THE VIRTUOUS CON

by Maren Foster

  “Well, not exactly, it was Plan B. But when Plan A didn’t work out it became the plan.” I smiled.

  “So, what next?”

  “Not sure exactly. I would think that the prosecutor should contact me, but I don’t really know how this stuff works.”

  “Does Nate know it was you?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet,” I said.

  “Will he find out?”

  “Apparently he might not if he strikes a plea deal with the prosecutor to avoid a trial, which will probably be in his interest.”

  “Do you want him to know?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess, I think so, but not until I’m ready.”

  He nodded. “Well, congratulations, I think.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Keep me updated,” he said.

  “Will do.”

  I went home, left my phone on the kitchen counter, and went upstairs to take a hot bath. I turned on a meditation soundtrack and tried to relax, but my mind raced. Will Nate find out it was me? Will the prosecutor tell Simon? Is he allowed to? If he chooses to go to trial can they force me to testify? How could I talk about what he did to me in front of him and a jury? He would find out how much he hurt me. He would know that it devastated me. I would have to relive every painful moment all over again, he would have all the power again.

  As I laid in the bathtub it occurred to me that the video that I was so afraid of before could now be evidence, if it even still existed. Does he still have it? Where would it be if he did have it? I have to find it!

  The Breakdown

  Monday, March 19, 2018

  Old Greenwich

  My cell phone rang around noon. It was a number I didn’t recognize with a 312 area code: Chicago. I answered.

  “Wynafreda Laurent?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Detective Wilshire from the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office.”

  “Hello.”

  “Wynafreda, I would like to speak to you about a witness statement you gave in June 2012.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “There’s been an unexpected break in the case and we are wondering whether you would be interested in pressing charges?”

  “Oh, wow. That’s amazing. Yes, I think so.”

  “I understand you live in Connecticut now.”

  “I do.”

  “We would like to have you meet with a local detective to answer a few questions. You’ll need to go to the State Police Department in Bridgeport.”

  “Okay. I have one question,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “I would like to speak to the prosecutor assigned to the case.”

  “He is very, very busy. It’s not likely, but I will see what I can do.”

  “I would really like to understand how this whole process works and what my options are.”

  “I understand, Ma’am, but typically the prosecutor will reach out to you once we have gathered all of the evidence and determined what charges can be substantiated.”

  “Oh, okay. I would still like to talk to him sooner than later. I would appreciate any help you can provide.”

  “Of course. In the meantime, Detective Donaldson from the Connecticut State Police will contact you. He will conduct the interview in Bridgeport for us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you. Good bye.”

  I hung up.

  My cell phone rang a few hours later. It was another number I didn’t recognize. Local this time. I answered.

  “Wynafreda Laurent?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Detective Donaldson, Connecticut State Police.”

  “Hello.”

  “We need you to come in for an interview,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Can you come in on Thursday around 2pm?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. The address is 149 Prospect Street.”

  “Okay.” I jotted down his name and the address.

  “Just ask for Detective Donaldson at reception,” he said and hung up.

  What to do now? Do I need a lawyer or will I look more innocent if I show up alone? Yeah, I think alone is best for now.

  The State Police Department was in a cheap-looking building made of grey cinder block with a periwinkle roof, right off the highway exit. I pulled into the parking lot and walked into a brightly lit entryway with a glass barrier that separated guests from the receptionist.

  “I’m here to see Detective Donaldson. He’s expecting me.”

  “Name please?”

  “Wynafreda Laurent.”

  “Please have a seat. I will let him know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  That day in the Evanston Hospital six years earlier started to come back to me. I immediately felt the emotional exhaustion of that experience all over again. The desire to be home and not here, anywhere but here, under the bright white lights, surrounded by concrete and never ending questions. Do I really want to go through with this? A trial would be exhausting. Is it really worth it if he only gets a year or two in jail?

  I looked around the empty room; there was another young woman, maybe early twenties, sitting across from me. No other woman should have to go through this. He should be behind bars, even if only for a year. He should have to register as a sex offender. I have to do this, for all of us.

  “Ms. Laurent,” the detective said. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, with dark brown hair, and a bit of a baby face.

  I stood up and offered my hand.

  “Detective Mark Donaldson,” he said as he took my hand. “Please follow me.”

