“Of course he did, Lucille. And I can’t believe you are taking it seriously.” She ignores my comment.
“Mr. Aiken, I can assure you that the youth involved in this matter is not in that room,” Lucille says. “In fact, he is not even in the building.”
“Who’s back there then?” Jim asks.
“Mike, turn up the lights,” Lucille says to the ceiling where a small microphone is suspended. She walks over and turns out the lights in the interview room. There is a flicker behind the glass as the fluorescent lights come on. We see a video camera on a tripod, someone operating the camera, a stenographer seated at her machine, and a man leaning up against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “As you can see, there is no child present,” Lucille offers. “Now, may we please proceed?”
“Only if you agree not to video tape,” Jim says.
Lucille looks to Detective Carter.
“Alright,” he says with a shrug, “let’s just get this over with.”
Lucille steps over and switches on the lights. “Why don’t you gentlemen have a seat?” She motions to the eight chairs evenly spaced around the large table.
Jim and I sit. The door opens and in walks the man I saw behind the mirror. Now, I recognize him.
“This is Mr. Nathan Moultrie,” Lucille says.
But no introductions are necessary. Jim looks at me and I at him. Nathan Moultrie is not from the solicitor’s office. He is the solicitor, the chief prosecuting attorney for Charleston County.
This is serious.
Moultrie walks over and offers me his hand. I shake it. He shakes Jim’s hand and then sits.
The Team is assembled.
As I watch Detective Carter refer to his notes I feel my pulse quickening. My palms are sweaty. A drop of perspiration is running down my back. I take the handkerchief from my pocket and wipe my forehead and mouth.
I am not here. This is not happening.
“Would you like me to turn the heat down, Glen?” Lucille asks.
I look up. Everyone is staring at me. Even Jim.
I cough into my hand and replace my handkerchief in my pocket. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
Jim pats me on the arm. “Just relax,” he whispers.
“Are you ready to begin, Dr. Erskine,” Carter asks.
I nod.
“Alright, fine. You know Tommy Jackson, Dr. Erskine?”
“I do.”
“He is a resident at New Horizons Boys Home where you serve as director and chief of staff. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Did you visit Tommy in his room last night?”
I answer in the affirmative. Carter’s questions concerning last night’s visit closely parallel John Brantley’s earlier this morning. I give the same answers. Yes, I visited Tommy. It was to inform him of Chris Manning’s death.
“Where were you in the room when you talked with Tommy?”
“I sat on the edge of his bed.”
“And Tommy was in the bed?”
“Yes. He sat up after I waked him.”
“And how was he dressed?”
“Dressed? I don’t understand the question. Tommy was in bed asleep. He wasn’t dressed.”
“Was Tommy wearing any clothing at all?”
“Only his underwear, as I recall.”
Carter makes a note on the pad. “At any point while you were in Tommy’s room did you touch him?”
Jim puts his hand on my arm. “Please make your question more specific, Mr. Carter,” he says.
Carter is clearly distracted by having to depart from the list of questions in his notes. “We will skip that question for now. Dr. Erskine, did Tommy touch you at any point?”
Jim’s hand is still on my arm. He squeezes. “Again, Mr. Carter, I would ask that you be more specific.”
“Mr. Aiken, I don’t see what your problem is with these questions.” Detective Carter is getting ticked.
“Alright, I’ll explain my problem. You are asking yes or no questions. A touch can be anything. Accidental. Incidental. A slap. A punch. Anything. My client may answer ‘yes’ to your question, and without further qualification he could be accused of admitting to virtually anything—anything that qualifies as a touch. Now if you want to ask him something specific, like, ‘Did you punch Tommy in the nose?’ he’ll be glad to answer. Otherwise, I suggest you move to another topic.”
I try not to smile. Jim may not have practiced law in years, but he knows how to look out for his client. I’m glad he is with me. I would have just said ‘yes,’ and where would that have gotten me?
Carter looks at his notes. Before he can ask me another question, Nathan Moultrie motions to him. Carter slides the pad across the table to Moultrie.
“Dr. Erskine, did you and Tommy embrace?” the solicitor asks.
“Yes. He was very upset over the news of Chris Manning’s death. Chris was Tommy’s counselor and they were very close. I held the boy while he cried.”
“Did you rub Tommy’s back?”
“During the embrace, yes.”
“Did you lie in bed with Tommy?”
“No.”
“You did not get into the bed with Tommy?”
“No.”
“Tommy remained under the bed clothes the entire time you were in the room?”
“Yes.”
Moultrie makes a note on the pad. “Dr. Erskine, last night at New Horizons, did you engage in other affectionate contact with Tommy in his bed?”
“Well—” Jim’s hand is on my arm again.
“Mr. Moultrie, please refrain from asking vague and loaded questions. My client has already told you that he was not in the bed with Tommy. He was sitting on the bed beside him. And he has admitted to hugging Tommy. Now unless the good ol’ boys up in Columbia have come up with a whole bunch of new laws, I don’t believe affectionate contact with a child is a crime in the State of South Carolina. If it is, we’re all in serious trouble.”
Beth Carbon lets a chuckle slip out.
