by Judith Rolfs
Sandy Reckland clomped through my office door on leather boots with two-inch heels. Her black turtleneck under a fringed leather jacket hardly seemed spring fashion. She tossed her long, brown tresses with quick, jerky movements like a quarter horse. Her tortoise shell and sequined necklace sparkled as she pressed a strong hand into mine.
“I’m glad I could get in right away. It’s shocking about Lenora.”
“A terrible tragedy.” I led her to the Queen Anne chairs. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
She dropped onto the chair cushion farthest from mine and flashed a mouthful of bright tooth enamel as she asked for more details about Lenora’s condition.
I shared the little I knew, then picked up the manila folder from the coffee table containing her intake and a blank form for my initial assessment. I noted Sandy had left employment info blank.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“MIS.”
“Refresh my memory. The acronym means?”
“Management Information Systems. I like a position of power. Computers are always the control center.” She grinned and rubbed the back of her neck. “I suppose I should let you know control is one of my issues, according to Lenora. My last session with her wasn’t exactly helpful. In fact, we ended early. I was seriously considering not returning.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t like her recommendations.”
“Yet you came today? Would you like to tell me the specifics about the issues you and Lenora had been working on?”
Sandy wet her finger and dabbed at a speck on her leather jeans. “Three years ago my husband and I divorced. I didn’t have counseling at the time. I went to Lenora a few months back because I was still dealing with that pain.”
“It’s good you sought help. Ending a marriage can create a sense of loss whatever the initial cause of breakup.”
She snapped back in a steely tone and listed a litany of dissatisfactions with her former husband. “I should have known better than to marry him. I’m still dealing with emotional fallout. It’s actually also my parents’ fault.”
Talkative enough at least. “How so?”
“The marital relationship between my mom and dad was horrid. You’ve heard of mental cruelty? The two tortured each other for thirty years. Dad never allowed my mom to have a single thought he didn’t agree with. She paid him back with constant criticism and passive resistance to anything he wanted to do, whether it was where to vacation or when to have the carpets cleaned. When I met my ex-husband, Phil, I thought our relationship could be different. He proved me wrong.”
“Your earlier counseling sessions with Lenora were helpful?”
She nodded. “But our last session she said some wrong-thinking on my part may have caused the marriage to break-up. Even though my husband turned out to be a jerk, Lenora said the way I interacted with him further damaged the relationship. I didn’t take that well. She had no basis to say I needed to make some changes.” Sandy snickered.
How immature Sandy was. Of course Lenora did. She was trying to help you. I took a sip of peppermint tea to soothe my irritation. “In counseling we work to help men and women respect each other and relate healthfully. Sometimes that requires saying some hard things.”
“Therapy’s a lot of crock in my opinion. I could give you a mouthful.”
“Why would you say that?” For someone who supposedly didn’t like counseling, this gal was in no hurry to stop talking. “What specifically was Lenora suggesting you change?”
“My dislike of men, not just my ex-husband. She inferred I have conflict issues with males at work, too.” Sandy’s face reddened. “Even implied there might be a pattern, a problem in my attitude and behavior from my childhood experiences. That’s what steamed me. Afterwards I had to admit she was at least half-right.”
I suppressed a smile. I’d witnessed Lenora’s style; she could be direct but kind. If she’d identified Sandy as having difficulty with male relationships, I’d surmise it to be true. “So she ultimately helped?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but she was helping me know myself better. Even though I walked out last time, I’d decided to go back.” She looked up, eyes wide to see my reaction. “That’s why I’m here now.”
People who enjoyed being contrary liked to see the shock they created.
“Good, then we can continue.” I met her eyes coolly. Did I really want to work with this woman? She could be a resistant client. Nobody could help someone who didn’t want to change. “Now that you’ve had a chance to meet me, do you wish to continue with counseling?”
“I’ll try a few sessions. Why not?” She shrugged. “My company pays.”
I made a note of her willingness and put down my pen. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you about the day of Lenora’s shooting before you leave today.”
“Sure.” Sandy fidgeted with her hands. “It stresses me thinking Lenora might die when I was just with her the day she was shot.”
“Did you observe anything strange while at Lenora’s, like phone calls that upset her, anything out of the ordinary, something she said?”
“Not really.”
“Did you sense she was worried or scared about anything?”
“Nothing I noticed.” Sandy’s face had lost its indifferent attitude.
I tried to make my next question sound casual. “Out of curiosity, where were you that evening when Lenora was shot? The police are asking everybody who’d seen her within twenty-four hours of the shooting as a formality,” I added quickly to soften the stark question.
Didn’t work. She bristled. “In Illinois, on business.” Her eyes turned cold. “I travel a lot. That evening I went to a movie and was in my motel by ten. If the police want to know, they can ask me personally.”
A nice and neat alibi? How distorted was her thinking? I leaned forward, about to probe further, when Sandy stood up. “I need to get back. How do we set the next session up?”
“Make an appointment with Ellen on your way out.” I’d have offered my handshake, but she’d already reached the door.
