Edward and Mary both looked over at a piece of metal no larger than an electrical plate, but with a grate.
Cassandra continued, “This is where the team meets, and we liaise with the D.A., the SVU detective, and DHS, if applicable, for children in foster care.”
“And what happens here?” Mary said, wanting to know more.
“This is where, for example, a district attorney will watch the testimony and decide whether to bring charges and which charges to bring.” Cassandra returned her attention to Edward. “But let’s go back to your question about why the forensic interview is necessary. In addition to there being a different physical setup than a police interview, I am a trained forensic investigator, specializing in child abuse cases. I have a master’s degree and I’ve been doing this for almost eight years now. I know how to establish a rapport with children in Patrick’s position. As a result, I am going to be able to get more information out of Patrick, and the details in an abuse case can make the difference between an acquittal and a conviction.”
“Good,” Mary said, brightening. “Because during the police interview, Patrick recounted a second incidence of abuse by the teacher’s aide—”
“Please, stop.” Cassandra held up her palm. “I know you’re trying to be helpful, but let me explain something to you, about getting testimony from children in abuse cases. May I?”
“Please, do,” Mary answered.
“Briefly put, PCA is what is also called a CAC, or children’s advocacy center. The concept was started decades ago by a lawyer in Huntsville, Alabama, who represented children in sexual abuse cases. He found that he was losing cases because clever defense lawyers could pick apart the inconsistencies in the child’s story.” Cassandra’s brown eyes flashed with a passion for her subject. “Research has shown that children, when they are asked the same question repeatedly, will automatically begin to change the answer in some ways. Small ways. They somehow get the idea that they are not pleasing the adult and they are not giving the right answer, so they begin to change the answer.”
“Okay,” Mary said, following along.
“In addition, the more people who interview a child, the more likely it is that the child’s testimony will become tainted or contaminated. Words the child didn’t know before get introduced, and suddenly the interviewer begins to influence the story that the child is telling, even if the story starts out being true.”
“I can see that,” Mary said glancing over at Edward, who remained quiet while Cassandra continued.
“The purpose of a children’s advocacy center like PCA is to preserve the integrity of the child’s testimony. We limit the number of times a child is interviewed to this one time, and the police have been trained not to elicit detailed information during their interview or to contaminate any testimony that comes in. They are simply supposed to get the facts enough to begin the investigation, then refer the child to us. Isn’t that what happened for you folks, today?”
“Yes,” Mary answered for them both.
“Okay.” Cassandra’s expression softened. “Sorry about the lecture, but I wanted you both to understand our process, and Mary, I wanted you to understand why I don’t want to hear any facts you heard during the police investigation. In other words, I don’t want you to taint me.”
“Sorry,” Mary said, kicking herself. “This is all new to me. I’ve handled special-education cases, but never a child abuse case.”
“They’re related, and sometimes they go hand-in-hand, but welcome to my world.” Cassandra smiled, grimly. “We served almost three thousand five hundred children at this center last year, most of them abused sexually, but some physical abuse only. About 225 of those children were from this very zip code, which was the highest number of anywhere in the city.”
Edward recoiled.
Mary blinked.
Cassandra walked to the door. “We know what we’re doing. If Patrick was abused, we’ll find out how, when, and by whom. We’ll get the evidence the D.A. needs to charge the offender. We’ll refer Patrick to therapy. Most children who suffer from abuse exhibit symptoms of PTSD and they need treatment to heal.” Cassandra put her hand on the doorknob. “So now, if you have no further questions, please return to the waiting room and wait there. I’ll call you when Patrick and I are finished.”
Edward’s mouth dropped open. “Hold on a minute. You mean we’re not going to be in the room with him, when you talk to him, or interview him, or whatever?”
Mary didn’t get it, either. “Wait, what? I understand why we’re not allowed in the interview room, but I thought that we would be sitting here in the consultation room, so we can watch and listen to the interview.”
