The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Were you divorced?” Scott asked quickly. He assumed if the policeman had gone through something similar, he would have some compassion.

  “No, but my younger sister was last year. Pretty rough. Her husband was a son of a bitch, lazy, drank up what little money they had, mean to the kids…the whole nine yards. When she dragged his ass into court,” he said, sitting forward again, “he was one unhappy bastard. No telling what he would have done to her if I wasn’t around.”

  “It wasn’t like that for me,” Scott said quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t hurt Meg.”

  Lt. Parker shrugged.

  “People hurt each other in many different ways. For some, it’s no big deal to slip from one way to another. First, you’re irresponsible and inconsiderate, then you’re downright cruel. Finally, frustrated yourself, you swing out, shocked by what you’ve done, what you’re capable of doing. I’ve seen it many times. The only thing that will make you feel better is confessing.”

  “I didn’t hit my wife with that statue,” Scott said firmly. The tall policeman nodded, professing a deeper understanding. He’s humoring me, Scott thought. He thinks I’ve lost it.

  Fotowski reappeared with the fingerprint ink and paper. He slapped it down beside Scott and proceeded to make a copy of his prints. Then he handed him a wet towel. Lt. Parker and Fotowski exchanged glances and then Lt. Parker stood up.

  “We’ll be right outside, Mr. Lester,” he said. “As soon as your attorney arrives…”

  “I want to know about my wife.”

  “I’m going to call the hospital right now,” Lt. Parker assured him. Scott watched them leave and then continued to clean off his fingertips.

  It was nearly a half hour more before Michael Fein, Scott’s attorney, showed up. The man always looks distracted, Scott thought when his lawyer entered. He always gives me the feeling I’m interrupting something more important.

  “Hello, Michael.”

  The five-feet-ten-inch chubby, dark brown haired man avoided looking at Scott. He sat down quickly and placed his briefcase on the table. Then he looked up and shook his head, his mouth drawn back in the corners.

  “What the fuck happened? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do this, Michael.”

  “Why were you in the house so late? I thought we had agreed…”

  “Someone brought me there.”

  “Excuse me?” He lifted his bushy eyebrows, his face softening until he almost smiled. It was his way of demonstrating how silly he thought Scott sounded. He had often done that when they had discussed Scott’s strategy for the custody hearing.

  “I was at a party…champagne, caviar, girls…The next thing I know, I’m waking up in the living room. I thought it was someone’s idea of a joke—dumping me in the house like that, but…”

  “But you got up and found Meg with her head smashed in.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said. “Exactly.”

  Fein shook his head. He didn’t open his briefcase. Scott wondered if he carried it just so people would know he was an attorney.

  “I spoke with the investigating police officers before I came in here, Scott. They’ve got a quick read on the fingerprints. Yours match the prints on the statue,” he said dryly. Then he took a deep breath and sat back, his soft, very feminine lips turned in and that annoying dimple in his right cheek forming.

  “That can’t be,” Scott said. “It’s a mistake.”

  “Did you pick up the statue?”

  “No. Absolutely not. My first thoughts after seeing Meg went to Justine.”

  “What about Justine, Scott? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” His attorney looked skeptical. “You’ve got to believe me, Michael. This is all a frame-up. I…”

  “Look, Scott,” Fein said, “I’m really not a criminal lawyer. I’m not prepared to represent you on this. I handle divorces, usually routine family matters. I’ve never even argued for a client in traffic court.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You need someone else now. This is all different.”

  “You think I did this, don’t you? Well, why did I stay there? Why did I call the police?”

  “Scott, it wouldn’t be in your best interest to confide in me any more. I’ve already taken the liberty of calling someone for you, a firm that specializes in criminal cases, especially felonies: Orseck, Greenberg and Wilson. They’re sending someone over.”

  “Christ,” Scott said. He looked down. It seemed as if the floor was rising or his legs were shriveling. Any moment he’d smash his face into the scuffed brown tile.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m doing what’s in your best interest.”

  “Bullshit,” Scott snapped. “I’m not stupid. You’re running away from me.”

  “Scott…if you want me to give you advice, it’s simply to tell the truth.”

  “I am, damn you!”

  Fein nodded and started to rise when the door opened and Lt. Parker came in.

  “Got the hospital report,” he said. “Your wife remains in a deep coma. The blow has created pressure on the brain that has to be relieved in surgery. The operation is critical. For now she’s on life support.”

  “Jesus.”

  Scott looked from the policeman to his divorce attorney. They looked of one face: contempt.

  “Mr. Lester’s new attorney should be here any moment,” Michael said.

  “Okay. You told him about the prints?”

  Michael Fein nodded. “I did.”

  “We’re booking him. Mr. Lester,” he said turning to Scott, “you’re under arrest for what right now is attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Scott heard the sound of laughter through the opened door. Somewhere else in the station someone was happy or amused. The joviality stimulated his memory, and for a moment, the image of Philip Dante appeared. He was dripping champagne over the bare breasts of the platinum blonde. Everyone was laughing.

  “Go on,” Philip coaxed him. “Lick it off.”

  “…might be held against you in a court of law. Do you understand, Mr. Lester?” Lt. Parker concluded.

