Harper Ross Legal Thrillers vol. 1-3

by Rachel Sinclair

  I closed my eyes and remembered…it was the year 2000, and I was a Freshman at the University of Missouri….

  “Come on up to my room,” he said and I nodded. I could barely stand, so he put his arm around my back to prop me up.

  “I feel really sick,” I said, feeling my head bob on his shoulder. “Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “It’s just a little farther,” he said, ignoring me. “Up these stairs.”

  “No,” I said. “This isn’t such a good idea.” I had the presence of mind to know that what was about to happen was something that shouldn’t. I didn’t know why I told him on the dance floor that I wanted to do this. As he was leading me up the stairs, I knew that it was wrong. Everything was wrong.

  “It’s a very good idea. Harper, I’ve been noticing you in class. You’re so beautiful. I love your red hair and your rack is divine. I’m dying to find out if they’re real. I’ve been dying to find that out all semester.”

  I vaguely knew that I was much drunker than he was. For one, he was walking straight, and I was leaning heavily on him. For another, he seemed to be much more conscious on what was happening than I was.

  “What was in that punch?” The punch, which I had been drinking all night, tasted like it didn’t have much alcohol in it. It was sweet punch, too sweet, and it tasted like some kind of Hawaiian Punch, straight from the can. I always hated Hawaiian Punch. But I had the choice between the punch and the PBR beer that these fraternities bought by the keg. I hated the taste of shitty beer, so I had been drinking the punch all night long.

  “Everclear,” he said. “It was good, huh?”

  “No,” I said. “It was gross. And I really feel like I’m going to be sick. I need to lie down, too. I need to get back to my dorm room and pass out. Can you take me there?”

  “Just a little bit farther,” he said. He got to a room and opened the door. “Here we are.”

  “Thank you. Can I lie down on your bed?”

  “Of course. I want you to. You need to relax.”

  “I don’t need to relax. I need to pass out. Please leave me alone, or, better yet, please take me to my room. My dorm room. It’s just down the street. Hatch Hall. I live on the sixth floor.”

  At the University of Missouri, most fraternity houses were in Greek Town, which was about a half mile from where I lived, which was a dorm on the edge of campus. The Sigma Chi house was one of about eight houses which were separated from Greek Town and were on what was known as “fraternity row.” It was one of the biggest houses on campus and was the house where Brad Pitt himself was a member at one time. The guys there were clean-cut and “popular,” whatever that meant in college. I assumed it meant that the guys in the house were probably the BMOCs in their high schools – the jocks, the homecoming kings, the student council presidents. The guys that I wanted to date but I never could, because I wasn’t one of them.

  “Just lie down,” he said, and he put on some music.

  “Could you turn the light on?” I couldn’t see a thing because it was pitch-black in his room.

  “Nah,” he said, “Let’s just leave it off.”

  “Please turn the light on. And please leave me alone or take me home. Please. I don’t feel good. I don’t feel a bit good. My stomach is churning and my head is about to burst. Please. I need to go home and drink about a gallon of water.” My mouth felt like a hamster had crawled into it and died.

  “Shhhh,” he said as he lay down beside me. “I’ll get you some water in a little bit. Right now, I just have to feel them.” His hand went up my blouse and landed on my bra. He unhooked it from the back and he felt my bare breasts.

  “Stop,” I said. “I told you, I want to go home.” I tried to squirm just a little bit, but he put his hand on my shoulder to hold me still.

  “You don’t want to go home.” He started to kiss me, big sloppy kisses, his tongue jamming into my mouth. His hand continued to feel my breasts, and I took my right hand and tried to get his hand off of my chest. He immediately took his hand and forcibly took my right hand and pinned it to the bed. His left hand continued to massage my breasts as he continued to kiss me sloppily.

  I vaguely heard the sound of somebody coming in the door. I turned my head and saw a shape standing in the doorway. “What’s going on?” the shape said in a laughing tone. “Mike, you got a girl in here again? Jesus Christ, man, when can I ever get any sleep with you in here macking on somebody all the fucking time?”

