He pushed her gently toward the tile wall. The water streamed down his head and over his face. His smile looked distorted and his eyes were beady.
“Grant?”
“You would have been at his mercy, Maggie. Just like this,” he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth as he groped her breasts. She squirmed. Grant laughed and lowered her to the tile floor, the water cascading over his shoulders and onto her face. She struggled as he lifted her legs.
“Grant, stop it. It hurts on this tile. Stop it!” she screamed. She started to push him away.
He hesitated and then he rose, turned his head to the water, and began to wash himself as if she weren’t even there. She crawled around him and got up.
“That wasn’t funny, Grant,” she cried, and stepped out of the stall. She caught her breath and checked her back in the mirror. It was beet red around her shoulder blades and so was the base of her spine. She wrapped a large towel around herself and left the bathroom. She was nearly dressed before Grant emerged. She glared at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I got carried away.”
“What were you thinking of, for God’s sake, Grant? What were you trying to do, teach me a lesson?”
“No. It was just a little joke that got out of hand. Sorry,” he repeated, and went to his closet. She marched out of the bedroom and got herself a glass of juice. She was running late and would skip breakfast. Her heart was pounding too hard and fast for her to eat anyway. She still hadn’t calmed down and she was afraid it would carry over to her work.
Dressed only in his socks and pants, Grant appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Hey, I said I was sorry,” he pleaded, but kept that small smile on his lips.
At the door to the garage, she turned to look at him.
“It’s getting so I don’t know who you are anymore, Grant,” she said, and left.
She was halfway down the street before she realized that was essentially what Lydia Flemming had been saying right after she had shot and killed Henry.
10
“Mr. Simms wants to see you right away,” Maggie’s secretary told her as soon as Maggie had come down the corridor toward her office late in the afternoon.
Most of Maggie’s day had been spent in negotiations rather than in actual trial because the district attorney’s office had floated a possible plea bargain, which Maggie’s client, Samuel Kitman, a forty-year-old insurance agent on trial for embezzlement, decided to let Maggie explore. Maggie had told him that some of the evidence was compelling, and these days her tolerance for guilty clients was diminished. The give-and-take with the assistant district attorney was difficult and exhausting, but in the end she settled for what she considered the best possible deal under the circumstances.
Some, she recognized, might think she had settled too quickly and for too little. With all that was going on in this city, the district attorney didn’t want to tie up his resources on a white-collar crime, especially when it was pointed out to him and to Maggie that Kitman had the financial wherewithal to return the allegedly stolen funds. When her secretary told her Kenneth Simms wanted to see her immediately, Maggie imagined she was going to be called on the carpet for her decisions.
Maybe, she feared, they had been made aware of her distractions these days and thought that it was detracting from the quality of her work.
All the full partners had grand offices, but Maggie considered Kenneth Simms’ office the best because he had the most awesome view of the Hollywood Hills on the north, and on his west side, the ocean. The curtains were all drawn open, the late afternoon sunshine filling the office with natural light. The crystal triangles on Kenneth Simms’ desk glittered. The fifty-four-year-old attorney sat back in his oversized, leather-cushioned desk chair, which, combined with the long and wide dark mahogany desk, looked like part of a set for the movie Gulliver’s Travels. Despite his five-feet-eleven inches of height and one hundred seventy-five pounds, Simms looked diminished by his own furniture.
Maggie’s mind was cluttered. She had tried to keep herself focused all day, but every time there was a break in negotiations, her thoughts returned to Grant, to Jules Bois, and to Jack Landry. She had hurriedly entered the office building and down the corridor in hopes of hearing she had a message of some sort from Jack Landry, but instead she was immediately redirected to her boss’s office. Troubled by what was to come and by what had already occurred, she entered slowly, her eyes down, her gait depressed.
“What happened?” Simms asked. He held a fresh number five pencil in his hand like a conductor’s wand.
“As usual, they waited until the last possible minute and then floated an offer to plea-bargain. I bluffed my way through for quite a while, and twice I thought they were going to just walk out on us, but I guess I wore them down. I think so, anyway,” she added quickly. “They had some good stuff,” she continued when Simms just stared. She started to open her briefcase.
“That’s not the problem at hand,” Kenneth Simms said. He leaned forward so his elbows rested on his desk. “The problem at the moment is what are we going to do with you.”
“Pardon?” Maggie said.
“My partners and I have been discussing it all morning,” he said, and nodded to his right.
Maggie turned. Jack Krammer and Sheldon Beadsly were sitting on the black, soft leather settee, smiling up at her.
“You see,” Kenneth Simms continued, “we’re all married to very jealous women. Right, Jack?”
“The worst. My wife has a forensic detective on retainer to scour my clothing for evidence of women’s makeup, perfume, hair.”
The three men laughed. Maggie stood there looking from one to the other.
