by Alana Lorens
Two framed diplomas graced the wall. Her favorite framed art, though, made by her daughters over the years, hung across from her desk, reminding her of the reason she worked so hard.
“Thank you again for this appointment,” Maddie said as Donna ushered her in.
Suzanne held out her hand for the envelope, which Maddie gave to her. “Of course. Have you heard from your husband?”
“He calls twice a day, but I never know what time each call will be. He…he doesn’t suspect anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good. Are people still keeping tabs on you?”
Suzanne opened the envelope and drew out a marriage certificate, retirement documents, a deed to the house, birth certificates for Joshua, age fourteen, and Katie, ten, and Social Security cards for the family, and half a dozen other pieces of paper that would start to define the assets and debts of the Morgan family.
“His friends drive by in the evening to make sure I don’t go out after dark.” At Suzanne’s curious look, Maddie added, “He always thinks I'm meeting another man.”
“Other men only come out after dark?” Suzanne asked with a grin.
There was no answering smile. “I'm not allowed out after dark,” Maddie said in a monotone.
Too soon for humor for this one, Suzanne realized. Maddie was still beaten down, subjugated. Healing would take time. She’d learn to step away from the cloistered life she was living.
“I'd be willing to bet he also controls all the money.”
Maddie nodded.
“He probably hides it, or keeps you ignorant enough so you don't know the extent of the accounts.”
“I have some idea. But you're right. It's been my job to make a lovely home and raise his children, not to interfere in his business.”
Pretty typical. “He’s always been like this?”
“Yes.” Maddie's voice was flat.
“You’ve been married for…” She read down the intake sheet. “Sixteen years?”
Maddie nodded.
“He was like this even before you married him?” She looked Maddie in the eye. “Was he physically abusive then?”
Maddie shuffled her shoes on the carpet, eyes cast down. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“Some judges might not understand this, Maddie. I mean, why you’d marry him when you already knew he was an abuser.” Suzanne quit writing and looked closely at her client, whose panic seemed to flicker back to life. “You don’t have to explain to me—I know many reasons why domestic violence survivors stay with abusers. At some point, we’ll need to explain to the court. So, let’s see if we can flesh those reasons out.”
Maddie squirmed in the chair, picking at her skirt. A long few minutes passed before she answered. “He was always so good afterward. It only happened once before we were married, and he said it would never happen again. He promised.” She leaned back against the cushion, but sat upright again almost immediately, her hands fretting in her lap. “The next was almost two years later. He begged me to forgive him. I did.” Maddie looked out the window. “The next time, it was too late.”
“How do you mean?”
“I was pregnant with Joshua.”
Suzanne nodded with understanding. “And after that?”
“He made sure I was pregnant often enough so I never had the courage to get out.” She looked directly at Suzanne. “He’s beaten me so badly I lost four pregnancies. Only Katie and Joshua survived. I’ve held on as long as I can. I won't sit around now and wait for him to kill me. I can’t do that to my babies.”
One tear, then several more, cascaded down her cheeks. Her thin fingers picked at the expensive skirt.
“I’d recommend we file papers to keep him away from you and your children. If we file today, we’d get an immediate restraining order. He couldn’t come to the house or send anyone after you. Do you have somewhere you can stay until the dust settles? Friends? Relatives?”
“He’s run off all my real friends. He’ll probably go after you, too. He does that. He wants to make sure no one helps me.” Maddie took a long, ragged breath. “All I have left are the wives of his buddies. I can’t tell them what’s really been happening. Not after I’ve covered it up so long. No one will believe me.”
Suzanne sighed. Despite Maddie’s assertion that Greg Morgan would go after Suzanne, she certainly couldn’t base her representation on that. Maddie would have to be able to count on her, no matter what. Suzanne could take care of herself. “How about family members?”
“My parents are dead. My sister lives in California and isn't much help.”
“Did you talk to the people at Womanspace?”
“I did, but…”
Again Suzanne saw emotion peak in her client’s eyes, though she tried to throttle it back down.
“I mean, you don't know the kind of people who will be staying there. People from our neighborhood in Shadyside...you know, just don’t stay there. Besides, my son is too old to share a room with his sister. They said they didn’t know if they could find separate rooms.”
Suzanne had encountered such protests before, mostly from those who didn't understand domestic violence stretched across all socioeconomic classes. The shelter was considered demeaning by affluent people. But it wasn’t about money. It was about sanctuary.
“You must understand the risks here. I'm going to send the sheriff to his office with an envelope of papers telling him you're leaving him and taking the children after sixteen years. Do you think he's just going to come home after work looking for pot roast?”
Maddie stared at her, deer-in-the-headlights frozen. After several moments, she jerked in delayed reaction and put her hands over her face.
Suzanne tried again. “Statistics show that violence increases at time of separation. Before we do this, I want to believe you’ve got somewhere safe to go.”
“I don't know what to do! Tell me what to do. Please,” Maddie begged, a little girl lost.
“I can't. You need to decide for yourself what's best for the children, and for you. Let me give you a few minutes.” She slid the documents back into the envelope and walked out to the secretary’s desk.
