That was true, Julia supposed. She didn’t know what Elisa had felt, having her son face such serious charges. Even the possibility of deportation, back to a place where she believed he wasn’t safe.
But Julia would never have been like Elisa, even if she had been standing in the woman’s chic black shoes.
“I know you don’t see it like I do,” Elisa said, “but I feel like you’ve saved my son’s life. If I can ever repay you—”
Julia cut her off. “Just pay your bill.”
Elisa eyed Julia dryly, then let out a loud laugh.
Julia folded the client list closed. It would be nice, she thought, for Mathis’s mother to see her now. See she’d been wrong about Julia. Just like there had been for Elisa, there was a young man Julia loved dearly whose life was, in a way, in the hands of the criminal court. And Julia was keeping her head down and trusting the system. Not hounding her old colleagues for gossip or favors.
But was Julia being as good as she thought, or was she simply not bothering to beat her head against a wall? Because in truth, there was nothing to do but wait for Nick’s case to end, one way or another.
Below her office window, Julia could hear the telltale sound of the postman treading on the porch. She tidied up the desk, then went downstairs to the kitchen.
She put on the kettle for tea and got some bread out of the pantry. She heard the postman come back up on the porch. Now he was knocking on the door. Oh God, the door. Maybe he was going to ask about the broken window; she’d tell him Tony fell through it, like Tony had told the urgent care staff. Was that even believable? Julia opened the door and found she was out of time to assess the quality of her lie, because it wasn’t the postman, after all. Standing on her porch was Detective Rice.
24
John Rice, 2015
Rice parked on the road in front of the Hall house and checked his cell. It was just after two. He hadn’t heard back from Nick yet, though he could have been in class. As the hours churned on he started to feel antsy. Walker’s letter was so invasive. It wasn’t uncommon for a victim in a domestic violence or sexual assault case to just drop away overnight, unwilling to prosecute. That letter—it would have made a lot of people think about giving up. He’d feel better if he could just talk to Nick. Assure him that the letter had helped his case. Make sure he was doing okay and knew this was just part of the process. And ask about Chris.
Someone was home: there was a red Subaru Baja—a distinctly hideous vehicle—in the driveway. But was Nick there? As Rice climbed the front steps to the porch, it occurred to him that he didn’t know if Nick was still staying with his brother or if he’d moved back to his apartment. He could have tried Tony or Julia when Nick didn’t call back. Instead, he’d driven to Orange without much thought at all.
Something was off about the outer front door . . . the glass was broken. And the bottom screen was ripped. Rice opened the door slowly, examining it. There was dried blood on the inside of the thin metal door. He knocked hard on the solid inner door. He heard muffled footfalls approaching.
The door creaked open to Julia’s face. “Detective!”
“Good afternoon, miss. I was in your neighborhood and had a few minutes to spare, so I thought I’d swing by, ’case you were home.”
“Sure, no problem, did you want to come in or . . .”
“I’ll step in a minute, if you don’t mind. Don’t wanna cool off your house talking with the door open.”
Julia smiled and stepped back from the doorway so that he could enter. “It’s not that much warmer in here, I’m afraid.”
Rice scuffed his shoes on the mat outside. “Say, what happened to your door here?”
“Oh, ah, accident,” she said as she ushered him in. “We had an accident over the weekend, I just haven’t had a chance to clean it up yet.”
“What happened?” he asked again.
A kettle in the kitchen began to whistle, and Julia turned away from him. “Tony fell into the door yesterday, coming up onto the porch.” She removed the kettle and switched off the burner with a snap. “He got to spend two hours of his Sunday at urgent care and now he’s got this cast thing on.”
Rice groaned. “Went clean through the glass? He all right?”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure it looks much more dramatic than it was. He did break a finger, but it sounds like it should heal fine.” She turned to face him directly and asked, “Tea?”
“Ah, I’m not really one for tea, but thanks for offering.”
“I could put on a pot of coffee for you, if you’d like?”
“No, dear, I don’t want to trouble you. I’ll just be here a minute.”
Julia spooned what looked like loose tea leaves from a canister into a little clay teapot.
“How can I help, Detective?”
“Well, I’m assuming you saw the letter in the paper.”
Julia nodded and breathed a sad yes.
“I’m so sorry for it. It’s a terrible thing to have put out there like that.”
She shook her head. “I just feel so sad for Nick. The . . . thing itself was already such an invasion, and now this.”
“He doing okay?”
“I guess. We ended up going to see him last night. He wasn’t answering us, so we just showed up.” She paused. “He seemed kind of out of it, but he kept saying he was all right.”
Rice felt some relief that it wasn’t just his calls Nick was ignoring. And that Nick’s family was on top of things, taking care of him.
“Well, I’m sure you know the letter’s good for Nick’s case.”
Julia didn’t speak; she looked like she was trying to work out how that could be.
“He’s admitted we’ve got the right guy,” Rice said, “and now we know the defense. It’s all about consent.”
