Salter, Anna C

by Fault lines

  I went through it a couple of times to make sure he had it. He was plenty bright, but he wasn't expecting this, and his mind was on other things — mainly impressing me —so it took him a couple of rounds to get it.

  "If you'll just do this, I'm fairly confident we can clear this whole thing up today." He agreed. It sounded good to him, and he sat down to work with relish. When he had finished, I came back and asked him if he was sure he had crossed out everything that wasn't true.

  "I think so," he said.

  "Oh, no," I replied. "I don't want you to think so. I want you to be sure. Absolutely sure. I want to give you all the time you need to be sure you have crossed out everything you don't agree with. So take a few more minutes and go over it."

  I turned to go, and he looked perplexed and sat back down. In a few minutes he knocked gently on the partly opened door. "I'm done," he said.

  "Great," I said, standing up from my desk and walking over. "You're sure you've crossed everything out you don't agree with?"

  "As far as I can tell," he said.

  "Well," I said. "I don't want you to have any doubts. Sit back down and go over it again. Don't come back until you are really sure you have crossed everything out that isn't true and have written in exactly what really happened."

  He was pissed off, but he sat back down. For this to work he had to be committed to what he had written, and I was prepared to go on indefinitely until he made that commitment.

  This time when he came back he was ready for me. "I'm finished," he said. "I've gone over everything," he added quickly.

  "You're sure," I said. "You've crossed out everything?"

  "I'm sure," he replied. He did not want to sit down and go over this again.

  "Come on in," I said and opened the door. I looked over the statement as he sat down. He had followed instructions carefully, and there were red lines on a number of places on Lucy's statement. Each one had his initials next to it and a number. I took the extra sheets of paper he had given me and went back and forth going from the numbers he had put on Lucy's statement to what he said really happened on the other pages. Finally, I shook my head.

  "I'm not sure you and Ms. MacDonald mean the same things by some of your terms," I said. "Just so I'm sure. What do you mean by 'assault'?"

  "Assault?" he said, surprised.

  "Assault. I don't mean that you need to come up with a dictionary definition, but just roughly, say, what do you mean by the term."

  "Well, I'd say assault involves inflicting some sort of violence on someone."

  "Against their will?"

  "Well, sure. Most people wouldn't agree to violence being inflicted on them," he said sarcastically and then caught himself.

  "And what about 'passed out'?"

  "Unconscious," he said.

  "Would you write those down?" I said sweetly, handing him back the piece of paper where he'd written what really happened.

  He paused for a minute to think it over, but couldn't see what the problem would be, so he wrote them down. "Would you sign them?" I asked.

  "Why should I sign it?" he replied.

  I rolled my eyes heavenward for him to see. "I've got material from you and Ms. MacDonald, and I want to be clear what's what, plus this whole thing is very emotional, and I don't want Ms. MacDonald, or even you later, to claim I made anything up. It's standard procedure. Is there something wrong with the definitions that you don't want to sign them? If there is, just change them."

  He looked at them again and then signed them.

  I picked up the statements again —Lucy's version and his rewrites —and looked back and forth from one to the other. I shook my head, perplexed, but kept reading. Silence filled the room. He started shifting in his seat. I just kept reading and let the anxiety build.

  Finally, he couldn't stand it. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.

  "I think so," I answered, but didn't elaborate. I went back to comparing the statements point by point.

  He waited a few more minutes and then said, "What's wrong?"

  I waited another long moment before I answered.

  "Well, you and Ms. MacDonald agree on what happened. I wasn't expecting that."

  "We agree? We don't agree. She says we raped her. I never said that."

  "But," I said, holding the statements for him to see, "in Ms. MacDonald's statement she used the word 'assault' three times and 'passed out' five, and you didn't put a red line through any of them. You crossed out other things, but you never once crossed out those words." He looked quickly at Lucy's statement, and then he blanched. "I . . . I . . ."

