again,” he said calmly, no creepy drawl, as if he were a normal person. “You know what will happen if I don’t get the answer I need. I don’t want to hurt you. But unless you cooperate, you force me to do things I don’t want to do.”
“Just please tell me what you want me to say,” Clyde managed, between breaths and quiet sobs.
“I need to know your full name,” he said.
Clyde thought carefully, then spoke each word carefully. “Clydene Patrice Hobbes-Jackson,” she said.
This was still not the correct answer.
“You don’t realize what this guy does,” Ted told Michael. “If her story was true…”
Ted didn’t want to consider the brave testimony of young Stacie Williams in Hill’s rape trial. Fortunately for Hill’s case, she had been confused. She had not seen his face, or couldn’t recall it, yet couldn’t remember whether he was wearing a mask or had drugged her. She couldn’t clearly identify his voice or any of his physical characteristics. Her psychiatrist said she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and that her mind had blocked out certain memories. This was convenient for his defense, because her testimony turned out to be the only evidence linking the crime to Ted’s client. It was wonderful for him as a lawyer. But if even only a fraction of her story were true—
Ted couldn’t think about that. He knew he didn’t always show Clyde the appreciation or attention she deserved. But he also knew she was the only woman in the world who could put up with him and sympathize with him. And she was the only person to whom he’d ever truly opened himself. When he decided that he wanted to get married, there was only one—
He couldn’t think about that right now, either. He told himself he needed to focus, to wrack his brain for some piece of information that would bring the police closer to where she had been taken. That’s why, Ted told himself, he couldn’t be distracted by sentiment. In reality, however, sentiment made Ted feel helpless, and Ted knew this.
“If her story was true… we need to get Clyde back.”
He had been staring at the kitchen table. Ted wondered whether Michael was even still in the room, still listening to him, so quietly. All Ted could hear was an occasional footstep in the house, or an occasional voice, indistinct and distant. He looked up. His friend was indeed still there, still sitting across from him, eyes transfixed on him.
Michael, the man could be a wiseass sometimes, but sometimes he knew exactly how to listen.
Footsteps entered the kitchen, the footsteps of Brian Chambers. “Any more thoughts?” he asked.
Ted shook his head.
“Okay,” Brian continued. “We’re searching his apartment, and we’re also checking out other places he’s been known to frequent.”
Ted nodded slowly, serenely.
“There’s one more thing,” Brian said kindly. “We discovered your wife’s car abandoned a few miles down route 39. We think he transferred her to another vehicle and drove off. We’ve collected forensics, but we’d like you to take a look at the car, see if there’s anything that looks out of place or missing.”
Ted blew up at him. “What the hell is that supposed to accomplish?! How am I supposed to know if something is missing? I couldn’t pick my wife’s car out of a police line-up! And even if I could, so what? What we need to do is find out where he is, not where she left her groceries, or whatever she uses that car for.” Ted felt sheepish, but he suppressed it. “I don’t have time to be going out on useless excursions!”
Ted was standing, waving his arms around like a madman. When had he stood up?
“Ted,” Michael said calmly. “If you find nothing, no harm done. But even if you find the littlest piece of evidence, it might help Clyde faster. And isn’t that what you want?”
Ted remained silent.
“And the trip might also help jog your memory. Memories are like that. It’s when you distract yourself with useless trivia, that’s when something important pops up to the surface.”
Ted stared at his friend, expressionless. He wanted to ignore all the evidence, didn’t want to be involved unless it was to grab Gordon Hill by the neck and rip his head from his body with his bare hands.
“Let’s go,” he said.
