“Tony, that’s not true. Don’t get me wrong: you’ve done some messed-up shit, but you’ve done good things too. Don’t be a martyr.”
“I’m hardly a martyr. I’m not doing this to save anyone but myself. I already confessed this shit to the FBI. I can’t live with the idea that one day, when I have my family back, there’ll be a knock on the door and my world will crash in around me. I’m laying my cards on the table and cashing in my chips. Tell me what kind of deal you and Evergreen came up with so that I can get out of prison sooner rather than later.”
As Brent sat and opened the envelope, his tired eyes swirled with emotion. “I sat in on Catherine’s arraignment this afternoon. She’s been charged with seven counts of murder. There isn’t enough evidence yet with the Rawlings’ plane to incriminate her.”
“She fuck’n admitted it to me in my office—it’s on tape.”
“She implied it. There wasn’t an explicit confession. Now she’s claiming total innocence.”
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure we should wait on that drink?”
Brent shrugged. “Do you have anything less strong than the Johnny Walker? I’d rather save that for later.”
Tony’s dark eyes widened. “As a matter of fact I do. Wine?”
“All these years and I never knew you were running a damn liquor store in here.”
Tony left the office and returned with Patricia’s bottle of wine. “Might as well finish this off.” As he poured, Tony asked, “Seven? Did they list names?”
“Yes, Nathaniel Rawls, Samuel and Amanda Rawls, Sherman Nichols, Jordon and Shirley Nichols, and Allison Burke Bradley.”
Tony lowered his head to the table and wearily lifted it back up. “That’s the better part of Nichol’s family tree.”
Brent nodded.
“Those names go way back.”
“There’s no statute of limitation on murder.”
“She didn’t personally… I mean other than Nathaniel and my parents… right?”
“Murder for hire resulting in death carries the same penalty as murder.”
“Will they be able to prove it? That she was involved?”
“I’m not privy to all the information. From what I’ve gleaned, the FBI has extensive research connecting the cases with the poison that she used.” Brent took a drink. “There’s more.”
“More charges? Are we still talking about Catherine?”
“Yes, we’ll get to you later. They’re also charging her with attempted murder—four counts.”
Tony’s brows rose. “Maybe I’ve drunk too much. There’s John and Emily. Who else did she try to murder, but fail?”
“From the video, there’s evidence of her pointing the gun at Claire.”
“All right, that makes three…”
Brent leaned forward. “You, Tony. She poisoned you. She’s claiming you knew all about it, but Evergreen is fighting her on it. He didn’t like being played, with your accusations against Claire and then your public change of heart and recantation. It made him look bad. Charging her puts an end to that case forever. You had that same unique poison in your system. He’s running with it.”
Tony collapsed against the chair. “Will I need to testify?”
“Would you perjure yourself?”
“I don’t want to. But then again, I want her to rot.”
Brent swallowed the deep red liquid from his crystal tumbler. “I recommend that you stick to your original testimony. You didn’t know anything other than drinking the coffee and waking up.”
Tony nodded.
“The press is calling her a serial killer.”
“Who else was at the arraignment?”
“They barred the press, but people with a connection were given special dispensation.”
Tony peered over the rim of the tumbler before he drank, and said, “The Vandersols were there, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“What about Cindy? I haven’t spoken to her since she’s learned the truth.”
“She’s pretty broken up. We’re trying to work something out with her to avoid a civil case. I mean you’ve taken care of her for years.”
Tony looked down. “I thought we were, but she did work. It’s not like we just let her live at the estate.”
“She was paid, had a roof over her head, and her education was being paid for. So she served food and cleaned. It was a hell of a lot better than what would have happened to her had you not stepped in after the death of her parents.”
Tony shook his head. “Yes, which sounds great, with one exception: her parents died because of us.”
“Let’s talk about that.”
Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her: but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.
—Voltaire
My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 4…
Like an obedient child, I listened to the rules and there were many. The most important one was to do as I was told. Truly, that was all encompassing. There were rules regarding attire—no underwear. My boundaries were defined. I could roam the house as long as I didn’t enter the corridor of Anthony’s office or suite without his permission or summons. Those rooms held the means to contact the outside world, and I was forbidden to communicate with anyone but him and his staff. Most days I had to myself, unless otherwise informed by Anthony or Kate. I could wake when I wanted, work out in the gym and swim in the indoor pool, watch movies in the theater room, or read in the library. Each evening at 5:00 PM I was required to be in my suite and await the evening’s instructions.
During the day my options were many and few. My cell had grown larger, but it was still a cell. Each glance outside my windows reminded me that I was trapped inside the walls of the mansion. Spring had arrived to Iowa, bringing longer days and life where only gray and dormancy had resided. The dead trees showed faint shades of color as buds formed and turned to lush green leaves. I longed for the freedom of walking outside, the ability to go to a store or a restaurant. I had designer clothes and luxurious surroundings, yet I desired what others took for granted. I craved the mundane life I’d lost.