“No, neither is going to happen. That’s not how it works.” Cassandra shook her head, her hand on the doorknob. “You both wait in the waiting room. You don’t get to listen to the interview or watch it.”
“That’s not right.” Edward shook his head. “I’m family, his only family.”
“And I’m his lawyer,” Mary added, confused. It went against all of her instincts to allow a client to go unrepresented in any proceeding with legal ramifications. “It’s weird enough that I’m not sitting at his side, but there’s no reason I can’t just stay in this room and watch. He won’t know.”
Cassandra shook her head again. “That’s not the law. If you need the legal cite, I’ll go find it. The law furthers our goal to preserve the integrity of Patrick’s testimony and find out the truth. If he is aware that either of you are watching him from this room, he may try to please you. He may leave out parts of the story or fabricate other parts, in order to make you happy.” Cassandra looked from Mary to Edward. “So I hope you understand and I have to ask you both to wait in the waiting room. The forensic interview may take an hour or longer. If you leave to get coffee or something to eat, then let the receptionist know.”
Edward scoffed. “This is ridiculous! There’s no reason in the world why I can’t be with my grandson, or at least stay here and listen to what he says on TV. I have half a mind to get him out of here!”
Mary touched his arm. “Edward, don’t. If this is the way they do it, this is the way they do it. I’ll look up the law and double-check, but they’re just trying to help Patrick.” Mary turned to Cassandra. “Do you create a DVD or an audiotape of his testimony?”
“Yes, but you can’t obtain it without a subpoena or court order.”
“Really?” Mary asked, surprised. Then she realized that Cassandra and PCA were just good people trying to protect children from a world that abused them, exploited them, and stole their innocence. The entire legal procedure was designed to find out the truth, and ultimately, to do justice for children.
“Yes, of course, it would be different if this came to us as a typical abuse case and if you, Mary, were a Child Advocate. If you were a Child Advocate, you would be permitted to observe the forensic interview in this room. But you’re not a Child Advocate per se. You’re representing both the caregiver and the child.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Mary understood the distinction. Cassandra couldn’t be certain that there wasn’t a conflict of interests between Edward’s interests and Patrick’s, and she had to operate under the assumption that Edward might have abused Patrick, but she was too diplomatic to say so.
“Are we all on the same page?” Cassandra twisted the doorknob.
Edward asked, “How do we find out what he said?”
“I will call you in when we’re finished.”
“Mary?” Edward turned to her, his gray eyebrows flying upward in outrage. “Am I supposed to take this lying down?”
“Yes.” Mary took his arm. “Let’s go, and I’ll explain outside.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mary steered Edward by his elbow through the busy waiting room and then the exit door, to the PCA entrance, which was of elevated concrete bordered by a gray metal fence. To the left was the Police SVU building, and to the right was DHS, but there were no benches anywhe
re in sight, and she could see Edward sagging almost visibly, his back characteristically stooped.
“I can’t believe this, I just can’t believe this,” Edward said under his breath, shaking his head, and Mary held on to his arm and got him to the railing.
“Would you like to go sit in the car? I can turn on the air-conditioning, we can talk. You can be comfortable.”
“No, I don’t want to go far.” Edward leaned on the railing, bending over and looking out over the parking lot, his hooded eyes flitting over the cars broiling in the sun.
“You’ll be more comfortable, really.”
“No, I’m fine, I’m tired, it’s a lot of activity for one day.”
“Of course, I understand that,” Mary said, though she guessed it was the stress, not the activity level, that was getting to him. “Or if you want, we could go get a soda and relax. You heard Cassandra, it’s going to be awhile.”
“No, I don’t want to leave him. It’s that—” Edward stopped abruptly, still shaking his head. He kept looking out over the parking lot, but Mary could see that he wasn’t really focusing on anything. In fact there was nothing to focus on, since nobody was in the parking lot or on the sidewalk, and the only scenery was two water towers to the left and a crappy brick warehouse across the street to the right.
