Tell on You

  Would she ever forgive him? He’d betrayed her, beguiled by a foolish dream that had cost him his job and livelihood, covered him in disgrace. He might even go to prison because of his idiotic flirtation with Nikki. They’d never had sex. He’d never even touched her except when she’d initiated a friendly hug.

  And that one kiss.

  But those photos told another story—assault, the crime specified on the arrest warrant the cops had read him. The charge appalled Jeremy. He’d never manhandled anyone in his life. He even found football too violent.

  But he’d wronged Nikki, a child, for all her femme fatale airs. He’d allowed a lonely, needy kid to call the shots in their relationship, instead of being the responsible adult, the professional. He should have protected her, not taken advantage.

  A child.

  Jeremy thought of the baby Melissa carried. Their child, his. They had a right to depend on him, Mel and his son or daughter. Yet instead of being there for them, here he sat in a jail cell, drowning in self-pity, waiting for someone to save him.

  Shame on him.

  Beguiled by the prospect of being Nikki’s knight in shining armor, he’d grabbed at a second chance to matter to someone. The way he’d once mattered to Melissa. And all the while, his second chance sat right in front of him. He’d been blind.

  Footsteps and the rattling of keys made Jeremy look up. A warden approached and, to Jeremy’s wonder, unlocked his cell door.

  “Let’s go. Your lawyer’s here.”

  Elated, Jeremy sprang to his feet and followed the guard to an interview room. Peter Winkelman rose from his seat at a small table as they entered. Amazing how the sight of a balding, portly, middle-aged man could fill someone with such joy.

  “Peter!” Jeremy exclaimed. “Thank god.”

  “I’ll be right out there,” the guard told Winkelman, angling his head toward the door.

  The attorney nodded and gestured to the empty chair opposite his. “Sit down, Jeremy. Let’s talk.”

  The small table held a legal pad, on which Winkelman had jotted some notes. Jeremy sat, heartened to see his lawyer already on the case. He glanced around the interview room, taking stock of his surroundings. Drab and institutional, but an improvement over the cell. No open toilet, and here they had a window—even if it only looked out on the corridor where the guard stood observing.

  “Can you get me out of here?” Jeremy asked.

  The attorney shook his head. “Not tonight. You’ll be arraigned in the morning.”

  Jeremy noticed a clock on the wall—five o’clock. A lot of hours to wait. But at least he was no longer alone and forgotten.

  “You’ll be released then,” Winkelman continued, “assuming you can post bond for bail.”

  Jeremy swallowed. “How much will that be, do you think?”

  Winkelman clicked his pen. “Depends on the judge. Ten, twenty thousand, I’d guess.” He looked at Jeremy. “Melissa’s working on that.”

  Jeremy pursed his lips. “Her father, I suppose.” Much as he hated being in his father-in-law’s debt, Jeremy would welcome a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  “I wouldn’t count on that. In fact…” Winkelman leaned back in his chair. “He’s probably the one who turned you in.”

  “Howard?” Jeremy gaped at him. “Peter, what the fuck is going on?”

  Winkelman regarded him with a sober expression. “All right, I’m going to come clean with you and you’re going to come clean with me. Understood?”

  Bewildered, Jeremy shook his head. “What do you mean? I’ll tell you everything that happened. You’re my lawyer, right?”

  “Ye-es.” He paused. “But I’m Howard Milton’s lawyer, too, and have been for a long time.” When Jeremy opened his mouth, Winkelman held up a hand to silence him. “Before we go any further, I have a disclosure to make.”

  Jeremy braced himself. This could get worse?

  “Your father-in-law wanted a private detective to keep an eye on you after Heather accused you of molesting her,” Winkelman said. “And I referred him to my best man.”

  “Oh shit. But—why?”

  The attorney grimaced. “Frankly, I chose not to ask too many questions. I assumed he was trying to protect Melissa, in case you really were…” His voice trailed off.