  “Come in here, Jim, I want you to feel this.”

  It was then that I really started to get scared. I didn’t know this Jim person from Adam. I had no idea who he was. I had no clue on what Michael wanted him to feel. “Go away,” I said, trying to struggle. Michael pinned me down on the bed and continued to feel my breasts. His hand fumbled with the zipper of my jeans and I swatted him away. “Stop. Leave me alone. Take me home. I want to go home.”

  “You’re not going home any time soon,” Michael said in a tone of voice that was no longer polite or playful. His voice was stern, his tone mean. “Now stop struggling.” He unzipped my jeans and I started to cry. Then I started to scream as he pulled them down.

  I started to hit him with my fists.

  “Come over here,” Michael said to Jim. “I need your help with this.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hold her arms above her head. She can’t be hitting me like this.”

  Jim came up to me and forcibly brought my arms above my head. Michael turned the music up louder as I screamed more and more. I heard him unbuckle his pants and unzip them and I stared at the ceiling as Michael wadded up one of his socks and stuck it in my mouth.

  “There,” he said, turning down his music as I lay there silently. I couldn’t breathe very well with the sock stuffed into my mouth, because my nose was stuffed up from constant allergies.

  As he kissed me, I felt him put his fingers inside me. I didn’t kiss him back. I couldn’t struggle, because Jim had my arms held tightly above my head and he was laying on top of me so that it was impossible to kick him. I couldn’t make a sound because I had a sock stuck in my mouth.

  I felt him jam himself inside of me as tears streamed down my cheeks. I wasn’t even drunk anymore – this whole thing was sobering me up so that I knew exactly what was happening to me. I turned my head towards to door, as I was hoping that somebody would end up coming in to save me.

  I wasn’t wet at all, so the feeling of him being inside of me was excruciatingly painful. Physically painful. I felt like my insides were being ripped apart, but I couldn’t scream out.

  “God, you’re so beautiful, you feel so good, oh my God, you’re incredible.” With a groan, I felt him collapse on top of me. I swallowed hard, happy that it was over, but terrified that he was going to try to do it again. I could feel that his hand was on his erect manhood, as if he was trying to fluff himself up for more.

  He didn’t try to rape me again, but he looked up at his buddy. “Your turn,” he said. “It’s the least I can do for you, since you helped me out with her.”

  I wanted to scream out but I still couldn’t. Jim let go of my arms, and I started to flail, but Michael got behind me and held my arms, just as Jim had done. I realized that Jim’s jeans were already down, because he lay down on top of me and immediately jammed himself inside of me. I frantically looked at Michael as I struggled to free myself. He was way too strong, and he held onto to me tightly as Jim thrust himself into me, over and over and over again.

  Michael didn’t take long with me, but Jim seemed to take forever.

  “Whiskey dick,” he said with a laugh. “I can’t seem to come. But I will eventually. God you feel good. Your pussy is so tight.”

  He grabbed my breasts and laughed. “You were right, Michael, these fun bags are amazing. Goddamn, girl, where’d you get a rack like that? Lucious.”

  I cursed my “gift,” which was my set of double Ds that were perched on top of my size six frame. The
y were my bane, really, all my life. I would never forgive them for getting me into this.

  I felt my brain leave my body, and I felt myself hovering over myself, watching all of this going on. I was no longer there in that room. I was someplace else. I closed my eyes and imagined someplace else. I was sitting in my family’s living room, in front of the fire, my sisters and brothers around me. We were playing Scrabble, and my brother Brad was teasing me about a word that I had made up. Albany, my slightly older sister, was defending my usage of the word “bogosity.” “It means totally bogus, Joe, get with the program.” We all laughed as Joe rolled the dice and shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll give it to you this time, sis, because I feel sorry for you. I cream you every damned time.” “I’ll take you when we play Trivial Pursuit,” I said. “You don’t have to take pity on me. I’m schooling you, bro.”