“Huh,” Julia said with surprise. “You’re right. It’s funny, I didn’t even think of that. We were both so focused on how this would make Nick feel right now, we hadn’t looked forward yet. But you’re right.”
Rice nodded.
“These are admissions,” Julia said. “And he’s screwed, don’t you think? No one will believe someone would consent to what happened to Nick, right?”
Rice nodded. “Surely hope not. Do you know Nick’s class schedule? I need to get in touch, but he hasn’t gotten back to me, but clearly I shouldn’t take it personal.”
“No, I think he’s just overwhelmed. It’s not you. I don’t know it off the top of my head but—”
Julia paused when her phone on the counter started to vibrate and ring.
Rice looked down at the screen, hoping it might say Nick’s name. Instead, it read
Charlie Lee.
Charlie Lee? The PI?
“Oh, sorry, that’s work. Do you mind if I take it quickly?”
“Be my guest.”
Julia walked away down the hall as she answered the phone. “Hi, Charlie. I actually have company right now, maybe—yes—okay, let me just read you the list quick.” Her voice grew quieter as she climbed the stairs.
Rice stood in the kitchen, listening to Julia’s muffled voice above him, but he couldn’t decipher a word. Why would she be working with a PI, if it was in fact that Charlie Lee? The Charlie that Rice knew had a pretty good reputation, at least for a PI who’d never been a cop. He came from insurance. They’d been on opposite sides of a couple cases; Charlie was usually hired by defendants.
Rice gave up trying to listen and leaned against the counter across from the stove. Checked his email until he heard a door shut somewhere above him and footfalls on the stairs.
“Sorry about that,” Julia said as she reappeared at the end of the hall.
“That’s fine, I’ve interrupted while you’re on the clock.”
She waved a hand.
“I have to ask, was that Charlie Lee the PI?”
>
“Yeah.” Julia looked at him brightly and crossed her arms. “Yeah, I used to hire Charlie when I was a defense attorney, so I reached out to him on a project recently.”
“I thought you worked more in policy now.”
Julia set her phone back on the counter. “I do, I need him to track down some old clients for interviews.”
“I see. Interesting.”
She nodded.
“So, Nick’s schedule,” Julia said. “I think he’s done with classes by three or four every day. I know he doesn’t have any evening classes this semester.” She picked up the teapot and swirled it gently, then tipped it into a mug on the counter.
The rush of liquid filling the cup sounded like music, and Rice regretted declining her offer for a drink.
“What do you need to talk to him about?”
“I just wanted to touch base after the letter. And, well.” Rice adjusted himself against the counter. “Since I’m here, has Nick told you anything about the guy he was supposed to meet that night?”
Julia looked surprised. “Chris?”
“Yeah.”
She considered his name. “I don’t think I know anything about him, actually.”
“Are he and Nick in a relationship?”
“No. Nick’s liked him for a while, he mentioned him over the summer, I remember.”
“Okay,” Rice said.
She frowned. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Probably nothing. I’m just making sure I’ve done my homework. Making sure we have all the information.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “You’ll have to ask him.”
* * *
Rice sat in his car for a minute before he drove on.
He had glazed over the issue with that vague due diligence talk. Maybe Julia sensed what he was getting at. She’d been a defense attorney.
Walker knew how to tell a good story. They knew that now, from the letter. He’d made admissions, but he’d also hit back against the charges. And as Linda had feared, the fact that Nick was a male victim seemed to make the media think this case was more newsworthy. Walker had hired Eva Barr, who would hire her own PI. It would only be a matter of time before the defense knew about Chris, and Chris was a problem. Chris gave Nick a reason to lie about the nature of his encounter with Walker. Chris was another thread for the defense to pull at.
25
Nick Hall, 2015
Nick’s stomach pitched at the sound of his phone. The short vibration meant a text message, not a phone call. He paused the show on his computer and rolled toward his bedside table.
Tony:
You doing okay?
Nick groaned. It was just the daily check in.
As he always did, he wrote back:
Yeah.
Thank God he wasn’t staying with Tony anymore. At least Nick didn’t have to deal with him in person. Tony was texting and sending Nick snaps all the time now, more in the last week than ever before. It was exhausting, reassuring Tony that he was fine. And every time Tony reached out, before Nick saw his name on the screen, Nick couldn’t help but worry it was another classmate texting him because they’d heard about the case. Or worse: texting him because something new came out about that night. But that couldn’t happen—only he and Ray knew what happened in that room, and they had both already talked.
There was a knock at the door, and Johnny stuck his head in.
“The detective is here. The guy.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
Nick’s phone buzzed in his hand.
Tony:
Need anything?
He typed quickly.
Yeah. Listen when I say I’m fine.
* * *
Detective Rice was standing at the bottom of the stairs, in the messy entryway.
“Do you have somewhere private to talk?”
“Not really,” Nick said. He didn’t want this man seeing his bedroom.
“Go for a walk?”
Nick grabbed a jacket and beanie and followed him outside.
They went down Spring Street and toward campus. The detective brought up the letter first.
He was fine, Nick told him.
