Step two was more complicated. I had to learn all I could about lawyers.
What to look for in a good lawyer. What kinds of questions to ask. How long the whole process might take. I found out that lawyers want to be paid up front—a retainer, they called it—and the retainer could run anywhere from ten to thirty thousand dollars. If my dad’s case dragged on, I might need more than the twenty thousand dollars I had in my account. I needed to start working right away.
Just typing the words sex crimes attorneys into the browser felt sleazy, but at least my dad wasn’t alone. Going by the number of attorneys who specialized in sex crimes, I thought there must be a sexual predator lurking around every corner. I liked how all the lawyers acted like getting arrested for rape or child pornography could happen to anyone. Maybe it could.
All the attorneys’ webpages said the same thing. People got frantic when it came to child pornography charges. It didn’t matter if the charges were bogus. The tiniest suspicion could trigger a witch hunt. And the longer you waited to hire a specialized lawyer, the greater your chance of being burned at the stake.
I felt time slipping away. A full day had passed since Dad’s arrest. Everything I read said the other side was already hard at work, building a case against him.
I picked up my phone to call the first lawyer on my list. Then I noticed how my room had grown dark. No lawyer would be in the office on a Friday night. I’d have to wait. I turned off the light and tried to sleep.
Before all this happened, I used to lie in bed and think about art school and what it would be like to live in Paris. But that night, all I could think about was my dad in his jail cell. Sitting on a bare cot, his head in his hands. Pacing his cage, trying to figure out what had happened. Closing his eyes in that empty darkness, hoping to sleep, waiting for someone to rescue him.
• • •
The next morning, I stayed in bed and let myself pretend it was all a dream—that my dad had never gotten arrested, that I was still going to the Paris Art Institute. I let myself imagine the scenario I’d played over and over in my head, before any of this happened. Me sitting up late in my apartment, talking with my classmates about colors and technique, about professors and boys. Only now the imagining wasn’t fun anymore. Pretending hurt too much. And I didn’t have time for that anyway. I had to find my dad a lawyer.
I dragged myself out of bed and started calling the lawyers on my list, but none of them picked up. One of them had a voice-mail message that said to call back Monday during regular office hours. That’s when I figured out lawyers don’t work on Saturday.
I closed my eyes, frustrated. Already it had been two days since Dad’s arrest. If I waited till Monday, the lawyer going against Dad would have a four-day head start.
Time to try something else. I pulled the computer onto my lap and typed, 24-7 sex crime attorneys, Decatur, Illinois.
Most of the links were junk, but one stood out. When I clicked on it, the words Do Not Panic and Do Not Lose Hope! marched across the top of the page. I kept reading.
If you have been accused of a sex crime, you are no doubt wondering how anyone could believe such outrageous allegations. You probably feel frustrated that the police are not being objective when looking at the so-called evidence. You may question why the authorities seem intent on convicting you without a full investigation. Undoubtedly, you feel frightened, discouraged, and alone.
That sounded exactly like what my dad was going through. When I scrolled down, I saw they offered free consultations. Their office was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
I swept up my phone and punched in the number. A woman answered after the first ring.
“David A. Kaufmann and Associates. This is Linda. How may I help you?”
“Um, hi. I’m looking for a lawyer. For my dad, not me.”
“What’s he charged with, honey?”
“I guess it would be . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Pornography.” I couldn’t bring myself to say child pornography.
“Well, you called the right place.”
I felt my shoulders relax a little. Someone was going to help me. Someone was going to help my dad. “I’m not sure how this works,” I said. “I think I have enough money to get started. And I guess I have to meet with him? The lawyer, I mean.”
“I’ll set up a consultation. But you do understand. It wouldn’t be you hiring the attorney. Your father would do the actual hiring.”
“But I’m the one with the money,” I said.
“I understand, but you’d only be acting as your father’s agent. Would you like to set up a consultation?”
“Can I see the lawyer today?”
“Of course. How’s eleven o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
I almost smiled when I hung up. Finally, things were happening.
• • •
I stepped off the bus and checked my hand where I’d scribbled the lawyer’s address. Was I even in the right place? These were houses, not office buildings, and most of them looked rundown with their peeling paint and broken shutters. Then I saw a blue BMW parked in one of the driveways. That house had a fresh paint job, decorative stones lining the walkway, bushes shaped like perfect rectangles. Above the door was a plaque: The Law Offices of David A. Kaufmann & Associates.
For a split second, I wanted to forget about the whole thing. Go to Paris and let my dad deal with his own problems. But I knew I couldn’t do that. Even if I hated this lawyer, I’d keep searching until I found someone else.
Inside, the office looked empty, but I heard a copier going, and I smelled burned popcorn. I stepped up to the front desk and craned my neck to see around a bookshelf. A blonde woman in a gray pantsuit stood at the copier.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She looked up, smiling when she saw me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Tera Waters. I have an appointment?”
“Yes, we spoke on the phone. I’m Linda.” She pushed up her sleeve and glanced at her watch. “You’re a little early, but I think Ms. Gross can see you now.”
