Rachel suspected this was the reason for her sister’s insecurity. “Was she young?” she asked.
“What do you think?” Carrie said bitterly. She remembered the long-legged girl lounging on her sofa in her bra and panties, her youthful face, her slender body. “Anyway, now you know why I never wanted to talk about my divorce. Pretty humiliating, huh?”
“Imagine how humiliated Phil will be when someone mistakes his girlfriend for his daughter,” Rachel said, arching an eyebrow. “He’ll get tired of babysitting, Carrie. From what I’ve heard, they always do.”
Carrie laughed. “I like your attitude. Sis.”
“When you laugh,” Rachel said, memories from the past flooding her mind, “you remind me of Mother. She used to laugh just like you.”
“Hey, if you want to see our mother,” she said, “all you have to do is look at your kid.”
“Tracy?”
“Yeah,” she said, “she’s got Mother’s temperament to a tee. She’s feisty, opinionated, independent. She’s a strong girl, Rachel. You should be proud of her.”
“I never saw Mother as strong,” Rachel said, returning to her seat and eating one of the orange slices. “She might have been strong-willed, but that’s not the same.” She offered a slice to Carrie, but her sister shook her head.
“Oh, Mother was strong, all right,” Carrie said, hoisting herself onto the counter. “You’ve just forgotten what she used to be like before she started drinking.”
“I don’t remember much of anything,” Rachel said. “The only thing that stands out in my mind is the day you told me Mother was a prostitute.”
Carrie blanched. “I shouldn’t have told you,” she said, picking up a sponge and tossing it into the sink. “I thought you already knew, okay? You have no idea how much guilt I carry over that.” She stopped and took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Now that I’m older, I’m beginning to understand what Mother was all about. It’s not such a terrible thing to be a prostitute. She made an honest living. She tried to give us a good home.”
“I don’t know if I would call it an honest living,” Rachel said, a slight tremor in her voice. It was almost as if her mother was in the room, embodied in her older sister’s elaborate makeup, her red fingernails.
“Mother must have loved children,” Carrie continued. “A person who loves children can’t be all bad. She didn’t have to have us, you know. She could have aborted us.”
“Abortion wasn’t legal then.”
“She could have given us up for adoption, then,” Carrie countered. “People pay good money for babies.”
“People didn’t pay to get babies back then,” Rachel told her. “Before Roe versus Wade, there were plenty of abandoned babies around. It was only after people started having abortions that the baby crop dried up.”
“Prostitution is a victimless crime.”
Rachel said, “Not in the eyes of a police officer.”
Carrie slipped down off the counter and returned to her chair at the table, handing Rachel a paper towel to wipe her sticky hands. “Mother was a call girl,” she said. “She wasn’t a junkie, or a streetwalker. I bet she made big money when she was young. By the time you came along, Rachel, her clientele had dropped down to a lower level, mostly military men. In the beginning, the guys she serviced were all professionals, the majority of them successful businessmen.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice to know who our fathers were?” Rachel asked her. “Don’t you wonder sometimes?”
“Not anymore,” Carrie said, shaking her head.
Rachel refused to accept her sister’s sanitized version of their past. Carrie had already left home when things got bad. At the end, their mother had become a cruel woman whose favorite pastime had been venting her hostility on her youngest daughter. “Mother had us for money,” she told her. “She’d been collecting aid for dependent children for years. Having kids was similar to a part-time job. She needed a steady income, something that didn’t change from month to month. When we became adults and the state stopped supporting us, Mother fell apart. She was too old to turn tricks anymore. She knew the gravy train was about to come to an end. Mother was a lazy, self-indulgent woman. She wanted to drink all night and sleep every day until noon.”
“She was a brilliant pianist,” Carrie pointed out. “She could have had a legitimate career in music. You know how long a person has to study the piano to play as well as Mother did?”
“Why didn’t she get a real job, then? She might not have been able to play at Carnegie Hall, but she could have played in a nightclub.”
