He looked at Doug and shook his head.
"As for you, Professor Baker, I'm disappointed. I had thought you a sharp and rising addition to our faculty. But whether there was anything improper going on between you and Professor Maitland, the fact remains that you should have had the good sense to avoid the appearance of impropriety, and you obviously did not. I will have to reevaluate your future role in our university."
I somehow managed to avoid laughing at the expressions that crossed both their faces.
Myers looked back at me.
"Regardless of our future internal activities, Mr. Maitland, the fact remains that you are in a much more tenuous and dangerous position. If we report this, I expect you'll lose your position with the State Attorney's Office. You might be disbarred. Why shouldn't I simply call the police?"
"You're right. I could be fired. And disbarred. But if that happens, I will sue the university for alienation of my wife's affections and actions that led to the destruction of my marriage. I might not win, probably won't. But I'm a well-known prosecutor, my wife and Professor Baker are respected academics. And, more importantly and to the point of this discussion, my wife is a hot, big tittied blonde and Professor Baker is what I would call a hunk.
"When the word gets out of a sexual and romantic triangle, alleged adultery, hanky panky in academia, I think UNF is going to get a whole world full of unwanted press attention. Not the kind of attention you want; not the kind of attention that will do you a lot of good when it comes to attracting the kind of big money, old money, corporate donors that you need to keep an institution like this running smoothly.”
I looked into his old, wise eyes and said, “I only need to screw up three or four of those and I’ll hurt you badly.”
I stopped and we all stared at each other for a moment or two. I noticed four or five university security cops huddling a little distance away.
Finally Myers sighed and said, "You really don't care if you win the suit, do you?"
Without giving me a chance to reply, he said, "What do you want? Professor Baker is new and doesn't have the academic protections that come with longevity. We could probably get rid of him. Your wife has more protections, but we could make it – advantageous – for her to seek employment elsewhere."
One of the chief regrets of my life is that I didn't have a camera to catch the expressions on the lovers' faces.
I shook my head.
"I just want to walk away from here and get some medical attention. I don't want you to take any retribution against either one of them."
Myers looked perplexed.
"You are a surprising man, Mr. Maitland. Why did you come here and create so much havoc tonight if you didn't want revenge?"
I looked at Debbie. Surprise and an emotion I couldn't place played across her face. Doug just looked like his whole world had fallen apart around him. I had my doubts about his long term future with UNF regardless of what I said.
"My marriage is over. I know that. My wife isn't in love with me anymore. That hurts, but it happens every day. I don't want to destroy her. We have two children and I want her to keep her job for their sake.
"No, I came here tonight because I just wanted my wife to know I'm not a complete idiot, that she couldn't walk out dressed for a hot date and feed me a line of crap about going to a boring academic meeting that spouses weren't invited to.
"As to Professor Baker....I wanted – well, I don't blame Baker that much. He's an asshole for playing with a married woman, but I would go after my wife if I hadn't been married to her already. She's a beautiful woman. So I didn't want to ruin his life. I just wanted a little payback for stealing my wife."
He took a last look at me, said, "You're an interesting man, Mr. Maitland, please don't come back here again," and walked away.
The little crowd dispersed and Debbie started to walk away with Doug Baker, but stopped and came back to me. She had blood on her dress and wrap and the fire in her eyes had burned down to a wary sadness.
"Thank you, I guess, Bill. I've got a job, but I don't know how much of a career I've got left. All this crap, and for what? All of this is in your mind. I'm not having an affair, and despite what you saw, Doug is just a friend.”
She took a deep breath, then caught my gaze in hers and said, "Don't come back to the house tonight, or any night, Bill. I'm going to get a protective order keeping you away from me and the kids. You've shown that you're a dangerous man prone to violence and I question your mental stability.
"I think we need a formal separation, for awhile anyway. I don't know what will happen to our marriage, but we need some space and time before....we do something permanent. You can make arrangements with the Sheriff's Office to come by and pick up anything you need."
And with that, she went off with Doug and I went back to the River.
A week had gone by and I hadn't heard from Debbie or the kids. Of course, I hadn't tried to call them, but they hadn't called me. So we were even. I had made a temporary home at the River condo, but I knew I'd have to look for more permanent digs.
When I’d walked into the office Monday with a black eye that had begun turning interesting shadows of brown and red shading to black, a busted lip and bruises on my forehead, I’d gotten the expected stares and a few timid comments. Fortunately I hadn’t run into the Big Man and when he had called me and asked what had happened I’d flat-out lied. I said I had gotten into a too-spirited game of pickup basketball at a neighborhood court with BJ and a couple of his friends and hit the cement a few times.
We had been friends and I’d been his number two long enough that he knew I didn’t play basketball, pickup or any kind, that I didn’t play basketball with BJ and his friends, and that if I HAD, I’d have packed it in the first time I got a bruise.
All he did was say, “hmmmm” and after a long minute said, “You need to be more careful, Bill. An old – make that mature – Assistant State Attorney really shouldn’t be seen in public acting like a kid. Reflects on the office, you know? By the way, is there anything you’d like to come up here to talk about? Anything on your mind?”
