by Artemis Hunt
“And none of your snide remarks.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Speaking of Mom, he hopes his parents will never find out about this. Or his uncle. Especially his uncle.
The two officers opposite the table are polar opposites. In fact, he’s certain they are going to stick the good cop, bad cop routine on him. One of them is a black officer with a badge that says ‘CUTTER’. The other is a hulking Norse god named ‘RILEY’.
Quaint.
Both of them have officious-looking folders on the table before them.
Officer Cutter says, “Now, Mr. Morton, tell us exactly what happened last night.”
“I will speak on his behalf,” Karen says.
“No, I’m OK about this,” Brian says. He ignores her glare. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Go on,” Officer Riley says.
Brian takes a deep breath.
“I was at the Galois, watching some opera about some ancient Egyptian people who have been wrongly accused.” Well, that was what he read in the program, not that he watched Act Three. “I was with my friends – Samantha and Caleb and Cassie.”
Well, Cassie is kind of a friend. OK, a friend of a friend, but spare him the technicalities.
“I received an alert on my cellphone during intermission that the alarm in my apartment had gone off.”
“You live at 675, North Drive, don’t you, Mr. Morton?”
“Yes.”
“Penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“And you are the President and CEO of Vanguard Advertising.”
“Yes.”
“You own a hundred percent of it.”
Brian hesitates. There is a technicality involved, and he wonders if he should tell the good officers about it, especially since it has nothing to do with the case. “Yes. But my uncle, Jefferson Morton, is still the Chairman. Vanguard belongs to the Morton group.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with the case,” Karen interrupts.
Brian says, “In the spirit of being an open book, I’ll answer. My uncle gave me the money to start up Vanguard after college. I had an experienced partner, Jane, my uncle’s daughter. She taught me everything she knew. She left after three years to start up the New York office.”
“So you are beholden to your uncle,” Officer Cutter remarks.
“You could say that, yes. But I do own a hundred percent of Vanguard now.”
It didn’t start out that way, but as a reward for growing it by triple figures every year, Jefferson Morton ceded his majority shares to his nephew. With one written caveat.
Little does Brian know that this caveat will return in full force to slam him in the face within the next few days.
Karen quickly cuts in, “Which goes on to show that a man of my client’s position has no reason or motive to do what you claimed he did.”
“We’ll get to that soon enough, Ms. Sandler. Please continue, Mr. Morton. Tell us what happened last night.”
Brian isn’t sure if Officer Riley has been selected to play good cop today, or if being the CEO of a company begets natural politeness on the part of policemen.
“I returned to my apartment. The security guards were already there. We found nothing amiss. I locked up to return to the Galois.”
“But the opera had already finished by that time, Mr. Morton,” says Officer Cutter. “Why would you be trying to get back to the Galois?”
Brian frowns. He hadn’t thought of it like that. “I was trying to catch my friends for a drink.”
“Did you call or text any of your friends?”
“No.”
“If you were trying to catch your friends at the tail end of an opera, wouldn’t you at the very least text them to ask to meet you someplace, or at least to stay put at the Galois to wait for you?”
Fuck. Now they are trying to make him look like a criminal.
Karen says, “Brian, let me answer.”
Brian says drily, “I didn’t have time to call or text my friends because when I got down to the lobby, the elevator doors opened, and I literally crashed into Ms. Faulkner. Only at that time, I didn’t know her name.”
He only learned her full name at the police station.
He goes on, “She was carrying some sort of dish filled with Bolognese. I was thinking . . . who the hell carries an uncovered dish?” He pauses, his mind churning.
Yes . . . it did seem premeditated. Almost like an accident waiting to happen.
“The sauce spilled down the front of her dress. I apologized and asked if she would like to use my apartment to clean herself up.”
“You apologized?” Officer Cutter says.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Karen narrows her eyes. She says in an icy tone, “Because Mr. Morton is a gentleman?”
Brian can see where this is heading. “Apologizing is the natural thing to do in this sort of situation. Or would you rather I push her brusquely away and tell her she’s a dodo for carrying spaghetti sauce around without a warning siren?”
Officer Riley holds up a hand as a conciliatory gesture. “The security camera captured the lobby incident rather well, Mr. Morton. It is as you described, although we can’t hear what you are saying, of course.”
He gets up, his chair pushing back with a creak. He walks to the TV and depresses a button. The screen flickers to life.
Validation, Brian thinks. And hopes.
The entire lobby scene displays, showing grainy images of Brian colliding into the woman. They speak. The camera is fixed on Brian’s face while the woman has her back to it. Her body language appears doubtful, reticent. Brian coaxes her. They finally reenter the elevator. The time clock on the lower left hand corner of the screen shows 9.15 p.m.
The smile on Brian’s face is predatory. Smug.
Premeditated.
Oh shit. He can see how this looks.
Brian says with heat, “I was offering to let her clean up at my place.”
“I’m sure you were, Mr. Morton,” Officer Cutter replies.