“Because my asshole father ran out on her when she was six months pregnant,” Carrie said, brushing her hair behind her ears. “She started turning tricks right after I was born. Maybe she thought she could get a job somewhere as a piano player when we got older. How could she work at night in a club, Rachel? Who would have looked after us? Her parents were dead. She was alone in the world.”
“So are we,” Rachel said.
“No,” Carrie said, “we have each other. Mother was an only child. Remember all the secrets we used to share, the Saturday afternoons at the movies, the time we spent at Munson’s skating rink? Even now, you know you can call me if you have a problem. Mother never had that option.”
“I really appreciate what you’re doing,” Rachel said. “It means a lot right now to know you’re willing to look after the kids if I have to—”
“Don’t even say it,” Carrie said. “This is all going to work out, sweetie. And besides,” she added, smiling warmly, “I don’t feel depressed anymore. It’s nice to be around someone who looks up to you, says comforting things to you. To be perfectly honest, I’d rather be here with you and the kids than moping around an empty apartment.”
Rachel fell silent. A few moments later, she said, “I want to talk to you about hiring an attorney.”
“Oh,” Carrie said, glancing down at a yellow pad where she had made a list of local law firms. “I made a few calls today while you were napping, but none of the attorneys I contacted had handled a case this sensitive before. Tomorrow, I’m going to call the police association and see if they can give me the name of an attorney they’ve used to defend other officers.” She sighed wearily. “If the shooting had gone down while you were on duty, the association would have picked up the tab for your legal expenses.”
“I want you to represent me,” Rachel said, reaching across the table to touch Carrie’s hand. “Don’t you understand? If I let you spend your savings on an attorney, what are you going to use to support the kids if I’m convicted and sent to prison? I don’t have any money to give you. You’ll have to hire someone to look after Joe while you’re at work, maybe even move to a larger apartment. Why squander our resources needlessly?”
“I’m a civil litigator,” she said. “I don’t know enough about criminal law to act as your attorney.”
“It can’t be that complex,” Rachel argued.
Carrie knew her point made sense. She made a good living, but her pockets weren’t that deep. Sometimes the cases she handled dragged on for years, and many of them were taken on a contingency basis. If she was forced to care for Tracy and Joe, her whole life would change. She might not be able to travel as much, and her income could suffer as a result. Many of the cases her firm handled were tried outside of San Francisco, and she sometimes had to be gone for weeks at a time.
Could she defend Rachel? Carrie wondered. If she did, she would have to begin preparing immediately. “Are you certain you’re willing to take this kind of chance?”
“I trust you. You’re my big sister,” Rachel said. “Why should I hire a stranger?”
“You’ll have to listen to me,” Carrie said, looking stem. “You’ll have to do whatever I decide is best for your case.”
“Fine,” she said. “As long as you don’t ask me to lie or insist that I allow Tracy to perjure herself, I’ll go along with anything you suggest.”
“This is surv
ival,” Carrie shouted, slamming her fist down on the table. “The cops are lying through their teeth, trying to railroad you. Are you going to throw your life away rather than put a dent in your principles?”
“Why don’t we worry about Tracy’s testimony when the time comes?” Rachel said, scooping up the rinds from her orange and depositing them in the trash can. “Look, it’s getting late. I’d better go.”
Joe began crying in the other room. “Go,” Carrie said. “I’ll take good care of Joe. Rent yourself a nice hotel room. Maybe you can get a decent night’s sleep for a change.” She walked over and pressed a handful of cash into Rachel’s palm, then handed her a stack of envelopes. “Drop these in a mailbox, okay?”
Rachel looked through the envelopes, recognizing some of the addresses. “These are my bills. I can’t let you pay them.”
“Let me do this for you,” she said, clasping her hand. “Are you going to deny me the right to help my own sister?”
“No,” Rachel said, dropping her eyes.