  “Huh? Oh. Yes.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Lester,” Parker said, stepping back.

  Scott turned to his divorce attorney.

  “Michael?”

  “Someone will be here to help you any moment, Scott.” He shook his head and walked out quickly.

  “Mr. Lester?”

  Scott stood up, unsure his legs would sustain the weight of his torso.

  “You know,” Lt. Parker said as Scott moved toward him, “the district attorney might consider kidnapping charges, too. Your daughter is still missing.”

  Scott felt the trembling start just above his knees and rumble up through his stomach and into his chest. He closed his eyes and then walked out into the clamor created by other arrests, other police business: suspects professing their innocence, prisoners screaming for their rights, patrolmen and staff exchanging small talk. No one seemed to notice him. He was already part of the woodwork, another citizen of hell.

  Justine felt movement beneath her and opened her eyes. The blanket smelled new, but it wasn’t a pleasant scent, not like the talcum powder aroma of her own linen. Mommy always made everything smell nice and familiar. Justine longed for those fragrances of home, the scents that filled her with security and contentment: bouquets of flowers, little soaps of all shapes and colors in her dresser drawers, Mommy’s skin creams and perfumes.

  The automobile hit a rise in the highway and bounced slightly. It was dark outside, but the illumination cast by other cars rushing in the opposite direction revealed the patrician features of the nurse seated at Justine’s feet. The woman stared ahead, unmoving, her attention fixed on the highway unraveling in front of them.

  The nurse’s uniform was starched spotless. When three cars went by in a row, Justine was able to see more of the woman. Her complexion was almost as pale as her clothes. Her eyes seemed to hold some of
the flashing light and radiate for a second or two. She had dark hair, cut very short, the very rear and sides of her head shaven so close it reminded Justine of Sammy Altman, the boy in her class who developed ringworm in his scalp and had to have his head shaved.

  There was no music in the car, no radio, tape, or disc player playing like Mommy and Daddy always had going when they drove anywhere. This was a very big car, too. It was the biggest car she had ever been in, and there was a window between the front of the car and the rear. When the light next invaded the automobile, Justine turned to look toward the front to see if Mommy or Daddy were sitting there.

  They weren’t. The man who sat with his back to them on the passenger side was a stranger. He, too, remained as still as a statue. The interior of the car was so quiet, Justine was afraid to raise her voice, afraid to ask any questions.

  She remembered now. One moment she had been asleep in her bed, and the next moment she had felt a pinprick on her shoulder. She had woken up, but her room was so dark, it had been hard to see anything. She had started to call for her mother and father. At first, a voice had begged her to be quiet; it had been a man’s voice, not one she recognized. She had been quiet for a few seconds, but then she had become frightened again and had started to call for her mother. Then a female voice—harsher, sterner—had snapped at her, demanding she be still.

  A lamp had been turned on, but for some reason everything had begun to look out of focus. A woman in white was taking some of her clothing out of the dresser drawer and stuffing it quickly into her small suitcase. Justine had tried to sit up, had willed herself to lift her torso, but nothing happened. Turning groggily to her right, she’d confronted an unfamiliar smile.

  “Easy,” the man had said. “Just relax and you will be fine.”

  She was so tired again; she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and then…

  She was here, in this big car. Where were they going? Where was Mommy? She took a deep breath and started to sit up. The nurse turned slowly.

  “Where’s my mommy?” Justine cried.

  The stranger in the front turned and slid the window open.

  “She’s conscious already?”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?” the nurse replied sharply.

  “You didn’t give her enough. I told you. She’s big for her age.”

  “I don’t like giving too much of it,” the nurse said.

  “She’s awake,” the man said as if the obvious needed to be stated.

  “That’s okay. I’m the nurse, aren’t I? This aspect is my responsibility.”

  Justine didn’t understand any of the argument. The banter intrigued her, even fascinated her, but she was just as lost as before.

  “I want my mommy,” she said.

  “Now you’re a big girl, Justine. Old enough to understand,” the nurse said. When she turned to her, she just turned her head. It looked like the nurse was a mechanical thing, her head completely independent of the rest of her. “Your mother is not here and she can’t hear you anymore, so there’s no use crying. Just lay your head back on the pillow and sleep until we get there.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To your new mommy and your new daddy,” the nurse said.

  “Shut up,” the man in the front said. “You want to be a horse’s ass about whose responsibility is whose…Orientation is not your responsibility,” he said firmly.

  “Do you want the child screaming all the way? Would that be better?”

  “No. What would be better is giving her enough of the stuff so this doesn’t happen. This is the third time it has,” he reminded her.

  The nurse sat back, her shoulders turning inward. To Justine it looked as if the woman was closing up, folding into herself.

  “I wanna go home,” Justine whined. “I wanna go home.”

  No one paid any attention. Justine began to sob, softly at first and then harder and harder until her entire body shook. The nurse turned around again, only this time, her right hand flew up, soaring through the darkness. She slapped Justine sharply on the cheek. The smack came so fast and was such a surprise, Justine choked on a cry and swallowed the sounds. Her body still heaved, but silently now. She was terrified.

