by Helga Zeiner
“What about my mom?” Tiara suddenly interrupted his thinking.
That’s when it hit him. Tiara hadn’t paid attention to anything he had said. All she could think of was the threat of having to go back to Texas—and that was entirely his fault. He had left her in a terrible state yesterday. The poor girl must have gone through hell, imagining that the authorities would send her back to the place of her ignominious childhood.
“Dr. Eaton was quite specific about the condition of your release. Taking your history into account, he didn’t find it appropriate to have you returned to your mother. I’m sure the judge will take his recommendation into account.”
“What’s the alternative?”
Yes, what? Until now he hadn’t wasted any thought on it. But now that Tiara had a motive for the attack, and that it could be considered spontaneous and not premeditated, she would most likely get out on probation.
“A foster home, maybe. You need to discuss this with your lawyer.”
Her worried expression changed to abhorrence.
“A strange family?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Why don’t we wait for the trial,” he said.
“When will that be?”
“It’s nearly Christmas now, the courts go into recess until mid January, after that it’ll take a few weeks before your case can be scheduled. Spring, maybe?”
Her face crumbled. “I have to stay in here, with the other girls, until then?”
God, that didn’t help. He didn’t know what to say.
So he said the first thing that came into his mind.
“I’ll visit you as often as I can and keep you informed of what’s going on out there. If you want me to.”
“If it makes you happy.”
Chapter 59
Birthday balloon bursting
I’m standing on my cell window, size two by two feet, and am looking out. Nothing to see but grey sky. It hasn’t changed much in the past three months. Vancouver in winter is either dark grey or light grey.
Today I would have liked the sun to shine, but no such luck. Today is what Macintosh calls the big day. True to his promise, he’s been coming to see me nearly every week, feeding me information and playing it cool. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, honestly, I do, but I can feel the effort it costs him to act cheerful and optimistic while doubts crawl underneath his skin like parasites. Like the mere thought of the upcoming trial is the mother insect that constantly places her disgusting eggs into his system. Yet on the outside, he pretends all is well.
I let him act. I have enough problems coping with the daily life in a confined space, surrounded by chatterboxes with an attitude. At least I got rid of purple. I’m now surrounded by the color red. After they dropped the manslaughter charges and changed them to aggravated assault, thanks to Macintosh’s insistence, and after Stanley verified that I posed no risk to my resident-inmates, I was moved to a different Living Unit. Red sweat suits instead of purple, I’m moving up in this world. The girls in red—there are five of them in here—are just as touchy, forever trying to draw me into their closeness, but if I want to keep my red status, I can’t just shove them away.
Macintosh has given me instructions on how to behave. So did Stanley, who still drops by occasionally. He has other cases to worry about now. The psychologist-in-residence keeps pestering me to work with him, but I hold my non-committal position. What is there to treat? I remember everything, and what I pretend not to remember, other people have figured out for themselves. They have filled in all the holes and are pleased with their efforts.
Stanley’s report has been revised, just like the police report. The Purple Shadow is no more, the sponsor is no more; both of them have morphed into one. It’s Inez Alvares, they tell me, and as I have never seen her face or heard her voice when she was my handler, I’m not asked to elaborate on this. And she’s dead, murdered by my aunt, so we can close the Purple Shadow chapter, which suits me just fine.
There are no secrets left—well, none except that one teeny, weeny all-important one I keep from Macintosh and from Stanley and from the rest of the world. That will stay with me, it’s nobody’s business but mine. The way things have shaped up, there’s a good chance it might stay undetected forever.
Today, I don’t have to clean my cell for inspection. When I’m gone, they will clear it out, disinfect it, I guess, and get it ready for a new arrival. Should things go wrong at the trial and they send me back to the Center—Macintosh told me that’s impossible, but his voice was raspy with dread when he said it—I will be allocated a new cell. But I might not come back. We both don’t know.
They usher me through the corridors, into the changing area, reverse arrival mode. Off with the sweat suit, on with the prison orange, the shackles and the cuffs. Into the prison truck in the loading zone, and finally, after five months in BSYC, I see the sky and the road and the trees all in one picture and not cut into neat iron-bar-squares.
I’m driven along roads I have never been on. Southern Burnaby wasn’t my area. It’s beautiful, not too many houses, not many cars. I can’t get enough of looking. Even when it changes into serious suburbia, one detached home next to another, with a towel wide space in between, more cars, more noise, people on the road side, and then high-rise buildings, and even more cars and buses and trucks and honking and screeching and blinking and bleeping. My ears hurt. But I still can’t stop looking. I’m a turtle, peeking out under a thick protective shell, ready to retract.
We arrive at the Court House, I’m unloaded like a parcel and deposited into a holding cell close to the courtroom, where a judge will preside and decide over my immediate future. I am to stay there until ten am when the circus begins.