When she left, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure what to make of this successful but unhappy woman who went out of her way to be disliked. Could I service her without getting annoyed? Of course. My framed professional licenses on the wall behind me signified I could squelch negative feelings. Yes, I’m well trained, but she’d be tough. I wished frustration toward a client never cropped up but sometimes it did. I wanted their lives to be the best possible, but some were stubborn about changing unproductive behaviors. Christ’s command to love reminded me to avoid judging.
I wrote on Sandy’s client intake sheet. Client expressed but didn’t emote concern about Lenora’s plight. Outwardly hard, appears to guard a fragile shell.
Had she transferred anger at her parents and the world into a motive for killing Lenora? Had she come in today as a cover-up? Did Lenora’s confrontational method lead to deep anger? Did Sandy have a fetish for killing? For that matter, was it safe for me to be around her?
A distinct chill rolled over me. I crossed the room to the opposite wall and twisted the control to turn down the air conditioning.
CHAPTER NINE
At three, I left my office for my appointment with Kirk at his all-expenses-paid residence, the Walworth County jail. The massive complex built with rectangular chunks of stone in two shades of tan spread over several acres. It might have blended into the landscape as a typical business building except for the sign, Law Enforcement Center, and parked sheriff’s department cars in the front spaces of the lot.
I shuddered. The idea of a structure constructed to cage human beings deemed too dangerous for the public welfare repulsed me. This would be my first and hopefully last visit.
After I parked, I pulled the hand-sized pepper spray from my handbag after several minutes searching. So much for being prepared to use this easily accessible crime deterrent in an emergency. I dug the silver met
al nail file out from beneath my blush then rifled past two lipstick tubes and Chapstick to find my peppermints. I popped a mint into my mouth to soothe my queasy stomach. Best to leave the spray and nail file in the driver’s seat of my car. No way would I carry anything inside remotely resembling a weapon. On second thought, I left my purse in the car.
My stomach growled, reminding me my lunch had been light. I envisioned the fast food salad I’d grab when I left.
I charged toward the front door to overcome my reluctance to enter the building, carrying only a small notepad, pen, and car keys, and strolled in bravely. Murphy’s Oil and sweat filled my nostrils—same as our local high school during Tara and Collin’s basketball games.
A droopy-eyed female receptionist with puffy cheeks and a thin neck sat at a desk in a glass enclosure inside the spacious foyer. At least forty thin black braids coiled perfectly around her head. I waited as she methodically checked the identification of the gentleman ahead of me—I surmised a lawyer. The navy suit moved off briskly and disappeared.
I stepped up to the window, aware of the fluttering in my stomach. She responded to my hello with a noncommittal grunt as I handed over the letter of authorization allowing me to visit Kirk.
“ID?” An expressionless request, no small talk wasted here.
I pulled out my driver’s license with my picture ID and quipped, “Bad hair day.”
The woman ignored my remark and glanced wordlessly back and forth from the license to me as if the picture might change. Finally her head jerked left toward chairs in the waiting area. I assumed that was permission to sit down. I tried to smile as I said thank you, but it was hard through shaky lips.
Fifteen minutes passed before a handcuffed man in a green cotton uniform appeared with a guard and was led to one of four glass-enclosed visitor’s cubicles at the far end of the room.
I was summoned and gestured to sit on the other side. I recognized Kirk’s face from his pictures and mentally reviewed his statistics from the file—weight 185, height 5’11. His huge muscular arms reminded me of machinery except with elbow gears. Fuzzy growth covered his arms and decorated his chest in thick curls escaping the top of his open shirt. His head seemed glued on top of his shoulders, like a child’s drawing of a stick man.
He sat down warily. Why wouldn’t he? After all, we were separated by vast degrees of freedom and lifestyle.
Kirk stared past me then down as his gaze locked on my notepad.
“Hi. My name’s Jennifer Trevor. I’m a friend of Lenora’s.”
At the mention of Lenora, color flushed over his face as his eyes bored into me. “How is she?”
I repeated the latest medical info. “You stopped her bleeding and probably saved her life.”
“Yeah, well, everyone thinks I wanted to kill her. The authorities are never going to believe I’m innocent.”
Movement in the cubicle next to us attracted my attention. No sound came through the glass, but a quick look at the prisoner’s red face and waving arms proved it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. I glanced over. Two black eyes met mine, axe blades of anger sharp enough to chop wood. Sweat formed on my brow. I swiped it away. I didn’t consider myself a skilled lip reader but figured out his words. I never had a chance. He mouthed it over and over to his visitor, the man in the navy blue suit.
A guard dragged the prisoner away but not before he yelled, “Now I’m sucked up into this lousy system.” The suited man on the same side of the cubicle as me got the message the session was over and packed his briefcase.
I turned back to Kirk, who’d observed the incident also, and was still watching the retreating figure.
“So that’s how you feel? Like a victim caught in the process?”
A shadow flickered across his face. “I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore. I was starting to think I was a real person with a job and a future and then this.” He waved his arm back and forth. “In my life growing up, the “haves” were the drug-pushers, pimps, and thieves and the “have-nots” were the straights. I try to go straight and look where it lands me.”
