“Yes.”
“Where are you?” he asked, pointing at a photo.
“Manhattan.”
“So, you were shopping in Manhattan”—he shook his head—“The inhumanity of this prison! How much did you have to spend, or let me ask, do you know how much you spent on this particular shopping trip?”
Claire did. “Yes, I spent five thousand but I was told to—”
“Mrs. Rawlings, let’s continue. Did you have a credit card once you were married?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever have the opportunity to use it?”
“Yes.”
He was looking right at her. “This money thing wasn’t so bad now—was it?”
“I didn’t want the money. I don’t want the money. I told Tony I didn’t care about his money—”
Marcus’ associate showed Claire an e-mail address and telephone number, as Mr. Evergreen continued the questioning, “Mrs. Rawlings do you recognize this e-mail address?”
“Yes.”
“It’s yours. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is, but—”
“Mrs. Rawlings, whose cell phone number is this?”
“Mine.”
“Mrs. Rawlings, I thought that you said you were isolated—no way to communicate. Let me see, I believe I have photos of you and your husband in Hawaii, Lake Tahoe, San Francisco, and yes, in Europe. Mrs. Rawlings, did you enjoy the south of France?”
Claire’s head pounded with increasing intensity.
Mr. Evergreen went into a long tirade about how an unemployed weather girl deep in debt latched on to a lonely wealthy businessman with no heirs. This was an entrepreneur that not only made his fortune through hard work, but was highly regarded due to his benevolent endeavors. She then seduced him into employing her as a live-in prostitute and lured him into marrying her without a prenuptial agreement. Given the perfect opportunity, this tawdry woman put poison into her poor, unsuspecting husband’s coffee. If that weren’t enough, she sent his driver away on a wild-goose chase, and drove away. It would have worked, except with technology as it was, fifteen people witnessed the collapse, and help arrived in time. The prosecution had many character witnesses willing to testify to the generous spirit and good-heartedness of Mr. Rawlings. No one would back her slanderous accusations of this respectable man.
Hadn’t she been told over and over again, appearances were everything? The small room became smaller. Claire’s head and heart hurt. She saw the pictures and the expressions of her attorneys. She heard Marcus Evergreen’s accusations and tasted the sour bile as her stomach twisted and turned.
We cannot change our memories, but we can change their meaning and the power they have over us.
—David Seamands
Chapter Fifty
‡
He stared at the paint on the cinder block wall. Why did they always use the same pale green? If it was supposed to look cheery, it failed. Anton continued to watch the wall, even though he heard the door and knew the guard and prisoner had entered. He couldn’t bear to see his grandfather being led around. Anton waited, hands in pockets, until he heard the door close again. Turning around, he met the eyes, the dark defiant eyes. If his grandfather were wearing a suit and if the metal table were a mahogany desk, Nathaniel would look like the man in Anton’s memory. Despite his circumstances, Nathaniel’s expression hadn’t changed. They may’ve put him in this damn prison, but they sure as hell weren’t keeping his mind here.
“So, boy, did you learn his identity?”
Cole Mathews had worked side by side with Nathaniel Rawls for almost two years. The day before Nathaniel’s arrest, he didn’t show for work—he didn’t call—he disappeared. Almost a year later, information only known by insiders, helped lead to Nathaniel Rawls’ conviction. During the trial it was revealed that an FBI agent had been embedded into the inner workings of Rawls Corporation to investigate federal allegations.
Of course, to protect his identity, the name of the agent was never released, but this was 1988, and Anton Rawls knew his way around a computer—better than most. Hacking was such a negative term for research.
Anton placed the manila folder in front of his grandfather. “Yes, sir, I found his name and enough personal information to track him down.”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” Nathaniel opened the folder and scanned the contents. “He has a wife and family.” He spent a few more minutes reading the pages. Then abruptly, Nathaniel shut the folder and slammed his hand against the table. “This son-of-a-bitch will pay!” His chair hit the wall as he forcefully stood. “Do you hear me, boy?”