Karen says, “That’s precisely Mr. Morton’s defense, Officer Cutter. He wasn’t doing anything he normally doesn’t do. Mr. Morton has quite a reputation for being a ladies’ man. I’m sure that if you go through all the security camera recordings for the past three years, you will find that Mr. Morton has had similar visitors.”
Well over several hundred, Brian has to admit. Who would ever have thought that such a legacy would now come to his defense in his hour of need?
For the first time, he’s ashamed of it.
In the video, the elevator doors slide shut noiselessly.
“Are there any security cameras in your penthouse, Mr. Morton?” Officer Riley asks.
“No.” Shit. He had them taken out because he didn’t want recordings of his sexploits.
“So we have only your word against Ms. Faulkner’s as to what happened last night?” Officer Cutter says with meaning.
“Yes.” He’s afraid so.
“Tell us what happened.”
“Brian,” Karen warns.
“We went up to my apartment. She asked to wash the pasta sauce off her dress. I pointed in the direction of the guest bathroom. I went up to my bedroom to change into something more comfortable. When I came down, she was in my white silk bathrobe. She was seated on the sofa in my lounge. She had poured both of us drinks from my bar.”
He pauses, trying to remember through the fugue in his brain.
“We started fooling around.”
“Be specific,” Karen encourages.
Yeah. Specificity is important here, he gets that now. “I sat beside her on the couch. We downed our drinks and put the glasses down. We started kissing.”
“Who kissed who first?” Officer Cutter interrupts.
“I kissed her first,” Brian says, his eyes meeting the policeman’s. “It’s what I do.”
He’s the one who always has to be in command
. In charge of the situation.
“And then?”
“She kissed me back.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Morton?”
“Yes. We were kissing on my sofa, and then the room started to spin.”
Karen says quickly, “My client does not remember anything after that point, officers.”
“Do you do drugs, Mr. Morton?”
“Not that night.”
“But you do drugs occasionally?”
“Only recreational ones. And not that often,” Brian says.
Karen shoots him a glare.
“Hey, I’m being honest,” he shoots back.
“Will you be willing to submit to a blood and urine test?”
Brian holds out his arm. “Why not? I have nothing to hide.”
“So you keep repeating.” Officer Cutter leans closer. “But that is when your stories diverge.”
“So I gather,” Brian says caustically.
“Have you ever met Ms. Delilah Faulkner before yesterday?”
“I don’t think so.”
Officer Cutter taps the folder in front of him. For the first time, he opens it. “Let’s review Ms. Faulkner’s statements.”
Brian can’t help tensing. Beside him, Karen’s face flinches a little. Officer Riley catches it.
“According to Ms. Faulkner, you kissed her.”
“She kissed me back.”
“You kissed her. You practically forced her down upon your sofa. Sensing that you were going to be a bit rough, she pulled back. She said, ‘No. I changed my mind about this’.”
Brian clenches his jaw. He swallows the hard lump that has suddenly bolted up his throat. “I have never, ever forced myself on any woman before. Any woman who didn’t want it, that is.”
“Brian,” Karen cautions.
“She tried to push you away, but you were a little drunk. Insistent. How many drinks did you have last night?”
Brian closes his eyes. “Two.”
“Bourbon?”
“Yes.”
“She struggled . . . and that’s when she started to claw you, resulting in those scratch marks you see on your chest. You both fought, which resulted in the smashed furniture around you. But you were strong. You overpowered her. Then you tore her robe off and raped her.”
Brian turns pale. “I’ve never . . . ”
“Raped anyone in your life, Mr. Morton? Perhaps you were under the influence of alcohol. But Ms. Faulkner managed to escape. She made her way downstairs.”
Officer Cutter starts the video again. This time, the time clock on the little left hand corner at the bottom of the screen displays 10.29 p.m. The camera is trained at the elevator doors. They open and a disheveled Delilah, wet green dress askew, stumbles out.
Brian’s stomach turns.
What has he done to her?
“The doorman spotted her, asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t say anything to him. She made her way to her car parked in the basement. She drove straight to the hospital. A statement from the medical report suggests that she has indeed been traumatized with signs of forced penetration, both vaginally and anally. Sperm samples have been taken from both orifices.”
Brian freezes. He has had anal sex with women before, but it was always because they begged him to fuck them in the ass. This can’t be happening. It simply can’t. He has never taken a woman against her will, no matter how drunk or high or stoned he has been. He never had to. They all flocked to him like rabbits to a carrot patch.
“Right after that, she came to us, the police.”
“My client doesn’t remember anything of what you have read from Ms. Faulkner’s case notes, Officer,” Karen says. “He passed out.”
Brian closes his eyes. “I didn’t rape her. I didn’t do anything to her that she didn’t want me to. And as I remembered it, her words and body language suggested very much that she wanted me.”
Then why isn’t he as sure as he should be? The doubts are creeping in. What is he really like when he’s under the influence? Is he so sure he wouldn’t turn violent like his father?
He’s frightened, but not because of what might happen to him. He’s terrified because he’s suddenly afraid of who he really is.
His father all over again.
Oh God.
