Salter, Anna C

by Fault lines

  She paused and turned back toward me.

  "I want you to imagine a safe place. Sit down for a moment," I said quietly.

  She stood a few minutes longer, and I said nothing, just waited. You can't just order trauma victims around; they have to make their own decisions. Finally, she perched hesitantly on the edge of the seat. I guess you'd call that sitting.

  I opened my mouth to ask her to shut her eyes and then realized what a stupid idea that was and said instead, "Just imagine any place you'd feel safe —a garden, a fortress, a boat, anything. It doesn't have to be a real place. It can be anything you can imagine." If she could do it, it would bring down her autonomic arousal. Her heart would quit pounding, her palms would quit sweating, the racing thoughts would slow. It would distract her from the threatening imagery and decrease the chances she'd spend the day having flashbacks of whatever had happened to her.

  She looked in the distance for a moment and then at the floor. "There isn't any place that's safe," she said. "There isn't any place he couldn't be."

  "Then imagine a place where you would feel a little less afraid, however improbable a place. A cloud, sitting at the right of God, surrounded by tanks, whatever." I waited for her to think it through.

  "A grave," she said, finally. "Maybe there." I hoped against hope she'd laugh ruefully, but she didn't. Instead, for the first time a fleeting look of peace passed over her face at the thought. I felt my heart drop. When a grave is the only place people feel safe, sooner or later they try to get there.

  2

  After she left, I thought it over. It sounded like rape, but it didn't sound like rape. Something more had happened, not that rape wasn't bad enough, but I had always been impressed with people's ability to recover from some pretty terrible traumas. Most women who are raped regain their ability to function more quickly than this lady had. Someone had been waiting in the parking lot that night, and something had happened —something worse than rape—but what?

  I was still musing when the phone rang. Carlotta, my longtime best friend despite the fact that she had wasted a six-foot frame on modeling, for God's sake, instead of basketball, was on the line. She was a lawyer now —at least she had come to her senses and gotten a real job. Funny how you can tell if something is good news or bad just by the sound of the voice. I didn't like it when Carlotta's voice sounded like it did now. Once she had given me some very bad news, indeed, and ever since then, I cringed when I heard that sound in her voice.

  "What's up?" I said.

  She sighed. "Have you seen the papers?"

  "No," I said, "What's in them?"

  "Why don't you go get one? I'll meet you for lunch. You'll probably be able to talk by then," she said.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 10:30. "No," I said evenly. "You're scaring the shit out of me, and I don't want the anxiety of racing around looking for a paper not knowing. What happened?"

  There was a pause. "I'm sorry," she said. "Nobody's died." I realized I had been holding my breath as I let it out. "It's just that Willy's out."

  "Willy's out? Willy's out? Willy is not out. What? How the hell could he get out?"

  Carlotta started to speak, but I kept going. "How could Willy get out? Have you been in a maximum security prison recently? Those things are fortresses. He could not have gotten out. This is a joke, Carlotta. Just the sort of trick that son-of-a-bitch would play. He likes to give me a heart attack."

  There was another pause, and I realized this was just what Carlotta had been trying to avoid. I was screaming at her as if she had personally smuggled Willy out of prison. I shut up. After a moment Carlotta spoke.

  "He didn't escape, Michael. He won on appeal. The court remanded the case back for a new trial and released him in the meantime."

  "What? On what basis?"

  "Suggestibility. The court ruled that some of the social worker interviews of the abused children were leading and suggestive."

  "I don't believe this." My decibel level was rising again, but what sane person's wouldn't have?

  "There's more. I don't think the case will see court again, but look, I don't have time to get into it; I've got a hearing. Go get a paper, and I'll see you at Sweet Tomatoes at noon." Carlotta hung up. How could she leave me hanging like that? Why wouldn't it go back to court?

