by Marti Green
PRAISE FOR MARTI GREEN
“Marti Green’s look at the potential for abuse and corruption in the privatized, for-profit juvenile-justice systems across America is taut, edifying, and, at times, terrifying. The thought that some of the terrible things described in this book really happen to youngsters charged with minor offenses made my skin crawl. This is an important novel as well as a top-notch thriller. I’d recommend it to anyone.”
—Scott Pratt, bestselling author of Justice Redeemed, on First Offense
“Unintended Consequences is an engrossing, well-conceived legal thriller. Most enjoyable.”
—Scott Turow, New York Times bestselling author of Presumed Innocent
“This one will grab you by the neck from the very first page!”
—Steve Hamilton, Edgar Award–winning author of Die a Stranger, on Unintended Consequences
OTHER TITLES BY MARTI GREEN
Help Innocent Prisoners Project Series
Unintended Consequences
Presumption of Guilt
The Price of Justice
First Offense
Justice Delayed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by The Green Family Trust.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503949850
ISBN-10: 1503949850
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
To my husband, Lenny, my biggest fan and love of my life.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE MALLORY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
PART TWO CHARLOTTE
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
PART THREE MALLORY
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
September 1990
“Push,” the obstetrician told Sasha Holcolm. “You’re almost there.” Seventeen-year-old Sasha thought she’d never experienced such pain before. By the time she’d arrived at the hospital, been checked in, and rushed to the delivery room, she was too close to giving birth for the doctor to give her an injection to numb the pain. She’d waited at home for her best friend, Lauren, to arrive from Allentown, usually a ninety-minute drive to Scranton, but a traffic jam had stopped her cold. Still, Sasha had read that a first baby always took forever to deliver. She’d been expecting eight hours at least—maybe much more. Finally, the pains were coming too close. Sasha couldn’t wait for her friend. She took a taxi to the hospital all alone, without a husband or a parent. A breathless Lauren arrived while Sasha was still being processed in the emergency room, and ten minutes after being admitted, she’d been instructed to push.
Lauren lifted up her back with each push and whispered in her ear, “You can do it. You’ll have your baby soon.”
Sasha gave one more thrust, and a baby slid out of her.
“You have a daughter,” the doctor said, smiling. She clamped the umbilical cord, then cut it. A nurse took the baby, dried her off, then wrapped her in a towel. “The next one is almost here, too,” the doctor said.
“Next one?”
The doctor looked up at her. She seemed so young to Sasha, almost like a coed, despite the white jacket.
“Didn’t you know you were having twins?”
Sasha shook her head just as the pain started again.
“Here we go,” the doctor said. “This one should do it.”
She screamed at the pain as she pushed. Seconds later, the doctor held up another baby. “This one’s a girl, also.” Another nurse took that baby. When they were wrapped up, both were brought to Sasha, one in each arm.
“They’re beautiful,” Sasha said. She stared into their eyes and felt a rush of love for them. She hadn’t known it would happen so instantaneously.
She didn’t want to think about what she needed to do, now that there were two. She was too happy to worry about that now.
Sasha picked up her newborn daughter and cradled her in her arms. So pink, so soft, so beautiful. Silky strands of blonde hair covered her scalp, and she had eyes so blue, they looked like jewels. She’d known she’d love her child, but she was thunderstruck by how deep the connection was after just one day. She pressed her lips to her daughter’s cheek and inhaled the fresh scent of baby powder. “I love you,” she whispered, then placed her back in the bassinet and lifted up the second baby, just as pink, as soft, as beautiful. Tears ran down her face as she held this child. “I love you, too. I always will.”
The middle-aged woman sitting on a chair in the corner rose from her seat. “It’s time now.”
“Just a little longer? Please?”
The woman nodded. “Two more minutes.”
Sasha stared into her daughter’s eyes. They were wide-open, staring back, as if she knew what was about to happen. Suddenly, Sasha couldn’t bear it any longer. “Here. Take her.” She handed over the baby to the woman and watched as her daughter was taken away. When she was gone, the young mother lay down on the hospital bed and curled her body into a fetal position. “I love you, too,” she said, over and over again.
PART ONE
MALLORY
CHAPTER 1
September 2016
I picked at the meager offerings on my plate, and once again, as I had every day for the past thirty-one months, wished I could find a way to get out of this dump. That’s what I called the place—The Dump. The most I’d been able to afford was a boardinghouse in East Elmhurst. I hadn’t known they’d even existed when I’d left Scranton and moved to New York. Boardinghouses were the stuff of a Dickens novel, not modern times. Yet, here I was, picking at runny eggs and burned toast with three other lost souls living at Marlon Manor, a fancy-sounding name for a rundown, two-story home on Astoria Boulevard.
