 |
| Continuing Serial from Barbara C. Johnson |
A Mighty Maze! But Not Without a Plan ~~ Pope
A Buryin’ Kind’a Gal
 |
| Available on Amazon |
“Bea, I absolutely do not want to testify,” Crowley said.
“I want nothing to do with the Abernathys.”
“I was counting on you to shed some light on Mom. Remember you found her high on the avoidance scale?”
No response, so Bea added, “And I thought you liked Bill Abernathy.”
“Bea, I never said I liked him.” Bea listened and realized she’d been here before. She saw the punchline coming.
“I’m telling you now that if you subpoena me to trial I’ll bury both of them.”
The threat didn’t always work. It depended on how much you had on the witness.
Had Denise created difficulties for Crowley?
If so, with whom and how?
The place to start was the Boards of Registration, to learn whether Crowley was licensed—a fact that had fallen through the cracks. If Crowley wasn’t licensed, she wouldn’t do Bill much good on the stand. And why the hell did
MSPCC or the Center recommend Denise and Chloe to Crowley’s group?
Bea didn’t want to start trouble for the woman. It might very well be that Hilda Crowley was quite competent, but the other gals were living proof that a license was no guarantee of competence.
A Square Footprint
Bea’s wheels spun as she shot off to the criminal session at Salem Woods. In the courtroom, she met up with Bill, who had no choice but to be there. An arrest warrant would issue if he weren’t.
By bringing the weak case in District Court, which had no jurisdiction to try the offense of rape of child, the DA’s office was stalling. The pretrial hearing would just be a motion session; there’d be no actual trial date set.
She was intent on making a beeline to ADA Demos Eleutheria. Demos had seemed a decent young man from the first day they’d met at Bill’s arraignment. A Greek in a Catholic university. Maybe he was from a mixed marriage.
Counting on the renowned clannishness of Holy Cross, Bea dropped seeds of Bill’s innocence and planted a copy of Denise’s deposition in his lap. Demos was so anxious to see it, he copied it right there and then.
Looking toward the bench, Bea found herself twinkling in front of the first man whose sexual attractiveness she’d noticed in some while, a District Court judge who looked a little like Robert Culp but less gangly with more pounds to the inch. She argued her motions with extra energy. Without strenuous opposition by Demos, she was delighted by most of the rulings. One for the away team.
A few of the motions were multifaceted, so a new motion date was set for early December. Demos would have time to read them closely and confer with his office. It also meant Demos could read Denise’s deposition before they returned to court. The seeds should have rooted by then.
Out of court, Bea said, “Bill, let’s drive over to your house. I want to see it. You can duck down when we drive by.”
Bea wanted to understand the building layout so as to determine whether her assumption that Chloe could have overheard Denise talking on the phone was reasonable.
Howes Way was in a blue-collar neighborhood. Number 82 was a small two-story house with a square footprint and a side entrance in the right-hand front corner: two single windows and one stairway wide, and two single windows deep. One window to a room on each side. Bea guessed no room was wider than twelve feet.
“Okay,” she said, “in the front, the living room?”
“Yes, the front door opens into it. That’s where the television is. Behind the living room is the kitchen. That’s where the phone is.”
“And you said while Denise is on the phone, Chloe would probably be near the television.... How many feet between the television and the phone?”
“Oh, I’d say, fifteen feet tops.”
As they drove around, they saw some kids in costume. “Little early,” Bea remarked.
“Maybe they had a party in school,” Bill said.
“Talking about disguises. I want to ask you something that I meant to ask you ages ago. Ready? What made you shave off your mustache?”
Bill said, “Actually, I heard somewhere that pedophiles have facial hair. So one day I was shaving and I thought it was time to get rid of it. How come you asked?”
“Do you remember the very first time we met, you met Mel Kanter?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mel said the same thing and told me to be sure to tell you to shave it off. But then, the next time I saw you, you had already shaved it off, so I never had to say anything. But I was always curious why. How long did you have one?”
“Years.”
“Why did you first grow it?”
“I thought it would make me look older and more sophisticated.” He laughed, a little self-consciously.
That made Bea a little nervous. Was the moustache a mask?
Otherwise pleased with the day, after dropping Bill off at his car, Bea drove the scenic route home before the older trick-or-treaters began their annual prowl. Living on the tug, she didn’t have to worry about arriving home before a bell rang.