“Yes, sir, I hear you.” Anton watched his grandfather pacing in his prison garb.
“Not just him. Hell, no. He took away my world. He took my family. His damn kids, their kids, their kids…they’ll all face the consequences of his actions! He took everything”—Nathaniel’s eyes darkened as he moved closer to his grandson—“You know what?”
“No, sir.”
“You can’t lose everything until you have everything to lose”—more pacing—“I had everything, and now look at me! That man and his Goddamn family will pay!”—he moved very close to his grandson—“The day I get out of this hellhole, they will pay. Every one of them will regret the day he decided to bring me down.”
Anton noticed the difference in the sound of their footsteps. His hard soled shoes made a distinctively different noise from his grandfather’s rubber soled shoes which squeaked. “There’s more, sir.”
Nathaniel turned toward his grandson’s words. “What? What more did you learn?”
“He had help. He worked hand in hand with a securities officer named Burke; Burke fed Mathews the necessary information. If this securities officer hadn’t directed Mathews, Mathews wouldn’t have been as thorough in collecting evidence.” Anton watched the shade of his grandfather’s face grow in crimson intensity as he spoke.
“And, your father?” The blackness of Nathaniel’s eyes pulled Anton’s gaze to him.
Anton felt compelled to maintain eye contact and surrender the rest of his information. “He testified for the state”—Nathaniel’s pacing resumed—“It was done behind closed doors, but it isn’t secret. The media calls him the hero in our family.”
Nathaniel collapsed red faced and defeated into his chair. The realization that his son turned state’s witness was obviously affecting him. His tone mellowed, as he said, “Boy, you’ll survive.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“Being here today, discovering this information, and most importantly, having the balls to bring it to me are all evidence of your future. Your father has always been a disappointment, but I believe he was better at one thing than me.”
Anton sat in the metal chair facing his grandfather. He could hear the sincerity in Nathaniel’s tone and words, and asked his grandfather to continue.
“Public opinion, I never gave a damn what anyone thought. I worked hard and believed I deserved all the money, possessions, and everything I earned—and wanted more. That was never a secret. Remember this—you can want the whole Goddamn world—but never show it”—Nathaniel stared up at the camera in the corner of the room—“If they know what you want, they’ll watch you and take it away. Keep up appearances, boy. If you do that, you can take everything you want. The whole damn world is yours.”
Happiness doesn’t depend on any external conditions it is governed by our mental attitude.
—Dale Carnegie
Chapter Fifty-One
‡
Claire had been incarcerated for over three months and had come to terms with the realization it would not end soon. The claustrophobic cell and virtual isolation were her new norm. Surprisingly, like in traumas before, she was adapting. It was difficult at first—but with time—she developed strength and resolve.
On April 18, 2012, the courtroom sat empty—except for the judge, defendant, and legal teams—as each word spoken, resonated throughout the caver
nous room. Claire Nichols stood in front of the federal court judge and with the help of her legal team pleaded no contest to the charge of attempted murder. As the judge explained the consequences of Claire’s plea, she listened, felt the smooth finish of the chair she used for support, watched the judge’s lips, and silently wept.
This plea saved her the indignity of a jury trial. She didn’t admit guilt—but would not—could not challenge the charges. Therefore, she’d take a lesser sentence, but she couldn’t later decide to appeal. She would avoid Mr. Evergreen and his questions. She would escape the dark, penetrating eyes of Anthony Rawlings as she testified. She wouldn’t need to explain to the entire world how she was forced to do things and how things were so different from how they appeared. She could just quietly go away.
The court of public opinion had not gone well, either. The people of Iowa City, of Iowa, and of the United States all found her guilty. They tried her as a gold digger; of course, most of the information hadn’t come out. Even that shared with the members of both legal teams remained private—Anthony Rawlings made sure of that.
