by Harry Kraus
The woman smiled and sat. “You must be Claire. It’s awkward not to be able to shake your hand.” She laid her hand against the glass. “There,” she said, “here’s my hand.”
Claire reached up and touched the glass where it was shadowed by the woman’s hand. “Hi.”
“Mr. Fauls wanted us to talk. Is that okay?”
“Sure, but I’m a bit confused,” Claire said, leaning forward toward the window. “Who are you?”
“Oh,” she said, with a little laugh, “I’m Joanne Phillips.”
Claire shook her head. “Joanne Phillips?” She squinted her face into a question. “The social-worker counselor?”
The lady smiled. “Of course.”
“The Brighton counselor who specializes in helping women who have had sexual assaults?”
The woman folded her hands. “Yes.”
“The same woman I’ve referred patients to from my practice in Stoney Creek.”
“Why is this so hard to believe?”
“Because you are not the Joanne Phillips I know. I mean, I met with you, uh, with someone who identified herself as you, for counseling after I was assaulted.”
Joanne opened her satchel. “How did you contact this counselor?”
“You sent me a flyer advertising your services. I called the number on a business card.”
Joanne shook her head. “I’m too busy to advertise for business. I can barely keep my head above water as it is.”
“But then who — ”
“What did this woman look like?”
Claire sat back. “Young, nice slender figure, dark hair, very pretty.” She paused. “I thought she looked a little young for her position, but — ”
“But what?”
“She seemed to know what she was doing. She helped me forgive my father.”
“You say she sent you a card? Do you still have it?”
Claire shrugged. “Maybe at my desk at work.”
“This is why you told Bill Fauls that you’d worked with me.”
“I thought I had.” Claire rested her finger on her temple. “Is it possible that there is another counselor with the same name?”
They stared at each other from across the window and said together, “Naah.”
Joanne stood.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me?”
“Not now. There are a few other things I need to figure out first. If I stop by your office, could I get that card?”
“Probably. Just talk to Lucy, my nurse. Tell her you talked to me.
She’ll help you.”
“Thanks.” Joanne turned to leave.
“What are you going to tell Mr. Fauls?”
She shrugged. “That someone’s been messing with your life. And mine.” She opened the door. Obviously this news had overtaken any obligation she felt to interview Claire.
Claire watched the woman disappear from the next room. She was incredulous. If she hadn’t met with Joanne Phillips, who had she talked to?
Chapter Thirty-Six
That afternoon Claire waited through six other half-hour phone calls until her turn on the commons phone. Per jailhouse protocol, she could use the phone to make selected calls for up to one hour per week. Each number was to a relative or her lawyer, and every call was collect at five dollars a minute.
She needed more information. Too many things were amiss. She’d been frustrated and short with John. But she knew one thing. If she was going to get through this, she needed to do it with her husband on her side. She dialed his number and waited. She listened to the operator’s voice. “Please state your name at the sound of the tone.”
At the tone, she stated, “Claire.”
Again she listened as the other end of the line opened. The operator’s voice was mechanical. “Collect call from Claire, will you accept the charges?”
“No.” The voice was female. The line went dead.
“Wait!” Claire yelled into the phone. “Wait!” she said softer, setting the phone back in the cradle.
A girl with purple bangs pushed her way forward and lifted the phone from the wall. “My turn, Doc.”
John felt his frustration rise as he watched Ami set down his phone. “I could have gotten that.”
She smiled. “Your hands were full. Besides, you were the one who offered to carry my dishes.”
He huffed. “So who was it? I’m expecting Claire to call.”
“Chill, John, it was a wrong number. Just someone asking if they had the Stevens residence.”
He carried the picnic basket of Ami’s dishes to the front door and paused to wait for her as she lingered, looking at the pictures over Claire’s desk.
“Would you like to ride over to Carlisle to see a movie?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Ami, I really don’t think we should be hanging out.”
“We could just watch a video at my place.”
“I need to be here.”
“Here is fine. Would you like me to choose something, or shall I surprise you?”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t think you’re hearing me. I don’t think we should be doing things together. That means here too.”
“John, we’re friends. What’s the harm in friends spending time together?”
Before he could protest, she was in his face, leaning forward over the basket in his arms, with her flattering anatomy grazing his arm. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, John.”
His throat was dry as he attempted to find a response.
Her eyes locked on his. John cleared his throat. “I – I’m not afraid of you, but we aren’t friends. Friends don’t accuse each other to the police. Friends don’t manipulate circumstances to destroy relationships.”
“John,” she said softly, “I thought I’d explained all that. Can’t we put the past behind us and go forward?”
He turned away from her, but she gripped his arm with her hand and continued, “Some bad things have been happening to me. I really could use a friend.”
“Bad things?” When she stayed quiet, he added, “You lost your job. Things will turn around.” He shuffled his feet. “You came for your dishes. Let’s go.”