Sammy and the Doctors
So far, social workers were getting all the attention. Bea needed to get a social worker or psychologist or two on Bill’s side as well. She suddenly thought of Samantha Goldbar, and picked up the phone.
“Sammy, Bea Archibald here.”
“Hi, how’ve you been?”
“Fine,” Bea said quickly. “You sound fine. How’s your other half?”
“Busy. But fine and healthy.”
“Great.” Bea almost never asked anyone how they or their significant others were; they just might tell her about their latest operation, which she didn’t have the stomach to hear. But she broke her rule here. Sammy and her significant other were lesbians, so Bea wanted to reassure—whether or not it was necessary—Sammy and Liz that she respected their relationship. It was Bea’s hang-up and not theirs.
“Let me tell you why I’m calling,” Bea said.
“Sammy, I’m defending a guy accused of raping his child. I don’t believe he did it, but I wasn’t there.... So I’m anxious to find a psychologist into sex-abuser profiles, someone I can use to educate me and to examine as well as testify about my client. You don’t happen to know such a person, do you?” Bea had enormous respect for Sammy. Sammy had been a nurse prior to becoming a lawyer and had worked while in law school as an expert in a wide range of juvenile matters.
“Yes, I do know someone.” Sammy said.
“Wait a second ‘til I find him in my Rolodex.”
Bea was delighted. Sammy got back on the phone. “His name is Alan DeSegonzac. He’s in private practice now. He used to be associated with the Bridgewater sexual-abuse program and was usually the expert for the Commonwealth. He’ll do a penile plethysmograph test.”
“What the hell is that?”
Sammy laughed. “They hook up a contraption to the guy’s penis, show him pictures of adults and children in assorted poses, and measure his sexual reaction to each of them.”
“Wow! Amazing. I wonder if my guy will be able to get it up at all under those circumstances.” As soon as she said that, she hesitated, “Is exhibitionism part of the profile?”
“I have no idea, but DeSegonzac’ll be able to tell you.’
“Thanks Sammy. I’ll be in touch.”
As she hung up, Bea heard someone coming aboard.
It was Bill, and he immediately started to tell her his problem. “Bea, my parents are getting anxious about being able to see Chloe on Christmas. Can you speak to Joe Aguilar about it?”
“I can. But is it a good idea? It’s so close to the holidays and Aguilar can stall on a hearing date.”
His face fell.
“Bill, we’re coming up to trial soon after the New Year, and we don’t know whether they’re going to put the child on to testify. If they do, I don’t want them to be able to allege that your parents contaminated her memory. Tell them to have just a wee bit more patience. It might be best in the long run.”
“Bea, they’re not getting any younger.”
“I know, I know,” Bea said, trying to convey some sympathy. “Look, I’ll file the papers, but frankly,
I’m not sure it’s even a good idea.” She stopped for a moment to appraise Bill’s reaction.
“I understand. I really do,” Bill said.
Bea lit up a cigarette, inhaled and coughed. “I have another Christmas present for you.”
Bill’s anticipation registered on his face.
“There’s a test... it’s called a penile plethysmograph. It’s a very invasive, intrusive test. It’s even embarrassing to me to talk about.” She went on to explain it. When she was through, she asked, “Are you willing to subject yourself to it?”
“Of course. Anything. Anything that will help.”
“Wonderful. I’ll phone the doctor now. Let’s hope he’s willing to come aboard for the defense. He’s usually a witness for the Commonwealth. If he’s willing, I’ll put you on the phone.”
“Don’t let him plead,” DeSegonzac said. He was signaling that it was harder to get out these days.
Therein was the irony: those who plead—whether or not they did the crime—are deemed not in denial and can later profess remorse and gain release from prison on early parole. Those who maintain their innocence can have no remorse and ultimately do more prison time than the confessed rapists.
She put Bill on the phone. Arrangements for testing were made.
“Now let’s prepare for your deposition.”
Don’t You Dare
“Your Honor, you ordered the defendants to produce at least some of the documents Leslie Calhoun had requested,” Bea said. “The defendants, however, have not complied with that order.”
“Do you have anything to add, counselor?” Judge McGill asked the defense counsel.
“There are 300,000 documents, Your Honor. It would be burdensome to produce the documents.”
Bea said, “We didn’t request 300,000 documents. We wanted a very limited number of documents. Your Honor, we can possibly expedite this process. Perhaps it would be easier if I were allowed to visit the facility, which is not far from here, and inspect the documents myself.”