  "Well," I said while he sputtered, "here's what I think. I know there's a whole lot of truth in what you said. A whole lot. Well, let me put it this way." I took a piece of paper and drew a horizontal line with 0 on one end and 100 on the other. "I know you're not down here," I said, pointing at the zero. "I'd be willing to bet that you aren't anywhere close to here," I said still pointing at the zero.

  "But I know, too, you haven't told me everything," I said, pointing at the 100. "Where would you say you are?" I asked, holding out the pen for him. "Just put a line at what percentage of the real story you've shared."

  It was hard, at that point, to put the line at 100 percent because, for one thing, if he did he was admitting that Lucy had been correct in her use of the words "assault" and "passed out." He put a line at 95 or so, but that, too, was actually a confession of sorts.

  "You know," I said looking at the mark, "I think I know what the problem is. I can understand your objecting to being called a 'rapist' just because you got drunk and things got a little out of hand. After all, a sex offender is somebody who jumps out of bushes.

  "But the thing I don't understand is why you don't really tell your side of the story. If I don't miss my guess, you were almost as drunk as she was. I'd be willing to bet that, if she was incapacitated by alcohol, so were you. She can't really use alcohol as an excuse for her behavior and not yours —if you were really as drunk as I think you were.

  "Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think you really thought she meant it when she said 'no.' Hell, it was probably so weak, you might have thought she was just playing. Not to mention that you couldn't really control those other guys anyway."

  He looked shell-shocked, and he was sitting completely still. The breeze from the window was ruffling his hair. Without that he'd have looked like a statue. "Is that true?" I asked. "Were you drunk too?" Then I realized my rhythm was off. I should have had him saying "yes" all along and getting used to answering the questions. Shit, a little thing like that could make the difference in his fessing up and not.

  "So you were drunk?"

  "Everybody was drunk," he said. "Roger just kept pouring vodka in the punch, and by the end it was about 100 proof. And you're right," he said rallying. "I was as drunk as she was." I had given him only one way out of the blind alley, and he had decided to take it.

  "Had you just met her or did you know her?"

  "I had just met her."

  "So she was a pretty easy lady, because you had just met her and she had already hopped, into bed with you," I said shaking my head. "I can see why you didn't take her 'no' seriously. You must have thought she was just fooling around. Was that it, or did you think she really wanted you to stop?"

  "No, no," he said quickly. "I assumed . . . I just thought . . . well, I mean she was coming on to everybody downstairs, I was just the one who took her up on it." He was getting bolder now and moving into the new version I had offered him. "She was fucking my brains out, and I just thought, hell, she'd probably take on anybody. Besides, it's not like I invited them in."

  "They came in on their own?"

  "Sure," he said, "we were getting it on, and they just walked in and . . . and . . ."He lapsed into silence.

  "At that point, what could you do?" I said helpfully. "There were three of them, and you were drunk to the max. If she couldn't do anything to stop them because of the alcohol, you probably couldn't eithe
r."

  "I couldn't. Heck, I didn't really know what was going on, I was so drunk."

  "What I don't get," I said, "is why you're taking all the heat by yourself. If all of this is true, why is it your word alone? Why don't you have these guys backing you up? Then it would be four to one instead of just your word against hers.

  "You can do what you want to, but I'll tell you what I think. I think you'd better not walk out of here leaving a lie. Because once the committee knows you are lying about part of it, they're going to think you're lying about all of it.

  "I think the real story is important. I think you need to tell them how drunk you were and why you didn't believe her 'no' was any more than playing games. I think you need to tell them that this wasn't any kind of plan and you didn't invite those guys in, they just walked in.

  "Now, it's up to you; but if I were you, I'd tell the committee who the other guys were and get them to back up your story. Because if you don't, the committee is going to wonder why not. The only reason to hide them is to protect them if they're guilty. Otherwise, you'd want them backing you up.

