I am looking at Judge Cole. And he is looking at me. His expression is not friendly. His aged features are hard and angular, his hair almost silver. The half-lens reading glasses are perched precariously on the end of his nose.
Jim guessed correctly when he said that Tommy Jackson would not testify this morning. We have just finished watching Tommy’s taped statement. Almost twenty minutes long, it seemed to go on for hours.
I could see the pain in Tommy’s eyes as he lied for the camera. The disturbing thing to everyone—especially me—is that Tommy is telling the truth. Everything that he said happened to him has happened to him. And most of it was done by—who knows? How many men have taken advantage of Tommy sexually? He didn’t have to make up anything for Moultrie; he has vivid memories of real experiences from which to draw for this judicial phantasm.
Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
“Mr. Aiken,” the judge says, “would you and your client like to offer a response to these charges?”
“I didn’t do it,” I say before Jim can respond.
The judge frowns at me. “Dr. Erskine, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, but your denial is noted for the record. Mr. Aiken, do you have any witnesses or opposing evidence?”
Jim half stands. “None at this time, Your Honor. Thank you.”
The judge frowns again, clearly displeased with Jim’s response.
“Your Honor—” Moultrie is stopped by Judge Cole’s upraised hand. The judge is looking at me.
“Dr. Erskine, I want you to understand that you have the right to a full hearing before me on this matter. That’s what I’m here for. You can bring in your own witnesses to refute these charges. Has your attorney explained this to you?”
I stand. “Yes, Your Honor, he has. I have no witnesses who can refute what Tommy Jackson is alleging. All I can say is that I did not do what he is saying I did.” I sit.
The judge is still frowning, now at Moultrie, who is standing behind the prosecutor’s table. “Do you have anything else?” he asks him.
Moultrie looks to be considering his options. “No, Your Honor.”
“Very well.” He pauses and looks at me again. He shakes his head. “The defendant will rise,” he says.
Jim nudges me and we stand together.
“Glen Michael Erskine you are charged with two counts of willfully and lewdly committing or attempting a lewd and lascivious act upon or with the body of one Thomas Wayne Jackson, a minor child under the age of fourteen years, with the intent of arousing, appealing to, and gratifying the lust, passion, and sexual desires of yourself or said minor child. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
“Glen Michael Erskine, you are also charged with six counts of criminal sexual conduct in the second degree, that you did willfully and unlawfully engage in a sexual battery upon Thomas Wayne Jackson, a minor child under the age of fourteen years, engaging in oral sex with and performing anal intercourse upon said minor child. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
“You may be seated. The defendant’s plea of not guilty on all charges is entered. Let the record show that based on the evidence and testimony presented, I have no choice but to find probable cause that the defendant, Glen Michael Erskine, did commit the crimes for which he has been charged. The defendant remains free on his own recognizance until the grand jury makes its ruling in this matter. Is there anything else, gentlemen?”
Jim stands. “Your Honor, my client had planned to spend the Thanksgiving holidays in Virginia with his family. Is that—”
Moultrie’s on his feet. “We object, Your Honor. The crimes Mr. Erskine are charged with are serious. I would submit, Your Honor, that in the absence of bail, Mr. Erskine is a flight risk.”
“Sit down, Mr. Moultrie. If I thought Doctor Erskine was a flight risk I would not release him on his own recognizance, now would I? However,” he looks at Jim, “the solicitor has a point. I don’t think it wise to allow the defendant to remove himself from the jurisdiction of this State.” He looks over his reading glasses. “We are talking about felony charges here, Jim.”
Jim stands. “Yes, Your Honor, we are. But at this juncture, they are only charges. The grand jury may not indict—”
Moultrie makes a noise. The judge glares at him.
Jim clears his throat. “Would Your Honor be inclined to grant this request if I personally vouch for the return of my client from Virginia?”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Moultrie asks.
“Be quiet, Mr. Moultrie. I’ll ask the questions in my courtroom. How can you make that assurance, Jim?”
“Because I will be vacationing with the Erskines, Your Honor.”
I hope my expression hasn’t changed too much. When I told Jim of our planned trip to Virginia, we did not discuss him coming along.
“Well, that does change things a bit. Alright, as long as you are with the defendant, Jim, I’ll grant the request.”
“We renew our objection, Your Honor.”
“Noted, Mr. Moultrie. Jim, I’ll expect you to file an itinerary with the clerk’s office detailing—”
“Your Honor, I’d like a ruling on my objection,” Moultrie says.
“I believe I just overruled it, counsellor,” he says to Moultrie. He looks at Jim “Don’t forget that itinerary. Departure and return clearly indicated, okay?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”
“Anything else?” The judge waits for a response. Moultrie looks as if he could eat nails for lunch. “Okay, we’re adjourned.”
Jim looks at me as he starts gathering up his things from the table. “Sorry about inviting myself along on your Thanksgiving vacation,” Jim says. “But with Moultrie’s objection, it looked like the only way to get the judge to let you go.”
“It’s no problem, Jim. There’s plenty of room at the farm. And my folks love company.”
