by Sydney Bauer
‘No,’ he argued. ‘I knew the person. I knew her soul.’
‘You saw what she wanted you to see. The research on people like Stephanie is really quite comprehensive. These sociopaths are masters at creating personas to hide the extent of their narcissistic obsession with dominance.
‘Until recently I too knew nothing of what was really going on behind the doors of that meticulously kept mansion in Beacon Hill. Jeffrey went to great pains to keep their “situation” quiet. It was only a month or so ago that he finally broke down and told me the extent of what he and his children had had to endure. He was at the end of his tether, you see, and had finally decided to ask her for a divorce.’
‘I’m sorry, Katherine,’ said Sara. ‘But if Stephanie was as terrible as you claim, why didn’t the doctor get out sooner? Why would he leave his two kids in a household where they were subject to such vehement maltreatment?’
‘Because he knew if he spoke out no one would believe him, because he was trapped by his valued reputation as a man who championed a stance of zero tolerance against all forms of physical and emotional abuse, because he was ashamed of how far he had let things go – and, most importantly, because he was terrified of how Stephanie might react if he finally got the courage to fight.’
‘So he let his children live in a home you describe as a virtual prison?’ David was not convinced.
‘He was concerned she would go for custody – and given his demanding job and Stephanie’s “on paper” reputation as a dedicated stay-at-home mom, he knew she had every chance of winning.’
‘But we’re not talking about toddlers here, Katherine,’ Sara pushed on. ‘Chelsea and J.T. are teenagers and surely, if they took their father’s side, if they told the authorities of this alleged cruelty . . .’
‘Not everybody has the white picket fence upbringing I am sure your parents afforded you, Sara. As Jeffrey explained, those living in the company of a skilled emotional abuser are so diminished they simply cannot see a way out.’
‘Well, if you are right,’ said David, ‘J.T. gave it a pretty good shot.’ And the irony of his words lay heavy in the silence that followed.
‘All right,’ said de Castro, rising from her chair to move towards the kitchen and take a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and an opener from a stainless steel drawer. She progressed to the cupboard to retrieve three crystal glasses before returning to her sofa and extracting the cork.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, pouring her own glass first before filling the other two without bothering to ask if they wanted any. ‘But it’s getting late, and I’m tired, and the stories I have to tell are far from pleasant. I understand you need proof – and so I shall provide it. But as I explained earlier, I am not one to undertake anything without a favourable quid pro quo.’
‘What is it you want, Katherine?’ asked David at last.
‘I want you to promise that when J.T. is arrested, you and Sara will agree to represent him.’
‘And is this request also coming from Jeffrey?’ asked David, tiring of this little game of Chinese whispers.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘This is my little addition to the contract. The boy needs your help and I am hoping you will agree to provide it.’
‘It’s not that easy, Katherine. For starters we don’t work in the juvenile court system – and secondly . . .’
‘Well, I want you to agree to assisting his juvenile specialist attorneys – to help this boy who has never known anything bar humiliation and shame and fear.’
David shook his head, before looking to Sara who raised her eyebrows ever so slightly in an expression that said, ‘Perhaps we should at least hear what this woman has to say.’
‘All right, Katherine,’ said David at last. ‘We will listen, but I can promise you that from where I stand, the chances of your convincing me Stephanie was the monster you describe are somewhere between zero and zilch.’
‘Then I apologise in advance,’ de Castro began, pausing to take a long slow drink of her wine, ‘for destroying your view of a friend you once obviously cherished.’
De Castro began with the gun. She started slowly, proffering questions as she went. Asking why the wife of a celebrated pacifist – a man who was an outspoken advocate for tighter gun laws – would have given her husband a high-powered big game rifle for his birthday. She explained that Doctor Jeff’s hobbies were limited to golfing and jogging – and that his show was sponsored by Hallmark, one of the most outspoken anti-gun companies in the country.