I knew of course that he knew. I hadn’t seen any pictures of my fight – make that my beating at Doug’s hands -cropping up on the Internet. I had heard that Myers had put the word out that if anything did leak out to embarrass UNF, he would personally make the leaker’s professional life a living hell, and he would do it in such a way that the leaker couldn’t protest effectively. It was dirty fighting, but Myers had been around a long time and people believed him.
But, of course, people knew and people talked. It had gotten back to me by back channels a half dozen times in the forms of politely worded questions that I didn’t answer. I kept up a policy of total silence and while people were still talking, nothing was going to happen.
But the Big Man knew, and had probably talked to Myers about it. Which meant he knew my marriage was about to die. Most bosses would have said something, but he was good that way. He’d keep his distance until I came to him, or until it messed up my job performance enough that he knew he had to do something.
It was near noon Friday and the case of the sailor who had shaken his daughter to death was drawing to a close. Van Horn’s lawyer, Becker, had begged for a continuance for personal reasons earlier in the week which delayed the trial a couple of days and then two jurors had been knocked out for another day with one of the viruses sweeping the city. So a trial that should have ended Monday had run through Friday.
We'd probably have a verdict in time to let the Presiding judge, Herman Herring, get out in time to catch a new play opening at the Times-Union Theater for the Performing Arts.
A younger SA, Billy Parker, had made the first close and the defense attorney Bob Becker had made his passionate defense final argument. We were on break until we got our last shot at the jury.
I grabbed a sub I'd ordered from the sandwich shop downstairs in the courthouse during the break and tried to make a tactical decisi
on. Parker had done a good job in the initial closing or final argument. He'd summed up the case and the evidence against the young sailor, Van Horn, clearly enough that the jury had a good sense of the case against him.
Because Becker, the hot shot from New York, had put Van Horn on the stand, we had one last bite of the apple. I could let Parker take the final argument, but I was thinking of grabbing this one for myself. I felt like cutting somebody's balls off in court...I needed something to cheer me up.
Cheryl stuck her head in my office and said quietly, "She's on the phone, Bill."
"Great timing. Okay."
I picked up the phone and punched in her call.
"Hi Debbie."
"Hello, Bill."
"To what do I owe this honor? You got another court order directed at me?"
"No, Bill. Remember, we talked about a separation until we could get things...straight between us."
"I remember."
"I'm filing for a divorce this afternoon."
"Hmmm...well, thanks for the heads up."
"Bill....I don't see any way out. I haven't been happy in a long, long time...and if you're honest, once things settle down, I don't even think you'll miss me that much. You'll still have your job and your cases. That's what your life is all about, what it has been all about for so long."
"Very perceptive. Good to know you're thinking about me. How is Doug, by the way? Did he need surgery on his nose?"
"....No, Bill, he didn't. No thanks to you. And I know you're thinking it, because you have been ever since you went crazy, but I'm not doing this for Doug. I'm doing it for me. I just don't love you anymore, Bill. Not like that. I'm sorry."
"That was all you needed to say, Debbie. I'll get an attorney and I'll have my guy call your guy. Have a good life."
I hung up on her.
I sat there and tried to figure out what I was feeling. At least I wasn't vomiting. It was all so anticlimactic. Almost 20 years of my life drawn to a close with a single one minute conversation. It should have been raining under overcast black skies. But that was bullshit. It was just another day.
I buzzed Cheryl.
When she came in I told her, "Call Parker. I'm taking the close. Van Horn's got a date with the death chamber."
I grabbed a few bites of the sub but again I just wasn't that hungry. I threw the remainder in the trash, got up and grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door. Before I got there Cheryl was standing in front of me.
She just pointed to my face. I didn't understand.
"What? Do I have something in between my teeth?"
She held a makeup compact up to me and flipped it open to the mirror. I saw the tears rolling down my cheeks. I took out a handkerchief and wiped my face, eyes and then my nose.
"Make a note of the date and time, Cheryl. Those are the last tears I'll shed for that miserable bitch."
I headed for the elevator and I almost thought I could smile. For the first time, I felt sorry for that son-of-a-bitch Van Horn. He was going to take his last breaths strapped down to a hospital gurney in Raiford watching the lethal chemicals mix before entering his body. And at least a small part of the blame, or credit, for what awaited him was due to my loving, cheating, almost-ex-wife.
As the elevator doors closed behind me, I stepped into my new life.
CHAPTER 2: BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO
My name is Bill Maitland. I’m one of three top State Attorney Assistants in Jacksonville, Florida. I’ve been through a rough three weeks. Three weeks ago I was, at least in my own mind, happily married – make that married to a big tittied blonde goddess who I thought loved me. Little did I know.
For 17 years the former Debbie Bascomb had been my wife, lover, and best friend. We had two children, both navigating through the treacherous teen years and had been working our way up the career paths of our own choosing, myself in the law and Debbie in academia as an Associate Professor at the University of North Florida.
I thought we’d had a good, solid, relatively boring middle class marriage. Of course I had the best of it. Debbie is a 5 foot 10 blonde wet dream, big titties, long gorgeous legs and an ass to die for. I, on the other hand, am a 5-foot-8, balding, pudgy 41-almost-42-year-old lawyer, and as exciting as I sound.
