Strawgirl

by Abigail Padgett

  "I think that was the idea," Bo muttered. "So who was that creep?"

  LaMarche walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his head, stretching. "There was no identification on the body," he said. "It could be anybody. The police are trying to establish his identity through fingerprints, but there's nothing to prove that man had anything to do with the deaths of Samantha Franer or Cynthia Ganage. What it looks like," he turned to face Bo but fastened his gaze on the roses instead, "is just some guy with a personal vendetta against you. A 'fatal attraction' is the term Detective Reinert used. You live in a rather bohemian area, Bo." He looked up warily. "Without knowing it you may have engaged the warped attention of—"

  "Oh, come on!" Bo snapped, incredulous. "Out of the blue a total stranger smashes into my home after cutting my brake lines, chases me through a tropical storm and comes after me with a knife in a sea cave because I live in a bohemian neighborhood? That's a plot straight out of a right-wing guidebook for women. I suppose Cynthia Ganage asked for it, too. She had the gall to make a lot of money and lease her own suite of rooms in a posh hotel. And Samantha, of course, would still be alive if only her mother had known her place and stayed at home instead of getting a part-time job. No matter what brutal, vicious thing happens, it's really some woman's fault. Is that it?"

  Andrew LaMarche sat in a wicker wing-chair that squeaked under his weight. "I only said the police have hypothesized—"

  "The police can't spell 'hypothesized,' " Bo yelled, lurching to stand and then sitting back on the bed as a sharp pain exploded in her right leg. A picture formed briefly in her brain. The stranger, his wet, wispy hair the color of chewing gum under a school desk. His eyes barely blue, almost clear. Vacant as glass. "That thing out there on the cliffs was Samantha's killer. Eva said he might have ... changed, after knowing he killed Samantha."

  "Changed?" LaMarche rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Changed how?"

  "He might have been transforming into a ... a serial killer. It has something to do with power. First, sexual power over little children. And then murder."

  "Ganage, and then you, right? I'm not disagreeing with Dr. Broussard's train of thought, Bo. I suspect she's on to something. But there's not a shred of evidence to support such a contention. Moreover, Dr. Broussard cannot be called to advance her theory in court because the court doesn't know she's here. And even if she did, there's really nothing in her theory that exonerates Paul Massieu. The whole city's on a witchhunt, edgy over the Satanism thing. Paul is demonstrably a member of a group whose beliefs are not routinely taught from pulpits. The human race is only an eyelash away from a past framed in barbarous superstition, Bo. When they're scared they want a scapegoat. No judge is going to release Paul Massieu today. It's just not going to happen."

  "Why can't they scapegoat the creep with the knife?" Bo argued. "He looked demonic to me."

  "Because nobody knows about him. Massieu's visible, different, barely speaks English. Add to that the fact that he was living without benefit of marriage with a woman who committed suicide the same day her daughter's rape was made public. What would you think, Bo?"

  "What I wouldn't think," Bo said while gingerly edging to her feet, "is that any set of facts, in any situation, suggests the existence of a horned mastermind on little goat feet."

  "It's not the mythological details so much as a projection of otherness," LaMarche continued, wincing in sympathy as Bo stood. "It's the Other that matters. People are prone to persecute anybody who can be identified as Other. Paul has been identified. Getting him out of that isn't going to be easy."

  "I intend to give it my best shot," Bo told a space just above the doctor's head. "Will you drive me to my apartment? I need to get ready for the hearing."

  "Martin found a packed bag," LaMarche said, "and brought it to you, along with two dozen whole wheat rolls. Estrella and Henry are preparing breakfast. Shall we?" He stood, held his arm to her, and bowed slightly in a display of courtesy so genuine Bo felt like crying.

  "Andy," she grinned, "have I told you that I'm growing fond of the way you talk?"

  "I'm honored," he answered.

  Downtown San Diego's steeply pitched streets gleamed in post-storm sunlight as Henry Benedict found a parking lot close to the criminal courts building. Urban jacarandas, planted in cement tubs and elegantly fenced, appeared to be lavender balloons lining the street.

  "Do I look okay?" Bo asked Estrella from the back seat where her right leg sprawled and throbbed in its canvas splint.