  Jeremy nodded in misery. In case he’d really done the things they’d photographed him doing. Doomed all along. “Wait a minute.” He frowned. “So you put a PI on me and got me arrested? And now you’re here to represent me?” A surge of angry adrenalin coursed through him. “What kind of shyster ambulance chaser are you, anyway?”

  “Whoa! Slow down,” Winkelman said. “I gave Howard the name of my detective and that was the end of it on my part. Maybe not my best decision, in hindsight. But I had nothing to do with turning you in.”

  “Then—?”

  “According to the prosecutor, the photos of you and Nikki Jordan were sent anonymously to your principal.” He looked Jeremy square in the eye. “Melissa thinks it was her father’s doing, and I suspect she’s right.”

  Jeremy’s head sank to his hands. He struggled to absorb the whole catastrophe, then looked up at Winkelman. “But why are you here now? Did your buddy Howard pay you to make sure I rot in jail?” His voice rose. “Why the hell should I trust you?”

  A loud rap on the window. Winkelman waved off the guard outside.

  Jeremy lowered his voice. “What are you about here, Winkelman?”

  The lawyer leaned in, his face uncomfortably close to Jeremy’s sore nose. “Two things, Barrett. One, I’m eating my fee on this, which is the best deal you’re going to get in this mess. And, two, I’m going to keep your sorry ass out of prison.” Winkelman backed off. “Now, as your attorney, I advise you to shut up and listen.”

  FIFTY SEVEN

  NIKKI SHOVED OPEN THE passenger door as they pulled into the driveway. She’d endured enough of her mother’s crap on the drive home from the doctor’s office. Blah, blah, blah no business hanging around with that creep. Send you to an all-girl’s school and you still yadda, yadda. Ship you off to live with your father if he’d blah, blah.

  Like Mom was the freaking victim here.

  “You have homework?” her mother asked.

  Nikki mumbled a response and stalked to her room. She closed her bedroom door hard enough to send a message: Leave me alone. But not much chance of Mom coming in, once she started on happy hour.

  Nikki powered up her laptop, eager to check the social media conversation—and distract herself from the memory of that medical exam. At least the doctor had been a woman. Still, she’d been relentlessly thorough, checking for any and all injuries, not skipping an inch of Nikki’s personal real estate. Nothing there to find, of course—no cuts, bruises or scratches to back up Nikki’s story. Good thing she’d only accused Mr. B of attempted rape, since the pelvic exam made it plain that she still had her cherry.

  Nikki hoped that didn’t get around. She tried to give out a vibe of being sexually experienced. It totally sucked how all of this had slipped out of her control. Anyway, on to Facebook. What had they posted about today’s events? She brought up her page and checked the newsfeed. Whoa! A shitload of stuff. She began reading.

  This is Nikki Jordan’s dirty work.

  That comment accompanied a photo of Mr. B being led out in handcuffs. The post had drawn 27 likes and a bunch of similar sentiments.

  Such a biyach.

  Slut will do anything for attention—even ruin a great teacher.

  What the fuck? Nikki checked her notifications. She’d been unfriended by at least two dozen people. The only supportive message came from Heather.

  Hey, you okay? What happened?

  Great question. Nikki ground her teeth. What the hell happened, indeed?

  She picked up her smartphone.

  HEATHER ANSWERED HER PHONE—gingerly, as if it were radioactive. She checked the caller ID and gulped, tempted to let it go to voicemail. She dreaded the conversation with Nikki.
She had to leave for her appointment with Dr. Goldman in a few minutes. At least that gave her an excuse to get off the phone quickly.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice tentative.

  “Are you on Facebook?” Nikki wasted no time on preliminaries.

  “Uh uh.” Heather had shut it down after a look at the shit storm there. “How did they know?”

  “Know what?” Heather stalled.

  “Come on. You’re the only one who knew about me and Mr. B. No way would the cops or Mr. Donnelly have told. Admit it. It was you. I know you blabbed to the other girls and said I turned him in. Did you freaking tell everyone? The principal? Protective Services? The fucking police?” Nikki’s voice rose. “What did you do to me, you little bitch?”

