The Fussy Virgin

by McGarvey Black

  “I don’t understand how a prosecutor could overlook this evidence and move for a conviction,” said an aggravated Patrick, thumbing through Kenney’s files.

  “Most of the time,” replied Jordan Crespin, “the public just wants an arrest. They don’t care who it is. They want closure. Prosecutors go for the lowest hanging fruit and that’s usually someone who’s poor and can’t afford to defend themselves.”

  Patrick’s team of interns had found evidence that had been buried and proved Amanda Powell’s boyfriend killed her. Because of their work, Roderick Kenney was scheduled to be released from prison any day.

  The other case on Patrick’s docket was a young man named Alberto Casado, who’d been arrested and convicted of rape and murder five years earlier solely based on an eyewitness account. Casado was sixteen at the time of the crime and on the autism spectrum like so many people in jail, but was nonetheless tried as an adult. Since his conviction, advancements in DNA testing shed new light on the case. Patrick and his colleagues found enough conflicting evidence to get Alberto’s case reopened and they hoped eventually it would be overturned. When the news came down that the courts agreed to review the original findings, the room at TVP broke into cheers.

  “Oh my God,” shouted a female paralegal to no one in particular. “We’re actually going to get that poor kid out of there.”

  Everyone smiled, hugged and high-fived. It was agreed that Patrick and another TVP associate should make the trip up to the Sing Sing Correctional Facility to share the good news with their client in person.

  The next day, Patrick and a colleague boarded a train out of Grand Central Station bound for Ossining, NY.

  Sing Sing, the looming maximum security prison, stood on the shores of the Hudson River in Westchester County. Since it opened in 1826, Sing Sing had been the home to serial killers, bank robbers and gangsters. From the perspective of TVP, Sing Sing was not where Alberto Casado should be and they intended to get the kid out.

  When they arrived at the facility, the two attorneys were escorted to an industrial lifeless beige yet private client-attorney room that smelled of mildew and other unidentifiable, unpleasant odors. The room contained only a small table and three chairs. They waited for twenty minutes until Casado was brought in by a guard. When Alberto pulled out the metal chair to sit, it made a harsh screeching sound as it scraped across the concrete floor and echoed off the walls.

  “Good to see you, Alberto,” said Patrick. “How have you been since our last talk?”

  “Okay, I guess. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  Patrick smiled, barely able to contain his excitement as he told Alberto about the turn of events.

  “What does this mean, Mr. Walsh?” asked Alberto.

  “It means it looks like you’re going to get a new trial,” said Patrick, bordering on giddy.

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” said the young man, trying to hold back his tears. “I never thought anyone would listen.”

  “You don’t belong in here, Alberto,” said Patrick, also tearing up. “We’re going to do everything we can to get you out. I promise.”

  Patrick had a smile on his face the entire train ride back into Manhattan. It had been the first genuinely happy day he’d had in a long, long time.

  67

  The Fussy Virgin Guide:

  “Changing Lanes”

  Let’s face it, no matter how hard you try or how often you summon the love fairies, some things simply will not go the way you planned.

  That cute co-worker in your office who you secretly loved, announced that he was getting married—and not to you. You are shown a video of him proposing to his new fiancée and pretend to be thrilled as you give him your first and probably last hug. You were so sure that one day it would be you in that proposal video. You could practically feel that strip of gold around your ring finger. When it wasn’t you wearing that shiny diamond, giggling and crying while saying “yes” twenty times and texting your mother, you were stunned. At first, you told yourself he made a terrible mistake because you and he were meant to be together. Your loyal friends agreed with you and told you what you wanted to hear.

  A few months later, you and he are working late and share a pizza. You’ve convinced yourself that this is the night a lightning bolt will strike him. He’ll realize you are the one, not the woman who just placed an order for seven bridesmaid’s dresses along with pink and white floral centerpieces for twenty-eight tables. You’re sure before you leave the office, he’ll take your hand and tell you he’s calling off his wedding. You smile to yourself because you always knew this moment was inevitable. He was your destiny.

  Newsflash—that little scenario is never going to happen and you need to CHANGE LANES immediately. He’s not going to dump his fiancée for you or realize at some later date that he made a huge mistake by not marrying you. I’m saying what a lot of your friends won’t tell you because they were almost as invested in your romantic fantasy as you were. They helped you dissect every word and gesture that went between you and your fantasy man since the day you first met him.

  So, wallow in self-pity for a weekend and then, snap out of it! You may think he’s the only man in the world, I can assure you—he’s not. With close to four billion men on this planet, odds are two or three of them should work for you.

  Go out, do stuff with friends, visit your family, volunteer. Try new things. Take up rowing or improv. Go to a glass-blowing class. It will distract you from your internal pity party where you are the only attendee.

  Bottom line—you thought he was the one; he wasn’t.

  68

  The Fussy Virgin… a guide to happily ever after was officially published on October 10th by Sunrise Books, a small independent book publisher. Initial reviews from book bloggers were positive and a handful of local independent booksellers had agreed to carry it. Callie’s royalties wouldn’t pay her bills, but at least she would make something and was now officially a published author.