“Is that acceptable to you, Counselor?” McGill asked defense counsel.
“That’s fine, but I’ll have to be paid for a paralegal to be sent there.” He went on to talk money.
“Ms. Archibald, you may visit the facility and inspect documents. You must pay $55 per hour for each hour that you are there.”
“That’ll be quite costly if the papers are in as much disarray as he says they are. I would prefer to pay him ten cents for each page copied. I believe that will be fairer.”
“Denied. Fifty-five dollars an hour. Anything else?”
“Yes, I’d like to bring someone with me so I can finish in one day.”
“Fine. You may bring Leslie Calhoun.”
“Your Honor, Leslie Calhoun lives and works in California now. I’d like to bring someone else, someone local, with me.”
The judge mumbled and the clerk called out the name of the next case.
Nothing like being ignored, she thought. She could hear a friend of hers saying, “Bea, if your plumbing were on the outside, you wouldn’t be.” True enough, but political and financial influence have more than gender to do with the rulings made by the court.
On her way out the side door, Bea spoke to Pitbull, defense counsel. “I’m going to bring Rita Petrillo with me. She’s familiar with the documents. We’ll be able to expedite the inspection. I’ll call you with a list of possible dates.”
Rita Petrillo was a friend and former colleague and co-employee of Leslie. She was also suing the company. Another half-dozen women had also come to Bea wanting to sue. Bea had talked four of them out of it, telling them to get on with their lives. The other two also sued, ultimately with the help of two other attorneys. The company had screwed up big time with females in many different ways and now thought the women were trying to bring it down.
“Don’t you dare bring Rita Petrillo. I won’t allow it. I’ll see to it that you’re not let in.”
Like a Rat in a Cage
Bill was ushered into a room about six by nine feet, with beige walls and an industrial-type rug. One unoccupied, lone chair was in the center, opposite which was a three-by-five foot wall-mounted screen. Set in another wall was a dark window, which Bill suspected was a one-way mirror.
Holding up a ring and pointing to an attached wire, the escort said, “This probe runs into the next room. Before the test begins, you’ll see a red light. That’s the signal to put the ring on your penis. Once the ring is on, use this string-loop to tighten it. Sit down and relax.” The guide left the room.
Speechless, Bill nodded. Plethysmograph, be good to me.
Bill sat down and unzipped his pants to be ready to slip on the ring when he saw the light. He felt intruded upon, but also challenged. Fearing arousal, he told himself, None of the machines are perfect, and I’ve nothing to hide, so come what may! He decided to concentrate on relaxing.
The test began with the projection of still images of nude people—men and women and children in various combinations—onto the screen. His reactions vacillated from feeling relaxed one minute and harrowed the next.
While viewing some of the pictures, he began getting an erection. And comfort. A picture of a beautiful woman came up and his penis reached its full potential. When the picture suddenly flashed off, he became anxious. What picture will come up next? Will I get another erection? Relax! Relax!
But despite his mind detaching from his body, he became aware of tumescence building from shots of homosexuals.
Between the pictures, he had a chance to think. What was that? A half-erection?
From time to time, he thought he heard sounds in the adjoining room. M’god, this is a Big Brother thing! He was upset. He was continually nervous about getting any kind of erection when seeing images of nude children: children in repose, children reclining, children not in pornographic situations. Just nude children.
His anxiety translated into pleasure: his body raced toward another full erection while looking upon another attractive adult female. The pleasure was totally physical. Emotionally, he was not into it, but he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
The pictures stopped and voices took over. Voices of guys talking about sex using pedophile language. Their voices had something sinister behind them. Other voices recorded strictly pornographic situations. His penis stretched its envelope twice—in response to two seemingly libertine women.
When he left DeSegonzac’s office, Bill felt like an animal, like a rat in a cage.
“How was it?” Bea asked Bill over the phone.
“It wasn’t your day at the beach,” Bill moaned. “It was very intrusive on my whole sexual being, my sexual preferences. The audios were more offensive than the actual images. There were, you know, audios of molestation, of abusing children. They were really offensive.”
“How are you now?”
“I suppose if you saw me, you’d think I looked depressed. At least that’s what my father told me a little while ago.”
“Well, let me put it to you another way. How do you think you did?”
He burst out laughing. “I did fine. I performed. Four full erections, all from adult women.”
“Four! And we joked about you possibly not being able to get it up at all with that thing on you!”