“PCA is a good place, Edward. A great place.” Mary patted his back, and the cottony cloth of his sportcoat felt worn under her finger pads. “Try not to worry about him, they know what they’re doing.”
“I know, I know, it’s just that this whole thing … this whole thing is shameful, just shameful…” Edward’s sentence trailed off.
“Yes it is, but we’re going to make it right. She’ll get the information she needs, and we’ll go forward.” Mary wanted to focus him, because she had some questions she wanted answers to, as well. “Edward, let me ask you, did you hear what I heard during the police interview? Like that there were some differences between the story that you told me in my office and that Patrick told the police?”
“Yes, I did, I can’t remember now.” Edward rubbed his forehead with trembling hands, leaving pinkish marks on his lined skin.
“There were a few. Did you hear Patrick say there was a previous incident with Steve Robertson?”
“Yes, I did,” Edward answered, miserably. “I heard him say that, too.”
“Did you know that before?”
“No, no.” Edward’s tone went soft with pain.
“And did you hear Patrick tell the police that Steve told him to ‘lick up’ the vomit?”
“Yes, yes, I heard him say that too.” Edward rounded his tongue over dry lips. “I heard him say that, and it’s disgusting. It’s disgusting.”
“Did you know about that?”
“No, no.” Edward bent over farther, slumping on the railing and looking down. “God in heaven, God in heaven. That poor boy, that little boy.”
“I know, it’s awful. We’ll set it right, Edward.”
“You heard what she said. PTSD, therapy, that’s the life he’s going to have from now on. Not a normal life, not the life he deserves.”
“He can have a normal life, Edward. We can get the help he needs.” Mary tried to find a bright note. “But I’m not as worried about his artwork as before. He showed it to me upstairs and I think he’s just drawing bad guys, not any guy in particular, much less Mr. Robertson.”
Edward sighed. “My poor boy. He was so cute, what a happy little boy. My daughter, Suzanne, she adored him. The sun rose and set on that child. His feet never touched the ground the first year.” Edward’s voice coarsened, choked with emotion. “She read to him, she did everything. She would never forgive me.”
“You haven’t done anything, Edward.” Mary patted his back again. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it is, it really is. You don’t know.” Edward looked out at the parking lot again, and Mary could see the wetness in his eyes.
“What don’t I know?”
“You asked me if I knew, and I’m going to tell you something now, something awful.”
“What?” Mary asked, hearing the anguish in his voice.
“I know. In fact, I knew.” Edward looked up at her, his eyes brimming. “When Patrick came home with that bruise on his face, I knew someone had hit him. I didn’t believe his story about falling down, not for a minute. I’ve been around the block. I know what it looks like when you get hit in the face. I figured one of the other kids in the schoolyard got into it with him.”
Mary masked her shock. “Why didn’t you do anything about it?”
“Truth is, I pretended not to know because I didn’t want to do anything about it. I thought to myself, ‘okay, he can take a punch, maybe it’ll toughen him up. He’ll learn to hit back.’ Can you imagine a grandfather thinking such an awful thing?” Edward blinked, and a tear rolled his cheek, but he wiped it away quickly, tucking a knuckle under his glasses.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Mary said, her tone softer. She wasn’t sure that she believed her own words, but it was the best that could be done now.
“You want the whole truth?” Edward wiped his eyes again, meeting her gaze. “I wouldn’t have done anything if Robertson hadn’t filed his lawsuit. It was a lawsuit that got me to you, not that my grandson got punched in the face. I couldn’t ignore the lawsuit like I could ignore that little boy, my precious grandson.”
Mary said nothing, and Edward’s lower lip started to tremble as he wiped another tear from his eyes.
“I wonder what my daughter can be thinking now, looking down on me, I pray to her to forgive me. I’ve done such a terrible job with that little boy—”
“No, you haven’t.” Mary rubbed his back.