Lou Castro, the owner of the house, stood up from the dining table to retrieve the pot of coffee and, as he always did, squeezed my shoulder. He was a middle-aged let
ch with a stomach that rolled over his belt by at least six inches, and whose pants always seemed to display the crack of his butt every time he leaned over. He’d been trying to get in my pants ever since I’d moved in, despite his wife watching his every move. As if he’d have a chance, even without that nag around! Thank goodness my room had a lock on the door. Still, I never complained to him about his roaming hands. After all, this hovel at least gave me a roof over my head.
“Some coffee, Mallory?” Lou asked me.
“Sure.” He poured some into my mug, then squeezed my shoulder again.
I finished breakfast, then retreated to my room. All I owned was contained in this ten-by-twelve space, with its barren walls and peeling paint. I couldn’t even claim possession of the saggy twin bed, or the plain end table with a small lamp on top. I didn’t report to work until noon, in time for the lunch crowd. I’d be busy waiting tables until past two. Then it would slow down until five, when the dinner patrons began to arrive.
I moved a chair over to the window, then pulled out my sketch pad and 6B pencil. I began sketching the street below, the stores already busy with customers, the same old woman walking her miniature dog that I saw every day at this time, the cars speeding past. The pencil felt like part of my body, an extension of my fingers. From the time I’d received my first box of crayons, I was hooked on drawing. “You’re good,” my high school art teacher had told me. “Very good. Speak to me after class, and I can point you in the direction of the right college for you. Where you can develop your talent. Your grades are so excellent, you can get in most anywhere, but I can tell you which schools have the best art departments.” I had wanted to laugh at her, at the thought that I could go to college. I didn’t, though. I was too polite to laugh at a teacher. Instead, I said, “That would be great,” and I showed up after school, wrote down the names given to me, and pretended to be grateful.
Even if the money had been there for college—and it wasn’t, not even close—I couldn’t leave my mother. Not then.
The morning passed quickly, too quickly. I suddenly realized if I didn’t rush, I’d be late for work. I hurriedly changed into a black skirt and white blouse, then put on my comfortable shoes, the ones I could tolerate standing in for ten hours. Dressed, I threw on my coat and ran to the bus stop. I arrived at Trattoria Ricciardi with one minute to spare.
“Cutting it close,” Gus said as I walked in the door. Gus Richards owned the restaurant, and I knew he was fond of me. Even if I’d missed the bus and walked in late, he would have forgiven me. I headed to the kitchen in the back of the restaurant, grabbed my order pad, then returned to Gus. “Today’s specials?”
He handed me a sheet. I glanced at it, then tucked it behind my pad. I was familiar with each of the items. “Anyone of note coming in today?”
Despite the restaurant being in Astoria, it had a 4.6 Zagat rating for food, 4.8 for service and, with its white brick walls, rich burgundy tablecloths, and a small candle on each table, a 4.3 for decor. In addition to the neighborhood regulars, customers from surrounding areas traveled to it. And occasionally, actors working at the Kaufman Astoria Studios came by.
“Not so far,” Gus said. “But there’s a group of eighteen from Steinway coming in at one. A birthday party. I’m giving it to you.” The famous Steinway & Sons piano factory was nearby, and its executives often ate at the restaurant. Getting a party to handle was always desirable—a 20 percent tip was automatically added to the bill.
I leaned over and gave Gus a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
The lunch crowd started to dribble in, and I got busy. I chatted with the regulars and worked quickly and efficiently. None of my customers ever needed to ask for their water to be refilled, or more bread for the table. I always watched over them to anticipate their needs. At a few minutes before one, the Steinway party began to enter. Most of them I’d waited on before, but there were a couple of men I didn’t recognize. Once they were all seated, menus in hand, I came over to take their drink orders and tell them the specials. As I walked around the table, writing down the drinks, I felt the eyes of one of the new men staring at me with a laser-beam focus. When I finally got to him, he looked up and whispered, “Charly, what are you doing here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you waitressing? Is this some kind of joke?”
I kept the smile pasted on my face. “I think you have me confused with someone else. My name is Mallory.”
The man shook his head. “Come on, Charly, I know it’s you.”
“What would you like to drink, sir?”
The man hesitated, a confused look on his face. “I’ll have a glass of the house cabernet.”
I wrote it down, then continued around the table. When I finished, I handed in the order, then refilled the water glasses at another table. I walked over to the bar and waited while the bartender, Freddy, readied the drinks for the Steinway group. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find the man who had confused me with someone else.