She led me through a door to where a woman sat behind a big wooden desk, typing on her computer. She looked about my mom’s age and wore a navy blue pantsuit with a string of pearls around her neck. Her hair was up in a bun.
Linda introduced us. “Ms. Gross, this is Tera Waters. Ms. Waters, this is Charlotte Gross, senior criminal defense attorney.”
I shook her hand. She had a French manicure. She probably had her nails done every week.
Linda left the room, and the lawyer pointed to one of the cushioned chairs that faced her desk. “Have a seat. May I call you Tera?”
I nodded and sat, clenching my purse. Through the fake leather, I could feel my checkbook.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.
I had to clear my throat to get the words out. “The police arrested my dad.”
“And the charges? Did you hear why they arrested him?”
My fingers ached from gripping my purse so hard. I didn’t want to say it, but I knew I had to. “For child pornography.”
I waited for the shocked pause, the gasp. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.
“But I know he’s innocent,” I said.
“And what makes you say that?”
“The police found a drawing, but I’m the one who did it, not him.”
“A drawing? I don’t understand.”
“He’s an artist. We both are. I did a drawing of myself when I was a kid. I was just practicing—you know, drawing the nude form. But I guess it could be considered pornographic.”
I checked her face, but all I saw was concern. “You were there when they searched the house?” she asked. “Did they have a warrant, or did someone let them in?”
“They had a warrant, but I let them in. I’m pretty sure my mom called them.”
She made a note on her pad. “Did you see what they took?”
“His computer. My lapto
p. Some folders with a bunch of his sketches.”
“And why do you think they took all that?”
“Because . . .” I clenched my jaw. This was where I had to say it. “Because there was a photo of me,” I blurted. “At least I think there was. A digital photo. Mom said she found something on his computer. That’s why she called them. So the police must have found the photo, too, on his computer, and then they took his hard drive and a bunch of other stuff hoping they’d find something else.” I rambled on, wanting her to stop me, but she was taking notes on her pad. “I think they were fishing because it’s not a big deal. The photo, I mean. Or the drawing. That’s what the police do, right? They fish. And you can’t explain anything to my mom. There’s something wrong with her. She takes medication for depression and anxiety. That’s important, right?”
“It could be.” She scribbled something else on her pad. “But I need you to back up a little.”
“Okay.” I thought for sure she wanted to talk about the photo. Why was I in it? Why did he have it? But that’s not what she asked.
“How old were you when you did the drawing?”
“Nine, I think.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Seventeen. Almost eighteen.”
She nodded, wrote something on her pad. “And you were nine years old in the photo?”
“Yes.” I waited for her to finish writing. “Can you help him? Will you help him?”
She leaned back in her chair. “You understand that nothing is a sure thing.”
“I understand.”
“But I’m sure we can resolve this so it makes sense. Whatever tack I take, I want you to feel confident that your dad is making a good decision.”
“Okay.”
She tapped her pen against her chin. “Do you want to talk money now?”
“Yes.” My stomach tightened. What if I didn’t have enough?
“This is a felony charge. You understand that, right?”
I nodded.
“In this type of case, my retainer would be eighteen thousand dollars. If the case goes to trial, that amount would increase significantly.”
I actually breathed a sigh of relief. I had enough. I’d even have two thousand dollars left over to start up my Paris fund again.
“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”
“You need to be sure, Tera. If your father changes his mind—if you change your mind—the money is still spent.”
I’d already made my decision. I was Dad’s only hope, and I had to do this. “I understand,” I said. I pulled out my checkbook.
“Your dad has to agree. He has to sign the papers.”
“I know.”
She handed me a pen, one of those fancy designer ones, heavy in my hand. “I won’t cash your check until we have your father’s signature.”
I’d written only one other check in my life—for the application fee to the Paris Art Institute—and it wasn’t anywhere near eighteen thousand dollars. I remembered how I felt when I wrote that check. Excited and hopeful. I knew I should feel hopeful writing this check, too. I was saving my dad. But to do it, I was giving up the thing that had kept me going for so long. The one thing I looked forward to when I woke up in the morning.
My hand started to shake as I wrote the amount, so I tried to pretend I was painting. The fancy pen seemed to call for big, flowery letters, and when I got to the last part, the part where I signed my name, I used fast, flourished strokes, like I was signing my name to a work of art.
I thought my dad would like that.
CHAPTER 9
Humpty Dumpty
Tera huddled on the couch, her hands pressed to her ears. It didn’t help. She could still hear them fighting in their bedroom.
“What were you thinking?” Her mom’s voice. Shrieky. “She’s only nine years old!”
They were fighting about her. Mostly her mom did all the yelling, but her dad had a way of saying things that dug in deep and hurt for a long time.
“. . . mature for her age,” he was saying. “. . . more talent than . . .”
Tera uncovered her ears and sat very still. He sounded proud of her. She moved off the couch and crept her way up the hallway, stopping outside their bedroom. Shadows flashed beneath the door.
“. . . can’t believe you think this is okay.” Her mom’s voice, still loud. “What else are you teaching her?”