‘It all started with the handbag,’ she said. ‘Jeffrey told me Stephanie wanted one for her birthday. And not just any tote, she requested a Devi Kroell alligator clutch made from alligators with scales of similar sizes – a rarity, I believe, which I suppose, given Stephanie’s covetous nature, made it all that more appealing.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, taking another sip of her wine, ‘Jeffrey did his best to locate one, but as his wife’s birthday approached, he ran out of time to organise it. He failed to put her name on the waiting list which was, apparently, several hundred strong. You have to remember these bags, which cost a cool thirty thousand each, are made from rare Asian reptiles and do not grow on trees.’
Sara nodded.
‘So,’ she continued, ‘knowing he could not “deliver”, Jeffrey got the next best thing. He bought her a forty thousand dollar Nancy Gonzalez Porousus bag made from uncommon ring lizard skin. He presented it to her at a party – a big one attended by all her friends – and when she opened it, and studied it, the slightest furrow formed in her brow, before she adjusted her expression to one more appropriate to her surroundings, and offered her husband a grateful and passionate kiss.’
‘She liked the alternative?’ asked Sara.
‘God, no,’ said de Castro. ‘Jeffrey told me she hated it. It was not what she had asked for, but she knew better than to let loose in front of an audience. And so she waited – an entire six months – before she returned the favour by giving him a two-foot weapon powerful enough to kill a Goddamned rhinoceros.
‘She presented it to him while he was at dinner with the family. Determined to show the kids what an unsatisfactory partner their father had turned out to be.’
‘Her apparent point being . . . ?’ asked a still disbelieving David.
‘That Jeffrey had failed her,’ said de Castro. ‘She served dinner and gave him the gun and then turned to him to say something along the lines of: “Next time I ask for an alligator skin purse, you can go and shoot the fucker yourself”.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said David. ‘You don’t expect us to believe . . .’
‘. . . and she said this while pointing the rifle directly at her thirteen-year-old son’s forehead.’
David was floored. He simply did not know what to say.
‘Katherine,’ said Sara then. ‘How do you know this? I mean, maybe Doctor Logan was . . .’
‘Because I saw the whole thing on video,’ interrupted de Castro. ‘Jeffrey had taken to recording her, you see – for evidence in the divorce proceedings, so that he might win custody after all.’
David sat there, still in shock, the icy chill in his spine now spreading upwards towards his chest. He could not believe what she was saying. This was just not the Stephanie he knew.
‘Do you have a copy of this video?’ he asked.
‘No, but Jeffrey has one – locked away somewhere safe.’
‘And are there other videos – other pieces of similar evidence which show Stephanie to be the woman her husband described?’
‘I think so,’ she offered. ‘Although I am not sure what form they take. I know that Jeffrey only just started collecting such evidence. I know he only asked for the divorce a little less than a week ago.’
‘Then why the hell didn’t he give this tape to the police?’ asked David. ‘Why is he playing martyr when he could present such evidence and show his son killed out of desperation?’
‘I suppose he was thinking on his f
eet,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps he sensed J.T. could not weather the storm of a public arrest. Perhaps he believed his “accident” theory might be enough to protect his two children from the media circus the truth would inevitably create. Jeffrey may be ambitious, he may have worked damned hard to get where he is, but there is no way he would manipulate his son’s act of vengeance to score a few extra ratings points.’
‘So that video you speak of isn’t being held for some big exclusive exposé on national TV.’ David was thinking ahead, his mind jumping to and from every scenario he could think of to explain what Katherine de Castro was describing.
‘Absolutely not – in fact, if Jeffrey has his way, it will never see the light of day.’
‘I’m sorry, Katherine. I am still finding it hard to believe that . . .’
‘That what?’ interrupted an obviously frustrated de Castro. ‘That the recording exists or that Jeffrey has no plans for using it?’
David realised he was stuck – for if he did not believe in one he could not argue against the other.
‘Both,’ he said at last.