Moultrie ignores Jim and looks at me. “Dr. Erskine, did you engage in petting with Tommy?”
Jim speaks before I can answer. “In the current situation, Mr. Moultrie, we must assume that the term ‘petting’ is pejorative and therefore prejudicial to my client. I would again ask that your questions be more specific.”
“Alright. Specifically, did you,” he looks at the notes, “run your fingers through Tommy’s hair and massage his scalp?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“You massaged Tommy’s back?”
“Yes.”
“His neck?”
“Yes.”
“His buttocks?”
“No.”
“At any time did you fondle Tommy?”
I let out an exasperated breath. “No, I didn’t.”
“Did you masturbate Tommy to orgasm?”
I look at Jim. “I can’t believe this.”
“Just answer his question, Glen,” Jim says.
I turn to Moultrie. “No, I did not masturbate Tommy. Did he tell you I did?”
Moultrie ignores my question and flips the page of the legal pad. “Dr. Erskine, did you engage in anal intercourse with Tommy in his room at New Horizons last night?”
I am dumbfounded by the question. I stare blankly at Moultrie. “You can’t be serious,” I say.
“Please answer the question, Dr. Erskine. Did you engage in anal intercourse with Tommy Jackson last night?”
“No, I did not, Mr. Moultrie. For God’s sake, I was only in the room a few minutes and Curtis Sloan was in there the whole time not six feet from us. Do you think I would be stupid enough to try something like that with Tommy’s roommate in the bed beside us? Why don’t you ask Curt if I did any of these things?”
Moultrie again ignores my questions and studies his notes for a moment. “Dr. Erskine, did you visit Tommy at his school yesterday morning?”
I don’t respond. The question takes me by
surprise.
“Dr. Erskine? Did you go to Tommy’s school yesterday?”
“Yes,” I say. I glance at Jim and see the confusion in his face. I did not tell him of this. There was no reason to. Or so it seemed. Why is Moultrie asking about it?
“You removed Tommy from class, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go after you took Tommy from class?”
I am silent. I think about where Tommy took me and I realize where the solicitor’s question is going. It is impossible to describe how I feel. My legs are numb. My stomach aches. I feel as if I can’t breathe. I am forcing my diaphragm to function. I am on the verge of an anxiety attack.
“Dr. Erskine? Would you like me to repeat the question?”
“No, no, I heard you.” I rub my hand over my mouth. “We went to the restroom.”
“Why the restroom?”
“Tommy said he had to use the bathroom.”
“You went into the restroom with him?”
I nod.
“Dr. Erskine, I must ask that you make your response verbally for the record. You went in the restroom with Tommy Jackson, correct?”
“Yes,” I say.
“What did you and Tommy do after you went in the restroom?”
“Tommy urinated. I told you, he said he had to go to the bathroom.”
“Where were you while the boy was urinating?”
“I sat in a chair that was in there.”
“You did not stand beside him and watch him urinate?”
“No, I did not.”
“You did not stand beside Tommy and make comments about the size of his penis?”
“No.”
“When Tommy finished urinating, did you ask him to fondle himself to produce an erection?”
“What?”
“Did you—”
“I heard the question. No, I did not, Mr. Moultrie. I told you, I was sitting in a chair over by the window while Tommy was at the urinal.”
“When Tommy finished urinating, did you perform oral sex on him?”
I put my face in my hands and shake my head. Finally, I look up. “Has Tommy actually told you I did these things?”
“Answer the question please. Did you—”
“No, I didn’t. Tommy urinated and then we talked. That’s all that took place in the restroom.”
“Did Tommy perform oral sex on you?”
“I can’t believe this.” I slap my palms down on the table. “I can not believe this.”
Jim pats me on the arm. “Just answer his—”
“No, no, no, no, no! Tommy and I talked. We talked. That’s it.”
“About what?” Moultrie asks.
“It was a private matter.”
“Did it have anything to do with Sunday night in your home?
“What?”
“Dr. Erskine, Tommy Jackson spent Sunday night in your home, did he not?”
I suddenly realize that my face is drenched. A drop of sweat falls from the tip of my nose and lands on the table. I turn to Jim with panic on my face. I can’t go any further.
Jim stands. “At this time, Mr. Moultrie, I am advising my client not to answer any further questions. This interview is concluded.”
Jim and I left Children and Youth Services without incident. I thought for sure Moultrie was going to have me arrested me on the spot. We are now seated in a booth at a diner a few blocks away. I have a cup of coffee; Jim, a glass of ice tea. He has not spoken to me since we left the interview—or rather, the interrogation. It scares me to imagine what he is thinking.
“Jim, I want to thank you for rescuing me back there. It’s clear to me now that I would have blundered that interview badly without your input.”
Jim takes a sip of tea and looks at me. The strangest thoughts are running through my mind. Jim and I are the same age. Do I carry my forty-three years as well as he does his? Am I as handsome as he?
“Buddy, you blundered that interview plenty bad with me sitting right beside you.” Jim sets his glass of tea on the red Formica. He traces his finger around the lip. “Glen, I’ll be honest with you. I am having second thoughts about representing you in this matter.”