“I’m sorry. I think I embarrassed you.” His eyes looked me over. “It’s just—you look so much like my friend. Your hair is a little darker than hers. She’s more of a golden blonde. But your eyes . . . I’ve never seen anyone else with eyes that color. Like sapphires. And not just the eyes—everything else is so similar. Your mouth, your nose—the same. Charly’s slimmer than you, I think. At least she was back at college. I haven’t seen her since we graduated. I live in LA. I’m just here on a business trip, and they invited me to this party.”
“Mr. . . . ?”
“Findly. Matt Findly.”
“Don’t worry about it. They say everyone has a double somewhere. We probably look somewhat alike. But I’m not your friend.”
Findly chuckled nervously. “Apparently not.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Her name is Charlotte Jensen. Or now it’s Gordon. She married Ben Gordon. He went to school with us, too. I’ve heard she owns an art gallery, somewhere in Chelsea, called Jensen Galleries. You should stop in sometime and see what I’m talking about.”
“Sure.”
Findly nodded and returned to his table. I promptly forgot about him as I went about my work, smiling at my customers, pocketing their tips.
CHAPTER 2
Ben Gordon checked his gold Rolex watch, saw it was past seven, and stood up to leave the office of Jensen Capital Management. As he waited by the elevator, Rick Jensen passed by, stopped, and glanced at his own watch.
“Leaving already?” Rick said.
Gordon bristled. Naturally, his father-in-law would catch his early departure. “Nothing pressing with my clients. Thought I’d meet some friends for a drink.”
“Oh? Charlotte joining you?”
His father-in-law never used Charly’s nickname. Probably thought it wasn’t sophisticated enough. “She’s flying back from an art fair in Toronto. She won’t get in until later.”
Jensen nodded, then walked away without another word.
Bastard, Gordon thought. He knew Jensen didn’t like him, hadn’t wanted him to marry Charly. Given his middle-class upbringing in Queens—his father was an electrician and his mother was a teacher—Jensen didn’t think Ben had the right pedigree. Charly was expected to marry someone like her—a spoiled rich kid raised by nannies and educated in private schools. The only reason Ben was given a job at this hedge fund company was to ensure Charly continued to live in comfort without taking money directly from her father. It didn’t matter that Ben had sailed through Princeton with straight As. His major was politics, not economics, so it didn’t count in Jensen’s eyes. It didn’t matter that Ben had been accepted to Harvard Law School and turned it down so he and Charly could marry. “You’ll be so good at this,” Charly had assured him when she’d urged him to turn down law school and work for her father. “You’re so smart.” Instead, he felt stupid. Stupid for rushing into marriage. Stupid for thinking that making money as an end in itself would satisfy him. S
tupid for not walking away from both his marriage and his job.
Yet, in the end, he’d learned that money, once had, was hard to abandon. His goal in college had been law school, followed by a job at a Wall Street firm, with an eventual foray into politics. He’d earn a more-than-respectable living. But he now pulled in a seven-figure annual salary at a job he hated but didn’t want to give up. If he left Charly, his father-in-law would certainly fire him. And then what? Go back to school six years after his Princeton classmates? No. He no longer had the appetite for that.
He exited his building on West Fifty-Eighth Street, then flagged down a taxi to take him to East Twenty-First Street and Second Avenue. He nodded to the doorman as he entered the twelve-story building on the corner, then rode the elevator up to Apartment 812. Lisa was waiting for him with a vodka martini in her hand. She greeted him with a long kiss, then handed him the drink.
“You look tired. Tough day?” she asked.
“No. I was ambushed by Rick at the elevator.” He shuddered. “I hate that man.”
“Well, I’m not crazy about him myself, since he seems more of an obstacle to our being together than your wife. I wish you’d leave his company.”
“And live on what?”
“You have money saved.”
“Not enough. And you can bet that Rick would put the word out to every other hedge fund to blackball me.”
“You don’t like doing that, anyway. Go back to school. Get your law degree. We can live on my salary.”
Ben looked around Lisa’s 520-square-foot studio apartment. Once, he would have been happy in this space, with its tiny kitchen and a mere alcove for a bedroom. It was the kind of apartment the newly graduated moved into along with their first grown-up taste of independence. It was the only kind of apartment a social worker like Lisa could afford. It wasn’t the kind of apartment a man could live in after experiencing the luxury of his 3,600-square-foot, three-bedroom townhouse on East Sixty-Second Street, just east of Fifth Avenue, and right across from Central Park.
He sat down on the living room couch, then motioned for Lisa to join him. “I don’t want to think about that now.” He pulled Lisa into his arms, then began kissing her, running his hands through her thick, untamed brunette hair. She was so different from Charly, with her smoothly perfect blonde bob, cool blue eyes, and model’s body, her slim but toned arms and legs from years of tennis and sailing. Lisa was soft, full-bosomed. She was formed from the earth, Charly from the sky.