It was helpful to his team, the detective said. Now they know the defense, so they can prepare, he went on. And, they can use the letter against Walker in court.
Okay, Nick said.
Detective Rice moved along quickly.
“Hey, I meant to ask you, what’s the situation with you and Chris?”
“Nothing,” Nick said with a shrug.
“You’re not together?”
“Nope.” Nick had never responded to any of Chris’s texts since the night it happened. He was probably the last person on the planet Nick wanted to talk to about this.
“Were you that night?”
“No,” Nick said. “He stood me up.”
The detective shook his head like Nick wasn’t understanding him. “Were you in a relationship with each other that night?”
“No,” Nick said. Did he have to spell it out? “He didn’t want to date me.”
The detective nodded. “Would it have mattered to him for any reason if you slept with someone else?”
But I didn’t, Nick thought. His eyes must have betrayed his shock at the question, because the detective spoke again.
“I know you didn’t sleep with Walker. What I mean is . . .” He paused. “The ADA just wanted to know more about your relationship, thinking it’ll come up in court. You saw what Walker’s saying. Him and his lawyer will probably try to make it look like you didn’t want Chris to find out. Like you cheated on him.”
“How would they know about Chris?”
“Well, he’s part of your story. His name’s in my report, your statement, other places. They’ll get all that.”
“Wait,” Nick said. “Are people gonna talk to him?”
“I don’t know,” Detective Rice said. “Probably. They might interview him. I might need to.”
“He has nothing to do with what happened.”
“I know it’s confusing from where you are. I just don’t want to sugarcoat it. Court can end up reaching into all kinds of places you wouldn’t expect.”
Nick thought again of something his therapist said during their first session. Jeff was talking about confidentiality, almost going through a mental checklist, and he said something about how a court could order a therapist to turn over records.
“How can whether or not he raped me have anything to do with Chris?”
“Because if he can’t come up with a good reason you’d lie, he’s fucked.”
Hearing Detective Rice speak so crassly was jarring. The man looked rough—he was big and old and wore a gun under his jacket. His face was pocked and wrinkled. But he’d never spoken to Nick like that.
“He’s gonna do everything he can to make you look like a liar, Nick. He’s facing years, decades even. And lifetime registration as a sex offender.”
Nick’s breathing had gone shallow. He felt like they were fighting, but over what he wasn’t sure.
The detective was still talking. “He’s gonna come for you, hard. Has anyone told you that?”
“You could have,” Nick said.
Detective Rice’s eyes opened in surprise. He lowered his voice. “You were hurting.”
Meaning, I didn’t want to hurt you more. The detective had been babying Nick. Just like Tony. Just like everyone who talked to him about this goddamn case. They were treating him like he was a child. And it was working. Every time he had to talk about the case, he felt himself sink backward, further away from the man he’d been before that night.
The detective was watching him as they walked on.
“We weren’t dating. I wanted to; he didn�
�t. He wouldn’t have cared if I did sleep with someone else. That’s it. There’s nothing there.”
Detective Rice’s voice was calm. “Okay. If there’s anything you’re not telling me about you and Chris, you should do it now.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t look good when you change your story later.”
Something was happening. Deep under his eyes, he could feel tears threatening to well in the cool air.
“I don’t get to keep your secrets,” the detective said. “You tell me, the ADA tells him. Everything is fair game for him, that’s how due process works.”
But he can’t have what the police don’t have, Nick thought to himself. You know this. Ray can’t have it if you don’t give it to anyone.
The urge to cry faded.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Nick said.
“Just the truth.”
Nick shrugged. “You already have it.”
26
Tony Hall, 2015
There was a hole in Tony’s sneaker, where his big toe rubbed against the mesh. The shoes were gray with white detailing, originally, but now they were grass-stained and dingy with mud. He mostly wore them to play with the kids and mow the lawn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone running. He laced up and left the house. At the end of the driveway he went right, away from town center. He would turn around, he thought, at the small bridge around two miles down the road. The air was cold and dry in his nostrils, and a dull ache thrummed up his shins with each footfall.
The first time Tony went for a run outdoors was the summer after he graduated from college. It had been a summer of change, and he remembered it well. The last summer he threw a punch. With one exception, the last summer he had a drink. It was all connected.
Drinking was where he was weak: more than a couple and it was like the “restraint” switch in his brain flicked off. Tony’s limbs got loose, and his laugh was too loud and he was funny and fun, usually, unafraid to sing or dance or hit on a beautiful girl. But sometimes he was not funny; his jokes got too sharp. And sometimes he was not fun. Sometimes a guy looked at him wrong, like he thought he was tough shit and he wanted Tony to agree. There were a few drunken fights in college, always spurred on by that kind of thing, the posturing, a heavy-handed “What are you looking at?” Twice there were fistfights. His friends recounted these incidents with dramatic glee, like Tony was Rocky. Tony tried to see himself as they did: a take-no-shit badass. What he remembered of the fights, though, was the sensation that his arms were flailing, just barely within his control. Like he and the other guy were puppets thrashing against each other.
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