“What these two idiots are trying to say, Maggie,” Sheldon Beadsly continued, “is we want to offer you a full partnership in the firm, but we’re worried that our wives will think that because you’re rather attractive, we’re doing it for the wrong reasons.
“However,” he added quickly as Maggie’s mouth started to open, “we are certain that once they meet you and Grant on more relaxed, social occasions, they will see how devoted you two are to one another, and they will realize there is no threat.”
“Besides, even women like the ones we married can appreciate the dynamo in court you are,” Jack Krammer said. “More success, more clients, more money, more shopping.”
They all laughed. “Just kidding, Maggie. Just having a little fun,” he added quickly, and nodded at Kenneth, who reached down to produce a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with four glasses.
“Really?” Maggie said.
“Couldn’t be more real than this,” Kenneth said. “Right, gentlemen?”
They stood up to shake her hand and Kenneth Simms poured the glasses of champagne.
“To our new partner,” he said. “May this prove to be the most profitable and successful decision Simms, Krammer and Beadsly have made to date.”
“Here, here,” the partners chanted, and tapped glasses with Maggie before taking a sip.
“Now what’s this nonsense about your caving in on a plea bargain?” Kenneth said, and they all laughed again.
The news moved with computer speed across the desks of every secretary, junior partner, and associate at the firm. Maggie’s office was a stage for constant applause and congratulations. She phoned Grant, but Fay said he was in a session with a new client and had asked not to be interrupted. She left word for him to call as soon as he was able. She had plans to celebrate. In the meantime, she called her parents, who were overwhelmed with pride. They promised to call her sisters. As usual, her mother asked when she and Grant would take some time off and come visit.
“Maybe soon,” she promised. “We’re both a little burned out.”
“Oh?” her mother said, instinctively tuned in to Maggie’s moods. “Is everything all right, honey?”
“Yes. It’s just we’ve been very busy. I can’t think of a more successful combination than psychiatrist and crimina
l attorney in Los Angeles, Mom. But don’t worry.”
“Money’s no good if you don’t have time to enjoy it,” her mother warned.
Maggie promised to call again very soon and give her some concrete idea concerning when they would visit.
“So the little bird who twits around my ears wasn’t all that premature with information,” Phil remarked when he stepped into her office a moment after she cradled the phone.
“You’re next, Phil,” she said. He shrugged. She knew Phil thought he was just as good, if not a better attorney than she was, but that she was getting the promotion because of all the jazz around women’s rights.
“If not here, then somewhere. I don’t sweat it,” he said. “But I am happy for you, Mag. Really. You’re a helluva nice guy for a woman.”
“Thanks.”
“How about we have one together at O’Healies in, say, a half hour? We’ve been on enough raids together that we can take a special moment, huh?”
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”
O’Healies was just down the block from their office building. It was an upscale tavern done in rich dark wood decor, featuring a line of microbrews, and had become a favorite watering hole for attorneys. There were so many who had offices in the vicinity. California was well known as one of the most litigious states in the Union, especially the city of Los Angeles. People sued each other, prosecuted each other, at the drop of a glass of Evian water here.
“You and Grant going to do something special to celebrate tonight?”
“I’m sure. I’m just waiting for him to call me back,” she said.
“Great. Oh, and good moves on the Kitman case. He’s lucky the wheels of justice are overworked,” Phil said. “See you in a while.”
Maggie sat back and turned her chair away from the door so she could close her eyes and take some deep breaths. What a day, considering how it had first begun. With all the excitement and noise, she had completely forgotten about Jack Landry. She checked her list of calls and saw, however, that Jack wasn’t listed.
I’ve got to give him enough time, she realized, but she couldn’t help being anxious. She was already much deeper into all this than she had ever envisioned, and that worried her more.
She returned some of her phone calls, dictated two letters and a memorandum before she realized Grant had still not called back. She tried the office again and was surprised to get the answering machine. Then she remembered it was Friday and Fay Moffit left a half hour earlier on Fridays because of her daughter’s school dismissing earlier. She left another message.
“Grant, call me on the cellular. I have some good news. If you can’t reach me on the cellular, try O’Healies. I’m stopping in there for a few minutes on the way home. Enough hints? Can’t wait to talk to you. I love you,” she concluded.
Phil was at the door.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Grant? What was his reaction?” Phil asked as she gathered her purse and briefcase.
“He’s still in a session. I could only leave a message.”
“I wonder who the poor patient is. Doesn’t he or she know about psychiatric overtime costs? They’re just as bad as legal fees.”
“You had better stop teasing Grant about lawyers and psychiatrists being two sides of the same coin, Phil, or soon I’ll be representing my husband on trial for murder.”
Phil laughed and they started out of the office. Maggie felt all eyes were on her. She was a celebrity. She was at the top of her form, the envy of most professional women, with a lot for which she should be grateful.
Please, she prayed privately, let nothing ruin this now.