  At some point, I came back to where I really was – laying on that dirty bed while the music below thumped loudly. The party was still going on full swing, but I was currently alone in the bed. I didn’t know what had happened to the guys. I looked around, and I didn’t see any figures around anymore. I took the sock out of my mouth and fumbled around, looking for my clothes. I found them and furtively put them on.

  I walked out of the room, seeing people in the hallway doing shots of alcohol. There were about ten guys and girls out in the hallway, giggling and talking and some of them were making out. Down the hallway, a bit further, was Michael. He and Jim were standing next to a couple of girls. They looked at me and the two of them burst out laughing. When I saw them, I felt bile running from my stomach, and I vomited right there on the floor.

  “Gross,” one of the girls in the hallway said. “You’re going to clean that up, Harper.”

  I recognized that girl as a student in one of my lecture hall classes, which consisted of some 500 people who jammed into an enormous lecture hall to listen to a professor talk about American History. She was also in my smaller group, which was led by a teacher’s assistant who tried to help us with the finer points of the professor’s lecture.

  I didn’t answer her, but I stumbled down the hall while the group of kids outside Michael’s room yelled at me to clean up my mess. I flipped them off as I found the stairs, leaning hard on the railing as I slowly and gingerly made my way down them. I could feel the pain between my legs, but I knew that the worst was to come.

  What happened to me in that room was something that I wouldn’t ever forget. Yet, I was ashamed. Ashamed that I let myself be led to that room. That I encouraged him on the dance floor. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have leaned into him when we danced. I shouldn’t have worn my short skirt and my fuck-me pumps. I shouldn’t have worn so much makeup. I looked like a hussy, so he treated me like one. This was all on me.

  I finally made my way through the party, which was still going, even though it was 2 AM. I heard a bunch of kids shouting about an after-bar party at some off-campus apartment. “Six more kegs at Gerson’s house!” some guy was shouting, apparently referring to the private apartment of an older fraternity brother. That was typically where these after-bar parties were held – at a fraternity brother’s apartment. The pledges had to stay there at the house, but, as they advanced in school, they usually ended up living in various apartments around Columbia.

  I went out the side door, and vomited again on the pavement. My head was pounding and the pain between my legs got stronger and stronger with every step I took. My dorm was about a half mile away, maybe less. I didn’t know if I could make it back, so I took off my shoes and walked slowly away from the house.

  It seemed like it took forever, but I ended up at my building at some point. I went in, taking the elevator to the sixth floor, where my dorm room was. I got to the door of my room, opened it, and climbed the ladder to get onto my loft bed. Once I got there, I lay my head on my pillow and cried all night long.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Michael arrived at my office right at 1 PM. I took a deep breath as Pearl announced him. “Harper, your new murder case is here,” she said, calling me on the phone. “Michael Reynolds.”

  “Send him in.” I took another deep breath. I was going to get through this. I was going to face this. I didn’t face him when I was in college. I didn’t face him when he called me at my home, some five years after I graduated from college, to apologize to me for what had happened. He was getting married and expecting a child, and he wanted to unburden himself. I simply listened to him babbling on the phone. I didn’t say a single word. I ended up hanging up on him and he never called me again.

  I had never faced him before, but I was going to face him now. I was going to face him and I was going to take his case. If I found an opportunity, I would make sure that he fried. I wrestled with this, however, because if he happened to be innocent, I would essentially ensure that the real guilty party would go free.

  I hoped that he was really guilty. That way, I would have the best of both worlds – I could make sure that he got his just desserts, which would be a long prison sentence. If I knew that he was guilty, I could make sure that the prosecutor didn’t go easy on him. That was the best way I knew how to get my revenge on this guy. But if I thought that he was innocent…I couldn’t throw it. I just couldn’t do it. It was against my ethics and it was against my conscience.