Her dad laughed. “You should see yourself, Connie. I can’t believe you’re getting this worked up over a nude model.”
“She’s too young! There’s something wrong with you if you don’t see that.”
“If you were an artist, or bothered to know anything about what your daughter is interested in, you’d know it’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You’re turning her into your little disciple. And she won’t listen to me because you tell her I’m crazy.”
He laughed again. “I don’t have to tell her that.”
“Fuck you, Tim!”
Tera flinched as the door flew open and her mom barreled out of the room. Her mom almost walked into her before she looked down.
Disgust, plain on her face. She had a book under her arm. The Drawing Nudes book. She must have found it under Tera’s bed. Almost, it felt good to not have the secret anymore. Some secrets were fun, but this one didn’t feel right.
“It’s just the human form, Connie.” Her dad called. He was lounging on the bed. “You’re turning it into something dirty, and it’s not.”
“Then why was she hiding it?” She shoved the book at Tera’s face. “If it’s just a book, why were you hiding it?”
Tera swallowed. “Dad said—”
Her dad interrupted. “Because she knew you’d act like a lunatic if you saw it.”
“Did he tell you to hide it?”
Dad wouldn’t want her to tell the truth, but she always got caught when she lied. Instead of answering, she stared at her mom’s feet. The Drawing Nudes book had a whole section on drawing feet. Maybe she should tell her mom that.
“He did, didn’t he? He told you to hide it.”
Tera looked up. Her mom held the book, her fingertips touching the woman’s breasts. Tera dropped her eyes to the floor, embarrassed.
“You can’t look at it, can you? Well, now you don’t have to.” And then she tore off the dust cover and ripped it into pieces. The pieces scattered at Tera’s feet.
Her dad watched the whole thing from the bed, shaking his head and laughing. “Unbelievable,” he said.
Tera imagined she was a turtle pulling herself into her shell. She put her head down, scrunched in her arms and legs.
But her mom wouldn’t let her hide. “Do you understand how wrong this is?” She grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Do you?”
Tera’s teeth rattled as her mom shook her. She tried to talk, but she didn’t know the right answer.
“Leave her alone, Connie.” Her dad’s voice. Quiet and calm. “You’re the one turning this into something.”
Tera snuck a look at her mom’s face. Her eyes were closed, her forehead wrinkled, like she was thinking really hard. She gave Tera’s arm a shake, and Tera almost cried out because her mom’s fingernails were so sharp. Then her mom let go and stomped away.
She rubbed the red marks on her arm. Her dad came up beside her. “You okay?”
She looked at the ripped paper scattered at her feet and thought of Humpty Dumpty. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men . . .
“I’m okay,” she said.
Her dad put his hand on her chin and lifted her face. Checking for tears, maybe.
Tera made herself smile, glad her eyes weren’t wet. Nothing to give her away. Dad didn’t like it when she acted sad.
CHAPTER 10
As soon as I walked in the door to Papa Geppetto’s Pizzeria, the yeasty odor of rising dough brought back all the bad memories of working there. How the smell stayed trapped in my hair and skin. How I’d scurry around trying to make
everyone happy and still have customers yell at me because I wasn’t fast enough.
I stood by the counter and looked around. The restaurant was empty. No customers. No employees that I could see. The lunch rush had ended, but the dining room was still a mess. Straw wrappers and spilled Parmesan all over the green carpet. Tables stacked with dirty dishes. Dressing and sesame seeds splattering the salad bar.
Footsteps echoed behind me in the stillness. I turned to see a guy coming around the corner from the kitchen, a guy about my age, with tousled sun-brown hair and dark lashes. He had a lazy, confident walk. He looked like the type who could date any girl he wanted.
Which meant he’d want nothing to do with me.
He stopped when he saw me, like I was some kind of surprise. Slowly, his eyes scanned my body, a cat’s tongue on my skin. My neck tingled.
“Is it just you?” he asked.
For a second, I didn’t know what he meant. “No,” I said. “I mean, yes. It’s just me. But I didn’t come here for a table. I’m looking for a job.”
He had beautiful eyes. Hazel, flecked with green and yellow. I read his nametag. Joey. “So you need an application?” he asked.
“No, that’s okay.” I was glad I had a reason to stand there. Otherwise, I might have turned and run. “Is Mr. Barnes still manager?” I asked.
His smile reminded me of a fox. “You mean Dick?”
“Um, I think he goes by Richard.”
Joey leaned across the counter, close enough for me to smell the mint on his breath. “I think he likes Dick better.”
I blinked and drew back. Was that a slam at Mr. Barnes for being gay? “Maybe I’ll just call him Mr. Barnes,” I said.
“Probably smart.” Joey studied me. “So you know him?”
“I used to work here.”
“Then you know he’s a cool guy.”
“Yeah, I know.” I scratched my arm. So, not gay bashing?
“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll go get him.”
I made a point of not following him with my eyes. Guys like him expected girls like me to watch them. Instead I grabbed a take-out menu off the counter and stared at it. A minute passed. Then I heard voices from the back room, drawing nearer.
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