  Heather gulped. Even worse than she’d expected. “I didn’t! I swear. I mean, yeah, I did kind of tell a couple of girls at school,” she admitted. At Nikki’s swift intake of breath, Heather rushed on. “But I never said anything to the principal or police, or anyone like that. I thought you did.”

  “I told you not to tell anyone!” Nikki railed. “So why the fuck would I?”

  “I don’t know. Look, Nikki, I’m really sorry. I was just trying to—”

  A knock on her bedroom door.

  “Heather! Better get a move on. You’ll be late for your appointment.”

  “Coming, Mom,” she called out, relieved at the reprieve from Nikki’s wrath. “I gotta go. I have to see my therapist.”

  “Yeah,” Nikki muttered. “You need your head examined, all right. But, Heather? This isn’t over, you hear me? There’s gonna be some serious payback.”

  She hung up, leaving Heather with plenty of material for her therapy session.

  FIFTY EIGHT

  “ALL RIGHT, THEN.” JEREMY spread his palms flat against the tabletop and stared at his lawyer. “How do you plan to get me out of this?”

  Peter Winkelman picked up his Cross pen and rolled it in his thick fingers. “First of all, you need to recognize that you’re facing a felony conviction.”

  “Felony! But I never even—”

  “The girl claimed you tried to rape her in a motel last night.”

  “What?” Jeremy’s face flushed. “That’s bullshit! I didn’t lay a finger on her.”

  “She told the prosecutor she only managed to get away by socking you in the face.” The lawyer frowned at Jeremy’s bruises. “And that much appears to be true.”

  Jeremy slammed the table. “She’s lying, Peter!” A sharp rap on the window from the guard outside made him drop his voice. “She didn’t break my nose. My friend did it.”

  Winkelman made a “tsk” sound. “A friend did that to you? Fella, I’d hate to see what your enemies do.”

  “Yeah, that’s really funny, Peter. If you’re interested, here’s what actually happened.” Jeremy gave him a synopsis of the previous night’s events, embarrassed at how bizarre and improbable the story sounded. “Call Rick in California. He’ll vouch for everything I’ve said.”

  Winkelman, who’d scrawled on his legal pad throughout Jeremy’s narrative, dropped his pen and looked at him. “That won’t do much good.”

  “What? But Rick’s a corroborating witness.”

  “A witness who left the motel room before Nikki did and can’t account for what you might have done to her afterwards,” the attorney pointed out.

  “With a broken nose? Gushing blood all over the place?”

  “Jeremy.” Winkelman’s tone softened. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Peter! My ass is on the line.” He stared at the lawyer in disbelief. Wouldn’t the guy even try to help him?

  “Jeremy, I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do. We’re going to apply for a PTI.”

  Jeremy wrinkled his forehead, then winced. His nose hurt. “What’s that?”

  “A Pre Trial Intervention,” Winkelman replied. “A program for first-time offenders. You go into a rehab to deal with your sex addiction.”

  “What sex addiction?”

  Winkelman ignored the question. “Further, you comply with whatever terms the court requires—community service, restitution payments—”

  “Restitution? But I didn’t do anything!”

  “Listen up,” Winkelman barked. “They have photos of you smooching with the girl. That by itself is proof of a second degree felony.”

  “But she kissed me! That’s a felony?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you were the kisser or the kissee,” Winkelman said. “And neither will a judge. Kissing your student, who’s under eighteen? Violating the trust inherent in your position of authority over her? Yeah, pal, that’s a felony.”

  “Oh god.” Of course his attorney was right.

  “The good news,” Winkelman said, “is that they did a medical examination. The girl is still a virgin.”

  Good news? Jeremy felt like shit. Nikki really had been innocent.

  “Nor did they find any indication that she’d been subjected to physical force,” Winkelman added. “Which leads me to believe the state won’t demand a trial.”

  “But at a trial, we could prove—”

  “No trial. Or the pictures will put you in prison.”

  Jeremy’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his lawyer’s words. “And this Pre Trial Intervention, you think the court will let us do that?”