“I have, you don’t know, and sometimes I’m so tired, I send him upstairs because I’m too tired to deal with him. His chatter, his questions, his homework, his worksheets. I don’t even help him anymore. He helps me more than I help him. I used to have my diabetes under control with the pills, but not anymore. I have to check my blood sugar and inject myself four times a day now. He does it for me sometimes if I get the shakes. So who takes care of who?” Edward stifled a sob. “The truth is by dinner time, I’m so damn tired I think to myself, ‘God didn’t make a seventy-two-year-old to be a parent.’ Then as I tired as I am, I can’t sleep all the way through the night. I wake up to go to the bathroom, then I can’t get back to sleep, worrying. I take Ambien, it knocks me out.” Edward shook his head, trying not to cry. “I can’t do it. I can be a grandpop, yes, but a father, no. I’m an accountant, I’m good with numbers, and I read somewhere that 10 percent of the kids in America, they’re raised by grandparents. We love our grandkids, but it’s hard, so hard, and sometimes I’m afraid I can’t do it another day.”
“I’m sure, that’s natural.” Mary heard the door opening behind them, and two young women left PCA, looking pointedly away, but Edward was too distraught to notice, continuing.
“If my daughter were alive, she would’ve done so much more, and she wouldn’t have let his reading go the way I did. I see the commercials on TV, lots of things that can be done for dyslexia, but I didn’t do any of them.” Edward looked down, shaking his head. “I let him down, I failed him, he can’t even read a sentence and he’s terrible with math, he can barely add. That’s what happened on my watch, that’s who he has for a parent, a tired old man who was willing to look the other way when some bastard hit him in the face—” Edward finally broke down in tears, his forehead dropping onto the fist made by his hands, his shoulders shuddering.
“Oh, Edward, let’s go to the car.” Mary put an arm around his shaking shoulders, then helped him down the steps and toward the car. She fished a Kleenex out of her purse, passed it to him, and he held it to his nose, his tears dripping inside his glasses. They reached the car, where she installed them in the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. She hurried around the front of the car, climbing inside and turning on the air-conditioning, and
by then, his sobbing was subsiding and he was blowing his nose.
“Mary, I’m … so sorry, I’m so ashamed…”
“No apologies are necessary.”
“God help me.”
“Just rest, Edward. Put your head back and rest.”
“I will, I need to, thank you.” Edward blew his nose again, making his cheeks flush a violent red, then he let his bald head fall back against the headrest. “I’ll just rest my eyes, only for a second.”
“Sure, please do.” Mary stayed quiet as he closed his eyes, his glasses awry and the fissures of his cheeks stained with tears, and in the next moment, she realized that he was falling asleep. His shoulders let down and palms fell open on his lap, one hand still clutching the soggy Kleenex. His jaw went slack, and his head rolled slightly to the side.
Mary felt touched at the sight, feeling for him. He had stepped up, borne an impossible burden, and done the best that he could. She didn’t judge him, and what was past was past. She glanced at the dashboard clock and she realized she had other work to do. She wanted to wrap up as many matters as she could before the wedding.
Mary picked up her purse, eased out of the seat, and stepped outside the car. She leaned on the car, scrolling through her phone, then pressed in the number of her first client, watching the traffic idly while the phone call rang. Front Street was lined with parked cars, and she happened to look at the cars parked across the street. They were all empty, but a brown sedan parked across from the PCA entrance idled with a driver inside.
Mary got a good look at the driver because the sedan had a sunroof. She blinked. He looked familiar. He had a mustache. The driver looked a lot like Robertson.
Mary’s mouth went dry. Was it Robertson? Could he be following them? Had he followed them here? Patrick said he had threatened to kill him and Edward. She felt a tingle of fear. She hung up the phone but kept it to her ear, walking toward the brown sedan, but in the next moment, the driver took off.
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