Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors

by Allison Brennan

  * * *

  The Tuesday docket was a breeze and I used my downtime to mark up Sharon’s DIY divorce paperwork. I’d seen worse, but it needed some sharp teeth. On Wednesday morning, I filed the amended petition and dropped a copy at the sheriff’s office to be served to Klein in jail. I also talked to Sharon and came up with a battle plan. Friday was the first showdown. With the permanent PO in hand, I planned on pushing through a set of draconian temporary orders in the divorce. After that, the details could take as long as they took.

  Things were on track.

  Thursday afternoon, after mucking through the assortment of he-said/she-said free-for-alls, revenge applications, and genuine protective orders, I was ready to be done with my monthly turn. One more day. I pushed the message button on my office phone. The robotic voice on the third one snapped my head up, paperwork forgotten.

  This is the Victim Notification Service of the Sheriff’s Department. You are receiving this call because you registered with VNS for updates on inmate movements. Martin Joseph Klein, inmate number 95678 was released at 3:15 p.m. local time on Thursday . . .

  I tuned out the rest of the message. Only one thing mattered: Marty Klein was on the street and his wife was in danger. I forced myself to organize the thoughts racing through my head. First up was to find out how the hell this happened. I hit the speed-dial to the prosecutor’s office.

  “This is Jenkins.”

  “I need to talk to Melanie. Where is she?”

  “Maternity leave. She went into labor yesterday afternoon. I’m covering her docket for the next few weeks.”

  As I processed this, a picture of Paul Jenkins popped into my mind.

  Dammit.

  “Plead’em Paul” was legendary in the defense community. On the glide path to retirement, he was trial-adverse and could be coaxed into ridiculous plea agreements. I’d used him to my advantage more than once.

  “What happened with Martin Klein? I just got the VNS notice.”

  “Simple battery, six months suspended, and probation. His so-called victim should be thankful I didn’t dismiss this mess. This is a clear case of mutual combat. She hit him with a brick for heaven’s sake. They can settle it all in the divorce.”

  Dan Gold.

  I hung up. Nothing contained in my bubbling rage would change a thing. The papers were signed and the prisoner released. Justice had spoken.

  My next call wasn’t on speed-dial, but I’d memorized it. The first try went to voicemail. I called again. She picked up on the third ring.

  “Sharon?”

  “You promised this would be okay. There were roses and a note on the porch when I got back from the store.”

  I didn’t have time to atone for my own hubris and arrogance. I had to act. It was the only way to keep that promise.

  “Where’s Ryan?”

  “I sent him away with my mother. They’re going to one of her sister’s. I don’t know which one. I didn’t want to know.”

  What she wasn’t saying was “I don’t want to know so he can’t beat it out of me.”

  “Do you have someplace to go?”

  “No. I can’t drag my sins among my friends. This just is what it is.”

  That line was akin to a suicide note. She was waiting for him to kill her. I had to jolt her out of it.

  “Do you have a gun in the house?”

  “Yes. My mom brought me Grandpa’s sawed-off shotgun. He was a bootlegger.”

  “I need you to listen to me for Ryan’s sake. Do not let Marty win. If anything happens to you, he’ll get custody. Remember O.J.?” I hesitated, hating myself for the lie I was about to tell. “They’ll put your mother and her sister in jail.”

  That got her attention. Her voice lost some of its flat intonation and she asked, “What can I do?”

  “Lock all the doors and windows. Don’t answer the phone or the door unless it’s me or a law enforcement officer. I’ll call the sheriff about the roses.”

  “They’re paper. Toilet paper. One for every day he was in jail. He wants me to forgive him.”

  “Do you?” It was a hard question, but I had to know if she was still ready to fight.

  “No.”

  “Good lady. Give me a couple of hours.”

  I hung up without waiting for a response.

  Another speed-dial, this time to the sheriff’s department. After some lawyer-voice pufferfish-bluffs with no substance at all, I got put through to the undersheriff. I took a deep breath and explained the situation to him.

  “I know all about that. In fact, Mr. Klein reported here after his probation intake to talk about it. He said he left a note asking her to work with him on the divorce and that he wanted to see his boy. I didn’t know about the paper roses, but that’s kinda sweet. The inmates do that for their wives all the time.”

  “You do know there’s a protective order, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, keeping a man away from his rightful home and his boy. He didn’t do nothing. He didn’t even knock on the door. I don’t blame him after she hit him with that brick. This one’s a non-starter. They’ll sort it out in the divorce. You and Mrs. Klein just need to untwist your ti . . .”

  The awkward silence told me all I needed to know.

  “Why thank you for your concern about my titties. They’re just fine. Magnificent, to be honest. And know that I’ll be discussing that with the county commission.”

  Another empty threat. Unless the sheriff wanted something done, the civilian command would just write a memo. It was clear I was on my own. I needed to get Sharon into the jurisdiction of the city police force. It was a completely different culture.

  ***

  “Come in.” My manager’s door was always closed. He wasn’t avoiding us. He was conserving every breath of the air-conditioning the center offices still received.

  “I need a hotel voucher for a client. Just until Monday. I swear this is serious. I know things are tight, but there’s always some wiggle room somewhere. He’s going to kill her.”

