He used to wake up before his alarm, some sixth sense letting him know it was time.
Now each day he struggled.
He waited for things to change, but some days the depression from losing his marriage slammed against him in a way that demanded he stay in bed. He’d have to race to reach work in time for his nine o’clock.
Aslan nudged his hand to get him out of bed.
“Okay, boy. Starting tomorrow, you and me, outside for a run.”
Aslan turned hopeful black eyes on him, that pesky word R-U-N raising false hopes.
“I need to teach you the concept tomorrow.” Chandler rubbed the dog’s ears and then launched to his feet. Another glance at the time on his phone sent him racing through a quick shower and a quicker walk with the golden retriever to the Potomac and back. Even if it slowed Chandler down, Aslan needed to water the lawn at every post he passed before their drive to Clarendon. Aslan couldn’t join him at the office every day, but Chandler found that people relaxed in a way when the dog was there that they didn’t without him. That ability had gotten him thinking about how the dog could help more people.
He filled a cup with Lucky Charms to eat on the way and set out. He loved the reverse commute of his location as well as the energy of the neighborhood. Add in the walking trails he planned to start using with more intentionality, and it was a great fit, especially since, thanks to the Metro, his truck could sit in the garage on days he needed to commute to the Pentagon for training or meetings. Better yet, there were no memories of Rianna, his ex, in the apartment.
The Vet Center where he worked was located a couple blocks off the main strip of Clarendon. George Mason University School of Law sat to the west, while to the east was Arlington National Cemetery, and across the Potomac, Georgetown. It was one of those hidden gems of a neighborhood. While it was too expensive for most active duty military to live in, the location made it easy for them to access critical services.
The Department of Veterans Affairs had centers to help soldiers readjust to life at home after a tour of duty. Chandler had used his time on tours to complete the credits for a counseling degree and then a master’s. The combination of active duty service and education had made him a perfect fit for a family counseling job with the Vet Centers. His accumulated vacation time showed just how much the services were needed. In fact, he’d gotten the lecture that he’d have to use some of the time in the next month or lose it.
The challenge was finding a good reason to take it. Sitting around made it too easy for his thoughts to wander to areas that could cause his outlook to spiral down. If he could save a few of his fellow soldiers from the pain of shattered families on reentry, then pouring out his life through counseling was well spent. Add in helping soldiers process what they’d seen and experienced, and he found purpose in his work.
His main job was listening and asking key questions before connecting services and families. Each family had unique challenges. If service members had children, sometimes they needed counseling as they became reacquainted. If a child was born while the parent served, they accessed different services. Some families reintegrated successfully on their own, but others wanted—or needed—assistance.
Aslan panted from the passenger seat, his doggie breath filling the truck.
Chandler had spent the last year developing connections with agencies, service providers, and others that brought the skills these families needed. He refused to dwell on what might have happened if he and Rianna had taken advantage of the help he now offered others. Instead, he set his face to the future and those he could help.
He drove through the rush hour traffic as he considered his next goal: providing more assistance to families prior to deployment. Coping skills and strategies could make the difference in keeping families together during long separations. Would such assistance have saved his marriage?
He didn’t know.
But there had to be something he could do to help other families avoid that pain. People might say divorce wasn’t a big deal, but it had rent his world in two pieces that could never be stitched back together, especially now that Rianna had remarried. No one had warned him how draining the work of recovering from a divorce would be.
The office was unlocked when they arrived. A two-story storefront, the inside had been made as welcoming as possible in a generic building. It didn’t have the personality of a converted bungalow, but it wasn’t as sterile as industrial furniture, either. The upstairs offices were what his colleague called 1920s Hollywood glam. It was a suite he wouldn’t be caught dead in, with its hot-pink flashes opposite gray walls and gold accessories. Way too girlie. But the designer had tucked a clever kids’ corner into the space, so that when women were receiving assistance or counsel, their kids could be right there yet not underfoot.
Too bad there wasn’t a man cave equivalent.
Chandler’s office was on the main floor down a narrow hallway, because his supervisory role required some closed-door meetings. Aslan followed him down the back hallway past the small kitchenette and conference room with a smaller counseling space on one side of the hallway. On the other sat a line of four offices, his being the first. The rest were reserved for counseling, a small round table with two or three comfortable chairs in each. His office wasn’t much: a desk, a few chairs, a couple short bookcases, and a series of locking file cabinets. Someday he’d add art to the walls, but it wasn’t a priority. Let the ladies have the froufrou decorations upstairs. Rianna had taken what little art they’d acquired, and he hadn’t replaced it.
Each night he tried to clear his desk, but as he walked into his office this morning, he frowned at the piles on it. He walked right back out and headed toward the open cubicle space at the front of the building. In front of that sat a small receiving area, but his team liked the collaboration that the cube space allowed. It also allowed for maximum flexibility to have multiple meetings occurring without interrupting the work of the others. He glanced around the cubicles for Beth, the only woman who would pile stacks on his desk. “Beth?”