Karen continues, “My client is an upstanding member of the community. He is from a very prominent family which has contributed plenty to the state of Illinois. He is the CEO of a large advertising firm which has done campaigns for the mayor himself. His only crime is promiscuity, and when I last checked, that wasn’t a punishable offence. Ask yourself this, officers. Why would a handsome, successful and wealthy young man like Brian Morton who has practically every single woman and quite a few married ones throwing themselves at his feet ever has the need to rape someone?”
Officer Cutter clears his throat. “I have been in this profession, Ms. Sandler, for more than twenty years. I have met mild-mannered fathers, respected university professors, prominent businessmen, and even famous political figures who have all in some manner or other been convicted of raping someone – even when ‘they have no need to’ for sexual release.
“The psychology of rape is a complex beast, involving many cognitive and emotional factors. But the majority of rapists aren’t sexually frustrated middle-aged men prowling in alleys. In fact, most of them are outwardly what you would consider normal people.”
“I am not a rapist,” Brian says between his teeth.
“We will be investigating the case,” Officer Cutter says, standing up and collecting his case notes. “Meanwhile, bail will be set at a hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” Karen splutters. “Officer, my client has never committed any offence before – ”
“Your client is a man of considerable means, as you rightly pointed out, Ms. Sandler.” He turns to Brian, still seated. “I trust you will be posting bail easily enough. And don’t skip town.”
14
It takes a while to mobilize a hundred grand, especially on a Sunday. Even for Brian Morton. And especially when he doesn’t want to involve his uncle. But when they finally do, it’s already Monday afternoon. Brian has spent the entire night in jail.
When he comes out, he’s unshaven, cranky and sore. His eyes are bloodshot. Caleb and Sam are waiting for him in the reception area of the police station.
Sam immediately hugs Brian. He hugs her back readily enough, but she can feel a reticence – a mild pulling back.
“I didn’t do it,” he says to both Caleb and her. He doesn’t meet their eyes.
Her heart sinks.
When she heard about the ‘rape’ yesterday, she couldn’t believe her ears. “What?”
“I know,” Caleb says soberly. “I didn’t believe it myself either.”
“Brian would never rape someone.”
“That’s supposed to be my line.”
“I mean,” Sam is so indignant that she has difficulty forming her words, “he doesn’t have to!”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
Cassie’s mouth is sewn up in a tight purse. Then she speaks, “How much do you really know about him anyway, Sam?”
“Oh come on,” Caleb says. “I know you don’t like him – ”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”
“Oh yes, you did. Every chance you got, you took a dig at him, Cass. I mean, he’s my best friend. What do you want me to say or do? Agree on anything that you say about him?”
“You’ve defended him from day one, Caleb, and I’m just saying he’s not exactly the kind of friend who always has your best interests at heart. He’s selfish, egoistical, narcissistic, and I’m sorry you can’t see it.”
“You don’t know anything about Brian.” Caleb raises his voice. “So stop judging him.”
“OK, that’s enough.” Sam physically steps in between them and pushes them apart. Her face is flushed and she’s panting slightly. “The two of you arguing is not going to help B
rian one bit. I know Brian much better than you, Cass, and I say he’s not capable of raping anyone.”
Hurting them emotionally is another matter, but now is the time not to bring that up.
“So why is this woman accusing him of rape?” Cassie demands. “There’s never smoke without fire.”
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a misunderstanding. But whatever it is, Brian didn’t intentionally do it.”
“You sound so sure.”
“I am sure.”
That was yesterday. Today, the situation has calmed down somewhat. Caleb has managed to talk Cassie into staying away, which didn’t require that much effort.
Brian hugs Caleb next. “Thanks for bailing me out.”
“Hey, it’s your money. I only made a couple of phone calls.”
“It was more than a few phone calls, Cal, and you know it.”
“I did it so you’ll never bring up the incident of the under-aged hooker again.”
Brian laughs.
Sam smiles. It’s good to see him recover his spirits . . . slightly.
“So do I get to go home, or are the CSI still dusting the place for fingerprints and blood spatter?’ Brian says.
“They’ve finished,” Caleb says. He puts his arm around the taller man’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
*
Brian’s lounge is a mess. The police have left everything the way it was, and their shoes have trampled everything they can possibly trample outside the ‘ring of investigation’. Sam takes in the broken glass table, the sprawled lampstand and the shredded curtains. The silk bathrobe has been appropriated by the police for evidence.
She frowns. She can’t yet put her finger on it, but something about this whole scenario feels forced.
Call it a woman’s intuition.
Scratch that. Call it the intuition of someone who loves Brian.
“Want us to help you clean up?” Caleb says.
“No. Leave it. I want to . . . remember.” Brian flattens his mouth.
“But you can’t remember what happened. That’s unusual in itself,” Caleb argues. “When you’re drunk, you pass out. But you’re never drunk after just two drinks. You sure you didn’t have a couple more?”
“No. I’m pretty sure.” Brian scrunches his forehead. “It’s just too convenient . . . why can’t I remember anything?”