“There is a sensationalized bestselling book on the market right now that claims to have been narrated by your wife. Are you aware of this book?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Have you read the book?”
Tony stoically replied, “No, I have not.”
“Were you aware that you’re mentioned in this book?”
“Judge, where is this going?” Brent asked.
“Counselor, I want to hear your client’s answer. Mr. Rawlings, were you the cause of that brain injury? Did you harm your wife?”
Tony turned toward John and Emily. “I’m not proud of the things I’ve done in the past, and I would never do them again. I would do anything to have never behaved as I did. You need to know that this time things were different.”
“Mr. Rawlings…” Judge Temple’s voice deepened, “…while we’re not in a courtroom, I will still hold you in contempt if you avoid another of my direct questions. Did you cause your wife grievous bodily harm in 2010?”
“Tony, don’t answer this,” Brent urged.
“Grievous?” Tony asked.
“Did you wound her with intent?”
“I didn’t intend to harm her. It just…”
Tony’s words faded, tears descended Emily’s cheeks, as the small room buzzed with silence.
“Mr. Rawlings,” Judge Temple continued, “are the things in Ms. Banks’ book based on fact?”
“I haven’t read her book.”
“How did Mrs. Rawlings first come to live at your house, in 2010?”
Tony looked toward Brent and then remembering the judge’s statement about contempt, he replied, “I’d rather not answer that question.”
“Oh my God,” Emily breathed under her breath, “you’re a monster.”
“I’d never hurt Nichol. I haven’t hurt Claire since before our divorce. We’ve worked things—”
Judge Temple inhaled and sat taller. “Based on the best interest of this family and of the minor child, I believe I have enough information regarding the protective order. We will reconvene in court, and I’ll announce my decision.”
Tony’s heart ached.
I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.
—Kurt Cobain (paraphrased from André Gide)
The offices at Rawlings Industries corporate were quiet. Being after hours, most of the people had gone home to their families. Tony didn’t have that luxury. He didn’t want to go to his house—ever. The repairs were complete but the entire structure made him ill. The contractors said that the smell of smoke was gone, but when he entered the grand doors and walked the corridors, a putrid smell infiltrated his senses. No one else could smell it—but Tony could. It was the manifestation of years of hate and vengeance. It was the sickening loss of happiness that would never be his. It was the death of innocent people, and the death of innocence.
Was it only the structure in Iowa, or would he smell the same thing if he were to ever enter the house in New Jersey, the one where he was raised? After all, didn’t it all begin there? Tony wasn’t blaming anyone: he’d done enough of that. But the fact remained that he was raised in an opulent pit of evil. Like the red of his rage, it lurked in every corner and slithered through the halls. His grandfather’s greed, grandmother’s illness, father’s passive-aggressive hatred, and his mother’s submissive acceptance all mingled together to create the environment that spawned both Tony and Catherine. In no way was he forgiving her for any of her actions: nonetheless, she’d come to live under that roof at a mere twenty years of age. Would she have turned out differently had her parents accepted her and Sophia? Would he have turned out differently raised by someone else?
Tony pondered Sophia. She was a London, yet she was so different from her mother. Didn’t the woman Sophia became speak volumes about nature versus nurture? Every day he thought of the life lost too young.
Tony also mourned Derek. The man deserved better. He’d met every test and challenge with flying colors. Mr. Cunningham from Shedis-tics gave him glowing recommendations, as did Brent, from the short time they’d worked together. His death was another piece of the tragic puzzle.
The home Tony constructed was built as a testament to a man that Tony never really knew, a man who influenced events long after his death. Nathaniel fought hard, lived large, loved secretly, and fell from grace. He allowed his ambitions to overpower his better judgment.
As Tony swirled the amber liquid around his glass, he admitted, if only to himself, he was no better. If anything, he was worse. Nathanial made mistakes out of greed and ambition. Tony’s sins were based on misguided need. It was pitiful, he concluded, as he swallowed the contents of the glass and poured another two fingers of Johnny Walker. Relishing the slow burn as the whiskey dulled his senses, Tony mourned the loss of everything he knew to be true. His entire life was built on lies, retribution, and the need for validation. The money, the power, the prestige were all for one thing—to finally hear Nathaniel say, “well done, son.”