  “This is about Klein, right? I just got off the phone with the sheriff’s department. A commander said you made sexually-charged comments to him.”

  “Oh, that’s just fucking rich.”

  “I didn’t say I believed him. It sounded more like a preemptive strike. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I lined it out, including the very real threat to my client.

  “By Monday, I’ll have the temp orders I need and she can leave the state if that’s what it takes. But if she doesn’t show or he gets to her, we’ll be back to square one.”

  “Why didn’t you staff this?”

  “It went too fast. I decided the word ‘aid’ in our title meant something.”

  His sarcastic laugh didn’t extend to his forehead. Instead, the vertical line between his eyebrows deepened.

  “Let me make a call or two. We’re going to talk about this next week. Just you, me, and the director. I’ve always given you a lot of slack because you’re good. But, this one could be too far off-label. We have rules because our funding has rules.”

  Buried in his words was my last chance to back off.

  Fuck it.

  “Understood. Please let me know if you’re able to help. I’ll be working on the motions for Monday.”

  * * *

  “You owe me, Sinclair.”

  My boss took the one comfortable chair on the other side of my desk.

  “Challenge accepted. What’s up?”

  “Two things. First, Richardson Oil is willing to comp an executive suite for the weekend. One of their board members also sits on our board. They keep a floor at the Parkshire Building for visitors. Once I promised that their name would be on top of the sponsor banner for the rest of the year at no extra charge, they jumped at the chance to be altruistic.”

  “The Parkshire? Can I stay with her?”

  “Not even on a bet. I also called in some big markers. After the protective order hearing, The Essex Firm is taking over th
e divorce.”

  In the silence, I realized I was gripping the file. This was my case. I wanted to see it through. I wanted to win.

  He nodded toward my clenched hand. “And that’s exactly why you have to step away from it. Law can’t be personal. Well, not too personal. Essex has the resources, investigators, and security to keep her safe. We don’t.”

  “Do they know everything? Even about the brick? This isn’t really in their portfolio.”

  “Given the laughter on the phone, I think the brick sealed the deal. Listen, I know they made their millions defending white collar criminals and drug lords. Once every year or so, they like to cleanse their collective soul with a pro bono case. Something nice and messy that’ll get their name in the papers as do-gooders. It’s a chip I don’t cash in easily or foolishly. Don’t make me regret going all in on this.”

  He was right. I couldn’t let my pride stand in the way of Sharon having a lawyer that didn’t get out of bed in the morning for less than ten thousand.

  “Thank you. You know what? I no longer believe half the things I’ve heard about you.”

  The joke broke the tension. My manager did his job. He had my back, and more importantly, my client’s back.

  “Half is about right. I’ll send Willy over to sit in on your Friday morning docket. He’s so fresh out of school that it’ll seem like an adventure. As for you, why don’t you get her stashed and go home? You have a big day tomorrow and it’s too damn hot in here.”

  The implied don’t fuck this up hung in the air.

  * * *

  “I can’t accept this.”

  The corporate suite was a fully equipped two-bedroom condo with a million-dollar view of downtown.

  “Yes, you can. It was donated by some people who believe in you.”

  “I’ve worked on some construction jobs in buildings like this, but I’ve never seen one complete. I didn’t know such places existed outside of TV.”

  “They do and it’s yours. Don’t go out and don’t use the phone. You can use the intercom to call the concierge and order take-out. It’ll go on the company account. You don’t have to do anything except eat, sleep, and soak in that gigantic tub.”

  She didn’t move. It was up to me to give her permission. I got a designer sparkling water out of the fridge and sat at the granite breakfast bar with my finger hovering over the embedded intercom panel.

  “What kind of pizza do you like?”

  She smiled. “Anything but pineapple. Marty always insisted on pineapple. Will you stay and eat with me? Is there any chance you could maybe stay tonight? This place is so big and quiet.”

  I nodded and placed the order. What’s the point of receiving a direct instruction if it didn’t get a bit bent a little to fit the circumstances?

  * * *

  The best part of Friday afternoon was watching Dan Gold squirm and cast furtive glances at the courtroom door. My gut told me that Marty Klein wasn’t about to show. He’d probably found the trailer empty, trashed the place, and went on a bender. I wasn’t disappointed. The best law is the kind where the number of variables is reduced to zero. Drama and law are a bad combination.

  “Mr. Gold, where is your client?”

  His decision as to whether or not to lie played in his face. When his shoulders sagged, I knew the truth had won.

  “I have no idea. I’ve been calling him since he got out of jail. I respectfully request a continuance.”

  “Ms. Sinclair, your reply?

  “The petitioner objects and moves the permanent PO be granted based on the unopposed allegations in the petition.”

  The last word was barely out of my mouth before she banged the gavel and said, “So ordered. We’re adjourned.”

  Smiling, I gathered my files and flipped Dan the bird when the bailiff turned his back.

  “What just happened?” Sharon’s voice was shaky.

  “You have a protective order that’s good for two years. I wish it was a bulletproof shield, but it’s the best I can do right now. Come Monday, you’ll have temporary custody of Ryan and the freedom to move wherever you want. You’ll only have to come back when your lawyer needs you for divorce hearings.”

