Tell on You

  When he’d made it through all that, Jeremy summoned his courage. “Can I make my phone call now?”

  His keeper, as Jeremy had come to think of the cop who’d shepherded him through the booking process, grunted and handed him a telephone.

  “Thank you.” Now, who to call? For the past hour, Jeremy had brooded on that question, and kept coming back to the same answer. His call went to Melissa’s voicemail.

  “Please, Mel, you’ve gotta help me.” Under the watchful gaze of his keeper, Jeremy rattled off a frantic explanation of where they’d taken him. Please, would she get him a lawyer? Make bail? He hated to hang up and surrender even this fragile link to freedom.

  His keeper grabbed the phone from Jeremy’s hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  A wave of panic jittered through him. “Wait! How can it count if I don’t actually reach a person?” Maybe he could try his mother in Florida. No, he’d be too ashamed to tell her his situation. Her only son, a jailbird.

  “That’s it,” the cop said.

  “What about legal aid?” Jeremy protested. “Doesn’t the court have to appoint an attorney for me?”

  “You’ll have a chance to arrange all that when you go before the judge tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? The pit of Jeremy’s stomach chilled. He was about to spend the night in jail.

  FIFTY THREE

  HANDS TREMBLING, MELISSA DROPPED her cellphone onto the table. All her life she’d turned to her father as her anchor, her rock. She was unmoored now, adrift. No knowing where the treacherous currents might carry her.

  Maybe Jeremy had committed a great wrong—perhaps a crime. But she didn’t for an instant believe that Howard Milton, the prince of wheeling and dealing, had dimed out her husband as a public service. He’d sounded so satisfied, smug. Mel suspected her father had staged the whole thing to get Jeremy out of the picture, now that…

  Her hand dipped to her belly to soothe herself and the tiny being inside. Boy or girl? She didn’t even know yet. But her child—hers. She had to be responsible now. Not only for herself—a feat she’d never quite pulled off—but for the baby. She wouldn’t surrender this innocent little life to her father without a fight.

  Melissa drew a steadying breath. Maybe right and wrong wasn’t always a clear-cut matter. The idea of abandoning Jeremy, her baby’s father, disturbed her profoundly. Her logic might be uncertain, but her gut was solid on that score. If she no longer trusted her father, she might as well trust her instincts and her heart.

  So, a lawyer.

  Immediately, Winkelman, her father’s attorney, came to mind. He’d represented Jeremy when that girl—the first girl, Mel sourly reminded herself—accused him of sexual overtures. That girl—Heather?—had recanted and there’d been no trial. Which didn’t change the fact that Winkelman had been Jeremy’s attorney. The one to call now.

  But Winkelman was her father’s lawyer. Something about that scenario smelled wrong to Melissa. Then it came to her: Winkelman had carried out her father’s dirty work, arranged for the private detective to trail Jeremy. She scrunched her forehead, thinking it through. She’d been considering law school. Could it be legal for Winkelman to spy on his own client, like a bounty hunter? Surely lawyers owed their clients some loyalty. At the very least, a duty not to stab them in the back.

  A small smile came to her lips. She saw a way to play this. Melissa scrolled through her contacts for Winkelman’s office number, then put through the call.

  “Peter Winkelman’s office,” a crisp female voice announced.

  “May I speak with him, please? It’s Melissa Milton-Barrett.”

  “Mr. Winkelman is in court right now. Can I have him get back to you?”

  “Can you call his cell? I need to talk with him right away. Tell him it’s me and that my husband—his client, Jeremy Barrett—has been arrested.”

  “Oh. I’m very sorry indeed to hear that, Ms. Barrett. I’ll try to reach him.”

  “It’s Milton-Barrett,” Melissa corrected. “Howard Milton’s daughter,” she added for emphasis.

  “Oh.” The woman sounded like she’d sat up at attention. “Don’t worry, Ms. Milton-Barrett, I’ll make sure Mr. Winkelman calls you as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.” Melissa gave her cellphone number and hung up.

  It took only five minutes for the attorney to call her back.

  “Melissa! Peter Winkelman, here. What’s this about Jeremy being arrested? On what charge?”

