“Sometimes, Scott would be there.”
My breathing grew shallow. My gut constricted, growing taut in anticipation of a blow.
“We would talk. He and Anna…do you remember her? She was the girlfriend we met. Well, anyway, they broke up a while ago.”
I wanted to yell out how very much I couldn’t give a fucking, flying rat’s ass about that. Instead I held my tongue, staring at the woman sitting across from me, watching my wife slowly disappear and someone unfamiliar take her place.
“He could see how much I was getting out of spending time with Delores. He told me I could drop by anytime.”
I’m sure he did.
“You can figure out the rest.”
Oh, no you don’t. I wasn’t about to let her get off so easily, sloughing off the dirty details as if they meant nothing. I was broiling in hell and wanted her in the fire with me. “Tell me.”
The lawyer in her rose to the surface. She faced me dead on and unequivocally stated, “We slept together.”
The torture I would eventually suffer at the hands of Hun was nothing compared to this.
“I don’t even know why I did it,” she said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t feel anything. He didn’t give me anything I was looking for, or needed. But I just kept doing it.”
The knife plunged deeper.
“Last night, he left the bed to go to the bathroom…”
I could see it in my head. A moment so simple, a moment any couple can relate to. Having just made love, the man gets up, naked, pads his way to the bathroom…Stop it! Self-flagellation had never been my style.
Jenn kept on. “My hand happened to move into the crack between the headboard and the mattress. That’s when I found it. I thought I was going crazy, seeing something that wasn’t really there because I was so desperate to see or touch anything that belonged to her.
“I’d dreamt about those barrettes so many times since we lost her, and now I had one in my hand. Once I knew it was real, I couldn’t believe it. I was so confused. I turned it over and over, I saw her initials…and that was it…I didn’t think about it anymore. I knew…I knew how it got there. I knew what must have happened in that bed. I made up my mind and I did what I had to do, Jaspar.”
“What did you do?”
“I found a pair of scissors in the bedside table.” Her eyes were growing unfocused as she recalled the sequence of events. “I walked to the bathroom. He was washing up. He must have heard me behind him. I caught his eye in the mirror. I could see him smile at me. I stabbed him in the back. Then again and again and again.”
Jenn had recited her actions in an even, emotionless tone. Despite what was happening to us, I still knew my wife. Or thought I did. She was keeping her outside calm, to get through what she needed to get through—but inside, her guts were being ripped into bloody shreds.
A merciless part of me was glad.
“At first he was stunned, of course,” she kept on. “Then he tried to stop me. He kept yelling: ‘What’s wrong with you? Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ The sound of his voice, pleading like he didn’t deserve to die for what he’d done, just made me angrier. I screamed at him. I wanted him to admit what he’d done to Mikki. I wanted him to tell me where she is. He acted like he had no idea what I was talking about.”
She hesitated, chewed her bottom lip, and then said, “I remember arms flailing. His. Mine. And blood. Everywhere. Mostly his. I kept hacking at him. The tap was still running and the sink was overflowing. He staggered. Fell against the wall. Slid down. Towards the floor. Into the pink water.”
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Then more screams. But they weren’t mine. Or his.”
What? “Who…?”
“Delores. In all the panic and craziness, I totally forgot she was in the house. I lowered the scissors. Scott was quiet now. So was I. But, oh Christ, Jaspar, she never stopped. I can still hear her. ‘Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!’”
Chapter 24
Aside from our parents, who can we indisputably claim has changed our life? Parents do it by first giving us life, and then molding and influencing it through lessons taught and examples set. They provide the basics: food, shelter, protection from harm. They lead us to spirituality, or away from it. They educate us. Teach us who to respect, who to fear, who to emulate, who to love, who to hate. They teach kindness, rudeness, empathy, carelessness. Then they send us on our way, setting us free to explore and open ourselves up to new influences.
When first breaching adulthood, we tend to resist the impact of others, more interested in self-discovery and being our own person. The smartest of us strike a balance between learning from others and finding ourselves. We stand on our own two feet, but know the graciousness and courage of seeking and accepting help when it’s needed.
Throughout life, friends, spouses, teachers, mentors, employers, even children, affect our lives, affect decisions, turn a moral compass—sometimes profoundly. Occasionally, when these influencers present themselves, we ignore them, or actively push them away. From fear, uncertainty, cowardice. Sometimes, opportunities arise in places so foreign, situations so unfamiliar, from sources so unlikely, for reasons so obscure, that we risk missing them all together.
Asmae’s presence in my rectangle grew with each passing day, although not in a physical way. She rarely stayed longer than a few minutes, if at all. Days would sometimes pass without my seeing her face.
In the beginning, I suspect she feared for my life and kind-heartedly took it upon herself to heal me, should I be healable.
Within three weeks of her first visit, I was returning to the man I’d once been. Not the pre-Mikki man, but certainly the pre-Morocco man. Although still thin and unable to eat more than a pittance, I was once again beginning to experience a desire for food, and hunger when it didn’t appear when I expected it to. Bouts of fever and stomach ailments and blinding headaches troubled me less and less often. My mind grew clearer. I was able to focus on my surroundings and my situation, as meager and hopeless as they were.