He couldn’t even dream that. In his dream, Nathaniel told him he’d failed.
Tony laid his jacket across a chair and stretched out on the long leather sofa in the far corner of his office. Hell, he’d sleep the night there; he’d been doing it quite frequently. It was better than going back to that house. He’d sell the damn thing if it weren’t for Claire. His eyes closed as he fought the memories. Even the recollections weren’t as bright as they’d been. Even they’d been dulled by the loss of color. There was some hot selling book that talked about shades of gray. Tony concluded that it was now his life. The color was gone. The vibrant greens of the island couldn’t transcend the veil of despair in Tony’s whiskey-numbed mind. There was a time when color was all around…
He’d invited Claire to Caleb Simmons’ wedding. He didn’t know if she’d come, but she did. The first evening, after they returned from Tim and Sue’s house, Tony remembered standing on the brick drive beneath a blanket of Iowa stars. With a gentle June breeze blowing Claire’s hair, she looked up at him and said, “I’m surprised how much I like being here. I was afraid the bad memories would overpower the good.” The next day she guided him through his woods to her lake. Her beautiful emerald eyes sparkled as they tossed pebbles into the clear water and watched the sun reflect in prisms of light dancing on the waves.
That was why he couldn’t sell the estate. It belonged to her. She was the only one to ever bring life and color to 6,000 acres. Before her, it was only a monument. After her, it was as dead as the man who it had been built to impress. It was only with her that the stone and brick structure was a home, even when she didn’t want to be there. Her presence infused life and spirit into the brick and mortar.
Roach’s reports were discouraging. The damn doctors at the state facility where Claire was still being held were uncaring and inept. Their records were inconclusive. Most of the information he was able to glean was from the taps on the Vandersols’ phones. Tony shrugged. Hell, they might as well add that to his list of charges—just pile it on!
Perhaps another drink was in order.
Tony refused to give up on Claire. Even if he couldn’t see her, he would never stop watching her. He couldn’t. She was part of him. The separation obviously added to his funk. Despite it all, he believed with all of his heart that she would get better. She just needed better doctors—the best money could buy. There was a reason for his success, other than Nathaniel. With Tony’s money he could provide Claire and Nichol with the best the world had to offer, even if he were going to be spending the next three to fifteen years behind bars. The plea agreement was in place, the final decision for sentencing was up to the judge. Claire and Nichol deserved that and more.
Tomorrow, Tony had a meeting with the Rawlings Industries board of directors and then a web conference with the presidents of the subsidiaries. He prayed that his admission of guilt and quiet plea agreement would help to take the focus away from his company. It wasn’t just for him, but for the thousan
ds of people employed by him. Even that reminded him of Claire. That damn little company in Pennsylvania. She’d saved their jobs and now his past could take them all away.
No. He’d walk away from the company before he let that happen.
Tony looked at his watch; it was a little after 8:00 PM. Sitting back up, he knew it was too early to fall asleep. But it wasn’t too early for Nichol to fall asleep. His arms ached with the desire to hold and rock their daughter. He turned on his phone to a picture taken only a few days ago. Her cheeks looked rounder than he remembered, and she was smiling. While it broke his heart, it also encouraged him. Tony hated Emily with everything in him, but he was thankful she was caring for Nichol. The picture came from Courtney. She’d finally convinced Emily to allow her to visit. A faint grin came to Tony’s lips. Courtney had a way with everyone. Hopefully, she’d soon be allowed to visit Claire, too.
Thankfully, John and Jane had successfully worked out a plea agreement for Claire. The FBI came forward and agreed to drop the charge of aiding and abetting: that left only attempted murder. The video made it clear that Claire acted in self-defense. The prosecutor discussed aggravated assault; however, it was her mental condition that sealed the deal. Declared unfit to stand trial, Claire was exonerated of all charges.