  All business, no nonsense. Like her father. Birds of a feather. “I don’t know,” Melissa said, “but policemen came here to the apartment, looking for him earlier this morning. Then I called him as he was going into school, and they were waiting for him there. He told me he needed a lawyer, then we got cut off. I don’t even know where they were taking him.”

  “Any idea what it might be about, Melissa?”

  She straightened up and pushed back her shoulders, channeling the body language of a confident person—maybe the one she grew up with. It helped. “Look, Mr. Winkelman. Peter.” You’re Howard Milton’s daughter. “Some—things—have been going on here.”

  “Things?”

  “Inappropriate things.” When he remained silent, she continued. “I believe Jeremy was framed. I suspect you know what I’m referring to.”

  “Melissa! How could I possibly…”

  “Peter, yesterday my father showed me pictures of Jeremy with a girl. His student, he claimed. Today Jeremy was arrested.” She omitted the parts about the confrontation in the park and throwing Jeremy out of the apartment. “My father said he got those photos from you.”

  “From me? Howard told you that? I can’t imagine him saying such a thing.”

  Winkelman tried to sound shocked—indignant—but his voice went high. Melissa heard an undertone of alarm. “Well, he did,” she snapped. “He told me all about that detective you hired to set up Jeremy.” Her father hadn’t put it exactly that way, but this was no time for subtlety. “Who turned in those pictures to the authorities? My father or you?”

  “Melissa! Now just a minute.” He sounded flustered. “You’re jumping to conclusions here, and—”

  “Because, if it was you, Peter…”

  “It wasn’t! I had no idea Howard was planning—”

  “Shame on you. You were Jeremy’s lawyer, even if my father did pay your fees.”

  “Melissa, I’ve represented your father’s interests for over ten years now. I’m happy to look out for Jeremy’s, as well. So I don’t understand why—”

  “You know, Peter, I’ve been thinking seriously about applying to law school. Did you know that?”

  “Uh, actually, no.”

  “I find the whole subject of legal ethics fascinating, don’t you?” Enjoying this now.

  “Melissa—”

  “I wonder what the New Jersey Bar Association would say about a situation like this. I might call and run it by them. For my edification. What do you think, Peter?”

  “Melissa, hold on.” He drew a breath. “Look,” he said, his tone avuncular, “how can I help you and Jeremy in this situation? That’s the paramount question here, isn’t it, dear?”

  “So, you do want to help us.” Melissa smiled. Maybe she’d inherited the hardball gene from her father. It might prove useful. “Happy to hear that, Peter. Then you’ll continue to represent Jeremy?”

  “Of course. Certainly I’ll represent him if he needs an attorney.” He hesitated. “Will your father, uh, be handling the—”

  Ka-ching, ka-ching. Melissa imagined Winkelman running his cash register. “My father will have no involvement whatsoever. Including in the matter of your fees. In fact, I was thinking you might handle this case on a pro bono basis. Under the circumstances.”

  “Under the circumstances?” Winkelman sighed. “I’d be happy to accept that arrangement, dear.”

  Melissa celebrated with a silent fist pump.

  “But if Jeremy’s been arrested, he’ll have to make bail. And
I gather your father won’t be paying the bondsman.”

  Her glee evaporated. “No, he won’t.” They were broke. How the hell would she come up with bail money? But she’d made it this far. She’d think of something. “Look, I’ll take care of that, Peter. You go see about Jeremy.”

  FIFTY FOUR

  NIKKI EYED THE FOUR adults, all wearing grim expressions, surrounding her in the principal’s office. Hardly a comfortable place to be, even under better circumstances. She didn’t trust a single one of them. Mr. Donnelly tried to come across all patient and understanding. Who’d he think he was fooling? The pinch of his mouth told Nikki how eager he was to get this whole stinky mess over with. Then there was the Protective Services lady, still with that kindly look on her face that made Nikki want to puke. As for the Prosecutor, Mr. DellaSomething, she found him completely unreadable.

  Tell them all about what happened between you and Mr. Barrett.