  Carlotta had joined the county prosecutor's staff this year, which meant, even though Willy's case hadn't been in our county, Carlotta could probably get the prosecutors on the case to talk to her. I wondered if she had called them already and that's how she knew it wasn't going back to court.

  Alex B. Willy was out of prison. I had never known Alex B. Willy out of prison, and I didn't care to now. When I met him three years ago, he was starting a thirty-year sentence for child molestation. That was long by today's anemic sentencing standards for child molestation, but it had come to light in the sentencing phase of the trial that Willy had had quite a string of victims.

  He had turned out to be swimming up to his ears in narcissism, and he had delighted in telling me about all the offenses he hadn't been caught for. As bad as his known track record was, the truth was worse: Willy was not a simple, manipulative. get-the-children-to-trust-him-and-then-molest-them-pillar-of-the-community-dime-a-dozen child molester. Willy was a sexual sadist. What turned him on was hurting people, children, to be specific.

  I made it to the corner and stared at the machine holding the Upper Valley Times as though it were a mortal enemy. God damn that son-of-a-bitch. No sane person would have put him on the street. I finally came up with the quarters I needed and jerked the paper out. I couldn't wait to get back to the office, so I just stood there and went through the paper until I found it.

  MINISTER WINS APPEAL.

  Appleton, NH —The New Liampshire Supreme Court ruled today that Alex B. Willy was entitled to a new trial on charges of first degree sexual assault against a minor. In a case that many felt was marked by overzealous prosecution and naive faith in the credibility of children's testimony, the court ruled that Mr. Willy's accusers, a six-year-old boy and a seven-year-old boy had been subjected to leading and suggestive questioning by county social workers during their investigation. The Supreme Court held that the lower Court had erred in permitting the children's testimony without first holding a "taint" hearing to determine whether the children's recollections had been too influenced by suggestive interviewing to be reliable.

  The ruling stated that a new trial cannot occur until such a hearing takes place. Prosecutors must prove in the "taint" hearing that the children's recollections are reliable and were not unduly influenced by suggestive questioning. If they fail to do so, the state is barred from seeking a new trial.

  Mr. Willy stated that, 'Tm just grateful for the chance to prove my innocence, and I am confident that a new trial will do just that. Hopefully, this dreadful ordeal will soon be over. I hold no malice in my heart toward anyone. I know the adults involved meant well, and the children, of course, were just children and as such were easily swayed by those around them."

  Classic Willy. I could feel the pull of the words even in print. He sounded exactly like an innocent man, and the average person reading that statement wouldn't even question his innocence for a second. In fact, Willy sounded like a kind, innocent man who wasn't even angry about the horrible things his accusers had put him through.

  Willy had a gift. Dealing with Willy was like dealing with an emotional chameleon. He knew, as though he had radar, just what kind of emotional tone people wanted to hear, and he could produce it unfailingly. I had studied Willy for countless hours, but I still didn't know how he did it. Something in me couldn't grasp it.

  Slowly, I walked back to the office. Just to reassure myself of my own sanity, I opened the drawer with my Willy-tapes in it. With his permission I had audiotaped some of my interviews with him —getting a sadist to really talk was such a rare thing I had decided to tape so I could go back over them. I could learn a lot from Willy although what he had to teach was
pretty depressing.

  I thumbed through the cassettes until I found the one I was looking for: the label read "Ways to Con Adults." Willy had signed permission for me to tape his interviews with the written stipulation that I could never share the tapes with anyone else. Just like Willy to tantalize me with something and then make sure I couldn't use it.

  I pulled out my tape recorder and popped the tape in. I had left the tape set at the section it seemed to me was the most important. "It's very simple, Dr. Michael," Willy was saying. "Simply find out what people need. What do they need? Do they need money? I'll loan it. Do they need a listening ear? I'll be there. Do they need reassurance? I'll supply it. People are full of needs." He had laughed.