It’s very uncomfortable. The chair is small and hard, and I realize for the first time that the furniture in BSYC was a lot more accommodating. Comfortable, even. As a whole, the Center wouldn’t be a bad place for a little while longer. Staff was always courteous, the food was eatable, the building was clean and modern, and there were hordes of volunteers offering different programs for us misguided adolescents. If it wouldn’t have been for my animosity of groups and group activities I might have quite enjoyed my stay there. At this precise moment, I wish I could go back. The idea of being the center of attention in a court room is close to a horror scenario. My mother will be there. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since a few weeks before the Starbucks incident, as Macintosh prefers to paraphrase it, and I have no desire to do so now.
The key turns in the door, my heart rate increases. They wouldn’t allow my mother a visit against my will?
It’s Macintosh.
“Hi there,” he says, overly exuberant, and grabs a chair.
“Big day, today, uh?”
As if we both hadn’t known for weeks.
“So, how’re you feeling?”
As if he wouldn’t know. But I do him the favor.
“Nervous. Confused. Scared.”
He nods furiously. “Yeah, yeah, I can imagine. Just came to wish you good luck. I mean, I’m sure you don’t need luck, it’ll all be fine. Judge Carr has a rep for being fair. It’s all good … you’ll do fine … just fine.”
“Stop being such a fuddy-duddy, you’re making me even more nervous.”
He coughs. “No need for nerves, I’m telling you, the judge—”
I just glare at him.
“Okay, okay, but one more thing. I just heard. In case you’re thinking your mom might be in there—”
I hold my breath.
“She won’t,” he says.
I exhale, slowly, carefully, so he won’t know the extent of my relief. But by now he knows me well enough to read my face.
“You’re glad about that? You are! Well, good for you. She decided to stay away and, to tell you the truth, that pisses me off quite a bit.”
Suddenly, a considerable weight is lifted off my lungs and my mind, and that makes me giggle.
“Don’t be mad on my account
. I just can’t face her yet; I’m just not ready, maybe never will be, and her staying away today is the first act of consideration and kindness I can remember in ages.”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” he says. “I only just heard, so I need to confirm this, but apparently she flew to Texas a week ago already. Louise told Harding yesterday, so this throws a new twist into the case.”
“How so?” I giggle again, realizing that I’m really fond of him.
“Harding told your mother last January or February about the money Louise stole. Apparently she was livid when she heard about it and went straight to your grandmother’s place. Louise confessed to Harding that she had only wanted to safe-keep the money, in case there was an emergency—”
“Oh yeah, I can imagine how Mom reacted to that. She, having to go to work, while Louise sits on a small fortune.”
“Right. Your mom made her hand over what was left. Louise said it was close to eighty thousand. And with that, according to your grandmother, she immediately checked herself into a clinic for a major overhaul, getting rid of some fat and skin and what have you before she flew to Phoenix last week. She must have gone to the airport still wrapped in bandages—again, according to your grandmother.”
Interesting. My mind is racing. So is his.
“It’s blood money, no question about that. She won’t enjoy whatever is left of it for long.” With that, he changes the subject, I guess he wants to spare me further thoughts of my mom living in blissful happiness ever after with money I and other pretty little princesses have earned for her.
“It’s nearly ten. Time to get you in there and out again on probation.”
For a few minutes he has let me forget what I dread most.
“Into foster care.”
“Maybe your grandmother?”
“I’d rather go back to prison.”
“I thought so,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “Maybe the judge will appoint a legal guardian. How would that sit with you?”
He looks so miserable when he suggests that, I have to laugh again. “I don’t care as long as they leave me alone. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but you are not even sixteen yet. There is no way they’ll let you out unsupervised.”
My heart sinks again, right down to my nervously twiddling toes.
The judge is a woman. Can you believe this? My luck, another woman will rule over me. It makes me very nervous to watch her, in her black robe, sitting high above us, a raven ready to sink her beak into my quivering flesh.
The morning goes by like a flash. I distance myself from the progression of my exposure by numbing my auditory reception to a point where only muffled sounds penetrate my ears, and thereby, to a large extent, lose their meaning. It just doesn’t seem right to listen to them talk about me, about the perils of my childhood, about the short-comings of my family. My court-appointed lawyer, who knows his shoelaces better than me, does a good job reading out different parts of various statements with the sole purpose of making the judge understand how harmless I am when I’m not confronted with a member of my family who has subjected me to sexual exploitation, has sedated me and auctioned me off to be raped by the highest bidder.
Stanley and Macintosh are asked on the witness stand to substantiate those claims. Judge Carr is scribbling down some notes when they speak.
However, just before noon, she stops writing and listening, looks directly at me and makes a surprise announcement.
“We needn’t waste any more time on this trial. I’ve heard enough, and I’ve seen enough. With the statements of the expert witnesses and the video clip I had to watch in my chambers this morning, I’m just about ready to rule.”
Macintosh and Stanley sit slightly behind me, nearly out of my vision, but I can feel them stiffening.
Judge Carr keeps looking at me.