  He walked through the door of my office. He looked different than I remembered him. When he raped me, he was an 18-year-old kid, slender, young, with a full head of dark hair. He was now 35, same as me, and it showed ever-so-slightly in the paunchiness of his gut. He still had a full head of wavy hair. He still had enormous dimples and his blue eyes were as young as they were back in the day. With his long dark eyelashes and easy smile, he looked like a choir boy. “Harper,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m so glad you agreed to meet me. I was pleasantly surprised, actually.”

  “Sit down,” I said, pointing to the chair right in front of my desk. I got out a yellow pad of paper. “Did you fill out the new client intake sheet?”

  He nodded and handed it to me. I looked at it, trying to calm my racing heart. My hand was shaking and I turned away. “Tell me what happened,” I said. “With Judge Sanders. Start from the beginning.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Slow down. I called you specifically because I wanted to talk to you. I’ve never been able to forget that night. I haven’t been able to live with what I did. So, when I was arrested for this, your name was the first one I thought about. I remembered reading about your John Robinson case. You did an amazing job with that dude.”

  Oh, no he didn’t. He didn’t just re-open that wound too. “I don’t want to talk about that,” I said crisply. “I just want to know what happened with this case. I’m not promising that I’m going to take your case. I’m not promising anything until I hear your story.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But I was hoping that you would forgive me for what happened. I was wasted and stupid. It was something that I wish that I could take back. I’ve wished that every day for 17 years.”

  “You’re not going to get my forgiveness,” I said. “Now tell me what happened. With your father-in-law. Why were you arrested?”

  He finally sighed. “I don’t know why I was arrested, to be honest with you. I don’t know why. All that I know was that I was on the scene when the cops got there. Dad was in the house alone. Mom was gone for the weekend, visiting her sister. Dad was alone that weekend. My wife was trying to call him for days. He was on leave from his job, medical leave.”

  “Medical leave,” I said, writing the words down. “What were his medical issues?”

  “Nobody knew. He just started getting sick. Started to lose his hair. I mean, he was an older guy, 76 years old, but he had a full head of grey hair. He was really tired all the time, and he bruised really easily. He also stopped eating, so he started to lose a lot of weight. He vomited a lot and had the runs. He also started to get severely depressed. I mean, he started to just to go his room when he got home from wo
rk and just kinda lay there in bed, watching television. He never was like that before. He used to play tennis three days a week, and he was a part of a bicycle group that biked all over the city – the Prairie Village Yacht Club. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  “Yes,” I said, writing down the things he was telling me. I had heard of it – it was a cycling club that went on group rides several nights a week. I had even joined it myself at one time when I was cycling a lot. They were a neat group of people, and I got to know many professionals through that club. “So, he was active at one time.”

  “Yeah. But, oh, about a month ago, he started to really go downhill quickly. The doctors did test after test, but they couldn’t find anything wrong with him. All that was known was that he was getting weaker and weaker, and his bones were aching, he was vomiting, he was losing his hair and he bruised when he barely bumped his leg.” Michael shook his head. “So he was on medical leave.”

  “And your mother-in-law left for the weekend? Was there anybody around to care for him? Any nurse or anybody like that?”

  Michael shook his head. “No. There wasn’t anybody like that.”

  “Why not? He was that sick – why he was left alone?”

  “I don’t know. That’s a good point.” He didn’t elaborate further, so I decided to press on that point.

  “Come on, Michael, it sounded like he was desperately sick. Why would your mother-in-law leave him that weekend without making sure that somebody was there to care for him?”

  Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked embarrassed. “I don’t know.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re lying. This isn’t my first rodeo, Mr. Reynolds, and I can always tell when my clients are lying, and you’re currently lying.” That wasn’t entirely true – I had the wool pulled over my eyes on more than one occasion by some really adept liars that I had defended in my career. But this guy was transparent. I actually was cheered by that, because the worst thing in the world was to defend a client who was a really good liar, only to find out, halfway through the case, that I had been snowed all along. I would then be stuck with a dog of a case even though the case looked good at the outset.