  "You look great, and the crutches are an interesting accessory," Estrella replied. "I don't understand what you're so nervous about. Everything's under control, even if Paul isn't released today. Hannah's safe and doing well with Eva. She's talking again. It may take a while longer to free Paul. Quit worrying."

  As Bo hopped around the corner from the parking lot, sweating from the exertion required by the crutches, she saw them. The black-clad crew from the street in front of St. Theresa's Church, their number quadrupled. Their placards less literary.

  "San Diego Says No to Satan," one declared. The woman carrying it, sixtyish in theatrical makeup and red high-top sneakers, seemed to take personal pride in her poster. Her eyes sparkled like a child's.

  Bo's favorite was one that botched a traditional exorcism. "Get Thee Behind Me, Satan," it commanded, "the Lion of Judy Casts Thee Out!"

  "What in hell is the Lion of Judy?" Henry Benedict whispered as they ran the gauntlet of demonstrators.

  "It's supposed to be Judah." Bo grinned. The carrier of the errant sign glowered beneath a cap advertising beer brewed in Colorado. Bo was grateful for the moment. It would be a while, she thought, before she was likely to smile again.

  Solon Gentzler paced inside the lobby door in a rumpled three-piece suit. He looked like a teddy bear in a mortician's costume.

  "LaMarche phoned and told me what happened last night," he said, furthering the cause for canonization of the ever-proper pediatrician. "I'm glad you're all right. But right now I need to speak with you privately."

  Estrella and Henry nodded and moved toward the building's smudged brass elevator doors. In the lobby of a criminal court building, Bo realized as Gentzler pulled her behind a dusty silk ficus tree bent over a row of newspaper machines, the scent of floor wax could not overcome a mustier scent of despair. In the crowd a prostitute wearing revealingly torn shorts conferred with a woman attorney in Brooks Brothers gray. A Mexican couple struggled to read the English building directory, and then bowed their heads when the man's blunt finger found the courtroom they were looking for.

  "Cuatro," he pronounced sadly, "numero cuatro." The woman began to cry.

  A thousand stories.All terrible.

  Oh, no. Not now, Bradley. Ignore everything but the reason you're here.

  "Eva Broussard also phoned me this morning," Solon Gentzler explained quickly. "She says that Hannah has begun to speak again and wanted to know if there were any way for Hannah to testify in Paul's behalf without falling into the hands of the Department of Social Services."

  "No!" Bo exclaimed. "There's a petition in place. I filed it myself. She'd be seized by the bailiff and taken away the minute her identity became known."

  "I told Broussard as much," Gentzler went on. "Hannah's testimony that Samantha told her somebody named Goody raped her would only be hearsay, anyway. Not admissible. Nothing can be gained by exposing Hannah to the court. I just wanted to get your feel for the idea. I could stall this thing, ask for a later date based on new evidence. Are you sure you want to go through with this, Bo? With public interest as high as it is, the best we can hope for is manageable bail and a quick trial date. It can't help Paul."

  "I want to go through with it," Bo answered. "It's for me now. And Hannah. And a guy named Patrick who just might need a job in a few months. Let's do it!"

  Criminal Court Number Seven was oak-paneled and brightly lit as Bo hobbled to the long table facing the bench. A metal sign on the broad, high desk said JUD
GE ALBERT GOSSELIN.

  "Who's Gosselin?" Bo asked Solon Gentzler as she sat and pushed her crutches under the table.

  "Antioch Law School, graduated in '76. A Quaker, sits on the National Prison Reform Board, collects quilts as a hobby. He's a dream-come-true, but I'm afraid it won't help us today."

  Bo glanced at the tiered seats behind her. Estrella and Henry, smiling. Reporters with notepads. Rombo Perry and Martin St. John in dark suits, looking like 1950s jazzmen. Andrew LaMarche, resplendent in pinstripes and vest, a gold collar pin gleaming under the most conservative tie Bo had seen west of Tulsa. Madge Aldenhoven entering through the double doors at the back of the courtroom, accompanied by a bleak man in tan gabardine whom Bo recognized from his picture in the reception area of her office building. The director of San Diego County's Department of Social Services. Bo felt a tissue-thin glacier spread beneath her skin. Madge had brought in the big dog for the kill.