‘Then perhaps you will just have to see it for yourself.’
14
Las Vegas, Nevada
Deirdre McCall lengthened her torso, lowered her arms and turned her feet out as she stopped to survey the wide-eyed students before her. She was tired, stiff, her neck protesting at such a long Saturday’s work, but she did not show it – no, she stood tall and graceful, her slim body defying the spread of ‘late middle age’, her legs still toned, her skin supple, despite what life had dealt her and the heavy price she’d paid for refusing to ever let go.
She closed her eyes, slowly, deliberately, and imagined a different group before her – Roxy on her right and Gigi on her left, Marilyn diagonally in front and Cindy far stage left. They were doing the stardust number – the one with the pink flamingo headdresses, the crystal knickers and the long cords of fake diamonds wrapped around their bodies just so. And their smooth skin shimmered with every move, their pert breasts barely flinching as they kicked and spun and glided across the stage in heels so high they seemed to defy gravity. And she counted off the steps – one, two, three – and relished in the memory of the show-stopping finale and the inevitable deafening applause.
‘Miss Deirdre.’
She heard the words, but refused, at least for this moment, to recognise their owner as she willed the memory to its wonderful conclusion. And she saw his face then at the back of the crowded room – the tall, skinny ‘unlikely’ one who had caught her eye and, despite all the advances, all the offers and proposals from movie stars and business tycoons and other men of means, had stolen her heart with the genuineness of his smile. And they were happy, and life was good, until their twosome became a three-some and their whole pretty picture got shot to Goddamned . . .
‘Miss Deirdre!’ called Susie Bonkowski – the blue-eyed, buck-teethed brunette in the second row. ‘Are we almost done? It’s after four and our moms are waiting.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ recovered McCall, smiling at the attentive seven-year-olds before her while wondering which ones would make it, which ones would not, and which ones would think they had, only to find out that life had pulled a swift one on them after all.
‘You may go,’ she said as she curtseyed to her class. ‘Good afternoon, children.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Deirdre, and thank you, Miss Deirdre,’ they replied – a singsongy response in appreciation.
And then the pitter-patter of their ballet slipper-shod feet, the music of their after-class laughter, the cumulative whoosh of their quick excited breaths filled the room only to dissipate quickly, painfully, as they opened the door and the outside world sucked them from her once again.
She grabbed her wrap and changed her shoes and bolted the double hall doors behind her, deciding to walk the fifteen blocks home rather than wait for the bus – stretching her journey from a pathetic twenty minutes to a decent, time-consuming forty-three.
After she opened the door to her second-storey apartment, she did what she always did when she came home for the night. She moved straight through the entryway and into the living area towards the treated pine coffee table where she picked up the remote and filled the room with noise before the loneliness of the present and the memories of the past took their shot at embracing her with all the cold determination they could muster.
And she left the TV on as she took her shower and defrosted her dinner and settled in for the long dark hours of nothingness. She watched the dramas and the late night news, taking a bizarre form of comfort in knowing there were other lonely souls, other unwitting victims of life out there suffering, just like her.
And then she saw it. The headline story. And it all came back to her – just like that. There had been a murder – in a fancy brownstone, in a fancy suburb, in a fancy city some thousands of miles away. The TV celebrity was being taken away in handcuffs, his murdered wife removed like a clump of meat under a bright blue tarpaulin, the kids sheltered by some good-looking friend, the Barbie Doll District Attorney facing the cameras with some all-important information to divulge.
Deirdre tried to concentrate – to listen, carefully, and take it all in – which was hard considering her brain was not exactly firing on all cylinders.
‘Accident’, the serious-looking reporter kept saying – and then she heard other words like ‘rifle’ and ‘famous’ and ‘tragedy’ and ‘children’ and ‘shock revelation’ and other similar phrases.