  He escorted me down a long white hallway with scuff marks on the walls, and showed me into a stark room with a simple wooden table in the middle and two chairs. There was a one-way mirror on the long wall facing me. I wondered who was behind it. Could Nate’s lawyer be back there?

  “Wynafreda,” he said.

  “Please call me Wyn.”

  “Wyn, do you know why we’ve asked you to come in?”

  He had a way of talking to me that was extremely patronizing, but was also a little bit flirtatious, which made him extremely hard to read. My gut told me not to trust him.

  “The detective I spoke to on the phone earlier said that there was a DNA match to my rape kit,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I think you already know who it is,” he said.

  I tried to look as perplexed as possible without overdoing it. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m confused, Mrs. Ellis.”

  I’m not Mrs. Ellis!

  “You signed a criminal report in 2012 alleging that you were raped. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And at the time, you said you were drugged and unconscious for the entire rape. Correct? You said you have no idea who raped you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how is it that six years later you are married to your rapist and living with him in Greenwich, Connecticut?”

  I shook my head. “It’s complicated. I didn’t know who to trust,” I said. “I was so scared.”

  He took notes on a pad of legal paper and scrutinized the notes, as if looking for a clue.

  “You mean, you didn’t know who to trust when you figured out who raped you? You mean you figured out who it was on your own and you didn’t report him to the police once you knew?”

  “I knew what he would say…that it was consensual sex and I wanted it, which I didn’t. I was convinced he would get off easy and then come after me. I couldn’t bear to go through a trial and have him walk away without any punishment. I was sure if he did he would find me and ruin my life. Maybe even kill me.”

  “You were scared of him and so you began dating him?”

  “No, not right away. I thought about going to the police. I really did. And I tried to forget about him and move on, but I couldn’t. I was haunte
d. I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t be touched. I relived it in my nightmares and when I was awake. If I heard any of the songs that were playing while he did it, I lost it. I started having panic attacks. I went to therapy, but nothing worked. Eventually, I decided I had to see him, so I tracked him down. After I’d seen him, well, watched him really, I realized I had to talk to him. I had to see if he remembered me. When he didn’t remember me, I became fascinated with understanding him. Understanding who he was and what would drive a person to do what he did to me and then not even recognize me. I needed to know what was wrong with him, how fucked up he really was. I got closer and closer to him, until we were dating. The more time I spent with him, doing things that made him happy, things that made him love me, the more dependent I became. I know it sounds completely fucked up, but he’s confident, handsome, and charismatic. He’s easy to be around when he’s happy, and I realized that as long as he got what he wanted, he was harmless.”

  “What do you mean, you became dependent on him?”

  “I became dependent on him, emotionally and financially. He made me believe that I was nobody without him. Over time he made me believe that without him I would have nothing and couldn’t survive.”

  “Are you saying that he brainwashed you?”

  “My therapist says it’s called trauma bonding. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome, except that the abuser isn’t a stranger.”

  He made a few notes and I waited in silence. Then he looked up and stared right at me.

  Does he think I’m bullshitting? Will he believe me?

  Finally he broke the uncomfortable silence. “You said you were surprised when he didn’t recognize you, but this is what you looked like the day he raped you.” He laid a photo on the table in front of me. It was a photo of Krista and me, all dressed up, at the frat party the night of the rape. I remembered the headband and the blue eyeliner. It must have been posted on Facebook. My blonde hair was perfect, my smile, innocent. I miss that naïve girl who had no idea how her life was about to be turned upside down.

  “So I started dying my hair a few years ago. Lots of women dye their hair. I was starting to go grey early.”

  “And change their names too?”

  “I didn’t change my name, I just asked to be called a different nickname when I started working. Freddie isn’t exactly the kind of name a woman puts on her business card when she wants to be taken seriously.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Did you two have any kind of prenuptial agreement?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with the rape?”

  “Please just answer the question.”

  “I think instead I’d like to invite my attorney to join us.”

  “Wynafreda,” he said, “there’s nothing to get upset about.”

  “It’s Wyn,” I said.

  “Wyn, I was just about to get to my questions about the rape.”

  “I have to go. I’m sorry.” I stood up and showed myself out of the room and back down the hallway.