  “When you need me, right?”

  I motioned to a man in a black suit that barely contained his muscular physique and sunglasses tilted back on his shaved head. The unbuttoned jacket told the observant he was armed. He took a chair on the other side of the table.

  “Sharon, this is, um, Mr. Smith. He works for The Essex Firm and is going to be your escort and security through the hearing on Monday. They are the best lawyers in the state. You couldn’t do better if you tried.”

  She slapped the table. “But I want you. You know. You understand. I can’t afford this.”

  “You need the best. I’m not the best. The protective order is done and my boss arranged this. Their usual retainer is fifty thousand. There’s no charge to you for as long as it takes. But you have to cooperate.”

  Mr. Smith leaned forward and said, “Ma’am, I was a Marine and then Secret Service. No one, especially that sack of shit who didn’t have the balls to show his face, is going to hurt you. We’ll even help you move after the legal beagles sort it out. You’re safe with me. I pack a lot more than a brick.” He punctuated the last line with a wink.

  Something in his strong, even tone got her attention and she listened to every word. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was edging me out and assuming authority over her. I was simultaneously relieved and sad.

  I stood. “Sharon, you’re in the safest hands possible. I’m going to say goodbye now and go back to my office to get your file together for your new lawyers.”

  “Can I call you? After I get settled with my mom?”

  The plaintive note struck me to my bones, but there was only one answer. “No. I need to be able to say I don’t know where you are, even if asked by a judge.”

  Her bodyguard stepped in and led her from the courtroom.

  It was over.

  * * *

  The laid-back Friday afternoon attitude in the office wasn’t the usual comfort. I tidied the file, brought the notes up to date, and sealed it in a courier envelope. One of our law students volunteered to run it the six blocks from the crumbling Legal Aid building to the gleaming brick and leaded glass headquarters of The Essex Firm.

  The departing intern nearly bowled Lana over as she leaned in my door. “He’s probably going to drop off a copy of his resume as well. Come on, baby, we’re all going for a beer.”

  “I’ll pass. I’m not in the mood.”

  “It wasn’t a multiple-choice question. We’re just going across the street. Have one and then you can go home to whatever’s waiting.”

  Whatever was a pile of laundry, a carpet that needed vacuuming, and a pint of ice cream. I hadn’t even made time for a pet.

  “You know what, that’s the best idea I’ve heard today. I’ll be right there.”

  “You know I’ll check.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I stayed for two and a round of happy hour buffet. Even though it was still sunny outside, as I descended into the bowels of the parking garage, the hot, stuffy gloom soon enveloped me. We got our parking free, another tiny Legal Aid perk, but the worst building on the block also got the worst parking. The bottom level was low-ceilinged and tangled with dripping pipes. My space was in the corner.

  I saw it after I threw my briefcase in the trunk. The beer and hot wings rumbled in my stomach and threatened to come back up.

  There were three toilet paper roses on my windshield.

  # # #

  Soap

  By Wendy Tyson

  Cornelius Topper is a foot taller than his wife, Regina, and only half as wide, but what he lacks in physical strength, he makes up for in determination. A normally patient man, Cornelius is intolerant of people he views as ignorant, long-winded, or exceptionally self-absorbed, which is why his current state causes him so much angst.


  Not conventionally handsome, Cornelius has a long, narrow face and a bristly white beard that hides a star-shaped strawberry birthmark. His most distinguishing features are his scarred and knobby hands—working hands sculpted from years of labor. Cornelius is a man of many names. To Regina, he is Chevy or “old man.” To his parents, gone now the better part of a decade, he was Neil. To his fellow church members, he’s known simply as Cornelius or Mr. T. His favorite nickname is the one bestowed upon him by his unruly youngest son, Drew, and carried forward by all four sons and now five grandchildren: Papa Stone.

  Today is Cornelius’s sixty-ninth birthday and he’s celebrating from the vantage point of his new motorized wheelchair. It has all the bells and whistles he could ask for, but alas it can’t help him walk unassisted. The stroke that stole the use of Cornelius’s left leg also pulled down the muscles on the left side of his face, making him look like a reflection in a fun house mirror, or so he thinks. Regina assures him that he’s still the man she married. Cornelius doesn’t believe her. The man she married could fell a mature oak alone and carve the resulting timber into a bench. The man in the wheelchair can only carve soap.

  “Hey, Papa Stone.” Drew bends over and gives Cornelius a quick shoulder squeeze. “Happy birthday.”

  Cornelius smiles. “Thank you.” He’s still not used to the garbled sound of his own voice.

  Regina floats between the asters and mums, pausing to give her husband a kiss. “Don’t get your father worked up,” she says to their youngest. “You know how he is.”

  When she leaves, Drew says, “You look good, Dad.” He kneels down in front of the chair and peers into his father’s eyes. They’re outside on the stone patio that Cornelius and his five kids built thirty years ago, surrounded by his wife’s kaleidoscope of flower gardens. The early fall air is cool and humid, grouchy clouds harbingers of the rain to come. “How do you feel?”