  Winkelman nodded. “I think I can get them to go for it. And once you complete the program? The charges will be dismissed and you’ll have no record of any conviction.”

  Jeremy sighed. “I guess we’d better do it then.”

  “You really have no other choice.” Winkelman pocketed his pen. “There’s a program down in Louisiana. We’ll get you in there. All the celebrity sex addicts go there. Costs an arm and a leg,” he added, “so you might want to take out COBRA coverage when the school cuts off your health insurance.”

  “Shit. What will they do to me in this place?”

  “Lots of therapy. Twelve step groups.” Winkelman chuckled. “Oh, and video surveillance twenty four/seven.”

  “Video? What for?”

  “To make sure you don’t jerk off,” Winkelman said. “You’re about to become a recovering sex addict.”

  FIFTY NINE

  “EVERYTHING IS MESSED UP, Dr. Goldman.” Heather twisted a tissue into tight corkscrews, avoiding her therapist’s gaze. When the psychologist didn’t respond right away, Heather raised her eyes from the mangled tissue.

  From her arm chair on the other side of the end table, Dr. Goldman studied her with a look of sympathy. “What’s the part that confuses you?”

  Heather lowered the twisted Kleenex to her lap and smoothed out the corkscrews. “I don’t know.” She hesitated. “I guess that I’m not sure exactly what I did wrong.” She grimaced. “Or how to fix it.”

  “What makes you think you did anything wrong?” the psychologist asked.

  Heather balled up the tissue and dropped it onto the table. “I keep getting everyone into trouble. First Mr. B, then Nikki.” She let out a hollow laugh. “Not to mention me.”

  “You know,” Dr. Goldman mused, “taking on too much responsibility can be as misguided as taking too little.”

  Heather stared. “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “What do you think?”

  By now Heather was used to her therapist doing that—making her answer her own questions. Kind of a pain, yet it usually helped her sort things out. “I know I was wrong to lie about what Mr. B did.”

  Her therapist nodded. “And so you admitted it and set the record straight.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you believe you’ve wronged Nikki?” Dr. Goldman asked.

  Heather drew her arms across her chest as if shielding herself from the question. She pondered in silence. “I thought for sure she was the one who told on Mr. B.” Her forehead creased in concentration. “Who else could have done it?”

  “I don’t know,” her therapist said. “And neither do you
. Do you need to fault yourself for an honest mistake?”

  Heather unfolded her arms. Her fingers massaged the upholstery of the chair. “But I shouldn’t have blabbed everything to those girls.”

  “Why do you think you did?”

  Another tough question. “At first I told myself I was sticking up for Mr. B. They said he was a drug dealer or a terrorist or something.”

  “Go on,” Dr. Goldman urged.

  “And then I thought I should defend Nikki. Because they made it out like she’d invented stuff about him. And I knew that wasn’t true.”

  “Uh huh.” Her therapist waited.

  Heather’s eyes welled. “No, that wasn’t it.” She pulled a fresh tissue from the box on the table, blew her nose and looked at her doctor. “You know how many times those girls at school just stared through me? Or laughed when I walked past them in the hall, like I was some kind of clown?”

  “That must have hurt. I’ll bet it made you angry.”

  “Sure it did,” Heather said vehemently. “What makes them think they’re better than me? Just because they’re…” She bit her lip.

  “Because they’re what?”

  “Thin.” The two of them sat in silence until Heather went on. “I wanted to show them.”

  “Show them what?” Dr. Goldman leaned forward and her leather chair creaked softly.

  “That I knew something they didn’t. That someone like me could be friends with Nikki Jordan. That I was somebody.” She dropped her gaze.

  “So that’s why you’re beating up on yourself?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Heather met her therapist’s eyes. “And because I made things worse for Nikki. Now she’s mad at me.”

  “I see. How do you want to handle that?”

  “Handle it?” The question caught her off guard. It hadn’t occurred to Heather that she might handle much of anything about the situation. “Well.” She thought. “Nikki said I owe her for this.”