Asmae did not come to this unexpected arrangement as someone experienced in caring for a prisoner. But she was watchful and thoughtful and must have spent significant amounts of time considering my needs, although I asked for nothing. Every so often, along with my meal, something more would appear with the tray of food. Towels for cleaning myself. A hairbrush. Nail clippers. A mirror. A clean shirt. A collection of small ceramic bottles containing oils and lotions. If I left one untouched, Asmae knew it was because I was uncertain about its use. The very next day she would find a way to instruct me. A lock of her own hair, tied with a silk ribbon and laid next to one vessel, told me it held shampoo. A slight impression of her hand left in the dirt floor next to another told me that the contents were meant as a lotion for my hands and body. The most cherished of my new possessions were a shabby notebook, a nub of pencil, and a small blade with which to sharpen it.
Of the many things my body and mind ached for, the ability to express myself in writing was near the top of the list. It was something I’d done nearly all my life. Not unlike eating and breathing, without it I would eventually perish.
The day I received the magnificent gift of pencil and paper was a day of rebirth. I finally had a purpose. I could finally tell my story. Silent and hiding in the deepest coves of my mind was a faint hope—a wish, a dream, a nugget of optimism—that one day my daughter would read my words. She’d know I had lived her pain, shared her loneliness, understood the feelings of betrayal and abandonment, and knew how the fear of death could turn into unspeakable attraction. I was coming to believe that in my struggles to persevere—and by way of an inexplicable, mystical connection between a guilt-ridden, self-loathing, piteous father and his lost daughter—I would somehow reach her, touch her, pull her along with me...so that someday, somehow, we might be reunited. And she would forgive me.
By night, I still lay atop my stone pedestal, my version of Mikki nestled next to me. But in all other way
s, my days in the rectangle had changed. Mornings, and early evenings after the sun fell below the berm of my enclosure, were set aside for my new cleaning rituals. Now, with a dented tin basin, argan soaps and body lotions, a toothbrush and comb, and a collection of rags—little more than scraps of old clothing—I was able to maintain a reasonable grooming regime. After breakfast, I would retreat to the shade of the lean-to. But instead of falling into my usual somnambulistic state, I used the time to write in my new notebook, words interspersed with rudimentary sketches of the things I’d written about, or things I’d seen or dreamed of since being held captive.
After lunch, the temperature would soar. Even in the lean-to, it was too hot for any activity other than sipping water from the cracked jug Asmae had brought me. During these hours I did a lot of thinking. I thought about Mikki—wondering where she might be at that very moment, wondering if hers was a similar environment to mine. I thought about the stories I would tell her that night—some of them newly made up, perhaps taken from the notes I’d written that morning or to be written the following day. I thought about food. I thought about Asmae. I thought a lot about Asmae.
Who was she? Who was this woman who’d suddenly appeared in my life, and saved it? Was she a wife? A daughter? A mother? Did the Huns know what she was doing? Had they left me here to die—but she, having discovered me, covertly decided to do what needed to be done to keep me alive? Was that why all the gifts she brought me were used or slightly damaged? Was she bringing me things that others had thrown out, and therefore would never notice missing?
I made a guessing game of predicting Asmae’s daily routine, if there was such a thing. On the days I forecast a visit, I would wait by the door of the rectangle in anticipation of her arrival. The worst were the days when the door would inch open, but instead of Asmae only a platter of food would arrive.
I was tortured by the question of why she came inside the rectangle on some days but not others. Were some days more dangerous, the risk of discovery too great?
I missed Asmae when she didn’t visit. I missed her smell, how her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, how unintelligible words—strange coming from anyone else’s mouth—spilled forth from hers sounding like a summer day’s sonnet. I attempted to sketch her once, so I’d have something to look at on the days when she didn’t come to me. I quickly learned that drawing the human face is one of the most difficult things to do, the results of my efforts childish and cartoonish.
Each day when the sun disappeared from sight, and prior to my evening grooming and the arrival of supper, I would exercise. Now that I was being fed regularly and my health was slowly returning, I decided a light daily workout would benefit me. In my previous life I’d been a staunch believer in “strong body, strong mind.” If I was going to get through this—if I was going to do what needed to be done—I’d need both.
Like Asmae, I had assessed the situation and identified what needed to be done. For her, whatever the risk, whatever the danger, she’d found a way to save my life. I, on the other hand, whatever the risk, whatever the danger, would have to find a way to end hers.
Chapter 25
Day after day, side by side, we sat in that courtroom in silence, witnessing the judicial system do its best to bring Scott Walker to justice. Each night we returned to our quiet, dark house, prepared a simple meal, sat on the sofa in silence, and watched the talking heads on TV spout their opinions on the day’s proceedings. We found that sitting side by side, wherever we were—at home, in the courtroom, in the back of a cab—was the best positioning for us. It provided the illusion of intimacy without ever having to actually look at each other. To face each other, or have any sort of discussion beyond a word or two, was simply too difficult. Too many realities threatened to attack our well-being, our relationship, our sanity—each already dangerously precarious—and derail our ability to get up the next day and do it all over again.