My job duties were defined broadly. For lack of a better word, I was forced to become Anthony Rawlings’ whore. My existence and presence was for one purpose: to please him. If he didn’t want or have time for me, I was left in my suite, like a doll left on the shelf. If he wanted me, I was required to accommodate. The word no had been removed from my vocabulary.
During the days I’d assure myself that I had choices. The evenings and nights convinced me otherwise. Failure was not an option. That was not only something that Anthony liked to say: it was the truth. Failure had consequences—some very painful and demeaning consequences.
My first punishment was when I was late returning to his office. I quickly learned that displeasing him was not something that I wanted to do. I believe that fear of seeing the darkness arise behind his eyes was the true key to my captivity. I’d thought I’d seen the depth of his rage—I hadn’t yet—and I knew I didn’t want to see it again. If I disobeyed, ran through the grand doors and made it into the trees, yet failed to find freedom, I knew that my punishment would be severe. That didn’t need to be spelled out for me.
I’d been at his estate for nearly a month when I was awakened by a member of the staff and told that Mr. Rawlings was working from home, and I was to be in his office by 10:00 AM. It wasn’t that I didn’t usually wake by that time, but I’d developed a routine, and I wasn’t always showered and dressed. Of course, I did as I was told, yet as I prepared for my day, each decision was monumental. Usually during the day I dressed casually. If I were to see Anthony at night, Kate informed me what he wanted me to wear.
My first, mid-week summons to his office was a new, daunting assignment. I debated everything. Finally, deciding upon a pair of slacks, silk blouse, and high heels—because other than workout shoes, that was my only option—I a
rrived at his office door with minutes to spare. I’d been in his office on the occasional Sunday afternoon for lunch, but other than my first time in the regal room, I’d never been called there and required to fulfill my new duties. With each step down the grand stairs and along the marble corridor, I knew this would be different. He had plans. I just didn’t know what they were.
With my hand shaking, I knocked on the door to his office. I didn’t know if it was locked, but he had a way to open it from his desk. The door opened and I entered. He was talking on the telephone and motioned for me to be quiet. Silently, I walked to his desk as the door closed by the pushing of a button. Though the temperature of the room was the same as the rest of the mansion, I felt a chill that sent shivers to my core. He was upset with the person on the other end of the line. I didn’t know or care what he was discussing, but I had learned to read him well enough to know he wasn’t happy.
For minutes upon minutes, I stood, unsure of what to do. Each second hung in the air as his eyes grew darker and he wove some trinket around the fingers and knuckles of his other hand. It was the first time I saw this habit—one of his only nervous habits. I’d later consider it the rumble of thunder, warning of an impending storm.
My heartbeat quickened as he leaned back in his chair and told the person on the other end of the line that he had a personal matter, and he would put him or her on hold, momentarily. After hitting the button, his dark eyes found mine. “Claire, you have a job. Do it.”
I was lost. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, and yet I feared not complying. Timidly, I asked, “What do you want me to do?”
The pent-up frustration from his business dealing burst forth as he sprang from his chair and rounded the desk toward me. Defensively, I stepped back. He grasped my arm pulling me toward him. His warm breath smelled of coffee as he growled, “Do not pull away from me. Do you understand?”
I understood. I understood that if Anthony Rawlings was having a bad day that I was having a bad day, probably worse. “Yes. I didn’t mean to pull away.”
My cheek burned with the slap of his hand. “Don’t think that you can pacify me with lies. I want the truth from you. You meant to step back—it wasn’t done on accident. Admit your mistakes and I won’t need to punish you for them.”
Tears threatened to stream as I faced his rage. Though every muscle in my body wanted to turn away and run, I knew that wasn’t an option. I stood resolute as his anger spilled forth. My choice of clothing was inconsequential in the equation of the day. As I stood before him, with his business associate still on hold, he told me to undress.
I did.
Phil hated the damn book. He’d done enough research to know that Rawlings and Claire had an unusual relationship, especially in the beginning. However, he’d also spent a lot of time with the two of them and knew that what he was reading was not what he’d witnessed. Yet he also knew the book was based on truth. He’d been around each time Claire and Meredith met.
The topic also came up during a recent meeting with Mr. Rawlings and Brent Simmons at Rawlings’ office. Once they were all seated, Rawlings was the first to speak.
“I’ve reached a plea agreement with the prosecutor.”
Phil nodded.
Tony continued, “I know you probably have the opportunity for more exciting jobs than watching the Vandersols with Nichol and trying to learn about Claire, but I called you here to ask you to keep working for me.”
Phil considered reminding him that he actually worked for Claire, but there was a tiredness about Rawlings’ demeanor that stilled his words. For the first time since he’d met him, Phil felt a pang of sadness at Tony’s weary expression. He wasn’t the domineering man who’d hired him to find and trail his ex-wife. No longer was he the man who had all the answers or made all of the decisions. He seemed older. Phil was glad he’d decided not to share the information about Harrison Baldwin’s visit. He wasn’t sure Rawlings could’ve taken it.
Trying to lighten the somber mood, Phil responded with a slight grin, “I wasn’t planning on stopping, even if you told me you wanted me to.”