The federal judge sentenced her to seven years in prison, minus time served, to be served in a moderate security federal penitentiary. The severity of her crime required a moderate security facility. Apparently, even her ex-husband testified to the judge, asking for a minimum-security facility—more evidence of his forgiving, kind character.
Counsel on behalf of Anthony Rawlings filed the necessary paperwork to dissolve the marriage between he and Claire Nichols. Of course, there was no contest. With a few connections, the court papers were expedited and the divorce was finalized on March 20, 2012. Since they didn’t have a prenuptial agreement, Claire received no financial compensation for her fifteen-month marriage. After all, she was charged with his attempted murder. Why would she get any financial compensation?
According to the smut television shows which played in the common area of the prison, Mr. Rawlings was having no problem finding women to take her place. The world rallied around him and his unfortunate situation. Even Rawlings Industries stock soared.
The small window in the door of Claire’s cell allowed a minimal amount of florescent light to penetrate, making the walls drab and colorless. Turning on her desk lamp filled the room with illuminated warmth. Her small cell at the Iowa Correctional Institution for Women would be her home for at least another four years. Although she was sentenced to seven, with good behavior, she’d be eligible for parole in four years. Claire was good at following rules.
She had a twin-sized bed, dresser, an open hanging area, a few shelves, and a desk with a chair. It wasn’t much, but she felt content. She’d experienced more, but that hadn’t worked well. Existing in a comforting sameness day to day helped Claire survive. There were no surprises—everything was predictable. Day after day, the same routine: wake, dress, and breakfast, then back to her cell, alone, until lunch. Lunch was followed by a one-hour block of free time—either in a large gymnasium, the prison library, or an outside court. Claire loved the outside. She went there whenever the weather permitted. Then back to her cell until dinner. After dinner, there was optional common time—if she’d earned that privilege—for another hour. Claire earned it, but opted for her cell. Companionship required trust in the other person. Claire’s trust no longer extended beyond herself. She stayed in her cell until her buzzer rang. The buzzer indicated it was time to shower; following the shower, back to her cell, lights out at 11:00 PM. Simple and predicable—Claire had suffered enough unpredictability.
She spent her free time reading. Emily tried to send her books as often as possible. Having a sister and husband in jail was hard on Emily. She was asked to leave her teaching job in Troy. The private school system needed to maintain its reputation, and apparently some large donors were concerned about her influence on young children. She went back to Indiana to familiar surroundings and taught for a public school system near Indianapolis. The money wasn’t as good, but at least she could survive.
*
It was a two-hour drive from Iowa City to Mitchellville. Brent Simmons should have utilized a driver. It was four hours he could have worked, but he chose to drive. He wanted to be alone and come to terms with the assignment ahead of him. Claire Nichols needed to be informed of a possible pending civil lawsuit. Brent knew, as the head legal counsel for Rawlings Industries, he could have sent someone else. He wanted to send someone else; however, Tony made it clear, that wasn’t an option.
The July sun brightly shone on the pavement ahead of Brent. Momentarily, he was distracted by the illusion of shimmering liquid in the distance. He didn’t want to face Claire—to see her in the correctional institution. He knew she didn’t belong there, and he hadn’t helped her. She probably, justifiably, felt abandoned—she was. Brent’s mind went back to January, to that terrible phone call telling him and Courtney that someone tried to kill Tony. They were planning to return from Fiji in three days, of course they flew home immediately.
When they found Tony, still hospitalized, he looked and sounded healthy. His disposition wasn’t—especially when he informed them that all the evidence pointed to Claire. Devastated, Courtney argued with Tony. After she left the room, Tony informed Brent that they were not allowed to visit or help Claire after what she had done.
That didn’t go well with Courtney—she went anyway. Somehow Tony found out, and Brent had hell to pay.