“This came by messenger a little while ago, Glen.” My wife holds the FedEx envelope out to me.
I look at the return address: John Brantley, New Horizons, North Charleston, S.C. Isn’t this nice? North Charleston is fifteen minutes away by car. Fifteen milliseconds by phone. And John sends me something Federal Express. I glance up at Jim and my wife and we all three sit at the kitchen table.
“What do you think it is?” Suzanne asks me.
“I guess I’ve been fired, honey.” I break the seal on the envelope and remove the contents: a handwritten letter from John on New Horizons letterhead, and something in a New Horizons envelope. I read the letter.
Dear Glen,
The Board of Directors called an emergency meeting today to consider the crisis your situation has placed us in. Since you haven’t bothered to come in to work since Tuesday, you are probably unaware of what is happening.
Several of our biggest supporters (chiefly the Ellis Foundation) are threatening to drop us if you remain as chief of staff and director. The Board has no choice but to capitulate to their demands. As much as we value all you have contributed to New Horizons, we cannot allow its very existence to be threatened by this incident.
Effective immediately you are terminated from employment at New Horizons. The Board agreed that three month’s salary was a generous severance allowance under these circumstances. Our records show that you have used only two of your six weeks of vacation this year. The enclosed cashier’s check will include pay for the four unused weeks plus the severance pay, less any applicable taxes and deductions.
This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, Glen. Believe me. If you have any questions, feel free to call me anytime. You can come in and clean out your office whenever it is convenient.
John Brantley
I hand the letter to Suzanne and rip open the envelope. I remove the check: $16,213.68.
I guess they aren’t going to throw me a going away party.
“How are we going to live, Glen?” Su
zanne asks me.
“We’ll manage, honey. We always have.”
Jim clears his throat. “I’m not being nosy, but what did you make at New Horizons, Glen? Roughly?”
“Roughly? About fifty-eight thousand a year before taxes.”
“Umm. And what’d they give you for severance?”
“Sixteen grand and change.”
“How much do you make at your job, Suzanne?”
My wife manages a chuckle between tears. “One hundred and twenty-five dollars a week, Jim. It’s part-time and practically a volunteer position.”
“Oh.”
“And we’ve got about eight thousand in savings,” I say.
“And you’ve got normal bills, right? House payment, car payments, insurance, utilities?”
“Right.”
“So basically, in three or four months you’ll be broke.”
Suzanne bursts into tears. “Ekskuus, asseblief,” she says, and leaves the room quickly.
“Well, thanks, Jim. That’s just what my wife needed to hear.”
“I’m sorry, buddy. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Jim, this house is worth close to a million dollars. Do you know a good realtor? I want to go ahead and put it on the market.”
“Aw, Glen, you don’t wanna sell your house, buddy. You all love this place.”
“Yeah, we love it, Jim. And we couldn’t afford it when you sold it to us. And we sure as hell can’t afford it now. Have you forgotten what the insurance is on this place? Or how much the light bill is every month? This is a big ass house.”
“I know, but—”
“Do you know any realtors or not?”
“A couple. I’ll take care of it. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
Suzanne and I don’t normally excuse our sons from the table unless they have eaten their dinner. But we made an exception tonight for Peter. All is not well with him. The Code at school can only do so much. It may be able to prevent your fellow students from being cruel to you. But it can’t make them be kind.
“You want to go talk to him, Glen?” Suzanne asks me.
“No, honey, I think he needs to be alone for a while. He’s coming to realize that things aren’t going to be the same anymore. And he’s got to deal with that in his own way.”
“What’s wrong with Pete, Daddy?” Benjamin asks.
“He’s just sad, little man.”
“What’s he sad for?”
“Some of his friends aren’t being very nice to him at school.”
“Oh.”
I lean back and twirl the spoon in my coffee. I feel the warmth of the silver as it conducts the heat. Even a blind man can know when the service is sterling.
Benjamin has his usual white moustache from the milk. Desert tonight is his favorite: chocolate pudding, which he is devouring now. He licks the back of the spoon.
“Dis goed?” I ask him.
He blinks and nods, surprised at my use of “Mommy’s talk” as he calls it. “Lekker,” he says, with a big smile.
“Wipe your mouth,” I tell him. He takes the napkin and scrubs away the moustache and the pudding.
Suzanne and I have tried to keep all this from our five-year-old. And I think we have been relatively successful. He seems the least affected of the Erskines. For him, everything is okay. How long can we maintain the ruse?
The doorbell rings.
I turn to Suzanne and raise my eyebrows. I know she must be thinking what I am. Is it another surprise from Moultrie? Does he want to search the house again?
“I’ll get it,” she says and rises from the table.
“I’m finished, Daddy.”
“Okay, honey. Go get ready for your bath.”
“Will you come up and play with me?”
“Yeah, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Benjamin slides from the chair and scurries off, happy in his okay world.
Suzanne is back. “Glen, it’s Nicholas Brandeis.”
“Jim’s stepson? Is Jim with him?”
“No.”
“Did you ask him in?”
She gives me one of her looks. “No, Glen, I told him to wait outside.”