He thinks I did it.
Jim must see that thought written in my expression. “Don’t think I’m passing judgment on you, because I’m not. It’s just that I’m out of my territory here. I haven’t practiced law in four years. And when I did, I wasn’t a criminal defense attorney. Hell, I don’t even know what they could charge you with...what the law is, I mean.”
I sigh and look out the window. “Well, I can help you there. Tommy’s under fourteen but older than eleven. He’s telling them I sodomized him. I’m looking at a charge of second degree criminal sexual conduct. That’s a felony, Jim.”
“You see? You want me to be your lawyer, and I didn’t even know that. “
“It doesn’t matter. I want you to be my lawyer. If it’s a matter of money...well, I don’t know. I can sell the house—”
Jim holds up his hand. “If you ask me to represent you, I will. And there is no matter of money.”
“I’m asking you to represent me.”
“Then I will.” Jim holds his hand across the table. I shake it. “You now have an attorney, pro bono,” he says with a smile.
I finally take a sip of my coffee. “I have to know, Jim. Do you think they will arrest me?” I take another sip of coffee.
“Yes.”
I cough and almost choke on the coffee. I pick up the napkin and wipe my mouth and chin.
“You ask me a straight question, Glen, you better expect a straight answer. That’s the way I operate.”
“Are you sure? You really think they are going to arrest me?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“They know everything that Tommy is accusing you of. We don’t. I got the impression that the solicitor had a lot more questions. There is obviously more to this than just last night in Tommy’s bedroom. We’ve got the restroom at his school yesterday. And there’s this deal with Sunday night. Tommy spent the night at your house?”
“Yes.”
“Why was the boy spending the night at your house?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Okay, we’ll save it for later. What about the restroom at school? What in the world were you doing in the restroom with him?”
“All I can tell you is that I really did have to talk with Tommy about something. And we wound up in the restroom exactly the way I said. Tommy said he had to pee. It’s that simple. That bit about me watching him urinate and make comments about his penis...having oral sex with him, that’s all nonsense. I was sitting in the chair by the window the whole time. He came over and sat beside me on the floor when he finished and we talked. That’s it.”
“I don’t suppose there was anyone else in the restroom who could verify this?”
“No, we were alone.”
“What was so important that you drove out to Tommy’s school to discuss it with him?”
Again I sigh and look out the window. “I can’t tell you. I swore to someone that I would not reveal this and I won’t do it.”
“I take it you are speaking of whatever you wouldn’t tell John Brantley?”
I nod.
“I get the feeling that Sunday night is tied to this some how, right?”
I nod again. “In a way.”
“And whatever this is that you can’t talk about will clear you?”
“Probably.” I turn to look at Jim. I think again about that damn recorder with its dead batteries. “If I tell, it could just make me look even more guilty.”
Jim leans back and tucks his tie in between his lapels. “Glen, you’ve just given me enough of a clue that I think I can figure out—at least partially—the predicament you are in. Give me a minute.”
I watch Jim think. What did I say? What kind of clue did I give him?
“Okay,” he finally says, “see if this sounds abou
t right. Tommy Jackson has been molested. You didn’t do it, but you know who did. And for some reason you agreed not to report the person. Am I right?”
I don’t say anything.
“I thought so,” Jim says.
I guess my poker face is not as good as his.
“It’s someone at New Horizons, right?”
I am silent.
“I thought so,” Jim says. “Now for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you would not report the abuse. Who did it, Glen? Who would you be willing to go to jail to protect?”
“All I can tell you is I didn’t do it. I did not molest Tommy Jackson.”
“Glen, I have to say it, buddy, you came across guilty as sin back there. It’s just a matter of time before you’re charged.”
“I’m innocent,” I say.
“I know. But it’s time for a reality check. Once you are accused of this, your life, as you know it, is over. You may be cleared of all charges, but the accusation will stay with you for the rest of your life. Just the mere suspicion that you might have done it is enough to taint you. Once you are accused of molesting a child, there simply is no return to innocence.”
No return to innocence.
Jim’s words echo in my head. My stomach lurches, and I feel the bile burning in my throat as I get up and run for the restroom with my hand over my mouth.
Chapter 6
Bad Touching
When I returned home from the questioning at DSS I fully expected to find Moultrie or the sheriff waiting there to arrest me. Instead, I found no one.
As I pulled into our driveway, I swallowed hard, still having a sour taste in my mouth from getting sick back at the diner. I have never reacted that way to anything before. But Jim’s assessment that my life is over got to me.
No return to innocence.
I am sitting in the drive now thinking about those words. I know they will haunt me for the rest of my life.
The Suburban is gone so I guess Benjamin is feeling better. His fever was down when I left this morning and Suzanne said if he felt up to it they would go to McDonald’s for lunch and then do some shopping—something she would have never done with Peter at that age if he had been running a fever just a few hours earlier. We are considerably more laid back with our second child than with our first. Peter taught us that young children can run a temperature for seemingly inexplicable reasons and within a matter of hours be fine. Or rather, our pediatrician taught us that. After Suzanne would call him every time Peter sneezed, practically.
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