  Solon Gentzler grinned at a group following Madge. An older couple and a woman with masses of sandy curls identical to his own.

  "My folks, my sister," he told Bo. "I told them what you were going to do; they came down to lend support. There's some pressing business to attend back in L.A. this afternoon, so I'll be leaving as soon as the hearing's over. But no matter what happens, Bo, the ACLU is behind you. Nationally, if necessary."

  Paul Massieu, handcuffed and in the blue polyester uniform of the jailed, was brought in, followed by the black-robed judge.

  "All rise," the bailiff roared. "The Honorable Judge Albert Gosselin presiding."

  Bo smoothed her green skirt with sweaty palms as the prosecuting attorney called Dr. Andrew Jacques LaMarche, attending physician to Samantha Franer at the time of her death, to testify. From the stand LaMarche listed his credentials without looking at Bo, and then quietly described the injuries that had killed a little girl.

  A representative of the San Diego Police Department outlined its case against Paul Massieu, mentioning at one point its official discomfort with the accused man's membership in a group known to hold unusual beliefs.

  "Objection!" Solon Gentzler boomed. "The man's personal beliefs are not at issue ..."

  Bo was certain his voice could be heard in Denver, and equally certain that an impassioned speech had been planned for precisely this moment.

  "Sustained," the judge replied briskly, dashing all hope of oratory.

  Solon Gentzler took his seat, sighing.

  "I call Barbara J. Bradley," the prosecuting attorney announced, and Bo summoned a picture of Lois Bittner in Frye boots, smiling. It was time to do this. Others were doing it—movie stars, novelists, publishers, and TV personalities—all throwing off secrecy and demonstrating to a misanthropic public that people with psychiatric disorders had been right there all along. That people with psychiatric disorders differed from people with diabetes only in the body part affected. Bo wanted to join them. Would, join them, now.

  "You may testify from your seat if reaching the stand presents a problem," Judge Albert Gosselin noted as Bo pulled her crutches from under the table and stood awkwardly.

  "No, I'll take the stand," Bo answered. The only way. Would Bernadette Devlin do this with her back to a crowd? Never.

  Madge Aldenhoven's gaze, benign and phony, followed Bo like a tracking device. The DSS director seemed to be asleep.

  "It is the opinion of San Diego County's Child Protective Services," Bo pronounced after describing herself and her credentials, "that Paul Massieu represents a danger to children."

  Remember to breathe, Bradley. Here it comes.

  "His release into the community at this point would constitute warrantless endangerment of our own children."

  Bo had said what she was ordered to say. Madge Aldenhoven's smile was small and perfect.

  "You may cross-examine," Albert Gosselin told the defense attorney.

  "I defer to co-counsel of record, Solon Gentzler," the defense attorney said as Gentzler stood and strolled toward Bo. At the last-minute question in his eyes Bo merely nodded.

  "Ms. Bradley," he began, "is it not true that you suffer from a psychiatric disorder known as manic-depressive illness, and that you have in fact been hospitalized for your own protection due to this illness, which can distort your perceptions of reality?"

  "That is true," Bo said.

  "And is it not also true that you are not currently taking any of the medications routinely prescribed for the control of symptoms connected to this illness?"

  "Yes."

  "Your Honor," Solon Gentzler turned toward the judge. "I have no further questions, and ask that the testimony of this witness be stricken from the record on the basis of the witness's history of mental illness."

  Bo's eyelids felt metallic, her lungs flattened by the weight of her blouse. She'd wanted to do this. It was her choice. Facts that did nothing toward the restoration of normal breathing. A silence in the room collapsed upon itself like a soundless gasp, and then began to expand.

  "Ms. Bradley appears perfectly competent to me," Albert Gosselin answered. "Denied. Unless there's any redirect, you may step down, Ms. Bradley."

  None of the lawyers had further questions.

  Bo inhaled deeply and heard the rush of air like a choir in her ears. Twenty years of shame and fear, a legacy of vicious superstition extending back to prehistory, had fallen away at her words. Out of the ancient closet, she'd joined the others, the pioneers who would make a world free of psychiatric stigma. And whatever the consequences, it felt like triumph. Her words hadn't helped Paul Massieu, given Gosselin's denial. But they had defeated a bureaucracy at its own game and released their speaker from an invisible constraint worse than any strait jacket. In the front row of seats Andrew LaMarche's eyes glowed with a fierce pride. In the back, Madge Aldenhoven pursed her lips and leaned to whisper something to her companion. Bo heard Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D in her head as she regained her seat at the table. Pipe organ. All stops out.