I held up my right hand in a stop gesture. “No sense wasting time in this pity pit. It’s not helpful to you or honest. In your prior life, didn’t you define fairness by robbing other people who had more? That’s absolutely wrong and besides, it didn’t work or you wouldn’t have history behind bars.”
Kirk lowered his head. “You sound like Lenora.”
“I’ve seen enough clients with ‘poor me’ syndrome to know it’s easy to convince yourself you deserve whatever you can take. It’s not right and never will be.”
“Okay, you nailed me. Until I reformed, that is. After my third prison stint, I really was going straight. I hooked up with Jesus—made a huge difference in my thinking. Lenora understood.” He rested his elbow on the narrow ledge in front of him and looked into my eyes. “I changed, plain and simple and for real.”
For his sake I wanted this to be true. I’d heard my share of stories about insincere foxhole conversions but knew real ones occurred too. “Go on, Kirk. The fact is, I need to be convinced.”
“It was a big deal to me that Lenora Lawrence cared about me and became a friend. The first I had in a long time, maybe ever.” Kirk squeezed his fist into the palm of his hand. “I’d die before letting her down. To think I could hurt her, well, it’s just crazy, that’s all.”
While he talked, I studied him, trying to gage how credible he was. Sincere or insincere? Hard to tell for sure. Maybe Christ had transformed his you-owe-me attitude, but reform is usually a process. Could he have changed so quickly? Or was it the lure of a job with Lenora’s foundation that led to his fake conversion?
Lord, give me discernment.
“I’m different, not just here.” Kirk pointed to his head. “Here.” He stabbed at his heart.
“I want to believe you.”
That was as much as I could honestly say. Kirk had an engaging intensity in his outgoing personality. He might have made a great living selling cars. How much of what I hoped was Kirk’s innocence came from a smooth professional con act? Did he take me for Miss Sweetie-Pie-Believe-Anything?
No silent sulking on his part, for which I was grateful. It appeared, at least, he’d opened up. I urged him to continue.
He recounted details of his prison Bible study. As I listened I kept seeing the image of my colleague working with him. I respected Lenora’s efforts to create a positive change and had no doubt she was an excellent counselor. Her incredible, altruistic bent led to her foundation. But no counselor was infallible. Good counseling enlisted the force of a person’s will to motivate change.
One more force helped—the Holy Spirit’s supernatural power to achieve more than mere human will. Lenora had experienced the difference genuine Christian conversion makes. How many times had I told my clients, “You can change. You’ve got to want it as bad as your next breath, work like you’re the only one who can make it happen, and pray daily for God’s grace to help you succeed.”
I studied Kirk as he shifted restlessly on the hard-backed chair. “So I connect with Christ and now this. I’m back in jail and if Lenora dies, I could be in prison the rest of my life. Is this how He treats people who trust Him?”
“Let’s keep the blame where it belongs and try to figure out what happened. I get it, Kirk. It’d be stupid to shoot Lenora when she was helping you. In your Bible reading, have you come across Job complaining because of God’s apparent abandonment? In the end, Job kept his trust in God, and the things he lost in life were restored. Check out his life.”
“Lenora told me to read the Gospels, especially John.” He brushed his hand across his eyes.
“Good place to start.”
“Now how can I convince the police of my innocence?”
“Convince me first.”
“Once and for all, it wasn’t me.” He raised his voice, and the guard in the corner hurried over.
I jerked my head toward the officer. “Cal
m down, Kirk.”
“Problem, ma’am?” The officer was leaning over me, his badge bright and close.
“No, everything’s fine.” I stammered.
The guard glared at Kirk. “Keep it down.”
To my relief he didn’t take Kirk away. No way did I want to end this interview yet.
As the guard backed away, I prayed again for discernment. Lord, can I believe what Kirk is saying? I don’t like to trust my feelings because I know how flighty they can be, but I sense he underwent a genuine reform. You have plans for this man; what are they?
I stared directly into his eyes. “When I walked in here, I didn’t know what to think. I do believe when Christ gets hold of a life, good things happen, not bad. When He’s at work, good can come out of even horrible events. If your commitment is sincere, it will be evident, and we’ll beat this.”
Kirk stared at me. Had his mind registered that he heard me say “we?”
Finally he spoke. “It’s nice to have somebody in my camp,” he stammered and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.
“If you weren’t the shooter, we have to figure out who fired that nearly fatal shot at Lenora.”
“How can I help stuck in here?”
I lowered my voice. “Were there any other ex-convicts—either ones Lenora worked with or for some reason turned down helping—who might have been angry with her or the foundation?”
“None I can think of off the top of my head.”
“When the police finish their investigation, they won’t have enough evidence to hold you.” Let’s hope.
Kirk slumped forward. “Thank God.” He started to cry.
This didn’t appear to be the harsh, self-serving thief whose file I’d studied the other night. I often saw clients’ tears during a counseling session. Crying didn’t make me uncomfortable, not even these tears seeming to come from the depth of his soul. I longed to pat him on the shoulder but of course, couldn’t touch him.
Tears or not, he still had a big test of trust to pass.
I waited several minutes until he collected himself.