  She’d crafted that story for her own purposes. Now Heather had spilled the beans and spoiled it for her. Nikki’s rapid mental calculus computed that she’d have to give it up. But how much should she reveal?

  Heather must have told them about the motel, gone and blabbed all the juicy tidbits Nikki had shared last night. Damn! Stupid to expect Heather to keep that stuff to herself. So now the thing was to be consistent. To keep her creds, Nikki had to tell these creeps exactly the same story she’d told Heather.

  “All right, Nikki.” The detective—Burns—fixed his gaze on her. “I understand you’ve had contacts with your teacher, Mr. Barrett, outside of school. Is that correct?”

  “Uh huh.” Of course they knew that.

  “I’d like you to tell us about that.”

  Nikki shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” Detective Burns replied. “How often you saw him. Over what period of time. Where you met him.”

  “I guess it started about six weeks ago.” Nikki shot a glance at the prosecutor, who stared back at her, his face implacable. “We met maybe once or twice a week. Usually at the park near school. A couple of times we sat in his car when it was too cold out.” Out of the corner of her eye, Nikki saw the principal shaking his head in disapproval. She’d bet Donnelly never sat in a car with a female in his whole stupid life. “And one time he took me to the Watchung Reservation.”

  The DCPP lady scrawled notes on a yellow pad.

  “Now, Nikki,” the detective continued. “During any of those meetings, did Mr. Barrett touch you?”

  “Touch me?”

  “Did he make any inappropriate physical contact with you?”

  Nikki cleared her throat. Like being stuck in a roomful of Peeping Toms. “He—uh—kissed me.” She’d kissed him, to be precise. But he’d kissed back. She had a fleeting memory. Mr. B had been a good kisser—slow and gentle. Not like those horny boys, always in such a hurry for oral sex. It almost made her sorry to have to ruin him. But, hey, life was a bitch.

  “Nikki?” The detective waited.

  She’d drifted. “Um, what?”

  “You were telling us about him kissing you. Did he ever go further?”

  She moistened her lips. “Not until last night.”

  The Protective Services worker stopped writing. The detective leaned forward. The prosecutor eyed her the way an alpha hyena might stare at a freshly killed gazelle, waiting for the pack of lions to finish gnawing the carcass.

  “What happened last night?” Detective Burns asked.

  “Well, you know.” They did, of course. “At the motel. He tried to rape me.” She waited for them to nod and look sympathetic, for one of them to say: Yes, please go on and tell us about it.

  None of that happened.

  “Good lord!” the principal exclaimed.

  The detective shook his head.

  “Were you hurt, Nikki?” the DCPP lady asked. “Have you been examined by a doctor yet?”

  “Um, no,” Nikki stammered. Oh shit.

  The woman looked at the prosecutor. “I’ll take her to our examining physician as soon as we’re done here. I’ll call her mother and let her know where to meet us.”

  Before Nikki got her mouth open to protest, DellaWhatever, eyes narrowing, leaned toward her.

  In for the kill.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You were in a motel room last night with Jeremy Barrett?”

  Fuck it. She’d screwed up, big time. They hadn’t known about the motel, after all. Now Nikki had no choice but to stick with her story, bull it out. Could she get away with it? That guy who’d punched out Mr. B had taken off too quickly to contradict her version of events. Besides, he totally hadn’t seemed like he’d give a shit about saving Mr. B’s butt.

  But, crap. Now they’d have some pervy doctor poking into her privates. How had she ended up in this mess? It made zero sense for Heather to leave out the part about the motel.

  Unless it hadn’t been Heather who’d told.

  “Nikki.” The prosecutor’s insistent voice interrupted her thoughts. “Tell us exactly what happened last night. Don’t leave anything out.”

  FIFTY FIVE

  HEATHER WAS STUNNED AT the news. Mr. B, arrested. Right inside the main entrance, in front of a bunch of people. And she’d missed the big event, rushing to class at the time.

  Poor Mr. B. So Nikki told on him after all.

  Heather struggled to make sense of it. She needed her therapist to help her sort out her feelings. If Mr. B did all the terrible things Nikki had told her, then he must be one of those pedophiles. And if she was feeling sorry for someone that skeevy, what did it say about her?