  I walked out into the glaring sun and immediately dialed Vi. I need a lawyer! A really good lawyer.

  “Hey Freddie,” she said.

  “Hey Vi.”

  “How are you?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need a lawyer,” I said. “The best criminal lawyer in Illinois.”

  “Freddie, what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I just need help figuring out who I should hire.” I’m finally in over my head. I need to understand what is possible now and what isn’t. I need to understand so that I can plan my next move.

  “I’ll get contact info to you a.s.a.p.”

  “Thank you. As soon as possible please.”

  “Of course.”

  “Gotta go. Thanks.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I got in the car, plugged in my phone and selected a hits radio station. I turned up the dial and sang along as I drove home.

  Vi texted me just as I pulled into the driveway. “Asher Morgan, III, Esq. 312-345-6789. Tell him Professor Adams gave you his #”

  I pulled into the garage, and dialed the number. “Asher Morgan.” Beep. I was caught completely off guard, expecting he’d have a secretary. How did Vi get his direct number?

  “Mr. Morgan, I got your number from Professor Adams. I need your assistance with an important legal matter. It’s urgent. My name is Wyn Laurent. Please call me as soon as possible at 847-362-8934.”

  I turned the ringer on my phone all the way up, made a cup of tea, and grabbed my coloring book. I settled in on the couch and tried to forget everything.

  My phone rang. It was the 312 number I had called earlier.

  “Asher Morgan.”

  “Mr. Morgan,” I said. “Thank you for calling me back so quickly.”

  “Wyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I’m really busy but I’ve had something open up on tomorrow morning at nine. Are you available?”

  “Oh, shoot, no. I’m in Connecticut.”

  “How about Monday?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Monday at 11am then.”

  “Great. Thank you so much.”

  “See you then.” He hung up.

  I bought roundtrip airfare to Chicago.

  The afternoon dragged on. It was cloudy and drizzling, so I turned on the fireplace in the back den and picked up Vi’s diary.

  May 5, 1989

  Shreveport, Louisiana. I went to the police station today. I told them that I don’t want to press charges because he didn’t rape me. I told them it was all a big misunderstanding. I signed a piece of paper that they prepared that said that I thought he should be free to go. I don’t know what will happen to him but I did what I could to get him out. I hope he’s okay, but I have bigger things to worry about now, like getting to Chicago and having a baby.

  May 28, 1989

  Shreveport, Louisiana. I didn’t even go to graduation. I took my last test and went straight home to pack. She was out of the house when I got home, which was perfect. I hate her so much! I packed the biggest suitcase I could find and then Ruth took her mom’s car and drove me to the bus station. Ruth cried as she hugged me and watched me get on the bus.

  I’m on the bus now and can’t sleep. All I can think about is this baby growing inside of me and the new life that awaits us in Chicago. I’m watching the scenery out the window. There are signs along the road for towns with names like…

  LOUISIANA

  Audrey Park

  Vivian

  Mira

  Ida

  ARKANSAS

  Hope

  Emmett

  Curtis

  Joan

  Donaldson

  Shannon Hills

  We just stopped in Little Rock and I got off the bus to go pee and everyone stared at me. I’m sure they’re wondering why a pregnant girl is travelling alone, but I don’t care. They can all go to hell!

  ARKANSAS

  Crystal Hill

  Beebe

  Alicia

  Portia

  Pocahontas

  We just stopped in St. Louis. We’re in Illinois now. It’s funny the further north we drive the less it seems the towns are named after women and the more men’s names there are: Troy, New Douglas, Raymond, Andrew, Williamsville. I wonder why.

  Chicago is so big! The buildings are sooooo tall and there are cars and people everywhere! There are buildings made of stone, and metal, and brick. I didn’t know that buildings could be so tall. I took the subway from the bus station downtown to Evanston, the town where the university is. When I finally found the dorm where I will be living, there was a young woman with a baby sitting in a lounge area near the front entrance. The dorm is for families only. The young woman was very nice and explained that I needed to go to a different building to check-in. I
walked across campus and signed a few forms promising to follow all the various rules and I was given a key to my room. It is really just one big room, but it has a small kitchen with a fridge and a stove and its own bathroom. The campus is beautiful. I’m so much happier here already…in my own place!