No Way Out

by David Kessler

  What would my parents think? She wondered with a smile at the fleeting fantasy of turning up on her liberal parent’s doorstep with this young man in tow.

  Think rather than say.

  She knew that they’d be warm and welcoming in their words. But she wondered if they were capable of walking the walk as well as they could talk the talk. It occurred to her that even now she never really knew her parents. And yet here she was away from home, trying to find herself.

  As the young man leaned out smiling and asked if she needed help, she could tell from his confident voice that this some one who was going places. She was drawn to his youthful good looks and quiet, cool self-confidence and she warmed to him instantly, even if his diction betrayed the lingering traces of a background that she half-suspected he was trying to conceal – or maybe just forget.

  He took a look under the hood and after about a minute shook his head and said “I’m not really all that good with engines. I’m better with people.” He won her over with that line and a disarming smile. Two minutes later she was in the Merc and they were rolling along down the road, getting to know each other better. Somewhere along the line, she noticed that he had turned off the main road.

  She was about to ask where they were going, when she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw his lips twist upward into a smile. But she couldn’t tell if the smile was friendly. And as the first traces of apprehension formed into a knot in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she was too afraid to inquire further.

  Friday, 5 June 2009 - 8:50

  “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach Gene,” said Andi as the car snaked its way through the streets of Los Angeles. A sharp turn later and the car began slowing down as the office building loomed up ahead.

  “It’s too late to go back now.”

  They both laughed. This was becoming a bit of an in-joke between them. They had both been nervous about leaving the Big Apple and crossing the continent to a new life on the West Coast. But Andi’s career had demanded it.

  Andi Phoenix, sitting silently and brooding nervously, was in her late thirties. She had kept her looks through healthy eating, regular workouts and a bit of cosmetic surgery. Her breasts had been enhanced from 34B to 36D with silicone implants and she had taken a botox injection to remove the first lines of age. But the rest was from hard work and healthy living. The blonde hair came from a bottle; the original had been a decent but boring mousy brown. Changing the color had been a form of therapy after the rough ride of her youth, but the enhancements as a whole carried with them the payload of attention from men that she could well do without. She was a few inches shorter than the black woman who sat next to her, and some ways felt in her shadow.

  Gene touched Andi’s forearm gently.

  “Just remember this honey. They don’t know you either. But they were ready to take a chance on you.”

  In the driver’s seat, in more ways than one, was Eugenia Vance, the six foot, muscular, black woman who had playfully wrestled with her in bed that morning – and won – as always.

  They had met over twenty years ago, when Andi was still in her teens. Gene had helped Andi through her teenage crisis years, and they’d been together ever since. In all the time they had known each other, they never used the word “lesbian” to describe their relationship. It wasn’t denial. It was just that their every instinct railed against categorization. Neither Gene nor Andi loved “women”; they simply loved each other.

  “I’m just wondering if this whole thing is a big mistake.”

  Gene snorted her mockery at Andi’s self-pity.

  “You’ve picked a hell of a time to start wondering girl!”

  Here in California, Andi’s specialty was much in demand. She had majored in psychology before going on to get her Juris Doctor degree from the Northeastern University School of Law, where she thrived amidst its progressive atmosphere that encouraged social responsibility. But after graduation she had found the law to be an irritating environment in which to work. Most of her criminal work involved plea-bargaining rather than trial work and usually that meant helping criminals plead guilty to lesser charges – hardly the service of justice and way off from the ideals that had driven her into the legal profession in the first place.

  Matters had come to a head after she contracted pneumonia, forcing her to take a prolonged leave of absence from the law firm that had initial hired her and held out so much hope and promise. But when she went back to work, she found herself welcomed with less than open arms. She was protected by labor laws from outright dismissal, but found herself increasingly sidelined. She joined another firm but then spent the next eight months playing catch-up.

  It was in this period that her interest in the subject changed. Although there were innocent people out there needing to be helped, criminal law meant – for the most part –helping the guilty. And that was not something she particularly enjoyed doing. So she did the old “poacher turned gamekeeper” routine and got herself a job with the DA’s office, in the domestic violence unit, where she thrived for a while. Starting at the bottom of the ladder meant that she didn’t get to do much courtroom work. Most of it involved working directly with victims, reading reports and collating evidence. But she was happy to do this. It gave her a sense of purpose.

  Paradoxically, it was only when promotion gave her more courtroom work that disillusion set in for a second time. Because she found herself doing exactly the same thing as she was doing before, but from the opposite side of the table: plea-bargaining with criminals. She found their lawyers to be vile, for the most part, and she realized how contemptible she must have seemed to the DA in her earlier days as a defense attorney.

  At the same time, she had developed another interest: crime victim litigation. There was a growing industry involving the pursuit of civil remedies for crime victims and she very much wanted to be part of it. So she got a job working in that fledgling field for a large law firm, but realized very soon that she had hit the glass ceiling.