Donna had been with Suzanne for four years, a heavy-set woman in her mid-thirties who preferred fitted suits for work. She wore sensible shoes and kept her desk immaculate. Her one fashion statement was a pair of large, square-framed tortoiseshell glasses; otherwise she was a mixture of neutrals; dishwater blonde hair, hazel eyes and office wardrobe of tans, grays and beige.
Donna looked up from the document she was typing. “Everything okay?” she asked.
Suzanne blew air up at the bangs that continued to trail over her eyebrows. “Fine. I’ll need copies of all this—she can have the originals when she leaves.”
“You want coffee?”
“I’ll wait. This woman doesn’t need any caffeine. Trust me.”
Hesitating outside the door a moment, Suzanne counted to ten, then went back in. Maddie still had no answer for her. Suzanne considered the best way to approach the councilman’s wife. “Maddie, tell me about the last violent incident, the one where your child's arm was broken.”
The woman haltingly went through the event, how Gregory had come home late from work one afternoon, found the children's toys in his recliner, and exploded into a rage, throwing the children like stuffed animals, beating Maddie with both sides of his hands.
The stories reminded Suzanne of many others she’d heard about batterers. The way Maddie presented it, with the constant small excuses, such as “I know I should have picked up the toys before he came home,” placing the blame on herself, rang true. But this man’s short fuse seemed shorter than most. He didn’t restrain himself to avoid legal consequences, which puzzled Suzanne, considering his stature in the community.
Batterers often understood the letter of the law and governed themselves accordingly. They could verbally abuse as much as they wanted. As long as they didn't leave marks, they could physically abuse as well, becau
se without medical evidence, the court judged one spouse's word against the other. Even if they left bruises, by reminding the dependent spouse who controlled the financial lifelines, the harsh reality hit—no other option but to stay.
Perhaps Greg Morgan believed he was invincible.
If she remembered correctly, Morgan was part of a larger family entity that reached out to charities in the community. The Morgan benevolence included a scholarship for minority youth, substantial contributions to United Way and other local causes, and big donations to the “right” political campaigns as well.
It would be hard to convince the court Greg Morgan’s public mask hid an evil underlining.
But this man broke his child's arm. Such an injury had to be treated by a doctor, who would be required by law to report the incident.
“Did you take Katie to the hospital?”
“We had to. She wouldn't stop screaming.” Maddie was trembling a little in her seat, remembering.
“What did you tell the doctor?”
“That she fell off her bunk bed.”
“Katie backed you up?”
“Greg was sorry by then, and he begged her to forgive him. He bought her a new dress. The pink one she'd been wanting at Kaufmann’s for the last few months. He loved her up and gave her all kinds of attention. She forgave him.”
Suzanne shook her head. So Gregory Morgan had created another victim, introducing her to the cycle of fight and make up, fight and make up. When little Katie grew up, and met someone just like her daddy, she'd already be familiar with the lifestyle. It would be a comfortable fit.
She brought her thoughts back to the woman before her. “Are you prepared for another scene like that?”
“No, I don't want one,” Maddie said softly.
“There's no one you can stay with? Can you access any of the bank accounts to get enough to stay in a hotel a couple of days? You can't use credit cards—they can be traced.”
Maddie shook her head.
“I don't feel right sending him these papers until I know you'll be safe afterward. Womanspace has locked doors and concrete walls. He can't get in there, no matter who he is.”
Maddie rocked slowly in her chair. “You're right. Maybe that is best.” She looked into Suzanne's eyes again, and this time Suzanne saw a spark of growing resolve.
“Do it for the children,” Suzanne urged. “They're going to be confused and scared. Counselors at the shelter can help them through this transition. You, too. If you're ready to break away for sure, I can help you do that. But you're going to have to be strong.”
“What about the children's school?”
“They may be absent a couple of days until things shake out.”
“How long will I have to stay at the shelter? If I leave the house, the children will miss their friends, their school activities.”
The boy was a teenager, and Suzanne expected he wouldn’t want to give up his friends and activities. The daughter was several years younger, but it was hard to imagine that she’d be happy about leaving a comfortable home in one of Pittsburgh’s nicer neighborhoods to move to a crowded shelter, where she’d share a room with her mother and brother, and the communal baths and living rooms with thirty other strangers.
“Probably. I won’t lie to you. They'll likely be mad at you, too. They might blame you for disrupting their lives, since you’re the one who took the final action, so be prepared.”
Maddie shrugged. “Hopefully, they'll understand I did what I had to, for all our sakes.”
“Absolutely. That’s what I’m saying. Counseling will help them in the meantime.”
Maddie continued to fret. “Do you want to see a picture? I have a picture.” She dug in her bag and pulled out a professional family portrait—the smiling brown-haired children looking like cherubs, Maddie, stiff, frozen, and her husband, olive-skinned and dark. His face smiled, but the posed display of lips and teeth were belied by his eyes, burning and intense. He stood with one hand on his wife's arm and one on his daughter's shoulder, almost as if claiming ownership.