“Bea, it’s not natural. I wonder whether the test is accurate. I have my doubts. It’s a snapshot of reactions, not a whole picture of me sexually.”
They explored his opinion of the other psychological tests: he had taken a full gamut of them. During that exploration, Bill had told Bea that meeting with DeSegonzac made him remember a lot of events from his past, like the death of his grandma.
Bea’s intern later said, “Having something attached to his penis reminds him of his grandma’s death?
Sounds kinky.”
“Maybe I misunderstood,” Bea said.
They had to wait for the written results.
Sleuthing the Master
Getting a trial date for the divorce was going to be difficult. There was no judge to preside over the case. The Commonwealth’s coffers were too empty and the governor was late in nominating potential judicial appointees. And retired judges who’d been recalled into service behind the bench had been pushed back into retirement over the New Year.
Even the court staff had been taken by surprise.
Anxious to get the divorce trial over before the criminal case went any further, Bea had convinced Demos—by giving him copies of Chloe’s medical records and DeSegonzac’s reports—to continue the criminal case. She didn’t want to lose now, by happenstance, the advantage of hearing the spin on the abuse evidence in the divorce trial.
Considering an alternate route to a quick divorce trial, she thought of Leonard Goldblatt, who’d been recalled and assigned to the trial. He might be interested in sitting as a “master.” He obviously wanted to stay active or he wouldn’t have taken the original assignment.
Without further thought, she picked up the phone. “Bill, hi. If I can find the right master, would you be willing to go forward?”
“What is a master, Bea?”
“A master can be a retired judge or a knowledgeable attorney who makes findings after presiding over a trial. His findings must then be reviewed and approved by a sitting justice. If okayed, the findings will be the basis of whatever legal decision the sitting justice makes.”
“If the master makes a mistake, can a real judge correct them?”
“Yup, the findings can be amended, but the process is tricky. And it has a lot of traps for the unwary so you must prepare yourself for the findings to be rubber-stamped,” she added, not wanting his expectations to soar.
“Then what’s the advantage in having a master?”
“It would mean we won’t have to wait until a trial judge is available.”
“Anything to get all of this over with,” Bill said, his disappointment turning almost immediately into a buoyant hope for a quick trial.
She didn’t tell Bill that she had followed Goldblatt’s career ever since he’d won his race for state representative, for, at that time, forty years prior, her beau had been Goldblatt’s nephew, who extolled his uncle’s acumen and other virtues and then celebrated his success in the race; the younger Goldblatt had given her a Glenn Miller album for her Sweet Sixteenth birthday.
Later that evening, after Hugh had a few gin and tonics and had begun to smile, Bea said, “Love, do you know Leonard Goldblatt?”
“Of course.”
“Really know him?”
“Bea, you’re up to something.”
“Always, if you are,” she said in an attempt to be playful.
It was Hugh’s favorite foreplay. Intellectual argument was his second favorite. And that was fine—to a point—with Bea. She did marvel, though, how they sustained their relationship—much less their sexual relationship—on what was always point-counterpoint. They rarely agreed on anything. He pleasured in his sickness. She didn’t.
“Sure do. He was Caesar Levino’s partner.”
A guffaw burst out of her. “Caesar Levino! Hugh, a hundred years ago, I saw Jewish-Italian names on the sides of temples in Italy, but I never heard anyone say them aloud. I never stopped to think how funny they’d sound.” She laughed again.
“My dear, they’re funny only to someone bred in Newton.”
“Touché, my sophisticate.” She took a sip of her wine. “Okay, I’ll bite my tongue, but tell me about Caesar Levino, and then tell me what you know about Goldblatt.”
“Caesar Levino found the girls for all the judges. Anything they wanted.”
“You mean, anyone they wanted, don’t you?”
“No, I mean anything they wanted.”
“Oh, right, the they-all-look-the-same syndrome, it’s what they do that counts.”
“Yes, my dear, that’s about it.”
“Did he get you anything you wanted, Love?”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell you after you tell me how that relates to Leonard Goldblatt.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You implied it by your tone.”
“He’s broad-minded.”
“Double entendre intended?”
“No double entendre intended. Why do you want to know about Leonard Goldblatt?”
“I want to use him as a master for the Abernathy divorce.”
He hesitated. “Okay.”
“With what you said about his partner, I’m going to assume he’s savvy, earthy, no cowchips, and knows nothing is necessarily what it seems to be.”
