Cristina

by Jake Parent

  The lawyer looked at her skeptically. “OK, Ms. Rodriguez, if you say so. And how would you explain these?”

  Walden Chester III removed several photographs from his briefcase and placed them onto the table. The pictures were of her at the drum circle, holding a joint in her hand, laughing and swaying her body like some stoned hippy.

  Cristina was mortified.

  She told him, “Someone handed me that. I was just passing it on. I swear. I did not smoke it.”

  Her voice had cracked. She opened the bottle of water in front of her and gulped half of it down.

  “Your Honor,” Dan said. “Given that the test does not show any evidence of marijuana use, assuming of course that is marijuana in the photograph and not simply tobacco, it seems obvious that this piece of evidence is immaterial to these proceedings.”

  Walden Chester III tried to ask Cristina another question, but the judge held up a hand to stop him.

  “That’s enough. This isn’t a courtroom, and you aren’t cross examining her. I’ll ask the questions here, thank you very much.” Once it was clear who was in charge, he straightened his robe and continued. “Now, normally I’d say you’re lying to me, Ms. Rodriguez. But given what I’ve read in the case file about the way Mr. Stevens conducted himself in your previous relationship, I’m inclined to give you some benefit of the doubt.”

  He paused and looked around the room, as if to make sure everyone was following along.

  Then, he asked, “Ms. Rodriguez, are you still in possession of these chocolates?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There are a few left. I threw them in the trashcan when I started feeling sick, but they’re still in there.”

  “Good. Then I’m going to send you home with a court officer who will collect them.” He turned to Anthony, who’d lost most of his cocky demeanor. “And, Mr. Stevens, if I discover that what she’s saying is true, you aren’t going to be able to buy your way out of trouble this time.”

  “Your Honor,” Walden Chester III said. “This is all quite speculative. We’d like to move to suspend custody of the daughter until this matter is resolved. Sir, my client is in fear for his daughter’s life. All he wants is to protect her.”

  “I’m sure.” The judge sat back in his chair and again scratched the puff of hair on the side of his head. “You think I haven’t seen it all, counselor? You think I haven’t seen the way men in this system get away with murder? Sometimes literally.” He let out a long sigh. “I’ve been doing this for three decades now, and trust me when I say I have seen it all. And I for one am damn glad that the times are finally changing so these sick sons-of-bitches can’t keep getting away with it. Now, unless you want me to completely dismiss this proceeding right now, I suggest you rethink your last comment and withdraw it.”

  For the first time since he sat down, Anthony’s expensive attorney stopped smiling. He looked like someone had just slapped him in the face.

  Cristina bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

  Judge Peterson began collecting his things and added, “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. If need be, we’ll reconvene this matter pending investigation into the questionable confections. For now, all custody matters pertaining to this case will remain unchanged. Ms. Rodriguez, please see the clerk. She’ll assign an officer to escort you home. Until then, you aren’t to leave the building.”

  They all stood again when the judge did.

  Cristina remained stone-faced as Anthony walked out. He was now obviously upset. For just the slightest moment, he shot a piercing stare her way. It was likely imperceptible to anyone else in the room, but in that short period of time, his face contorted with vengeful spite. The look of a spoiled child who has been told no. She hated to admit it, but that glare still frightened her, like a kid whose father has come home drunk on Friday night looking for someone to take out the week’s accumulated anger on.

  42

  In the clerk’s office, Cristina and Dan sat waiting for an officer. They were told it would be “just a little while.” In reality, more than two hours went by before a short female cop came out wearing a pantsuit.

  In a formal police tone, the woman introduced herself as Detective Washburn, an investigator for the family court, specializing in cases of domestic abuse. It was her job to examine the crime scene and collect any available evidence. In particular, the alleged chocolates, which she said would be tested – both for the presence of methamphetamine, but also for fingerprints or any other indication of where they may have come from. Once everything had been processed, it would be up to Judge Peterson as to how the case would proceed.

  Dan told Cristina he would meet her at the house.

  The two women walked through a series of hallways and into a secure garage, where they got into an unmarked police cruiser.

  Although Cristina had on dress clothes and was sitting in the front seat, hearing the crackle of the police radio brought back memories of getting busted as a teenager. She suddenly remembered the feeling of her aching shoulder after it had been almost ripped out of its socket by an overzealous cop who “didn’t appreciate the attitude” Cristina had shown him. She could almost taste the coppery blood dripping from her lip after she’d been tossed into the back of his car, hands cuffed behind her, face slammed into the hard-plastic seat.

  It was a strange feeling to have the cops on her side for once. At least, she hoped they would be. It was hard to believe that her future, and the future of her daughter, rested on a few small pieces of chocolate sitting near the top of her kitchen trashcan.

  The ride to Pleasure Point began with Officer Washburn gathering some information about Cristina and her relationship with Anthony. For the most part, the questions she asked weren’t unpleasant, and at times her tone was even sympathetic.

  How old was Cristina?

  How about her daughter?

  How long were she and Anthony married?