  "But you do what you want. I'm going to give you the pen and paper and the chance to set it straight. To be honest, with her that drunk, I don't really want to write a report that says you are lying. It makes it seem like it was all your fault.

  "But read my lips on this one, Alexander—this is a one-shot deal. When you walk out of here, the evaluation is over and I write up whatever I have. Don't come back later and tell me you didn't get a chance to give your side of the story, because this is your chance right now. Here's the pen. Here's the paper. Take it or leave it. I'll write up a report that says you're lying if that's what you want me to do."

  I handed him the pen and stood up quickly. "Let me get you some more coffee," I said and walked out before he had a chance to reply.

  14

  The moment Alexander Hammil left, I xeroxed his confession and left the office with it. If he had the sense God gave a mosquito, he would rethink his visit with me and head straight for his lawyer's office. His lawyer would pick up the phone to rescind Hammil's release before Hammil finished his first sentence.

  I drove straight to my tiny A-frame —the one with the unlisted phone number—and sat down at the computer. It didn't take long to do the evaluation, given that he had confessed. He had rationalized and minimized to the max, of course, but he had admitted that the other men had walked in uninvited and Lucy had repeatedly said "no." He admitted, too, that he knew she was in and out of consciousness and too incapacitated to do anything except say "no." And, miracles of miracles, he had named his fellow rapists.

  That didn't leave a whole lot for me to add. I gave him points for fessing up, but added that rationalization and minimization were typical of sex offenders and were strong predictors for relapse. If Hammil thought there was nothing wrong with doing it this time, he wouldn't think there was anything wrong with doing it the next time.

  I called up Tom Gaines, Lucy's lawyer. The only thing I had told him before the eval was to be available on Friday morning. Tom hadn't asked any questions, but I was pretty sure he'd be there. His secretary answered on the first ring and put me through.

  "Miss Michael," Tom said when he got on the phone. "How is my sweet little Southern flower doing this morning?"

  "I can't believe you get away with that stuff up here," I replied, but I said it jokingly. I'm a sucker for a man with a Southern accent. I had accused Tom before of taking lessons to keep his accent pure. He played his Southernness to the hilt, and it lulled a lot of people into not taking him seriously, which was a big mistake.

  "Actually, I'm quite well. And I think you will be too. It appears your client has been telling the truth."

  "Now, Miss Michael, you know all my clients tell the truth," Tom said sardonically. "But this one for sure," he added.

  "Well, it seems Mr. Hammil has had a change of heart and fessed up. I'm faxing you my eval, which includes a full written and signed confession."

  "Wonders never cease," Tom said. "And you had nothing to do with this, I'm sure," he added.

  "Nothing to speak of," I replied. "He just walked into my office and decided to tell the truth. But in case there is any charge of arm-twisting, I'm also faxing you the release he signed in advance, which suggests he consult a lawyer, etc. This release ought to be good for about another fifteen minutes, so I'll send this report just as soon as we hang up."

  "Just so you know," Tom said. "I am never going to let any accused client of mine get within two hundred yards of you, so don't even ask."

  ''Why not?" I replied. "If they're all telling the truth."

  I hung up the phone and faxed the report. When it went through I breathed a sign of relief. I hated getting stuck with info I couldn't use. It made me completely crazy to see a case go down the tubes when I had information that would turn it around but couldn't use it because someone had rescinded a release. Without a valid release, nothing left my office no matter what. Idly I checked my e-mail. I wasn't expecting anything, but since I was sitting in front of the computer, why not?

  There was a message from "partytime." So Willy had something to say. What was it this time?

  I double-clicked on his message.

  Bravo! I am pleased to see my faith in you was justified. Exceedingly deft handling of that poor schlemiel. My Lord, these amateurs are so naive it's almost refreshing. Putty in your hands: truly an impressive display of your skills—and your own capacity for deception, which was surprisingly impressive.