“Since I’m going to represent you, maybe I can find a way Tracy doesn’t have to testify. As soon as they arraign you, I’ll file a discovery motion and find out exactly what kind of a case they’ve got. They may have a lot less than we think they do.”
Rachel embraced her. “What’s going to happen with your job? Weren’t you working on a big case?”
“Already resolved,” Carrie said. “A job is a job, Rachel. If they decide to fire me, I can always find another position. A sister is a lot harder to replace.”
With a scarf tied over her head, Rachel backed Lucy’s station wagon out of the driveway and squealed off down the road, slipping past the unmarked police car on the comer.
She had not stayed in a hotel since her honeymoon. She drove down Main Street in Oak Grove thinking she might get a room at the new Ramada Inn, then jumped on the 101 freeway. When she reached the exit for Ventura, she steered the car to the off ramp and headed up Victoria Boulevard. The drive was calming her. She was used to driving for long periods of time on her job.
For the first time in days, Rachel felt some semblance of normalcy.
Passing Ventura College, she saw Mike Atwater’s street. She had been rude to him that morning, and he seemed to be doing everything he could to help her. She drove past his residence, then made a U-turn at the end of the street and returned. The lights were still on in the living room. She parked and walked to the front door, quickly tucking her shirt into the waistband of her jeans.
“What’s wrong?” Atwater said when he opened the door. He was dressed in a tank top and running shorts. He looked anything but pleased to see her.
“Don’t worry,” Rachel told him, stepping into the entryway, “I’m going to surrender myself in the morning.”
This announcement startled him. “Did they contact you?”
“No, but you told me they were coming to arrest me tonight. Carrie insisted I get a hotel room. She didn’t want me to have to spend the night in jail.”
Atwater grabbed her arm, jerking her away from the door and locking it. “You have no idea what you just said,” he told her, leading her toward the back of the house. “If you tell anyone else I told you that, I could be brought up on criminal charges. It’s against the law to leak information about an impending warrant. The suspect could flee, destroy evidence.”
“I’m not going to flee,” Rachel said, annoyed that he was treating her like a criminal.
Atwater passed through the living room, opened the French doors leading into the backyard, and stepped out. Rachel walked up behind him. “I’m sorry about yesterday morning,” she whispered. “Is your thumb okay?”
“I’m not upset about that, Rachel,” he said, not turning to face her. “I’m afraid that the things you told me about Grant assaulting you may be used against you. Besides providing you with a motive, the fact that you withheld information regarding the assault when we interviewed you on the morning of the shooting will make you look suspicious in the eyes of the jury.”
“It’s okay, Mike,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Not responding, the prosecutor walked down the stone path to the gazebo and stretched out in one of the lounge chairs. It was overcast, the moon hidden behind low-hanging clouds, the air heavy with moisture. Rachel glanced at the sky, seeing the clouds moving like a dark shadow over her head. Combined with the dense foliage, the scent of the air made her think of a tropical forest. “It’s going to rain,” she said, taking a seat beside him in the matching recliner. The white canvas covering the gazebo was billowing out in the breeze, then slapping back against the columns.
“I’m appalled at what Grant Cummings did to you,” Atwater said, a slight catch in his voice. “I saw the photographs. I know how viciously this man beat you. If only you’d called me the night it happened, I would have had Cummings arrested immediately and prosecuted him to the full extent of the law.”
“Laws don’t mean much to me anymore,” Rachel told him. “I’m not saying I don’t believe in honesty and integrity. The people who write laws are politicians, though. They only write laws to please their constituents.” She watched as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. “If the people who make the laws are insincere and the people who enforce them are corrupt, where does justice come in?”
Atwater shook his head in disagreement. “Not every police department is like Oak Grove. There are thousands of decent cops out there, people willing to risk their lives for the good of the community.”
“Nothing’s going to change,” Rachel said, reaching her hand outside the canopy and feeling a drop of rain strike her palm. “It’s only going to get worse.”