  A week after her book came out, while in the elevator going up to Ariom Marketing, a million new story ideas swirled in her mind. Callie looked at her watch and grimaced, already ten minutes late for work. Slinking quietly to her cubicle, she surveyed the bullpen to see if anyone had noticed her late arrival. Before she got to her desk, her eyes landed on George staring directly at her and pointing to his imaginary watch. Callie mouthed “sorry,” and slipped into her chair. A second later, her best friend’s head popped over the divider sporting wiggly pumpkin antennas sticking out of an orange headband.

  “George was looking for you five minutes ago,” Jess whispered.

  “He found me,” said Callie, putting on her headset. “I think he likes it when I’m late so he can scold me.”

  “How are your book sales going?” asked Jess, moving her head, causing the little pumpkins to bounce into each other. “My sorority sisters from college are all reading Fussy V and they love it.”

  “My publisher seems happy,” said Callie, smiling. “It’s not an international bestseller yet, but people are buying it.”

  “That’s all that matters,” said Jess, ducking back into her cubicle when she saw George heading in their direction. “Red alert! Coming directly at us at two o’clock—troll patrol!”

  “You can’t complete surveys if you’re gossiping, ladies,” said George a moment later as he cleared his throat and walked past.

  Jess and Callie leaned back in their chairs and gave each other a deadpan stare. “He’s that annoying teacher in high school that everyone hated,” said Jess.

  “I was thinking that after work tonight, I’d go down to volunteer at Ben Huston’s campaign headquarters,” said Callie. “I read in New York Magazine that with only two more weeks until the election his people are trying to get the youth vote out. I thought I’d help.”

  Jess gave her friend a thumbs up and picked up her next call.

  That evening, Callie walked across town to 47th and Ninth Avenue, the location of Huston�
��s Manhattan campaign offices. His people had taken over what had previously been a large bagel restaurant. Inside, the place was buzzing like a beehive—phones ringing, people shouting, everyone moving. Callie guesstimated that there must have been nearly seventy-five volunteers in the room with the constant flow of people leaving and new ones coming in to take their place. Standing in the middle of the chaos, she tried to figure out who was in charge so she could offer her services.

  “Talk to her,” said a young woman, pointing to a short middle-aged lady with shoulder-length dark hair in a blue pantsuit who appeared to be directing all the traffic in the room. “That’s Marilyn Bernstein. She’s the assistant chair in New York. She’ll put you to work. Be careful what you wish for, we’re in the home stretch, so get ready for a massive workload. Marilyn means business.”

  Callie nodded, took a deep breath and walked over to Marilyn who was barking orders to a young male intern. “I’m gonna need two thousand copies of that flyer and I need them yesterday. Clear?” said Marilyn.

  The young kid, eyes glassy, nodded enthusiastically and sped across the room.

  “You,” shouted Marilyn to a cute twenty-something girl with brown braids wearing a Huston T- shirt. “What happened to those phone lists we were supposed to get? I’ve got people sitting here ready to make phone calls and no freaking numbers.”

  “I’ll check,” said the girl with the braids as she ran off.

  “My God,” said Marilyn, shaking her head to no one in particular. “How do these people function?”

  “Excuse me,” said Callie softly.

  “Hold on a sec,” said Marilyn, holding her hand up to Callie’s face and shouting into the air, “where is Jackie Ciraldo?”

  “Here,” shouted a cute girl with big eyes and long brown hair on the other side of the room.

  “Jackie, sweetheart, get me an iced tea with lemon and two Equals pronto, or I’m going to pass out.”

  “You got it, Ms. Bernstein,” shouted the young woman as she got up and ran out the front door. Marilyn turned back to Callie.

  “Okay, go,” said Marilyn.

  “I’m here to volunteer for Ben Huston.”

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  “It’s my first time,” said Callie.

  “You’re hired. We can use all the help we can get,” said Marilyn, smiling. “You know how to talk on the phone?”

  “Actually, I’m a telemarketer.”

  Marilyn’s eyes lit up and she looked around the room until she spotted a young man with a goatee. “Felix, you’re not going to believe this, I got a professional telemarketer here,” she shouted, pointing at Callie. “Put her on the phones. Give her the script and the lists of some of our more difficult neighborhoods.” Felix nodded enthusiastically and waved Callie over.

  “Thanks for coming in,” shouted Marilyn as she continued barking orders to other minions in the room.

  Callie worked the phones from six thirty to nine thirty that night. Campaign policy was to shut down the calls at nine thirty when it was considered too late and would only irritate voters. When she was finished, Callie packed up her things and told Felix she’d be back the next day.

  69

  For the next ten days, any free time Callie had was spent at the Huston campaign headquarters. She hoped she’d have a chance to meet Ben Huston in person one day.

  “Does the congressman ever come in here?” she asked Marilyn Bernstein one night.

  “All the time. But right now, we’re in the last dog days of this election campaign and the congressman is crisscrossing the state trying to squeeze out every last vote,” said Marilyn.