  What was he talking about? It could not possibly be Hammil. He hadn't left my office more than an hour ago, and I had just finished sweeping for bugs when he came in. For a moment I was confused.

  It does make me wonder, though. You are quite a manipulative little bitch, aren't you? And, perhaps, not as naive as you pretend? "Tell me, Mr. Willy. Teach me, Mr. Willy." A little bit of a Colombo routine, perhaps? What is it they say? "Payback's a bitch."

  Shock was running through me. There wasn't anybody else Willy could be talking about except Hammil. But how could he have heard that conversation with Hammil? We had swept for bugs minutes before he came in. How could he possibly have known to turn the bug off for "John" and not for Hammil? Could he have some kind of device that Danny's bug sweeper couldn't pick up? Was that possible? I couldn't believe that. Danny would have the latest, most up-to-date gizmo.

  I looked at the second paragraph. The tone of Willy's communications was changing. He was calling me names, devaluing me, making excuses for going after me. He was working himself up. Which meant, of course, that he was moving in. Willy was tired of foreplay and heading for the main event, whatever that was.

  I read and reread the message. It felt like a locomotive was picking up speed and heading straight for me, and I was like some kind of small animal mesmerized by the light and standing stock-still on the track. Worse, I was a confused small animal, obsessing over how Willy was getting his information instead of getting off the track. But there wasn't any way off the track. And how was Willy getting the information?

  It wasn't the records. So much for the safety deposit boxes. If it was a bug it was one an FBI agent couldn't find —which, knowing Danny, didn't seem possible. But it had to be a bug. He had to be turning it off and on, but how would he get the info to tell him when? Nothing made any sense. And he was escalating too fast for me to catch up.

  The phone rang, and I jumped. I stared at it for a moment before I answered it. I picked it up, and for a panicky moment I held my breath, expecting it to be Willy on the other end. It was Marv, instead, and I let out my breath in relief. Jesus, I was spooked. "Michael," he said with annoyance in his normally warm voice. "I've been trying to reach you."

  "I know, Marv," I said trying to pull myself back into the present. "I'm sorry. I've just been tied up with some weird stuff."

  There were lots of people I would have bit my tongue off rather than say "sorry" to, but Marv somehow wasn't one of them.
He was so benign I never felt defensive around him. Not that I'd tell him I had fallen off a horse, of course. That was going too far.

  His tone changed instantly. "Weird stuff?" was all he said. Marv could get people to say more by saying less than anyone I knew, but I wasn't in the mood to fall for it.

  "It doesn't matter," I said, still staring at the computer screen. "What's up?"

  "I need to consult you on Ginger." Guilt flooded me immediately. The albatross I had handed over to Marv to get her off my neck was pulling on his. Maybe that's why I hadn't wanted to call him. Somehow I just knew from the few minutes I spent talking with her in Marv's waiting room that Ginger was doing her millstone routine.

  "I'm happy to talk about her," I said with forced enthusiasm, "but, Marv, tell me right up front: Are you going to ask me to take her back?" That, of course, was the real reason I hadn't called. I transferred her to Marv in hopes that the dynamics would be different with a male. They obviously hadn't been, so Marv would be justified in saying he couldn't be of any further help.

  "Your taking her back isn't the answer," Marv said gently. "But I have to come up with some kind of plan, and worse, I made a serious mistake with her, and I need to discuss it with you."

  I sat up straight. Marv made a serious mistake. I was so surprised I didn't speak for a moment. All therapists make minor mistakes all the time, but Marv was handling Ginger as cautiously as he knew how, and he was the best therapist I knew. What kind of serious mistake could he have possibly made? Oh, Lord, don't tell me he crossed some kind of boundary with her or let her cross some kind of boundary with him.

  Shit, if I hadn't been so self-absorbed and focused on my headache and on Willy, I'd have called him back immediately. Great, he needed help from me within days of my camping on his couch, and I hadn't even returned the phone call.