Though his eyes didn’t join the party, Tony smiled back. “Thank you. It’ll be easier being away knowing that you’re watching over both of them.”
“Do you know how long you’ll be away?”
Brent answered, “The length of incarceration can change depending on circumstances in prison, but the current agreement is for four years, minus time served.”
Four years. Phil had enough criminal knowledge to know that something had changed. Even after Rawlings was cleared of helping Catherine with her poisoning deaths, there was still Simon Johnson’s murder. It was murder for hire, but he’d admitted to it. Phil doubted that even Anthony Rawlings could get a life sentence reduced to four years.
“I’ll be honest: I thought it would be longer,” Phil replied. “What happened?”
Brent responded, “The FBI dropped the murder charge for Simon Johnson. They said that the NTSB found no signs of tampering with Simon’s plane. Since Tony confessed to making the contact with the intent to murder, the murder charge was reduced to conspiracy, a second-degree felony. Tony also admitted to supplying Catherine with the money for one known hit—that was the second conspiracy charge. Due to his cooperation with prosecuting Catherine and turning state’s evidence, those two charges were negotiated to time served and a hefty fine.”
Phil looked puzzled. “Then what’s with the four years?”
“Kidnapping and sexual assault,” Tony said matter-of-factly.
Brent corrected, “Kidnapping is the only charge that’s standing.”
Phil sat straighter. “I know Claire isn’t pressing charges. It’s the book, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Tony replied. “The state of Iowa can’t stand the persecution it’s getting over the case. Besides the Vandersols, there are victims’ rights groups going nuts.”
Brent added, “Tony hasn’t read the book. His admission is not to all of the contents, publicly, only that he took Claire from Georgia and brought her to Iowa without her consent. Crossing state lines makes it a federal offense.”
“The sexual assault charges?” Phil asked.
“There’s a statute that states the exception to the third degree class C felony is if the act is between persons who are at the time cohabitating as husband and wife. The book doesn’t claim anything nonconsensual happening until Claire was living in Tony’s house. I argued that they did become husband and wife—twice. Without physical evidence or Claire’s testimony, they let that charge drop, as long as he admitted to the kidnapping. The law has varying options for sentencing with kidnapping. Since Claire was an adult, not sold into human trafficking, and there’s record of Tony compensating her for her time with the paying of her debts, the court agreed to a lesser sentence. Tony’s lack of criminal record also helped in reducing the penalty. However, there’s also a hefty fine.”
Phil nodded. Looking at Tony, he said, “If I didn’t know you and witness the two of you in the South Pacific, I’d want to kill you right now. I still kind of do. I sure as hell hope that book has been sensationalized and it’s not an accurate account of what happened.”
Tony shrugged, his confident demeanor temporarily gone. “I haven’t read it, but apparently I’m the only one in the room who can say that.” His dark eyes glanced toward Brent.
“I have a job to do,” Brent said.
The hairs on the back of Phil’s neck stood to attention. The words from Claire’s book came rushing back. You have a job to do. Do it!
Brent went on, “I can’t defend you if I don’t know what I’m up against. And as much as I’m your friend…” he turned to Phil, “…I think I’d help you hide the body.”
Tony shook his head. “I told her not to talk to Meredith.” He looked toward Phil. “Remember?” His domineering voice returned with conviction. “This whole damn thing started in San Diego. I should have put an end to it then. I should have had you stop t
he meeting before I ever got there.”
Phil casually leaned back against the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Tony was obviously on some unbalanced emotional roller coaster. “I believe this whole damn thing began in a bar in Georgia, or before, if I understood her laptop.”
Tony glared. “The information on the laptop about the Rawls family doesn’t need to be public. I’ve got enough shit out there.”
“You do have enough shit to spread far and wide,” Brent said. “But as far as keeping it private, I think you’d better focus on damage control. Catherine hasn’t been keeping her mouth shut. Tom’s been working his ass off on gag orders regarding her case. The whole world is going to know your family’s name.”
Tony shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My family’s name is Rawlings. Claire and Nichol Rawlings—they’re my family. I’m doing all of this so that I can get them back, so there won’t be any damn skeletons waiting around to shock their world. Do you really think I’d put myself through all of this if it weren’t for them?”
Nodding, Phil replied, “That’s why you’re not dead.” Turning to Brent, he asked, “Will Rawlings’ plea be done in a closed court?”
“Yes, however, the judge is allowing special dispensation.”
“I want to be there.”
Tony’s dark gaze returned Phil’s way. “What the hell for?”
With his arms on the table, Phil squared his shoulders. “Because I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. My job is to protect Claire. I’m the one who took you to her. I won’t stop doing my job. I want to see this for myself. Don’t get me wrong, I can hack the courthouse records and read it, but I want to hear it. I want to know I did the right thing getting you two back together. If I didn’t, I might have to reconsider my next assignment.”
Brent’s eyes opened wide and he looked at Tony. When Tony nodded, Brent replied, “Well, all right. I’ll see what I can do.”
Behind His Eyes Convicted: The Missing Years Page 14