“Why do you say that?” he said, turning his head.
“Because I know,” Rachel said. “Cummings, Town-send, Miller, Ramone, Hitchcock. Even if they all get fired, others just like them will take their place. It’s the authority. It’s like a drug, a sickness. Cops begin to think they’re beyond the law, that they are the law. Then the job itself squeezes you and squeezes you. Someone spits on you. Someone flips you the finger. You save someone’s life, and for gratitude, they try to kill you.” Rain started pelting the canvas top of the gazebo. “A police officer can’t socialize with normal people. They don’t understand the things you go through, the constant fear, the horror. You start spending all your time with other cops. Before you know it, every civilian becomes the enemy. It’s similar to an army run amuck.”
“I guess that’s why they ask for the chief’s resignation in situations like this,” Atwater said. “Anarchy begins where leadership ends.”
Rachel smiled. “Catchy phrase.”
“It’s more than that. Because you came forward, Rachel,” he said, “things will change at the Oak Grove Police Department. Give yourself credit. Not many people would have the courage to go up against this army run amuck, as you so aptly described them.”
“I’m not a courageous person, Mike,” Rachel said. “I’m not even a very good police officer. I didn’t set out on this road thinking I could eradicate police corruption or bring about radical change. I get up every morning just like everyone else does. I work. I sleep. I try to be the best person I can possibly be, whether it’s as a parent or a police officer. I don’t believe in lying, stealing, or intentionally hurting people. Those are the only goals I set for myself.” She looked at him and smiled. “Not too sophisticated, huh?”
Atwater fell silent, pondering the things she had said. “If everyone took your approach to life,” he said, “the world might be a better place. There’s great beauty in simplicity, Rachel.”
“I have to go,” she said, standing.
“It’s raining,” he answered. “Why don’t you stay?”
Rachel walked out into the rain, tilting her head and letting the drops splash against her face. She felt purged. She had done what she had set out to do. She had told the truth, made a stand for what she felt was right. If she never accomplished another thing for the rest of he
r life, she could feel a measure of pride. Sergeant Larry Dean would be pleased. She looked up at the heavens, wondering if he was watching. A year after Rachel had moved away from San Diego, she had read about his death in the newspaper. He had died in the line of duty, shot and killed by a robbery suspect. She had driven to San Diego to attend the funeral. The officers had all worn black armbands. They had marched behind Larry Dean’s coffin in their dress uniforms. Every police agency in the state had sent a contingent of officers to pay their respects. Sergeant Larry Dean had served his community valiantly, died bravely, and been buried with dignity.
Where had all the heroes gone?
“Come out of the rain,” Atwater said, stepping up beside her. “You’re getting drenched.”
“I love it,” Rachel said. “I feel like I’ve been swimming in sewage for two years. This is the first time I’ve felt clean.”
Atwater felt a stab of guilt. Rachel had trusted him, looked up to him. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he said, raising his voice so Rachel could hear him over the rain. “I befriended you thinking I could use you to advance my career. I’m not the person you think I am, Rachel. I’m a self-serving asshole.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Atwater explained about the Brentwood case, along with the other incident he had handled involving Jimmy Townsend. “Police corruption is a hot ticket,” he told her. “I thought if I could get you to cooperate, I might end up with a sensational case on my hands.”
Rachel was hurt. “I guess you got what you wanted,” she said, turning to walk away.
Atwater caught her arm. “After I got to know you,” he said, “my feelings for you became genuine. Please believe me, Rachel. What we shared that night was real.”
Rachel spat out a mouthful of rain. So much had happened since that evening, their lovemaking had almost vanished from her memory. “You’re not responsible for my predicament,” she said, her anger evaporating. “When my husband and I first met, I was working at a nursery. He said he flirted with me hoping I would forget to charge him for some of the plants.” She smiled, remembering that day. “Everyone has something they want from a relationship.”
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