  "The only difficult part is figuring out what they need most. What do they need badly enough that they will sell their firstborn, so to speak. What do they need badly enough that they will ignore what is right in front of their eyes? I have molested kids in the backseat of a car with their parents in the front seat."

  I had been floored by that and hadn't spoken for a moment. Willy had laughed again. "Indeed, I have. I'd simply pull a blanket over a sleepy child and fondle them with their parents in the front seat. They'd wake up, of course, and that trapped look they'd give their parents was so satisfying. They knew they wouldn't be believed. Somehow they knew. And they were right. Their parents wouldn't have believed them if they had reported me on the spot.

  "There are subtleties, of course, which I can't expect you to grasp. You are really such a limited student." Which, I thought every time I heard the tape, was true.

  "Like what?"

  "What they need. What they hunger for. Ultimately, it's never anything concrete. Oh, sometimes it starts with money, a loan to get them out of debt or something, but it always turns out that the money represents something else — importance or support or something—something that turns out to be much more addictive than money.

  "The highest level" —and I could still remember Willy's eyes starting to shine —"is to supply something crucial that the person is not even aware of needing, something completely unseen that they become totally dependent on my providing. Then you can take chances, which of course intensifies the excitement."

  "Like what?"

  "Oh, you can make the abuse of their child a little more obvious and a little more obvious until they have to work not to see it."

  "And what is it that people need badly enough, even unconsciously, to tolerate your molesting their child? Friendship? Self-worth? What is it you supply, Mr. Willy, that is worth so much?"

  "Well, Dr. Michael, no good cook shares all the ingredients. Really, you don't expect me to do all the work for you, do you?"

  And what was it that Willy had supplied me with, that kept me coming back to see him? Willy didn't want to talk about that, but then again, neither did I.

  I popped the tape, picked up the newspaper, and stared glumly at the article. A taint hearing. The case was over. There wasn't any way to prove something didn't exist. It was like trying to prove a white elephant wasn't in the room. Some misguided fool had asked a leading question somewhere along the way, and after that, anything the children said would be considered tainted.

  Never mind that the children disclosed abuse in the interview with the county social worker —otherwise, there wouldn't have been an interview. Never mind how many symptoms the children had —and Willy had described to me their deterioration in gloating detail.

  The bottom line was simple: One thing people surely needed was to believe they could tell who was safe and who wasn't, and a whole lot of people had trusted Willy. He looked good; he talked good; he was a popular minister in his community who had regularly visited the sick and the elderly. A lot of people had been devoted to him. If there was any way to explain away the accusations against him, people would take it. And now they had one.

  3

  By noon, Sweet Tomatoes was in high gear. Non-traditional pasta dishes are their specialty, and nobody can cook pasta like Sweet Tomatoes. The area is too small for the restaurant to have any serious competition, but it would have held its own anywhere. I have tenure at Sweet Tomatoes.

  I was led to the last table by the window, and waved to Harvey, one of the owners, as I sat down. He came over and joined me. "Got a minute?" he said.

  "Probably more than a minute," I answered. "I'm waiting for Carlotta to get out of a hearing." Prosecutors don't control when hearings end so Carlotta might or might not show up in the foreseeable future. Harvey sat down, and I resisted the temptation just to close my eyes and listen. He had that kind of deep, snuggle-up, male voice you can't hear without thinking about climbing into bed. He was a teddy bear of a man, a big guy carrying a little extra weight around his middle. You could easily overlook the extra weight. That voice would sound very good about an inch from your ear. But I swore off married men. I did.

  "Still making the world safe from child abuse?" he asked.

  "Nah, I switched. I testify for the perps now. More money in it."

  Harvey looked taken aback. "Just kidding," I said. "I almost got in trouble in court with my sick sense of humor, though. A prosecutor asked me why I was charging so much less than the defense expert, and I almost said, 'Costs more when you sell your soul,' but I didn't."

  Harvey laughed. "Why not?"