  However, her employers were far from displeased with her performance and wanted to keep her on. They just didn’t have the right vacancy. But they made it very clear that there were more prospects of upward mobility on the West Coast and if she wanted it, there was a job waiting for her at their Los Angeles office.

  She wasn’t altogether comfortable about moving to the West Coast. But that was where the work opportunity took her.

  “And what if I don’t make the grade?” asked Andi, still seeking reassurance.

  “Hey, listen,” said Gene firmly, “I don’t want to hear any of that. There’s nothing to stop you except fear – and if you let that get to you, I’ll be right behind you, ready to take a paddle to that cute little butt of yours.”

  “My butt’s not so little,” said Andi, but this time with humor rather than self-pity.

  In truth, Andi’s butt was fine, as any red-blooded male would have been only too happy to testify.

  There was a hard side to Gene. But it was precisely Gene’s confidence in decision making that Andi loved most. On all the important matters, it was Gene who decided for both of them. It was Gene who had decided that they would come to live out here in California after Andi told her about the work opportunity. Andi would never have demanded it for herself, much as she had wanted it. She still lacked the self-confidence to stand up to Gene – to the world yes, but not to Gene. And Gene herself knew that Andi needed to make the move for her career. It wasn’t in Gene’s personal interests to make the move, but she cared too much for Andi to let that stand in their way.

  So when it came to the crunch, Gene was ready to uproot herself and start again on the other side of the country.

  It’s only a sacrifice if you give up the greater value for the lesser one, Gene had told herself, remembering the philosophy that had given her so much strength when she really needed it.

  Andi’s happiness means more to me than my two-bit career. So it isn’t really a sacrifice.

 
What Gene loved about Andi was that she was gentle and soft on the outside, yet fiery and determined when her sense of injustice was aroused. It was a paradox that was expressed as eloquently in Andi’s eyes as in her words. The eyes had a strange quality that was as frightening as it was fascinating: those eyes could look both menacing and vulnerable at the same time. It was Andi’s eyes that Gene had originally fallen in love with. When Gene looked into Andi’s eyes the first time they met, the beseeching, helpless look quickly dissolved into anger… no, not anger… tenacity.

  The law was a natural field of endeavor for her. But it had to be the right sort of law. She was a crusader for justice and she became passionate to the point of ferocity when confronted by injustice in any of its countless forms. Gene had always found it strange that Andi had been ready to work as a defense lawyer for so long. She may have bitched about it, but she stuck it out – even though it was evident that it was causing her pain and leaving her unfulfilled. But Andi had made her choice and Gene was a firm believer in people making their own choices.

  As the car slowed down, Gene gave Andi an encouraging smile and then looked around at the office buildings of the town center. Andi smiled back, encouraged by Gene’s contagious confidence.

  “Looks like we’re here,” said Gene, with an air of finality.

  The car pulled up to a halt in front of a large office building. Andi unfastened her seat belt and opened the front passenger door.

  “Wish me luck,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  Gene looked at her with all the firmness of a strict parent still living in the mid-Victorian era. But the voice was strangely gentle.

  “I won’t do that honey, ‘cause you don’t need luck.”

  Gene slid her left hand behind Andi’s head, leaned over and kissed Andi on the lips. She had a way of making Andi feel good whenever the fear and self-doubt threatened to get the better of her. She had many ways in fact of massaging Andi’s ego. This was only one of them.

  That’s why I love you Gene, thought Andi, closing her eyes. But she didn’t say it. She just held on a moment longer than Gene did, almost clinging like a child, before letting go and getting out of the car. She wanted to stay something, but the jitters were still with her and she knew that Gene could sense it.

  “Get in there and knock ’em dead honey!”

  Andi closed the door and walked towards the building. Ignoring the names of the countless law and accountancy firms on the nameplates, she walked into the building and presented her ID to security.

  Outside, Gene watched Andi enter the building like a mother watching her tearful kid vanish into the crowd of other children on her first day at kindergarden. Then she brought the engine to life with a roar, made an aggressive U-turn and drove back the way she came. She knew it was going to be a tough day for Andi – first days always are.

  These thoughts were cut short by her cell phone. It was a call from the Say no to Violence Rape Crisis Center.

  “Hallo,” said Gene, pressing the button of the hands-free set.

  “Gene, we’ve just had a call from Riley.”

  Bridget Riley worked at the sex crimes unit in the local police. And a call from Bridget Riley probably meant one thing: another woman had been raped.

  Friday, 5 June 2009 – 9:45

  “You’re kind of early Alex.”

  Alex Sedaka spun round to see a fifty eight year old black man standing there with a beaming smile. Elias Claymore was overdressed for SoCal at this time of year. But Alex knew that he was trying to avoid being recognized. Claymore didn’t usually like to draw so much attention to himself – because then he’d find himself surrounded by autograph seekers.