Grant hadn’t intended on going much longer than the famous psychiatric hour everyone in his profession treated as holy, but Gary Becker, Marvin and Phyllis Becker’s fourteen-year-old son, fascinated him. Physically, which was good for him, the boy didn’t appear to take after his parents. He was lean and already taller than both his mother and father. However, Gary wasn’t exactly good-looking: his nose was a little long, his mouth a little small, and his chin too sharp, but he had a sophistication in his eyes that projected an intriguing, almost beguiling demeanor. He had a way of holding his twisted lips, suggesting he knew or suspected ulterior motives. But what was most interesting to Grant was this vague feeling that there was something familiar about the boy. He struggled to discover what it was.
Rather quickly in the session, because of the boy’s willingness to talk, Grant addressed the subject of repressed memories.
“I’m sure my parents, especially my father, don’t want me talking about them,” Gary Becker said.
“If your parents had something to hide, why would they bring you to me?” Grant asked him.
“They’re just hoping that you’ll change my mind. That way they don’t have to worry about being blamed for anything. It’s all right,” he continued coolly. “I can deal with it.”
“So when did this sexual abuse stop?”
“When I was old enough to understand that that’s what it was,” Gary recited.
“And nothing ever since?”
“Nobody would try nothing now,” Gary said, his eyes like two marbles of ice.
“How do you deal with such memories? Don’t they disturb you now?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Actually,” he said with that crooked smile on his lips again, “they make me feel better about myself.”
“Better? How’s that?”
“Whenever I have this guilty feeling about something I’ve done, something immoral or illegal, I just think about them and what they did to me and that . . .”
“Justifies what you’ve done?”
“Yes,” Gary said, nodding. “A-huh.”
Grant smiled at him and Gary relaxed in his chair.
“I thought you would understand,” Gary said.
“Why were you so sure?”
“My doctor told me,” Gary replied.
“Your doctor told you?” When Gary nodded, Grant asked, “When?”
“Just before I agreed to come here. I spoke to him first and he said it would be fine. He said you and I would get along very well.”
“Then he knows me?”
Gary shrugged.
“I guess.”
“What’s his name?” Grant asked.
Gary smiled.
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to tell you his name. I thought we weren’t going to talk about him. That’s what Dad and Mom said.”
“Okay. When you feel you trust me, you’ll tell me. So,” Grant said, looking at his notepad, “how do you really feel about things you have done, Gary? There’s quite a list here, including the things that have happened in school.”
Gary shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just. . .”
“Yes?”
“Had some fun. No big deal.”
“I understand you pal around with much younger kids. Why would you want to do that? You seem bright for your age. I’d think younger kids would bore you.”
“If you know the answers, why are you asking me the questions?” Gary shot back.
“I don’t know the answers,” Grant said. “I’d like to, though.”
“Why? So you could come up with a convenient psychological explanation that would make my parents feel better?” Gary said bitterly.
“Do you hate them?”
Gary looked away.
“It’s all right to talk about it,” Grant encouraged him. “You want to get your feelings out in order to truly understand them.”
“That’s what he said, too.”
“Who? Oh, right. You don’t want to tell me yet.”
“What, do you guys have such boring lives that you got to hear about someone else’s all the time?”
Grant laughed.
“That’s what we do for a living, hear about other people’s lives and then try to help them.”
“By changing them?”
<
br /> “If that’s what has to be done. It’s not always the solution,” Grant said softly. “Maybe I don’t want to change you. Maybe I want you to continue as you are, but put your energies into more profitable endeavors.”
Gary studied him a moment. Then he relaxed again.
“It’s just easier with younger kids,” he said.
“What’s easier?”
“Getting them to do things.”
Grant hesitated a moment, his pen poised above the notepad.
“Then you admit that you do that?”
“Sure.”
“How do you come up with your ideas for things you want them to do, Gary?”
“They’re just things I dream about,” he said. “My other doctor called them my fantasies.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“That’s a good way to put it, I think. Then you’re saying you fantasized about putting the poodle into a microwave oven?”
Gary nodded and then shrugged.
“I wondered what would happen.”
“But you couldn’t do it yourself?”
“I could, but it was more fun getting them to do it.”
“Why was it more fun?”
“They were the ones who would get into trouble.”
“You liked getting them into trouble?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because. . .” Gary hesitated and looked away. Another silent moment passed between them before Grant spoke.
“There has to be a because why, Gary,” Grant said softly.
Gary glared him.
“Because their parents think they’re so goody-goody, so perfect.”
“And that bothers you?”
Gary turned away again, and when he turned back to look at Grant, he had a wide, gleaming smile on his face.
“Yes,” he said. “It bothers me. Nobody is goody-goody. Not even you,” he said, and Grant realized why he was so fascinated with Gary Becker and why there was the sense of something familiar about him.
Gary Becker reminded him of Jules Bois. He was just like Grant imagined Jules Bois would have been when he was Gary’s age. The realization put a flush of heat into his face and made his heart beat faster. He turned and looked at the sofa.
The Dark Page 11