  "Too risky," I answered. "I've already had one judge recluse the jury in the middle of my testimony and say to the prosecutor, 'Your witness has come perilously close to calling the defense a flim-flam.'"

  "You can't call the defense a flim-flam?"

  "Nope. Not even when it is. You're supposed to be respectful. What's up with you?"

  "Nothing really. We're going to Italy again. Testing new wines for the restaurant."

  "Tough life," I said.

  "I wanted to ask you something, about a neighbor of mine. . . ."

  "Shoot," I replied. I hated this. People always want me to diagnose their spouses, their children, even their cats. But you have to listen. At least you do if you want the last table by the window.

  "I have this neighbor with this vicious-looking dog, and I'm a little worried. ..." My ears perked up. Could it be? Small areas are like that: You run into all kinds of crossovers —once my dentist turned out to be the battering husband of a new client. But even in small areas, I reminded myself, there is more than one neighbor with a vicious-looking dog.

  I didn't get to explore it because at that moment Carlotta walked in. Heads turned discreetly. No one actually stares at anybody in New England. Charles Bronson could —and did — walk down the street in the town where he had a vacation home without a single fan drooling on him. But people do notice interesting folks, and Carlotta had been six feet tall and interesting-looking since she was twelve.

  Harvey saw her too and stood up. "Never mind," he said. "I'll catch you later."

  "Give me a call," I said with, I hoped, nothing in my voice but ordinary friendliness. Sexy men always pull me off center.

  Carlotta may have just rushed out of the hearing, but no one in the restaurant would have known. She walked unhurriedly to the table and sat down. She was dressed very simply in black crepe pants, a black matte blouse, and a black blazer. Around her neck she wore a handmade Native American beaded necklace. It was exquisite, and the simple black surrounding it set it off like a frame. If Calvin Klein had walked in, he would have put Carlotta on a runway just as she was. Well, actually, he had, once upon a time.

  Carlotta looked worried. "Case go okay?" I asked when she sat down.

  "Fine," she said, looking at me carefully. I realized I was the reason she was worried, and it hit me that Carlotta had probably chosen Sweet Tomatoes over my office because she knew I wouldn't yell there. Jesus. I've become someone other people have to manage. Maybe I ought to tone down my temper a bit.

  "I'm all right," I said. "I don't like it. I think it's bullshit. I think it's worse than bullshit; I think it's criminal. I think every single judge that voted to put
him on the street should be shot, but what can I say, every day somebody gets off who shouldn't."

  There was a pause. What was bothering Carlotta? I was calm. Neither of us could do anything about Willy. "Well, what are you going to do?" she asked.

  "Do? As in do what? There isn't a whole lot I can do."

  "Michael, I don't want to remind you of anything you're trying to deny." Great. Now Carlotta's a psychologist? "But Alex Willy is a very dangerous man."

  "So?"

  "So, if I understand this right, he has told you things that no one else knows about him."

  "So?"

  "So, maybe I'm missing something, but isn't that likely to worry him?"

  "Maybe," I admitted. "But how much harm can I do him? Obviously I can't put it in the paper. What's he got to worry about?"

  "Is he going to quit molesting children?" Carlotta asked me directly.

  "No, he isn't."

  "What are the chances he'll get caught again?" she pressed.

  "Eventually it's likely," I said. "But probably not soon. Willy controls kids with a combination of getting the kids to fear him and the parents to trust him, and the things he does to the kids are so extreme. The kind of abuse he inflicts doesn't sound plausible to most parents."

  "So why is he going to get caught again?"

  "He's too active," I answered. "He just molests too many kids, and he loves to take chances. He'll push the envelop until eventually he's caught."

  "And when he is, what about you?"

  "Carlotta, what do you mean what about me? What about me nothing."

  "Are you or are you not a threat to Willy?" Carlotta said as though she were cross-examining a hostile witness, which she was, sort of. "Given how much you know, wouldn't you be a very effective witness for the prosecution?"