A middle-aged woman glanced up from her cube, wearing her fall uniform of jeans and sweater. “Yes?”
“What’s with the piles?”
“Wanted to make sure you started your day right. You keep that desk too clean.”
He shook his head and tried to hide a smile. “You know I can’t work with a mess.”
“That’s all you do. If you haven’t noticed, the people who come through that front door are a mess.” She placed her hands on her ample hips and stared him down, her office manager persona in full effect. “You’ve got a string of appointments starting at ten.”
“What happened to my nine o’clock?”
“Canceled. Take time in the next hour to research, because once ten hits, I don’t think you’ll have time to breathe until four.”
“What happened?” His days were rarely that stacked with appointments, though as he looked around the workspace it was surprisingly vacant for the start of the day. “Where is everyone?”
“Rumbles of a sex scandal. We’re getting calls from victims. Maybe even a few of the perpetrators.” She shook her head, then sighed. “When are people going to wise up and realize you can’t post that stuff? The team is working the phones to learn what they can.”
That meant they’d be in the small counseling rooms to work without background chatter. “All right. Email me what you’ve got.”
“Already in your in-box. It ain’t pretty. This one is just as bad as the scandal last year with the marines that involved the private Facebook groups.” She shook her head, and her eyes filled with sadness. “The world needs more men like you.”
“That’s not what my ex thinks.” Chandler had returned from his last tour with a mild case of PTSD only to find his wife in the arms of another guy. It wasn’t the homecoming he’d anticipated.
“Don’t let her define you for the rest of your days. That woman didn’t care what she walked away from, and I bet she r
egrets it to this day.” Beth patted his arm, actually patted him, like he needed to be comforted. “You’re much more than she thinks.”
Chandler tried to accept her words, but he’d been there when his wife wouldn’t even look at him. When the words weren’t civil because he couldn’t be whatever it was she needed. “Maybe.”
“There are a lot of women out there looking for a man like you.”
“I might be ready to find one.”
“I know the perfect woman.”
Chandler held up his hand. While he might be ready to push back the loneliness, he didn’t want to rush into something with a stranger, no matter how wonderful his colleague thought the woman might be. “I can manage on my own.”
“Sure.” The woman gave him an mm-hmm look. “When you’re ready, let me know. Until then, dig into that email. I expect half your appointments today will be tied to this new scandal.”
“I can’t counsel women, Beth.”
“I know. But there will be a lot of husbands and boyfriends who need to process as well, since their women were victimized.” She considered him. “It might take them a few more days to reach out, but they will come.”
Chandler nodded, feeling unsettled and sick. The things people would say and do when they didn’t think they were accountable. He’d watched good marines lose their careers last year because they were stupid. He didn’t want his fellow soldiers to do the same things. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll dig into what you sent.”
Beth nodded and Chandler returned to his office. As he opened his email, he didn’t want to read what she’d collected. He didn’t need further proof that the world was a broken place or that her research was stellar.
As he read the news accounts he wondered what his role was. He pushed back from his desk. Time to get some coffee and clear his head before the first appointment. He should pray too. This was a mess he couldn’t enter without being impacted, and he wanted to make sure he entered in a way that helped those who were hurt rather than adding to their injury.
An unintentional or thoughtless word could be as damaging as not getting involved.
CHAPTER 6
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5
Jaime shifted against the hard chair in the reception area of the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office. While not as battered as the chairs in the public defender’s reception, it wasn’t plush and soft. She glanced at her watch and noted she’d already wasted twenty minutes she couldn’t afford. Her foot tapped against the carpet that wasn’t covered with coffee stains.
She tried to type a memo on her phone, but she couldn’t focus her thoughts. All she could think about was whether Mitch had called her in to let her down lightly or with the equally scary announcement that charges were forthcoming. When she misspelled the third word in a row, she gave up and closed the app.
Corny elevator music was piped in from somewhere, loud enough to be annoying as it cycled back to a song she’d already heard twice. How did the receptionist stand it? Maybe she wore earplugs, which would also explain why she’d ignored Jaime since acknowledging her arrival.
Jaime should have worn a sign that indicated she was a victim rather than the enemy.
The receptionist picked up her phone, spoke a few words, then glanced at her. “Mr. McDermott will be out in a minute.”
The woman looked as though she spent every lunch hour sweating at some trendy hot yoga studio. She wore one of those oversized, flowy solid-color dresses over wacky leggings, the kind of ensemble that emphasized how thin someone was without making you instantly hate her. But if she admitted it, Jaime was in a frame of mind in which it was easier to find reasons not to like people than to pull them close. She’d leave that to women like Caroline, who brimmed with Southern charm and sweetness.
The door between the lobby and productive regions of the office opened, and Mitch McDermott waved her back. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” His grin was a bit lopsided, almost charming. “You know how it goes with emergencies.”