Ami didn’t move. “I wasn’t talking about losing my job.” She looked away. “I was raped.”
He wasn’t sure if this was a weird ploy to get his attention or if she was serious. “Ami, I’m probably not the one to talk to about this.”
“Who else?”
He shrugged. “A counselor. Your mother?”
“You obviously haven’t met my mother.” She turned away from him. “She’s crazy, John. I don’t think she’s handling her husband’s death very well.”
“Look, I realize you have had your share of pain, and I think you should talk about it to someone, maybe a pastor or — ”
“My mother doesn’t want me talking to anyone.”
John stood at the doorway in indecision. He didn’t want to appear rude, but he felt uncomfortable being Ami’s new confidant. He cleared his throat. “You were raped? Did you tell the police?”
She shook her head. “They ask too many questions. They drag you back through your pain. I’m not going there.”
“Someone you knew?”
“No.”
He sighed. “When did this happen?”
She bit her lower lip. “Last weekend.”
“But all this time you’ve acted like everything was great. You brought me food. You — ”
“I couldn’t just come over and tell you this straightaway,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You had just married. We hadn’t left on good terms. I needed a chance to make friends with you again.”
“You’re a good actress.”
She sniffed. “Things aren’t always what they seem on the surface.”
Obviously, he thought. “You need to tell the police. What if he attacks someone else?”
“I can’t, John. It’s too late. I know how these things work. There won’t be any ev
idence left behind.”
“Ami, you can’t just ignore — ”
“I’ve been through this before!” she screamed. “I can’t do it again,” she sobbed. “My father.” She halted. “When I was twelve.”
John shook his head. He set the picnic basket on the floor and studied Ami for a moment. She had dissolved into tears on his couch. He tried to keep his voice low and gentle. “Did you get a good look at the guy? Did he have short white hair and a white beard?”
She lifted her head from her hands and stared at John. “How did you know?”
“The same man may have raped Claire.” He began to pace. “Have you been reading the paper?”
Her jaw slackened, leaving her mouth in a small “o.” She nodded. “Sure.”
“It was a man named Crutchfield. He was an escaped convict, serving time for rape. He had dyed his hair white and grown a white beard.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head and standing up. “The paper said he was a young man.”
“They didn’t tell the whole story. He was living under an alias, posing as an older man working in lawn maintenance at Pleasant View.”
Ami’s eyes were wide, her face etched with fear. “How did the man die? The paper said ‘suspected foul play,’ but they didn’t say how he died.”
“He had a knife in his back.”
Her hand went to her mouth. She stumbled to the door. “No,” she mumbled. “No.”
With that, she fled from the house, leaving John staring at the picnic basket on the floor.
Ami fled across the neighbor’s yard and up the steps to her rented house.
Nancy Childress was sitting at the kitchen table waiting. “I sent you to get the dishes.”
Ami looked at her empty hands.
“Idiot!”
Ami stared at her mother. “Tell me what you did with the body!”
Nancy picked up the newspaper and feigned nonchalance. “I don’t want you hanging out with the neighbor. He’s a married man, you know.”
“Answer my question!”
Her mother sipped black tea from a mug emblazoned with a John Deere emblem. “You covered for me. I owed you a favor. I covered for you.”
On Sunday morning, Claire was let into the visiting room to face her family for the second time since her incarceration. She sat on the stool and looked through the dingy glass window into a mirror-image room. But instead of John, whom she expected, she looked into the worried expression of her brother-in-law, Kyle. She picked up the black phone. “Morning, Kyle. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. I asked John if I could come in first, so I would have a chance to talk to you alone.”
Her curiosity was pricked. She couldn’t remember the last time Kyle had shown serious interest in her affairs. “Okay,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I came to make a confession.” He shifted on his stool. “Wally didn’t abuse you.”
She leaned forward, not understanding.
“It was me.” He halted, his face reflecting the torment he felt.
“Kyle, what do you mean? I don’t — ”
“Let me explain,” he interrupted. “You remember the night I brought you home? You’d been drinking.”
Claire felt a knot tighten in her stomach, the old guilt of her rebellion fighting for attention. “Yes,” she said quietly.
Kyle looked right and left at the other family members talking to the inmates. He lowered his voice and continued. “Grant Williams was getting too friendly in the back of a pickup truck. Do you remember that?”
“A little.”
“He tore off your clothes. He was intent on getting what he wanted when I told him to back off.”
Vague memories played at the edge of her mind. “You took me home.”
“I helped you with your clothes. You were so drunk. I put you to bed. You behaved, uh, friendly, toward me, but that’s no excuse. You weren’t able to say no.” He looked down, no longer meeting her gaze. “I had fought with Margo. I was mad at her. I started touching you. You didn’t resist me.” He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. “It never went further than that. I heard Wally getting up. I ran out of your room, so ashamed. Wally asked me what I was doing in his daughter’s bedroom. I told him to back off, that I had saved you from some bad men and I was just putting you to bed.” He looked up. “I’m so sorry, Claire.”