I frown.
“He’s in the den,” she says.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said he came by to talk to you about something.”
“To talk to me about something?”
“That’s what he said.”
I take a last sip of coffee and get up. What could Nick want to talk to me about?
As I step down into the den, I see Nick sitting on the main sofa. His back is to me. I walk softly behind him, over to the fireplace. I watch him. He’s looking around, studying the room. I wonder if he knows the story behind this house? Does he know that this is where his stepfather lived another life? And if he did, would it matter to him?
“Hello, Nick.” He jumps a little and turns around.
“Hey, Dr. Erskine. I hope it was okay for me to come by.”
I walk over to the sofa. I sit at the end opposite Nick. He looks at me and I him. He’s neatly dressed: khakis and a white button-down shirt. He’s wearing a maroon and gold Chadwick windbreaker.
“My wife said you wanted to talk with me?”
“Yes, sir. You know I go to Chadwick?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Gregory Kuykendall?”
“Is he Luke Kuykendall’s brother?”
“Yes, sir. He goes to Chadwick, too. He’s a sophomore, like me.”
I’m not interested in the older brother of one of Peter’s friends. “Does Jim and your mother know you’re here, Nick?”
“Yes, sir. I told them I was coming over. Why?”
I try to think of a way to ask this boy if he knows. I want to know why he’s here. And I want to know how he can sit on the sofa and make small talk with an accused child molester.
“Do you know?” I ask.
Nick purses his eyebrows. “Know what?”
“What I’ve been accused of?”
And then I see understanding in his eyes. “I know,” he says. He doesn’t look away. He’s not embarrassed.
“And it doesn’t bother you? Being here alone with me?” I ask.
“Dad told me you didn’t do it.”
The shear simplicity, the undiluted honesty in the boy’s statement is disarming. Jim told him I didn’t do it, so I didn’t.
“Thank you, Nick. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“It’s about your son, Peter.”
“Peter? What about him?”
“Luke’s brother told me about what’s been going on at Peter’s school. I know Luke and Peter are pretty good friends. But Luke’s dad won’t let him come over here. Greg said they don’t really think you did it...but, well, they just don’t know. They...” Nick seems to be thinking about something.
“They what?” I ask.
“That’s why you asked me if I knew, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“It’s pretty bad?” Nick asks.
“What?”
“Knowing that everybody thinks you molested that kid at the group home.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty bad. I could deal with it a lot better if it just affected me. But as you have pointed out with Peter, it affects my whole family.”
“That’s why I came by. I thought maybe Peter could use a friend. I mean, since all of his are treating him the way they are.”
It briefly crosses my mind that Jim has put Nick up to this. But I can see the sincerity in the boy’s face. He’s doing this on his own. “You’ve met Peter, haven’t you?” I ask.
“Yes, sir. Out at Ashley Oaks on the Fourth.”
Ashley Oaks is the plantation on the Ashley River where Jim grew up. Every Fourth of July his family has a huge celebration and we are always invited, though I didn’t attend this year because I was sick. Suzanne and the boys did, however.
I smile. “You’re very kind, Nick.”
&nb
sp; “I know I’m sixteen and Peter is only twelve, but, I like him and I...well...I just...”
“What is it, Nick?”
“I was just going to say I feel sorry for him. I don’t mean that in a bad way, Dr. Erskine. It’s just... I’m not here just because I feel sorry for him. You know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean, Nick. And Peter could use a friend to help him get through this. And he could really use one right now. He had a rough day at school. Come on, I’ll take you up to his room.”
We get up from the sofa and head down the hall.
“This is a really nice house,” Nick says as we reach the staircase in the foyer.
“Yeah, it is,” I say and put my hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Wanna buy it?”
“Huh?”
I laugh.
Well, it beats crying.
“Someone’s here to see you,” I say as we step into my son’s room. “Do you remember Nick? He’s Jim’s stepson.” Peter looks up from his magazine. He’s prone on his bed, reading.
“Hey, yeah…you’ve got that cool car,” he says with a smile, which is forced. He sits up.
“Hi, Pete. What are you reading?” Nick walks over and sits beside him on the bed.
“A computer magazine. I’m trying to pick out the computer I want for Christmas. I’m gonna get a new system.” He looks at me. “Right, Dad?”
“We’ll see,” I say. Normally “we’ll see” is tantamount to “yes” for Peter and Benjamin. But not this year. Dad just lost his job.
“I came by and thought you might like to go for a ride,” Nick says to Peter.
Peter looks at me. “Can I, Dad?”
“Sure.”
And that’s all it takes for Peter’s mood to change. Before I can blink he’s putting on his sneakers.
I follow him and Nick down the stairs as Peter starts describing the computer system he thinks he will be getting for Christmas. As we open the front door and step out into the chill of the early evening, there is Nick’s red BMW convertible sitting in the drive—with the top down.
“Oh, man,” Peter says, “are we gonna ride with the top down?”
“Not like that,” I say, pointing to him standing there in his shirt sleeves. “Go back in and get a jacket.”
Peter scurries back into the house and I look down at Nick.
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