The facts, sensationalized by the media, went like this: our neighbor, Scott Walker, had kidnapped Mikki. Walker, described by everyone who knew him as friendly and nonviolent—as many psychopaths are—was also being accused, by his own similarly-aged daughter, of abuse. My wife, unaware of any of this, had committed adultery with Walker. As for Mikki, she was most likely dead. Her body would be discovered one day: a Jane Doe skeleton in an unmarked grave.
Our lawyers were assiduously attempting to convince a hastily convened jury to conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that Scott Walker had done all of these heinous things: kidnap, abuse, adultery, murder. All we could do was sit back and watch. In silence. Side by side.
We were surprised when Anna Martens, Walker’s former girlfriend, was called to the stand as a witness for the defense.
“Good morning,” the lawyer began. “My name is Allen Krenshaw. For the court, would you please state your full name and occupation?”
“Dr. Anna Martens. I’m a surgical resident at Boston Children’s Hospital.”
“Dr. Martens, do you recognize the defendant?”
“Yes. Scott Walker.”
“What is your relationship with Mr. Walker?”
“Now? None. We have no relationship other than as acquaintances. But we did have a relationship in the past. For just under three years.”
“A sexual relationship?”
She raised an eyebrow at the description. “A romantic relationship. And yes, our romantic relationship included a sexual component.”
“Very good. Thank you.” He cleared his throat, then: “During the course of your romantic relationship with Mr. Walker, did you have opportunity to become acquainted with his daughter, Delores?”
“Of course. Because of where I worked, where he lived, and the demands of my career, Scott and I never chose to live together. But I spent a great deal of time at his home. As a single father, he was the sole caregiver for Delores, which meant she was often included in our time together. I cared…care…a great deal for her.”
“Last year your relationship with Mr. Walker came to an end?”
“That’s correct. It was a mutually agreed upon, natural end.”
“I see. What age was Delores Walker at that time?”
“She’d just turned twelve.”
“Objection, your Honor,” our side spoke up. “I’ve held my tongue longer than I should have. Mr. Walker’s daughter and her relationship with her father’s former lover is neither relevant nor of interest to these proceedings.”
“Your Honor, I must strongly disagree with Ms. Cope,” Krenshaw shot back. “It was the prosecution who first brought up the allegations, by Delores Walker, of ritual abuse. Allegations which, I must remind the jury, have not been proven in any court of law. Certainly we have the right to explore and present witnesses to refute these claims. Ms. Martens had an intimate relationship with both Scott Walker and his daughter throughout the period in question. As such, she is singularly—”
“Yes, yes, yes, I get your point,” the judge interjected. “Overruled. You may continue, Mr. Krenshaw. But I’m only giving you an inch, so don’t take a mile, or I might change my mind.”
I knew what was at stake here. Jenn claimed that when Delores walked in on the horrific scene of her slashing away at Scott Walker, instead of begging her to stop, she’d pleaded for her to kill him. Later, Delores professed to police that her father repeatedly abused her—not sexually, but by regularly losing his temper, at one point slapping her across the face. According to our lawyers, the jury had the right to know about this and Delores was put on the stand. The jurors were then expertly led to conclude that it wasn’t a big leap from physically hurting your daughter to rationalizing the abduction of someone else’s, so that you could do to another young girl what you wanted, deep down, to do to your own child. The jury needed to believe that Scott Walker was a very sick and twisted individual.
Cool and collected, Krenshaw turned his back on Cope and refocused on Anna. “You stated that Delores was twelve at the time your relationship with her
father ended, is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Did your relationship with the defendant end on good terms?”
Anna’s smile was lopsided as she shot a glance in Walker’s direction. Even from where I sat, I could tell that, although they were no longer a couple, there was little if any malice between them. “I wouldn’t say that,” she responded. “As I said, it was mutual. But that doesn’t mean it was easy. With time we got over it.”
Anna was an excellent witness. She was logical, likeable, relatable. I could see the jury empathizing with her. On the other hand, I could see our team getting antsy. They’d opened the door, and now there was little they could do but sit on their hands and hope they wouldn’t regret it.
“How would you describe Mr. Walker’s parenting skills?”
Anna Martens answered, “I think it’s important to know that Scott was not the kind of guy who ever pictured himself raising a child alone, never mind a soon-to-be teenage girl. The unexpected death of his wife foisted him into that position. They’d just moved to a new city. There were no grandparents or siblings, and few friends in a position to help. Scott had to figure it out by himself. By the time I came around, he’d done it. From what I saw, although he was strict and maybe at times a little inflexible, he was doing a good job. I witnessed him being affectionate with his daughter, protective, and,” she looked at the jury with a small smile, “as probably any parent can relate to, I suspected he was in a constant, low-grade state of terror as to what was coming next.”
More than a couple of the jurors smiled knowingly.
“So you would say Scott Walker was a good parent?”
“Yes.”
“During your three-year experience as part of the Walker family, Dr. Martens, did you witness any instances of abuse similar in nature to what was earlier described to this court by Delores Walker?”
Set Free Page 9