  “Keep quiet,” the nurse ordered.

  “Great,” the man in the front said. “That’s just fine. Orientation will have a wonderful time with her now.”

  The nurse sat back again.

  Justine closed her eyes real tight. Mommy told her that whenever she had a bad dream or a bad thought, that was what she was to do.

  If you press down hard enough and shoo away the nasty thoughts, they will disappear. Close your eyes, honey, and count to ten. Then think about something nice, make yourself think about your dolls or something you love to eat. Go on. Count.

  “One, two…”

  What did the nurse mean by “your new mommy and daddy?” How can I have a new mommy and daddy? Was this because Mommy and Daddy were having a bad fight and weren’t going to live in the same house anymore? I don’t want a new mommy and daddy, even if…even if they fight. Maybe, if I told these people…

  “I don’t want a new mommy and daddy,” she said. The nurse didn’t turn, didn’t act as if she had heard. Justine repeated: “I don’t want a new mommy and daddy.” Slowly, the nurse turned again. In the flash of light from a passing tractor trailer, the nurse’s face was clearly revealed.

  Her face was so pocked and scarred, her skin looked like wax that had melted and rehardened. There were ridges and grooves and tiny crevices everywhere, even on her chin. And she had no eyebrows! What’s more, her lips were almost the same pale shade as her skin. Justine recalled turning the knob on the television set and tuning in one of the pay cable channels that was showing a horror movie. The sight of the creature was just as terrifying as the face of this woman. On the television, the woman had just been burned in a fire.

  The nurse’s eyes held the light, just as before, and glowed.

  “Sure you do, honey,” she said softly. When she pulled the sides of her mouth back to smile, the rest of her face folded and crinkled as if it were made of cellophane. Her teeth were bone white. “Mommies and daddies have to be together, otherwise they’re not good mommies and daddies and you don’t live in a happy little world.”

  “Hey,” the man in the front said.

  “Mommies that fight with daddies make children sick inside and when children are sick inside, they grow up to be bad mommies and daddies themselves. The sickness is always with them.”

  “Will you shut the hell up,” the man commanded.

  “My mommy and daddy were bad like yours, too, and I had to go live with a good mommy and daddy. But, I’m glad I did.”

  “Orientation is not going to like this,” the man warned. “They’re not going to like this one bit.”

  “It takes time,” the nurse said undaunted. “At first, you’re afraid. I was just as afraid as you are now, but after a while, when you’re with a good mommy and daddy, that fear leaves you and you’re happy. And the sickness won’t be in you anymore. Isn’t that nice?”

  Justine simply stared through the darkness at the ashen visage that loomed over her.

  “Finished? Are you finished?” the man demanded.

  “Yes, I think we’re finished. I think we’ll be good now, won’t we, dear?” she asked, raining down a smile.

  Justine took a deep breath and then with all the strength she could muster, she shrieked.

  “MOMMY!”

  The nurse moved quickly to her little black bag. In moments she was pulling down the blanket. She leaned on Justine, pinning her arm against her side, and then she stuck her with a needle again. All through it, Justine screeched until her lungs felt hot and her ribs ached. When the nurse was finished, she tucked the blanket around Justine so tightly it became a straightjacket entrapping her. She tried kicking, but the nurse was practically sitting on her feet now.

  Soon she grew dizzy and then everything
was hazy. Her eyelids became heavier and heavier until she couldn’t keep them open.

  “Just count,” she heard her mother say.

  “One,” she whispered. “Two…”

  And then everything was black and just as Mommy had promised, the bad thoughts and images were replaced by nice thoughts, nice pictures: her dolls, Daddy and Mommy laughing, her birthday cake, blowing out the candles…

  Scott sat with his back against the cold wall in the holding cell. Drenched in depression, he didn’t seem to mind the gloomy atmosphere, the stench of urine, and the filthy-looking drunk across from him snoring through every orifice in his body, the gross sound reverberating with such volume, Scott felt it vibrate his spine. Fingerprinted again, photographed with a number, and made to empty his pockets, he felt demeaned, denuded of any semblance of self-respect. In the macho eyes of the policemen around him, he was less than an insect, a wife beater, a child snatcher.

  He closed his eyes, wishing he could drift into unconsciousness and wake up as he had after his gall bladder operation three years ago to find that it was all over. Why not? he mused. Why not anesthetize people like himself, innocent people charged with a crime and forced to parade through the maze of the criminal justice system? His attorney would be like a surgeon, performing the necessary operation to free him of the cancer of the accusation. And then, when it was over, he could regain consciousness, be handed his personal effects, and released.

  We could have judicial insurance just like we have medical insurance, he thought, continuing the fantasy. So that after it was all over, he would simply submit the bill to his insurance company and even the financial burden would be relieved. The justice department, the district attorney’s office in particular, would have to foot the bill for a headline story in the Los Angeles Times and some radio stations that said, Scott Lester Found Innocent of All Charges.

  Lost in this fantasy, he didn’t hear the policeman call his name until he did so for the third time.

  “Lester, you deaf or what?”

  He sat up.

  “Your attorney is here,” he said and opened the cell door. “Let’s go.”