  “I was hoping I might get to meet him,” said Callie. “Is he really as amazing as he seems on TV?”

  Marilyn’s face, usually twisted up with anxiety, suddenly smoothed and she smiled. “He’s even better in person. That’s why I’m doing this. He’s the real deal.”

  Marilyn’s words hit Callie hard. Those were the exact words the Mystery Man had used describing Huston so long ago.

  “You might meet him,” said Marilyn. “We never know when he’s going to pop in. Sometimes, he shows up out of nowhere and the whole place goes nuts.”

  Callie walked back over to the row of phones and started her calls to prospective voters in Suffolk County. With only five days left before the election, every Huston volunteer was putting in extra hours.

  Out back, behind the headquarters building, a bunch of men unloaded a truck filled with Huston banners that were to be distributed throughout the five boroughs of New York the next morning.

  At the end of her shift, Callie stopped to check in with Felix. “I’ll definitely be here for the last three-day push,” she said.

  “We appreciate all the time you’ve been giving us,” said Felix. “You’ve been doing a great job, especially in helping the other callers with their phone technique, that’s been huge.”

  When Callie pulled open the front door of the building to leave, she nearly collided with several men carrying big boxes of Huston banners. Holding the door open while they entered with their cargo, she waited until they all walked through and then left for the night.

  The men carried the huge boxes back to the storage room, and piled the large crates of banners in neat stacks. When they were through, they all went back to the main room to see what else they could do.

  “All the banners are sorted and in the back room. You need anything else, Ms. Bernstein,” said a tall man.

  “You’re Patrick, right? You know how to make a sign?” said Marilyn Bernstein, handing him a set of markers and some blank posters. “We need about a hundred and fifty homemade-looking signs that we can give out at the rally in Staten Island tomorrow.”

  Patrick nodded, tapped a few other people to help and sat down at a long table and started drawing. Between the demands of his job at TVP and the intense push in the final weeks of Huston’s Senate campaign, Patrick barely had time to change his clothes. Despite that, he was blissfully happy and thrilled to help put a man he so strongly admired into office.

  The small group of sign makers had nearly finished fifty billboards when there was a commotion in front of the building. Everyone in the big room looked up from whatever they were doing.

  “What’s going on?” said Patrick to the woman sitting next to him.

  People started getting up from their chairs and walked towards the front windows. The headquarters front door flew open and a small squad of handlers including the strawberry-blonde woman who had helped Patrick in Central Park, walked in. Before anyone knew what was happening, Ben Huston appeared in the doorway shaking the many hands that were thrust towards him.

  Applause and chanting broke out as Huston made a prizefight gesture by holding his two clenched hands over his head. “Hello, everybody. We’re almost at the finish line. I want to thank each and every one of you for all of your hard work,” said Huston. “Our campaign has the best volunteers in the country.” Cheers and applause followed as Huston made his way to a tiny executive office in the back next to a storage room. As he passed Patrick, he looked at him with a vague sense of familiarity and stopped.

  “I know you,” said Huston.

  Patrick’s face turned red.

  The strawberry-blonde stepped forward. “He’s the one from the Central Park rally who was looking for the woman. They got separated in the blackout, remember?” she whispered to the congressman.

  Huston knitted his brows in an attempt to recall exactly what his aide was referring to. Within seconds his eyes lit up and his face broke into a smile. “That’s right,” said Huston, “I remember now. You were the fellow who had a phone call with a woman that was lost because of the power failure, right? You ever find her?”

  Patrick looked down and shook his head. “No, it wasn’t meant to be, but thank you for trying to help that day.”

  “Listen, young man, as I recall you thought this woman was the great love of your life,” said Huston. “Let me t
ell you something, my mother used to say soulmates are like boomerangs. You throw two boomerangs out into the universe and they’ll return to where they came from. They will always find each other, one way or another. You can count on that.” With that last comment, Huston’s team pulled him towards the back room and he was gone.

  70

  November 2018

  The last few days leading up to election day put the campaign into a frenzy. Whenever she had any free time before or after work. Callie went over to Huston headquarters to pitch in. She still hadn’t seen Huston in person yet, but if he won on election night, there was going to be a big celebratory party and he would be there. All the volunteers had been invited to a midtown hotel to wait and watch the results come in. According to the latest polls, Huston was projected to win. Even the bookies gave him the odds of three to one.

  On that election day morning, Callie got up early. She had signed up for an 8am shift at Ariom Marketing to do some last-minute polling on whether people were intending to go out and vote. Taking an early shift allowed her to go down to campaign headquarters, pitch in a little more before the polls closed and then go to the hotel to wait for the results. Before she went to the office, she stopped in at her local voting station and proudly cast her vote for Ben Huston for Senate.

  That same Tuesday morning, Patrick also cast his vote for Ben Huston and headed over to his office. The Vindication Project had three primary practices—civil, criminal defense and juvenile rights. Patrick would still continue to manage the Alberto Casado case until it was closed, but Jordan Crespin had recently moved him over to work within the juvenile rights group.