“All of the above,” Hugh said, much to Bea’s surprise.
“He was a good rep, too. Real good.”
“So I heard.”
“I think I can convince Aguilar to go with a master. Wifeypoo can’t afford this on-again, off-again stuff. And it’s likely Aguilar never heard of Caesar Levino, much less his connection to Goldblatt.
Different crowd. Yes, I think he’ll buy Goldblatt.”
“You can add to the sell by saying neither of you chose him. You were going to get him anyway.”
“Now that’s sweet.”
“Of course.” He got out of the luxurious down-stuffed white wingback recliner, which Bea had custom made, to replenish his gin and tonic. Returning to his comfortable nesting place, he said, “Now, tell me why you didn’t believe me. I’ve earned an answer.”
Bea tapped the empty cushion beside her on the sofa.
Beckoned, he rose and joined her. “Kiss first,” she said.
He gently bussed her... but Bea knew he wasn’t being gentle for gentleness’ sake.
She tried for a more passionate kiss.
“I’m sorry, Love, I’m worried about my lower teeth.”
He was only in his early 50s, too young for such a dental problem. Bea believed it was a problem from his past. So she didn’t take his rebuff personally. Had she complained, she’d be traveling in treacherous territory. She had to magically cover the jagged rocks with a velvet pouffe.
“Maybe, but I think you’re afraid to go after what you really want,” Bea said.
“What are you suggesting that is?”
“What you’ve felt guilty about all these years.”
“What’s that?”
“What you told me years ago. Your experience as a schoolboy.”
“Back to that, are you? I told you I never told you that.”
“You did.” She wondered what happened since the early ‘60s that made him so cautious to reveal himself. She understood hiding his intimacies from the public, but from her? She already knew his secrets.
“You’re mistaking me for another of your conquests during your whoredom.”
“Until you address it, Love, you’ll never be happy.”
“So long as you’re happy, Dear, does it matter?”
“Am I?”
“Let’s see,” he said as he took her hand and pulled her close and then led her to the stateroom.
She had chickened out. No velvet pouffe. Lucky they detoured onto a bypass.
“Which am I tonight, Love? Your wife, your mistress, or your whore?” Maybe I should ask Caesar
Levino.
A Booster for Bill’s Ego
“Lucky me,” Bea heard as soon as she lifted the receiver. It was Bill. “DeSegonzac said I was normal.”
“That is good news. How do you feel now?”
“Much better now that more is happening. It’s a relief. I wasn’t down as much when I saw Chloe this afternoon.”
“Good to hear.”
“Bea, I want to thank you. My father came with me at Christmas. So at least he saw her. My mother didn’t. And, of course, my sister didn’t either.”
“Did Denise even say Merry Christmas?”
“Of course not,” he laughed. “But I’m concerned for her. She’s not looking right.”
“What do you mean by right?”
“She’s not looking well. She looks hurt. It’s even hard for me to see her like that.” His voice cracked.
Bea was surprised. She’d never seen this side of him. This was the side that Larry Kupersmith, Bill’s psychologist, had seen.
“Well, she brought all this on herself.”
“Yeah, but the waiting is painful. And Chloe is lost in the middle.” He choked up. “I’m sorry. I do a lot of crying when I’m alone.”
“Then you’ve got to get someone to make you happy.”
Bill laughed. “I have a kitten now,” he said in an excited tone. “It’s nice. It likes affection.”
“I was thinking of something a little larger, something to replace the gal who went to Spain.”
“Well, I’m dating a nurse, Kate, from Memorial Medical Center. I went out to dinner with her over the holiday and again on New Year’s Eve.”
“That sounds more like it.”
“But she wants to move on with life.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Aside from my legal expenses being scary, my problem is the criminal stuff.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirty-two.” Getting no reaction from Bea, he added, “She’s good for my ego. It needs a boost.”
“Have you told her or even hinted anything about it?”
“Well, at first, all I told her about was the divorce... the custody fight, you know, and Denise being in therapy. I was worried, you know, what she’d do if I told her what was really going on. But lately I began seeing her once or twice a week and talking to her on the phone. So I took the risk, you know. I had to. I told her everything. I wanted to be honest with her. I really care for her. I’ve even talked to her of marriage, et cetera.”
Bill paused. “She makes weekends much more pleasant... but will she hang in there for the long haul?”
Check this Blog for part 13 of 41 in B.C. Johnson's serial.