  And so forth.

  All those were easy to answer.

  What wasn’t so simple to talk about was how the two had met. Cristina had worked hard to block out that part of her past. It was, after all, the darkest period of her entire life. But, as buried as Cristina thought the memories were, they returned to her in perfect, vivid detail as soon as she began to talk.

  43

  Cristina had been staying in the same place for about three months, which was an eternity as far as living in squats went. The spot wasn’t too bad either, all things considered. At one point in time, it must have been some kind of an office building. There were still rows of abandoned cubicles set up. Most of them were now moldy and chewed by rats, but they at least offered some semblance of privacy.

  There were about ten regulars, half of them guys and half of them gals, made up of a wide range of ages. The youngest was a 14-year-old named Cassandra, who everyone called “Shadow.” On any given night, this core group was joined by somewhere between ten and twenty other “randoms” – people who stayed for a day or two and then moved on.

  What brought them all together was a love of needles. There was plenty of sharing syringes happening, but luckily Cristina was never dumb or desperate enough to stoop that low. By that point in her life, she already knew of at least one person – an ex-boyfriend everyone called Muerto – who’d ended up with HIV that way. So she always went to the needle exchange to get fresh rigs whenever she needed them.

  The space smelled like most squats. A ripe combination of sweat, mildew, and highly-concentrated piss. There were a few dirty mattresses, mostly used as a space for people to pass out after they got high. The regulars each had a “room,” which was really just one of the cubicles, where they stored clothes and other belongings.

  Not that anyone had much.

  The vibe was pretty mellow, for the most part. There was some moody bickering, especially between one couple who got into it almost every night, mostly about who was cheating on who. But, all-in-all, people sort of looked out for one another.

 
In so much as anyone can trust an active junky.

  The living situation worked as long as the drugs stayed flowing.

  To that end, there was a certain arrangement at the squat, one Cristina couldn’t remember having ever been spoken out loud. Nonetheless, it existed. The guys were in charge of making sure no one came in and jacked the place or otherwise started trouble. They also sometimes stole stuff that could be easily pawned. Things like cellphones and copper piping.

  The girls were the real moneymakers, though.

  Of course, employment options are rather limited when you’re shooting heroin and meth into your body all day, every day.

  Really, there were only two choices: robbing and prostitution.

  A couple of the girls were really good at the first line of work. They would put on their best clothes, take the bus downtown, and find either a tourist or some other clueless-looking guy in a suit. Once they identified a mark, the girl (or girls if they decided to work in a group) would follow him until he was alone.

  Next, she approached the guy and casually began to flirt. It usually didn’t take long before she could get him alone in a bathroom or a car or whatever.

  Then, out came the knife.

  Any kind of struggle was rare, if the mark had been chosen wisely. It’s amazing what the sight of a blade a few inches from a guy’s manhood can do. If the girl hadn’t chosen a good target though – usually because she was jonesing so hard she forgot about being cautious – the guy might try to fight. Then it became a choice between using the knife or flat-out running.

  Cristina didn’t particularly like robbing people. She wasn’t afraid of defending herself, but she hated the idea of having to be purposefully violent.

  Besides, she’d long-since become comfortable trading her body for what she needed. It was easy for her to slip into a state of mind that allowed her not to care what a trick did to her. After a while, and with enough dope in her system, it was all the same anyway. Wherever he wanted to stick it. Whatever he wanted her to do. None of it really made a difference.

  On top of that, even as a full-blown junky, she still looked pretty good, which allowed her to make more money than the girls who had sores and rashes all over themselves. At least once she figured out the game.

  But she didn’t start off making that much.

  At first, her approach was simple: pick a street corner wearing a short skirt and wait to get picked up. It usually didn’t take long.

  Once in a car, she told the trick to drive around to an alley she used. There, they got into the back seat, or she would wedge herself between two garbage dumpsters and take it from behind.

  She almost never had to get totally naked. It was simple enough to hike up her skirt and be ready to go. Panties were nothing but a waste of time. Once the guy was done – usually no more than five or ten minutes – she took his cash and went back around the corner to find the next customer.

  During that time, she had to do a dozen or more guys to earn enough cash so she could stay high for a few days. Sometimes she could make that much last up to a week, depending on how many people she decided to share her stash with. But never any longer.

  Dope was really her only expense. She never had much of an appetite. And when she did eat, her diet consisted mainly of forcing herself to eat a McDouble, or a bag of Fritos from the liquor store. The only time she ate normally was when someone had weed. It was the only thing that gave her an appetite. That was rare, though. Most of the people she spent time around treated smoking pot like a joke and a waste of money.

  With the right mindset and enough dope, working the streets was easy cash.

  But not always.

  Every once in a while, some guy drove off without paying. Surprisingly though, most of the tricks were pretty good about it. And Cristina came to look upon those who weren’t as a cost of doing business.

  Not that she would let them go willingly. She wasn’t above getting crazy, even if she only had to actually cut someone once. A little scratch on the hand, really. The jerk coughed the cash up quick, too.