  “I was at the front of the plane,” said Alex, reciprocating the smile. “First one off.”

  “How are you doing, old buddy?” asked Claymore, rejecting Alex’s outstretched hand in favor of a warm, brotherly embrace.

  Alex returned the greeting and then followed as Claymore led the way

  “What’s happening with the show?” asked Alex as they walked towards one of the exits.

  “The network renewed the syndication deal.”

  Elias Claymore was the next big thing in talk show hosts, after his California-based show had gone national last year. He was tipped by some to become “next Montel Williams.” But others criticized this appellation in view of Claymore’s less than honorable past.

  “How’s the love life?”

  This was typical Elias, filling the silence with his cheeky humor.

  “You know I’m married to my work,” said Alex with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s why I haven’t got time to watch your show.”

  “Oh really? That’s not what I heard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Oh a little bird told me something about you being in a relationship with a certain TV reporter.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on the little bird grapevine.”

  “Then how come we’re meeting for breakfast, not lunch.”

  “I thought you’re shooting the show after lunch.”

  “You could come and watch that too.”

  “I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m seeing a…”

  Alex’s smile was that of the proverbial angel caught out. Elias smiled back

  “So the little bird was right after all.”

  “It’s early days yet. Anyway these long-distance relationships don’t usually work out. She’s down here in SoCal and I’m up on the Bay.”

  “And you ain’t over Melody yet.”

  Alex remained silent. They had been friends ever since Alex had represented Claymore, negotiating a plea-bargain a few years ago. And they had learned to trust and respect one another. But they had also learned to read one another.

  “Wait a minute,” said Alex. “This isn’t the way to the parking lot.”

  Alex was quite familiar to LAX and he had noticed that they were heading towards the curbside on the lower level.

  “No parking lot today bro. We’re going by taxi.”

  “Taxi? Isn’t that carrying this incognito business too far?”

  “My car was stolen.”

  “Stolen? When? How?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Doesn’t your insurance provide a rented one in the meantime?”

  “They do when I have time to get onto them. So far I haven’t even had time to report it to the cops.”

  “When you say stolen, you mean… like… Carjacked? At gunpoint?”

  “Heck no!” If they’d given me half a chance I’d’ve nailed the bastards. I got out to buy a paper.”

  “I thought your Merc had digital ignition control? Isn’t that supposed to be hotwire-proof.”

  “Not if you leave the keys inside.”

  Alex looked at him wide-eyed.

  “You’re kidding!”

  Claymore held up his hands sheepishly.

  “I plead guilty to stupidity Your Honor.”

  They both laughed and carried on their friendly banter oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the background.

  Friday, 5 June 2009 – 10:15

  White.

  The room was a cold, clinical white. It was supposed to be relaxing as well as hygienic and useful for showing up any evidence samples that might be inadvertently dropped. But stepping into it had the aura of entering something out of science fiction.

  “Okay now just hold still,” said Doctor Weiner, holding the third swab between Bethel’s legs.

  Bethel held still and forced her mind not to think about what was happening or what had happened. But the harder she fought to avoid it, the more painful the memories that flooded back.

  “I don't understand,” said Bethel fighting back the tears. “How many swabs do you need?”

  “We try to take several,” said Bridget, the twenty-something detective who was standing with her back to the wall a few feet away.

  “But why?”

  Bridget could hear in Beth
el’s voice, the inner strength that the girl was trying to draw on to dam up the flood of tears that was aching to burst.

  “Because sometimes the whole sample gets used up in the test and we may need to do back-up tests or give a sample to the defense in case they want to run their own independent tests.”

  By this stage, Bethel Newton had been photographed from all angles, examined by a female doctor and had vaginal swabs and nail clippings taken. They had intended to take combing from her pubic hair, but she was shaven. They had also taken buccal swabs to use as reference samples. Bethel’s body was now – in police investigative terminology – a “crime scene”. And the vaginal swabs and nail clippings constituted “crime-scene samples” or “evidence samples – samples which had come into contact with the rapist and were potentially contaminated by his own DNA.

  “I don’t see what good this’ll do,” said Bethel.

  “We can distinguish between different contributors. That’s what your reference sample is for. In fact we now have powerful techniques for isolating DNA from sperm.”

  “But he used a condom.” She remembered how deftly he had held her down with the weight of his body while putting it on, before he penetrated her. It was like he knew exactly what he was doing – like he had done it before. Some men are experts with bra straps. This man was an expert at rape – and an expert at minimizing the trail of evidence that he left behind. He was what criminal investigators call “forensically aware.”

  “We don’t expect to find any identifiable sperm in the vaginal swab,” explained Bridget. “But we have to check anyway.”

  Bethel shuddered, but kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t expected it to be like this.

  “You scratched him too, don’t forget,” Bridget added. “That could give us a skin sample or even a blood sample and that in turn will give us his DNA. Also we might find traces of the condom itself. He might have thrown it away nearby.”