  "If there is no further testimony ..." the judge began as Dar Reinert appeared at the rear doors, carrying something in an evidence bag. Quickly he approached the prosecuting attorney.

  "Detective Reinert has produced unexpected evidence critical to these proceedings," the prosecuting attorney noted, standing. "May we approach the bench?"

  "It's a videotape of somebody in a clown suit with Samantha in the cave," Reinert whispered in Bo's ear as the attorneys flocked before the judge. "We found it in the creep's car right behind where you tossed yours. Could be Massieu, if there's anything to this Satanist conspiracy thing. You don't wanna see what's on that tape."

  Five minutes later a puzzled assemblage watched as the bailiff put the tape into a VCR brought into the courtroom. On the television screen above the VCR someone in a polka-dot clown costume and smiling mask fondled a living Samantha Franer. Bo gasped at the scene. The child beneath the crystalline curls was alive, moving, smiling. The same child Bo had seen motionless and cold on an operating table. In the

  taped scene the little girl's unease at the man's groping hands was overcome by her delight at the sparkling lights, the candy he offered her, the balloons and trinkets. There was no sound on the tape, but Bo could almost hear the tinnily reproduced theme from Sesame Street. As the pale hands began to pull at Samantha Franer's blue corduroy shorts, Albert Gosselin directed the bailiff to freeze the action. Paul Massieu, his handcuffed hands held tightly against his broad chest, was sobbing.

  "If the man's features are never discernible throughout this event," the judge growled at Reinert, "there is no point in subjecting ourselves to this horror. Is the face ever visible?"

  "No," Reinert answered.

  "But the man is obviously not Paul Massieu," Solon Gentzler began. "He's three inches shorter and—"

  "A distortion caused by the camera angle," the prosecuting attorney interjected. "There's no way ..."

  Bo's head felt buoyant, her eyes full of light. The creature in the clown suit had died last night, his brain s
mashed to inactivity by thundering surf. The tide had turned. That leprous soul was gone. And now she would free the man who would be Hannah Franer's father, who would stand between Hannah and this nightmare.

  "Your Honor," Bo grinned broadly, ignoring courtroom protocol, "did you get a look at Paul Massieu's right hand?"

  Expectation filled the silent room as every eye memorized the scene before them. A pervert in a clown's costume, pulling with hungry hands at the clothing of a blonde little girl. Each hand below the costume sleeves bearing five fingers, clearly visible on the screen. Then every head turning to Paul Massieu, his black eyes still wet with tears. Slowly he spread his clenched hands for all to see the right one, scarred and bent. Missing its little finger.

  Thirty minutes later Bo led Paul Massieu to a wall phone in the hall outside Criminal Court Number Seven, and gave him the number of a studio cottage in Del Mar. A cottage where he could go freely as soon as he'd gotten his clothes and effects from the jail, signed innumerable forms, and returned his blue uniform.

  "Eva!" she heard him begin, "je suis libre."

  And you're free, too, Bradley. About time.

  As her friends waited in a cluster, Bo approached Madge Aldenhoven and her guest. Solon Gentzler, his parents and sister, followed.

  "Well, Madge?" Bo broke the ice. "What now?"

  Aldenhoven's fake smile had died. "I've known all along there was something wrong with you, Bo. Your unfortunate grandstanding here has only—"

  "I scarcely see anything wrong with the courage and dedication Ms. Bradley has brought to the performance of her duties in this case," a voice boomed. "I'm Barry Gentzler, by the way." The elder Gentzler directed his remarks to the man in tan gabardine. "The Americans with Disabilities Act precludes any government agency from discharging an employee on the basis of medical disability. I feel safe in assuring you that the American Civil Liberties Union will take deep interest in any punitive action directed at Ms. Bradley as a result of her courageous disclosure here today. Our interests, as you undoubtedly know, have been known to reach the Supreme Court."