  On top of the cheapskates, she had more than a few men who thought it was fun to rough her up. But by that time, getting hit was something she’d become numb to. So she usually just let it happen, knowing that struggling would only make it worse.

  But the real threat turning tricks on street corners wasn’t the abusers or the guys who decided they no longer wanted to pay for the load they just got rid of.

  What Cristina feared most were the pimps. The first time one of them caught an independent girl working one of “their” corners, she would be lucky if she got away with just a warning. More likely they would beat her ass, and probably take a taste of her for good measure. The second time, she was likely to wind up with a bullet in her head, tossed in the dumpster to be taken away with the rest of the trash.

  Eventually, Cristina realized she didn’t need to work the street anymore. Even though she’d been shooting meth and heroin for a couple years at that point, she was still a young, curvy Latina with a pretty face and a smoking body.

  Maybe it was the Fritos.

  After having to hide in a dumpster one day to avoid a pimp with a baseball bat, she decided to steal a couple of nice cocktail dresses from the mall so she could start working the bars downtown.

  These places were mostly filled with bankers, managers of tech startups, that kind of thing. Big shots at their day jobs, these guys were interested in surprisingly similar fantasies. They loved having a little brown-skinned girl spank them and tell them they were worthless. They wanted her to fuck them up the ass with a black rubber-cock, while they screamed about how scared they were and what bad little boys they’d been.

  To Cristina it was kind of weird, but they paid well. And it sure beat getting rammed up against an alley wall that still stank of drunken vomit, or worrying about a pimp rolling up on her with a shotgun because she was on “his” corner.

  It was in one such high-end bar that she met Anthony.

  He was by himself, sitting in a booth drinking Jameson straight. He was much more attractive than the typical guy she approached. So much so that, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she actually felt turned on. He had a slim, fit physique. Full head of hair. Confident, almost cocky smile. Gorgeous blue eyes.

  Everything about him screamed success.

  They started talking and he treated her well, like a gentleman, even when he found out she wasn’t hitting on him just for the fun of it.

  After a few drinks, they went back to his condo, which wasn’t too far from the bar. They did thick lines of coke and soaked his silk sheets with sweat. She even came, something that hadn’t happened in years.

  Before putting Cristina in a cab, he told her he wanted to make it a regular thing. He even gave her an extra cellphone he had sitting in a desk drawer, saying she could use it for whatever she wanted, as long as she picked up his calls.

  After a week, she still hadn’t heard from him. She was contemplating trading the phone to her dealer for a bag when it finally rang.

  He said he wanted to meet her. Not just for sex, though. He wanted dinner. And a movie. Or whatever else she wanted to do.

  In other words, he wanted to take her on a date.

  She was really apprehensive about the whole thing. If this guy was looking for a girlfriend, she knew he was going to be pretty disappointed. At that point in her life, the only boyfriend she needed had a pointy metal tip, one she used to inject liquid-heaven into her veins. But she figured she might as well take the guy for whatever she could while his interest was there.

  To her surprise, she actually had a pretty good time. They went to a nice Italian restaurant and had ice cream afterward. They didn’t even have actual sex. Just lines of coke in his car before she gave him a blowjob. Then he dropped her off at the bus stop with a purse full of cash.

  The next day, he called again.

  And the day after that.

  He always paid her.
More than she asked, too. Enough money that she could afford a room away from the squat and a steady flow of dope. She didn’t even have to bother with any other tricks.

  They always ended the night with some kind of sex. After which she would go back to her dingy, pay-by-the-week motel, get high all night, and draw in her sketchpad while she waited for his next call.

  Soon, she was having a hard time figuring out where the fantasy ended and her feelings began. What’s more, she started to feel like she didn’t want to know.

  One night, they’d just finished having sex. Great sex, as usual. And instead of calling her a cab or grabbing his coat so he could drop her off, he handed her a small plastic bag from Rite Aid. She figured it was lube or condoms. But when she dug into it, she saw that it wasn’t either of those things.

  It was a toothbrush.

  Part of her wanted to run and hide behind the emotional wall she’d spent so much energy building against the pain and hardship of life. But another strange, almost foreign piece of herself wanted to jump into his arms. Tell him that she loved him.

  She stood there dumfounded, holding the sealed toothbrush package in her hand.

  Without a word, she turned, walked into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and crawled into bed to snuggle with a man for the first time in her life.

  With her arms wrapped around him, cheek on his chest, she experienced a feeling she hadn’t known for a long, long time.

  She felt . . . human.

  After that, the idea of shooting dope every day seemed disgusting.

  It wasn’t easy, but she kicked the habit. Not by going clean, but by replacing the heroin and meth with drugs Anthony liked to do. Mainly alcohol and cocaine, with a fair amount of ecstasy thrown in when they went to go see one of his DJ friends spin records.

  For the next few months, Anthony treated her like a queen.

  She moved her stuff in, and when he saw how little she had, he decided to take her on the first plane flight of her life. First class, all the way to New York City.