Brent wasn’t directly involved in the criminal suit. Actually, the State Of Iowa accused Claire Rawlings of attempted murder—not Tony—but Brent was involved in an expedited divorce. Marcus Evergreen, chief prosecutor for Johnson County, had information Brent needed for his petition. Mid-February, Marcus’ secretary utilized a courier to deliver a flash drive to Brent. It contained the documents he needed. He planned to leave it at the office, but at the last minute decided to take it home, to look it over.
Courtney was out to dinner with friends when Brent pulled up the drive on his home computer. There was only one folder: “Rawlings, Claire.” He opened it. It contained multiple files. The one he needed was “Rawlings vs. Rawlings.” It should have been the only one on the drive. It wasn’t. The one entitled “State of Iowa vs. Rawlings: Preliminary Brief-Task” sat right in front of him. It was unethical and probably illegal, but he opened it. Young attorneys get wordy. Paul Task’s preliminary brief was 147 pages! Brent grimaced and shook his head at the inexperience of Claire’s attorney. He started to close the file when he focused on the words—suddenly transfixed.
Two hours, and three Blue Label’s—straight up—later, the entire brief was read. The descriptions and accounts of Claire’s life while with Tony were nauseating. It was stated more than once that this was only a sample of the treatment she endured—there was more. How could this be going on and they not know? Brent panicked, thinking he shouldn’t have read it and should delete it.
Nevertheless, instead of deleting, Brent made an electronic copy on a personal flash drive and printed a copy. Then he deleted it from the original drive. If questioned, he would deny it had ever been present. He wanted to punch Tony, but Brent knew, he could never let Tony know he’d read the brief.
Planning to keep it to himself, he decided to hide the paper copy in his safe and put the pin drive in a special box in the drawer of his desk. Before he had the chance to follow through on those plans, Courtney came home. She knew immediately something was amiss and assumed Tony was responsible. Maybe it was the whiskey combined with helplessness for Claire, but Brent handed Courtney the paper copy. In hindsight, it was a mistake which almost cost him his twenty-eight-year marriage. When she finished reading, he asked two simple questions, “Do you believe it? Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
Courtney erupted! She believed every word and wanted Tony’s head on a platter. She also wanted Brent to quit his job—move far away from Iowa City—and most importantly—help Claire.
Downtrodden, Brent explained none of that was possible. “We can’t.�
��
“Why not? She told me at the jail she didn’t do it! I knew something was wrong. I kept asking. Why didn’t I push more? God! It said he hurt her in California. We were with them! Brent, think about Claire—her age. What if those things you read happened to our daughter?”
“I would kill the bastard! But, they didn’t, and not only is he my boss, now he’s Caleb’s boss. Don’t you think, in light of this new information, it’s coincidental that he recently offered Caleb such a great job? Now, not only does he own us, but also our son and future daughter-in-law.”
“This is America, just quit!”
“Courtney, I can’t. You don’t walk away from Tony. Ask John Vandersol.” Brent hadn’t meant to divulge that information, it just slipped. Courtney sat dazed. She poured herself another glass of Cabernet and reread the brief. The next day, while Brent was at work, Courtney left. He came home to a note: “If anyone asks, I’m taking care of my sick mother. Do not attempt to call or communicate, I will not be available.”
Brent tried numerous times. Over a week later she returned. Brent remembered worrying what she would say. He fully expected, “You’re weak and I’m done—I want a divorce.”
Instead, Courtney apologized, “I wasn’t there for Claire and apparently can’t be there for her now. I can be here for you. You shouldn’t have to face that bastard every day without support. I love you and will support you, but know this—I want out of here and away from him. From this point forward we slowly, inconspicuously move our assets away from Rawlings stock and work to liberate our family. That will start with Caleb before he gets in too deep. Do you agree?”
Brent did. He wanted out, too. The first time Courtney needed to see Tony face to face, Brent worried. She did fine. Courtney said if he could muster a false smile, and Claire could do it—she could too. They were already laying the ground work for Caleb’s move to another place of employment.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 51