Claire gasped and shook her head, trying to comprehend his words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When I realized you didn’t remember it, I never brought it up. I never dreamed you would some day think it was Wally.”
She took a deep breath as relief started washing over her soul. Wally hadn’t sexually abused her. She paused, trying to absorb this new thought. “Thanks, Kyle.”
“Thanks?”
She nodded. “It’s a relief, really.”
“You forgive me?”
“It was a long time ago. Let’s let it go.”
“But I — I never imagined it would turn out like this with Wally gone and you here.”
“I’m not following you.”
“This is all my fault. If I would have told the truth, you would have never thought Wally abused you, and you would have never . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Never what?” She glanced over her shoulder at the guard and whispered, “You think I killed my father because I thought he abused me?” She was aghast. “That’s ridiculous, Kyle! Why does everyone seem to think I killed my father?”
His expression changed from distress to the concern you show when someone is obviously too stupid to know the error of their ways. “They’ve got you on tape, Claire.”
“The surveillance camera at the home, right? It wasn’t me.”
“I’m not talking about the video camera. Wally called 911 right before he died. They have your voice accusing him of abusing you.”
She shook her head. “That’s crazy! I wasn’t there. It wasn’t me.”
“Claire, I heard it. Your attorney played it for the family. We all thought it was you.”
“Look, Kyle, there has to be another explanation for all of this.” She stared at him. “I’m upset that you touched me when I was drunk.” She paused for effect. “But what upsets me more is that you all would dare to believe that I would kill my father.”
He nodded slowly. “I shouldn’t take up more of your time. John is waiting to see you.”
She watched as Kyle hung up the black phone and walked out of the room. A moment later, John came in and sat on the stool. He was carrying a white envelope.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She so wanted to avoid a repeat of last week’s frustration, but she felt the tension of little time and so much she wanted to know. She tried to keep her voice controlled. “Kyle told me about the 911 tape. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Claire, you were upset. We didn’t have a chance to talk like we should.” He paused. “I hoped you would call.”
“I tried,” she said. “A woman answered and refused my phone call.”
“What? No.” He shook his head and looked up meekly. “It must have been Ami.”
Claire felt hot. “Ami! What was she doing there?”
He sighed. “She brought me some food. She just came by to pick up her dishes.”
“She’s crazy! I don’t like her, John. Keep away from her. It’s like she’s still trying to insinuate herself into your life.” She paused, not wanting to follow a rabbit trail. “John, I need to know you believe me. Can you imagine how horrible this is for me? I’m trapped in this place, and my family doesn’t even seem to believe me.”
“Help me understand,” he said, his eyes pleading.
“I can’t explain what I don’t understand myself. I only know that they have evidence that they think implicates me. There must be another explanation for the tape, John. It wasn’t me!”
“I believe you.”
“I didn’t know anything about my father’s death until you did
. And I didn’t know anything about Tyler Crutchfield and — ”
“Slow down, Claire. I said, I believe you.”
“How am I going to convince them to let me out?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll keep trying to find out what I can.” He paused. “I’m praying, Claire. We’ll get you out.”
She sighed. “I want to believe that.”
“Here,” he said, opening the envelope. “I printed a few of the digital pictures of our wedding. I wanted to cheer you up.” He held a picture of Claire up to the glass.
She smiled. One by one, he held up pictures of the family, the reception, and each aspect of the celebration. “Wait!” she said, looking at a picture of a group at the reception. “Go back to that last one.”
John obeyed. “Do you like that one? I don’t like my expression.”
“I’m not looking at you. See that girl in the background? The one in the short black skirt?”
He nodded.
“That woman was posing as Joanne Phillips, a counselor from Brighton University.”
“I don’t get it.”
“My attorney had Joanne Phillips come by the jail this week to interview me, to start some psychological tests. But it wasn’t the same Joanne Phillips that I saw for my sessions. Someone has been posing as Joanne Phillips, and it’s that girl,” Claire said, pointing and tapping on the window.
John turned the picture around so he could see.
He touched his finger against the photograph. “Her?”
“Yes. Take her picture to the police. Find out who she is. Maybe they can identify her.”
“What does that have to do with you being here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But that girl posed as a professional counselor and sought me out as a patient.”
“I don’t have to take her picture to the police for identification.” He seemed to hesitate. “That’s Ami Grandle.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
John Cerelli put down the pictures and gazed across the window at Claire. “This woman posed as Joanne Phillips? Why didn’t you recognize her from the surveillance video?”
“It never showed her face, John. And your voices were too distorted for me to identify her.” She turned on him. “What on earth was she doing at our wedding?”