Tony and Evergreen had come to a conclusion. It was Tony’s conclusion, but Evergreen agreed. Dropping the charges against Claire didn’t make the prosecutor look bad. He’d caught a much bigger fish in Anthony Rawlings.
Before Tony could celebrate Claire’s freedom with another drink, he heard the knock on his office door. Curiously, he asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mr. Rawlings. May I come in?” Patricia’s muffled voice came from behind the closed door.
Tony rose and opened the door. “Patricia, why are you still here? You should be home.”
She lifted a plastic bag with what appeared to be Styrofoam containers and grinned. “You need to eat.”
Shaking his head, Tony ran his hand through his unkempt hair and allowed her entry. “Thank you, but you didn’t need to do that. I could have called—”
Patricia opened the bag and set the containers at the conference table. As she smiled, she said, “You could have, but you wouldn’t have.”
She was right. Tony had no intention of eating. He honestly hadn’t even given it much thought. Noticing the way she was setting two places he asked, “Did you get something for yourself, too?”
“I did.” She tilted her head toward the liquor cabinet. “I didn’t think you should be drinking alone, either.”
Since his return from paradise, Patricia had been instrumental in catching him up on all things Rawlings. He’d never be able to thank her for the long hours she’d spent running reports, filling him in on the numbers, and all around helping him re-acclimate to the world of CEO. It wasn’t that Tim, Tom, and Brent hadn’t been helpful—they were. But Tom and Brent were overwhelmed with legal issues, and Tim was still making the day-to-day decisions regarding operations. Tony didn’t see the need for resuming the role just to lose it when his prison sentence began.
He lifted the bottle of Johnny Walker. “I’d offer you something else, but this seems to be all I have.”
Patricia raised her eyebrows. “I’m not much of a drinker. Oh, but…” She hurried from the room. Seconds later she was back with a bottle of red wine and an opener. “…I’ve had this in my file cabinet for months. It was a Christmas present that I forgot to take home.”
Tony grinned and reached for the bottle. He closed one eye, helping his focus, as he lined the little curly Q opener over the cork. When the cork popped, he said, “Well then, here’s to your forgetfulness.”
Patricia produced two new crystal tumblers from the cabinet. “Oh, my memory isn’t that bad.”
“No, no, it’s not,” Tony said as he pulled out her chair and sat. “Thank you for this kindness. I seem to be taking self-pity to a whole new level.”
“Well,” her voice came out an octave higher. “Mr. Rawlings, none of that tonight. I’d say you’ve had enough for one day.” As she lifted her tumbler, her brows knitted together. “Should you drink wine after liquor? What’s that saying?”
Tony chuckled, lifting his glass and clinking hers. “I believe it has to do with beer, not wine. Beer before liquor, never been sicker. Liquor before beer, all in the clear.”
Taking a sip, she laughed. “Then I guess you’re safe.”
Opening the container, the delectable aroma of garlic whiffed around the table, reminding Tony that he truly was hungry. After a few bites he remarked, “This is delicious, thank you again.”
“Mr. Rawlings, you don’t need to keep thanking me—”
“Patricia, how long have you worked for me?”
She feigned a pout. “You don’t remember?”
“I do. You’ve been my assistant for eight years. As I recall, you were the one candidate I never expected to choose for the position.”
Her eyes opened wide. “And why was that?”
“My assistant before you was extremely capable—”
“And you didn’t think I would be?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, let me finish. She was capable, but she couldn’t keep up with the growth and technology. I wanted someone who would do both.”
“And, it wasn’t me because…”
Tony shrugged. “You were energetic enough, and your résumé…” He thought reflectively. “Graduated top of your class from MIT, with your MBA from Stanford.” He raised his glass again. “Impressive.”
Patricia smiled and lifted her glass too. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlings.”
“That’s why I asked you how long you’ve worked for me. Please, after all you’ve done, you may call me Anthony, outside of work hours.”