  Yet Heather felt a crushing sadness. Such a cool teacher. He’d really cared about the books they studied. And he’d made her feel stuff, see things, in ways she hadn’t before. Mr. B was sort of like Gatsby—a romantic, doomed guy. She’d miss him. Was it sick to miss a pervert? Maybe Dr. Goldman could help get her head straight.

  The sound of girlie giggles behind her broke into Heather’s ruminations. She turned to see three classmates approaching. Easy enough to tell the subject of their intense conversation.

  “Maybe he was doing drugs.” A tall blonde, who’d never so much as returned a casual greeting from Heather. Blondie and her buddies continued their speculation, ignoring Heather’s presence.

  “Get out!” This from a whippet-thin girl with long, brown hair. Every time Heather laid eyes on her she felt like she’d just gained twenty pounds. “Mr. B would never do anything like that,” the girl insisted.

  “Totally not possible,” the third one agreed. A look of horror contorted her snub-nosed features. “OMG! You think he’s, like, a terrorist or something?”

  “Mr. B?” the blonde hooted. “As if! Gotta be drugs.”

  “It’s not drugs.” The words tumbled out of Heather’s mouth.

  Three heads pivoted in her direction. The girls—skinny, blond and pretty—stared at Heather as if they’d discovered a maggot in their yogurt.

  Blondie arched her brows, pointedly eying each of her companions in turn before staring back at Heather. “And what would you know about it?”

  Heather knew she should back off, but she’d done that one—no, about fifty—too many times with snotty girls like these. “I know plenty.”

  Snub-nose snorted. “That’ll be the day.” Snickers from the other two.

  “I know why Mr. B was arrested,” Heather said. Their scorn drove her over the edge. She knew and they didn’t. “He tried to rape Nikki Jordan in a motel last night.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Heather smiled and saw a hint of hesitation creep into their expressions.

  “Exactly how would you know that?” Blondie demanded.

  Heather shrugged. “Nikki told me.”

  “Told you?” The whippet stared at her in disbelief. “Why would she do that?”

  Heather raised her chin in defiance. “Because we’re friends.”

  “And I
thought Nikki had class,” the blonde sneered.

  “She does,” Heather shot back. “For your information, she and Mr. B had a relationship.”

  “She told you that?” Whippet said. “And you believed her? I’ll bet she was messing with your head.”

  “Totally,” Snub-nose agreed.

  Heather was all the way in it now. Weeks of assertiveness training kicked in. “I saw proof. She showed me a picture of them together.”

  Snub-nose sniffed. “Well, you know, people can do anything with Photoshop.”

  “Right,” Blondie agreed. “But, I’ll say this.” Her gaze bored into Heather’s. “Mr. B is the most popular teacher in this school. If Nikki’s the one who got him into trouble, you’re gonna be the only friend she has left around here.” She turned to her posse for confirmation.

  The whippet nodded. “Totally pathetic.”

  “Totally,” Snub-nose echoed.

  The three girls walked off.

  Heather’s cheeks burned as she watched them go. What had she done?

  FIFTY SIX

  JEREMY LANGUISHED IN HIS cell, more alone than he’d ever been. Hours had passed, at least he guessed so. They’d confiscated his watch and phone. No word from anyone. Was it still daylight? The cell had no window. He felt hunger pangs and wondered about food.

  Had Melissa bothered listening to his voicemail, or deleted it? Jeremy could hardly blame her if she’d blown him off. Yet he clung to the desperate hope that she’d come through for him.

  He leaned back against the flimsy pillow he’d propped against the wall. The hard, narrow bed—no more than a wooden slab—the sole piece of furniture in the jail cell, unless you counted the ancient, yellowed sink and toilet without a seat. Compared to his present accommodations, the cramped, shabby apartment he and Melissa shared shone like a palace in his mind. Jeremy would have given anything—had he anything to give—to see Melissa’s discarded clothing, books and sneakers strewn around this hell hole. He’d have kissed her soiled sweat socks. They’d be an improvement over the sour tang of despair surrounding him.