Suzanne shivered, wondering how she could feel threatened by a photograph. Something in Morgan’s eyes...
In person, the councilman was openly expansive, big, booming voice, a hand-shaker, news footage always catching the famous grin under the beginnings of male pattern baldness. He’d held his seat for two terms and looked to be a shoo-in for a third. Had the smile ever penetrated those fiery eyes?
Who would believe this kind of madness from a city councilman?
Nick Sansone had done the right thing sending Maddie to Suzanne. Someone needed to make sure this woman survived the misinformed decisions she’d made so far. She handed the photo back to Maddie, who sat, rocking, staring at it. Her choice made, she had withdrawn again, perhaps considering all she’d have to deal with, convincing the children to leave.
“I’ll get the paperwork together and call you to meet me at the courthouse, all right? Can I reach you at this cell number?”
When Maddie gave a noncommittal shrug, Suzanne leaned forward and put her hand on the thin woman’s knee. “I mean it. I want to stay in touch. Call me after Greg comes home, so I can make sure you’re all right.”
Maddie looked up with tears in her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m really doing this,” she said. “I feel so free. For the first time, I feel free.” The hope in her voice had an eerie quality. “Thank you so much,” she whispered.
Suzanne shared a confident smile. “Try not to worry. We’ll handle this guy. You need to take care of yourself.”
A few minutes later, the councilman’s wife pulled herself together and straightened her jacket, wiping her eyes with a tissue from the box on the table near her seat. She smiled after a deep, quivery breath. “You’re prepared, I see.”
“It’s an emotional subject. Even men have difficulty talking about this.” Suzanne stood, rolling shoulders that had grown tense. “You’ve been very brave. Certainly nothing to be ashamed about.”
Maddie paid the consultation fee in cash, untraceable, and went on to her doctor’s appointment. Suzanne hoped Maddie would learn all the little tricks of survival, much harder for a dependent spouse accustomed to using credit cards and relying on someone else’s accounts to purchase even basic supplies. This case would not be an easy one.
Donna’s eyes widened in amazement when Suzanne handed her the paperwork. “You know this is Councilman Morgan,” she said.
Suzanne nodded. “Sure is. If he steps a foot in here, I want you to be ready to call the police.”
“Police? Really.” With a confused look and a little shrug, Donna took the papers and slid them into a prepared file. “If you say so.”
Her mind already engaged in unraveling the dangerous situation she faced, Suzanne returned to her office, glad that Donna had learned, over the years, not to ask a lot of questions. This was going to be complicated.
Handling the private life of a public official was always challenging. Those attorneys in the county who routinely represented the upper crust had their ways around some of the messier details, keeping them out of court papers and out of the press. But Greg Morgan had pushed his luck past the borders of discretion. Suzanne would have to take him on, head to head. Was Maddie right? Would Greg strike back at Suzanne for helping his wife?
No way to know.
Her resolve returned to her convictions. The abusers, the manipulators, those who used others—they couldn’t be allowed to win. People like Maddie needed someone to stand up for them. And Suzanne was one of those someones. Greg Morgan wasn’t going to know what hit him.
Chapter Five
Suzanne let her maroon Toyota sedan coast up the long gravel driveway of the rehabilitated farmhouse in Indiana Township after the ten-mile drive northeast from Pittsburgh. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the way she’d like to find her home when she arrived—a peaceful oasis, soft jazz playing on the stereo. The laundry would be put away, the floor swept and waxed, fresh flowers on t
he table.
When she stepped from the car, however, her dream was shattered by shrill teenage voices she heard when she was still at least twenty-five feet from the house.
“I hate you!”
“Bite me. You’re such a baby. You're going to be living with Mom until she dies!”
Suzanne sighed as she crossed the grass to the porch, noting the white paint on the steps was beginning to peel. When she opened the door, she saw bowls on the couch, next to the full basket of laundry.
She closed the door with a thud, which immediately ended the shrieking.
Her armload of files went on her desk in her home office down the hallway to the immediate left of the front door. Then she retrieved the dirty dishes and headed to the sunny yellow kitchen. The girls whispered furiously in the hallway, then their footsteps sounded in the direction of the living room.
Suzanne washed her hands and began chopping broccoli and onions as she put on her other “hat,” that of single mother to dark-haired Hope, age fifteen, and blonde Riviera, two years younger. She had raised the girls alone for thirteen years.
She’d met John Taylor in law school and finished her last year pregnant with Hope. They married only when they’d both passed the bar. He lived with her until it became clear, to him anyway, that he was not cut out for living with a small child. When she told him she was pregnant again, he left. He moved from Pittsburgh to Nevada, lived there long enough to file for divorce and proceeded without even sending notice to her. She received a copy of the final decree. He probably thought she should be grateful. He then moved from his legal Nevada address, and the Taylor family had never had contact again.
John Taylor’s exit, and the subsequent behavior she’d seen by men in many of her divorce cases had convinced her she was doing the right thing by remaining single. One betrayal had been enough. She didn’t intend to let herself fall in love again.