We’d had a good marriage until I discovered we didn’t. Four words ended it all, when in the middle of informing me she was planning on teaching during the summer she happened to let it slip that we had had some good times “when we were married.”
Of course, she had compounded the weirdness by acting in a loving manner that was nothing like the woman I’d been married to for the past few years and showed off a shaved pussy that I knew nothing about. I made the mistake of getting so royally pissed by the stranger she’d turned into that I asked her if she was fucking anybody, which was probably not the best way to try to get to the bottom of what was going on.
Things went into a death spiral from that point. We stopped talking, she started kissing a good looking young assistant professor (Doug/email name Lance) she worked with, she spent the weekend away from me and after I found a bunch of incriminating emails on her computer that made it brutally clear that if she wasn’t in a sexual relationship with the young professor, she was on track to do so,……I moved out of our house and left my wedding ring behind.
I made one last quixotic gesture to try to win her back, involving overpowering her in the shower and using a very big vibrator and the sex was the best we’d had in years. But when it was over, she had lain on her side of the bed and silently wept. That pretty much told me it was all over
Which led to me surprising her at a UNF event when she was acting very un-wifely, I got my face smashed in and got a few good licks in on her would-be boyfriend, and I wound up with a restraining order keeping me out of my house.
Then twenty minutes ago, while I was waiting to make final arguments in the case of a young sailor who’d shaken his eight eight-month-old daughter to death in a fit of rage against his ex-wife, Debbie had taken the opportunity to call me to tell me she didn’t love me anymore and was filing for a divorce.
Which is why I found myself walking – make that striding forcefully – into Circuit Judge Herman Herring’s courtroom as an almost free and very, very angry man. Chris Van Horn, the young sailor who had killed his daughter in a moment of rage, was about to pay for my wife’s treachery.
Everything was set to go. Herring was sitting at the bench. He was abuzz-cut, beak-nosed former Marine who feared nothing, loved tough cases and headlines mentioning his name in the Times-Union, and loved even more being God in his courtroom. Standing at his side was the man-mountain former ex-con now bodyguard and Bailiff Charlie Case who kept order during some pretty wild proceedings.
Billy Parker, the young Assistant SA who had prosecuted the case and gave the main closing, sat alone at the prosecution table. Arnold Becker, the New York defense hot shot, sat beside Van Horn who was dressed in a neat and conservative suit, but not too dressy.
As I walked into the courtroom I saw Van Horn’s parents seated on the right behind their son in the public section and on the left I saw Van Horn’s now ex-wife and her parents. Amber Van Horn’s mother was crying. Becker saw me and gave me a smart-ass grin. I wondered if he’d be grinning in a few minutes.
“Mr. Maitland, this is an unexpected pleasure, although I should say I hope the other guy looks worse,” Herring said. Then he smiled to take the sting out. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“Just trying to keep my hand in,” I said. “And it was a basketball court. Cement doesn’t bruise. Anyway, are we set to go, your honor?”
“Let’s roll.”
I looked over at the jury box. There was an elderly black man, two women in their 30s that I would have bet my life were Lesbians, a youngish guy with long hair who was about to fall asleep, a business type in his early 50s and two more in suits in their 30s busy being bored, three black women who looked like they might be teachers or professionals of so
me sort, an old white woman who looked like a stiff wind would blow her away, and one soccer mom type; long blonde hair, tastefully dressed, just enough lipstick and enough boobs so the young guy kept sneaking glances at them, but all in all demure.
She and the old black guy were the only ones on the jury who had young kids. He had four grown children, eight grandchildren and six great-grands. Of course, he wasn’t crazy about any of his grown kids and had gotten tired of being dragged into babysitting. Not your ideal grandpa. That had been Becker’s strategy and he had worked it pretty well.
I glanced over at Van Horn. He met my eyes for a moment and dropped them. He was fighting for his life, but for the life of me I couldn’t understand how he could live another day with the memory of that small limp body in his hands.
I walked over to Parker and got the only prop I’d need. Herring addressed the jury, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Assistant State Attorney Maitland will deliver the closing arguments for the state. Once again I remind you that you can only consider the facts and testimony placed in evidence. The closing is simply an opportunity for the state to sum up what it considers the facts in this case that you should consider. Mr. Maitland.”
I walked slowly toward the jury, finally stopping in front of the foreman, the older businessman. I held the prop where they could not see it.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is William Maitland. I am an Assistant State Attorney. I have worked for the State Attorney’ office for the past ten years. Before I joined this office I worked as a defense attorney for a few years. I stand before you now to make a few final comments before you retire to deliberate.”
I let their gazes wash over me, mostly curious, some already tired of this duty and ready to shuck it to return to their real lives. They stared at my bruised face. It was probably the most interesting thing that had happened in this trial over the last several days.
“I won’t go over our case again. I know that Mr. Becker did his best to muddy the waters by bringing in testimony that implied that Mrs. Van Horn, during their separation and before their divorce, had brought another man in to live with her and that it was this other man that injured little Amber Van Horn.
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