“I don’t want to subject the accused to any further unnecessary and painful disclosures. I will not be part of exposing more intimate details of her horrendous childhood than absolutely necessary. As I said, I’ve heard and seen enough, but I’d like to ask you—” and with that she smiles at me, “if you are willing to answer a few of my questions. Do you mind?”
I do mind, but I don’t have a choice. So I nod.
“Then please step up to the witness box.”
I do. It’s a bench as hard as the chair this morning. My heart races while I’m asked if I would be willing to swear on the bible. I nod again, place my hand on the book and swear to tell the truth.
Judge Carr keeps smiling, keeps her voice soft, keeps talking slowly, as if I’m mentally challenged.
“Do you remember anything about the attack on your aunt?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember?”
“I walked into Starbucks to get a coffee. I saw her sitting in a corner. I remember it all in flashes. Walking closer, making sure this is really her. Realizing it is. Reaching for my knife. The next thing I remember is somebody on top of me, lots of noise, sirens, people touching me, holding me, me trying to get them off me. That’s it.”
“Where did you get the knife from you used for the attack?”
“I bought it when I planned to kill myself.”
“But you had given up on this plan?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you carry a knife on that day?”
“I always do, I mean, did. I always carried it on me.”
“Why. Did you ever feel the need to defend yourself?”
I look straight at her. “Every single day.”
Her smile fades. “And now?”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I understand my aunt Gracie is in custody and will be deported very soon. And my mom is gone too. I guess I don’t need to be afraid of my grandmother.”
With that she chuckles. “No, I guess not—which brings me to my final point. If I order you released on probation, would you be willing to live under the supervision of your grandmother—”
“No way.” I practically bark at her. It doesn’t matter if she gets mad at me. I glare at her to underline my deep resentment of this ludicrous idea. “I’d rather go back to prison. Send me back to the Center.”
She sighs deeply. “That’s what I was told. Calm down, I just needed to make sure. I have an application here for a legal guardian—”
“No foster home either!”
She frowns. “You are not to interrupt me, young lady. This is my court room, and you will keep your mouth shut and listen when I speak.”
“Sorry,” I mumble and think for a second she is suppressing a grin.
“If you accept this person as your legal guardian, your release can be arranged with immediate effect. Do you understand?”
“Can I reject that person?”
Now she does grin. “Yes, you have a right to do so. But I strongly advise against it as it will leave me with very few options. Don’t you want to know who it is? I understand he is present right now?”
My head spins around. Macintosh stands up.
“Yes, Your Honor. I am.”
I think I’ll faint. “But… he didn’t… tell me… what…”
“Detective Macintosh, I understand you’ll ask for early retirement if I grant you legal guardianship of the accused and release her on probation?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I have arranged for this already. My supervisors are informed and have granted me leave with immediate effect if I am to take care of Tiara Rodriguez.”
“And how do you plan to do this? The application states you’re a widower. It is, let’s say, a bit unusual to place a young victim of sexual abuse into the care of an elderly man.”
They talk above my head, which twists back and forth between the two of them.
“Your Honor, I’ve been serving on the police force for over thirty years, with an impeccable record. I can supply you with letters of recommendation from the Chief of Police himself and believe to be above a
ny suspicion. In preparation for my retirement, I have bought a home in the country, up north. It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms. My wife died five years ago. The house is big enough for the two of us and would give Tiara plenty of privacy. The town close by has an excellent psychologist for ongoing supervision as recommended by Dr. Eaton. Tiara is nearly sixteen. Through no fault of her own, she has problems adjusting to a crowded environment. I believe a secure and quiet country home, as I can offer, would help her heal at her own pace. It would be a tragedy if she’s placed in a foster home, and she shouldn’t be sent to any half-way house. She knows me well by now, I’ve been visiting her regularly at the Burnaby Youth Secure Center. I think I’ve gained her trust. Furthermore, I trust her, I respect her and I like her.”
Judge Carr raises her eyebrows at me.
“What do you say, young lady?”
I break out in a smile.
“I take him.”
Chapter 60
Birthday 16
The small problem of where I would be living until Macintosh had sorted out the paperwork for his retirement, the legal guardianship, the arrangements for my ongoing psychological treatment and God knows what other hoop-jumping bureaucracy demanded of him, was solved very elegantly. The rent on Mom’s flat had been paid until the end of April, and after I agreed that I wouldn’t leave the flat unsupervised, they’ve let me move in there for the remaining weeks. She wouldn’t come back, I knew that with absolute certainty, yet I still asked Macintosh to put another security lock on the door.
I spent my time sorting through her stuff, deciding what to give to charity and what to dump. Very little of it was mine, and of that even less was worth keeping. I didn’t want a keepsake. Louise called a few times offering to help, and I let her drive by and pick up the stuff I had put in front of the apartment door. I didn’t let her in.
First of May, Macintosh picks me up. We hand the keys to the landlord, I grab my rucksack, he takes the suitcase with the rest of my clothes, and off we go.