Crimson glowed from her cheeks. “Thank you, Anthony. I’m glad you took a chance on me, despite that dismal education.”
“Your education was superb, as you know. I was concerned about your age.”
“You do know that age isn’t a legal reason for not hiring someone? I believe they call that discrimination.”
He grunted. “Damn. Glad I hired you then. The last thing I need is another legal charge against me.”
Patricia reached out and covered his hand. “Shh, stop. Remember, you’re taking a break from that right now.”
Tony nodded, removing his hand from hers. “Fine…” he lifted the bottle of wine. “…as long as I can refill your glass. I’m glad I hired you, too. You’ve proven your weight in gold around here. I just imagined you getting settled and then—damn, this will sound sexist—leaving to have a husband and babies.”
Her eyes diverted to her food. “It did sound sexist. If I wanted that, I could do both.”
“If?” His alcohol-infused mind had no idea of the dangerous road he was maneuvering. Her shoulders squared, reminding Tony of Claire when she was about to tell him a piece of her mind. However, instead of stern, Patricia sounded sad.
“I mean, I’m not too old… but… you know what they say?”
Tony looked at her questioningly.
“All the good ones are taken.”
The food and wine helped lift a layer of grayness. He chuckled, “I thought you were going to say the good ones were gay.”
“No, I’m extremely confident that isn’t the case,” she murmured as she ate another bite of pasta.
As the last morsel of noodle was consumed, Tony’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me. With all that’s going down, I hate to miss any messages.”
Patricia nodded.
It was a text, from Brent.
“I JUST HEARD FROM EVERGREEN AND WANT TO REVIEW THIS PLEA AGREEMENT WITH YOU. WHERE ARE YOU? CAN ERIC DRIVE YOU?”
Tony wanted to take issue with his last comment, but truth be told, he shouldn’t drive. The pasta had helped to lower his blood-alcohol level, but not enough. He replied.
“I’M AT THE OFFICE. I SENT ERIC HOME FOR THE NIGHT. I CAN DRIVE, BUT PROBABLY SHOU
LDN’T. A DUI WOULDN’T BE GOOD FOR MY REPUTATION.”
See, he thought, I still have a sense of humor.
“I’LL BE THERE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. DO YOU NEED FOOD?”
“NO. I JUST ATE—REALLY. JUST COME HERE.”
“SEE YOU IN FIFTEEN.”
Tony looked up to Patricia’s doe eyes.
“It’s none of my business,” she began, “but you were grinning. Was that good news?”
“Probably not. I’ll find out soon enough. Brent’s on his way here to discuss the plea agreement.”
“Oh,” she sounded sad. “I should go.”
Tony nodded. “Thanks again for the food and wine… can you drive?”
“I’ll be fine. Two glasses of wine with a meal, no big deal.”
He smiled again. “I don’t think that’s a real saying.”
Shrugging, Patricia gathered the containers and the wine. “I’ll leave this in my office, just in case you run out of whiskey.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, big meeting first thing.”
“I’ll be there Mr.—I mean, Anthony. You can count on me.”
Fifteen minutes later, Brent walked through the open door. “So,” he motioned toward the couch. “Is this your new bed? I told you to come to my house. You would have saved me a drive, and Courtney’s one hell of a cook. She wouldn’t let you drink your dinner.”
“You’re getting damn pushy, and I didn’t drink my dinner. That was my hors d’oeuvres. Patricia brought me some pasta.”
“Good. I’d like you thinking straight while we discuss this. Once you agree, there’s no turning back.” Brent threw the envelope on the table. “Afterward, I’ll join you for a drink.”
“Is it that bad?”
Brent shrugged. “I’m not a fan of any of it. I still would rather that you plead not guilty. There’s enough circumstantial—”
“No. I’m not doing that. Then I’d be taking a chance on a jury and who knows how long it would all take. I want to do this and pay my debt. I want to come clean. For the first fuck’n time in my life, I want to do the right thing.”
Behind His Eyes Convicted: The Missing Years Page 13