She stood and thought of those he’d created in the cases they’d shared. “I do.”
“This won’t take long.”
Yeah, because he didn’t bill by the hour. She hoped Dane would pay an exorbitant fee each time he consulted an attorney . . . if charges were filed. She followed Mitch down the hallway to the third door on the left. He stepped aside to let her enter.
He closed the door behind him, leaving them alone in the room. She felt every inch of space, and it wasn’t enough. While she knew Mitch, it didn’t mean she trusted him. Not the way she needed to, to be comfortable with him in such a small space.
He sat and got straight to the point. “We’re moving forward with charges. Lacy is interested to see what happens.”
Lacy Collins, the Commonwealth’s Attorney, was a focused advocate for victims, trying hundreds if not thousands of cases in her career. She was a formidable foe, one who had pushed Jaime to prepare diligently the time they’d been opponents.
Jaime sank to a chair as the weight of his words landed. “I don’t want this to be a pro forma attempt.” Thanks to double jeopardy, they got one opportunity to try, and then she was limited to civil remedies, which wouldn’t carry the same weight or satisfaction.
Mitch leaned forward, focus etched in the lines across his forehead. “That’s not how I operate. This will receive my best work.”
She met his gaze and measured his commitment. When he didn’t look away, she nodded. “What can I do?”
“It’s what you should know. The moment we serve these charges, your life will change.” He studied her across the small conference table and pushed a document her direction. “There’s no turning back.”
“I know.” Jaime tugged the stapled pages nearer as a wisp of fear curled through her mind. What would Dane do when he learned what she had done? She tried to review the words that swam in front of her eyes. This was the most important legal paper she’d ever read, yet her mind couldn’t hold the words.
Mitch must have noticed her challenge because he spent the next hour reviewing the preliminary charging document. She followed on her copy carefully, considering every legal argument she’d used against similar charges. This . . . everything she was reading and evaluating . . . this was why she’d become a public defender. When she pursued charges against Dane, she needed them to stick. Some technicality couldn’t be sufficient to free him from responsibility.
Still, as she read the paragraphs, it reinforced in her mind how risky this was.
It was what she had wanted.
But now that she had to say yes, she was terrified.
On or about the month of July 1996, Dane Nichols sexually assaulted Jaime Nichols, an eight-year-old minor.
The words continued. Stark. Black and white. No ambiguity.
Somehow Mitch had captured her tragedy in stark, factual sentences. Each sentence held a subject and a verb. Very little color was added. A list of facts.
Yet each represented a raw wound that festered.
On or about the month of August 1996, Dane Nichols sexually assaulted Jaime Nichols, an eight-year-old minor.
The evidence was scant.
If she were the prosecutor, she would have demanded more, yet they had agreed to proceed on her word and her journal.
The moment Mitch filed these words with the circuit court, there was no turning back. Some enterprising reporter would notice the charges in a routine docket search. The genie would escape the bag, and she would be firmly committed.
It’s what she wanted. Right?
Her breath locked in her chest.
She felt more than saw the pinpricks of black cloud the edges of her vision.
“Still with me?” Mitch’s deep voice dragged her back, and she blinked.
“Yes.” She slid the complaint back. “Let’s do this.”
“All right. I’ll file it. How do you want to serve it?”
“Part of me wants to be the one who serves him.”
Mitch frowned. “No
t possible.”
She stared at him. She wanted to do this. Needed to.
He shook his head. “You know as well as I do that if we don’t follow the process precisely, we’re giving your uncle’s defense team appealable issues.”
Jaime looked away and gave a small dip of her chin. She’d have her day to confront her uncle face-to-face. It would just have to wait.
The ringing sound jarred Chandler from the file review. He was ready to yank the landline from the wall and then bury his work cell someplace where he’d never hear it. It was impossible to accomplish anything with the constant interruptions. This week had seen more than usual with the emergency sessions happening just as Beth had predicted. Hopefully those would eventually slow, or there was no way he’d get to take time off.
“Chandler Bolton.”
“Hello?”
Chandler heard the hesitation in the man’s voice. “Hello, this is Chandler,” he said again. “Who am I speaking with?”
“A fellow soldier. One who remembers too much.”
That described most who served overseas. A tour without scars either physical or mental was rare. “Then we have something in common.”
“More than you know.” The voice was low, not one he recognized, but there was something about it that put him on alert.
“How can I help?”
“Exorcise the demons in my mind.”
“When did you tour?”
“Three years ago, and then this year.”
“Afghanistan?”
“And Iraq. The things I’ve seen.”
“I understand, brother.”
“You aren’t my brother.” The words were crisp, cutting.
Chandler took a breath. “What do you need?”
“An acknowledgment that you ruined my life.”
The words were so bizarre, out of left field. “Can’t do that.” Translation: I have no idea what you’re talking about, crazy man.
Delayed Justice Page 4