Despite the fact that her hearing was not at its optimum, and regardless of the fact that close to a quarter of her brain had been removed almost eighteen years ago after the accident that took her husband’s life, and notwithstanding the fact that she was on her fourth glass of chardonnay, Deirdre McCall knew, then and there, that the twenty-nine inch scene before her, distanced by geography and economy and every other thing to do with her lower middle-class life, was not so disconnected after all.
‘Dear God,’ she said, not noticing that her empty plastic glass had slipped from her sofa and made its way silently to the floor.
‘He’s doing it again,’ she whispered, nodding her head in inevitability. ‘He’s doing it all over again.’
15
When Chelsea Logan was seven, her father gave her an ink blot test. It was one of those standard things you saw on TV – dark blobs on white cardboard, negatives of things only you were supposed to define. She found it uncomfortable, distressing even, as she had no idea which answer was correct. She rattled off her feigned perceptions one after the other, at a speed that was bordering on ridiculous – a house, a sailing boat, two people playing tennis, a bicycle, a palm tree, when in reality all she saw in the blots was ghost after ghost after ghost.
And that is how she felt right now, as if her brain was firing images at her, defying her to make sense of them – to work this out! They were like determined shadows whispering in her ear, taunting her with the knowledge that failing was not an option, that as of two nights ago, she was her brother’s only protector, and if she failed to ‘perform’, the truth would be redefined and their desperate little ‘plan’ would take a catastrophic turn for the worst.
‘Do you think he got the letter?’ asked a soft-voiced J.T., who had spent a second night on the floor next to her bed.
‘Not yet. It’s Sunday,’ she replied, staring at the ceiling. ‘He’ll get it tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think he’ll get it when he gets it.’
‘Even if he does,’ said Chelsea, knowing she should in the very least be trying to stay upbeat for the sake of her little brother, but not sure as to how this could be done, ‘I am worried that . . . well . . . considering what Katherine plans to show him, we have to be prepared for the possibility that it won’t make any difference.’
Chelsea had heard the entire conversation held in Katherine de Castro’s living room the afternoon before. She had been perched on the bottom of the staircase, listening
to the lawyers listening to Katherine as she repeated the story Chelsea’s father had told his business partner mere weeks before.
They had met David and Sara who were nothing but kind and understanding, which made Chelsea think that perhaps she should consider straying from the plan after all and trust them enough to . . .
‘David Cavanaugh was meant to be on our side,’ interrupted J.T., as if reading her mind.
‘And maybe he still is,’ said Chelsea. ‘If everything else fails, J.T., we may have to contemplate . . . telling him the truth,’ she said, needing to broach the possibility.
‘No,’ he reacted without hesitation. ‘Maybe before, but now he is working for father, and you know that no matter what we say, Father has a way of . . .’
‘I know,’ she said, angry at herself for being a leader with no idea how to lead.
‘We are losing control,’ said J.T. after a time.
Chelsea did not argue because she knew it was true. They were losing – or had already lost – any semblance of control over a situation they naively assumed they could manage. And now she realised just how foolish they had been for thinking they had the power to alter the universe they had existed in since birth.
‘Don’t worry, J.T.,’ she said, wanting desperately to offer him some words of comfort. ‘We haven’t lived like we have for all these years without learning a thing or two.’
‘But I won’t be around to help you,’ he replied – and she knew that he knew that she knew.
After a long pause she spoke. ‘Then you must trust me to finish what we started.’ She draped her hand over the edge of her bed so that her brother might grasp it from below. ‘I won’t let her down, J.T., I promise. No matter what, one way or another, I will find a way to see this through.’
It was Sunday and it was late, and Sara and David were tired. They had met with Arthur and filled him in, and after several long hours of working on tomorrow’s arraignment, David had taken a call from Katherine de Castro who explained that the video was in a safety deposit box that she could not access on the weekend. And so with nothing more to do until tomorrow – and after realising they were going home to an apartment low on food and, more importantly from Sara’s perspective, strong Arabica coffee, they decided to do a grocery shop before heading back for a quiet night in.