Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  “I was powerless,” he declared in an edgy voice. “Oh, I called the police and got your sister to the hospital to have all those tests done, but after that? There was nothing I could do. No way to help.”

  He shrugged, and even from behind, I could tell that the gesture was full of bitterness.

  “I was forced to sit on my ass and hope some cop would catch the man who ruined my little girl’s life. I couldn’t comfort Tricia. I couldn’t even talk to her anymore. Everything I said to her was wrong, everything I did to try to ease her suffering sent her into a panic. Do you know how that feels? To hug my child and have her recoil as if I were the rapist and not her father?”

  I shuddered, remembering those early days when Tricia’s moods were so unstable. One minute she’d be nearly catatonic, and the next she’d be in a blind panic.

  “I felt like I was to blame, like I had done something wrong. As if I had done those awful things to her myself,” he said. “And there was nothing I could do to fix it. The harder I tried, the worse it seemed to get.”

  “We all felt that way, Dad. None of us could do anything…not really,” I said softly, laying my hand on his arm. “We all tried, but—”

  My father brushed my hand away and whirled.

  “Do you know what I wanted to do?” he asked, his eyes glittering. “I wanted to kill him. I wanted to find that animal and put him down like a rabid dog.”

  I bit my lip, studying his hard, cold eyes.

  “But I didn’t know who he was back then. Now I do.”

  The implication was clear, and I knew he wasn’t exaggerating. My father truly wanted to commit murder.

  I understood his impulse. Right after the rape, I had wanted to wring the bastard’s neck with my bare hands, but even in the heat of my emotions, I knew better than to allow those feelings to guide my actions. We don’t live in a society based on vigilante justice. If everyone took justice into their own hands, then lots of innocent people could be hurt. That’s why there’s a court system: to make sure everyone gets a fair trial.

  Or at least that’s what it’s supposed to do.

  God, what would happen if Slidell went free? What would my father do?

  I stared into his eyes and saw his barely controlled wrath, and I recognized his underlying fear. If the court threw out Slidell’s case, my father would be forever powerless. The path of socially approved revenge would be closed to him.

  If that happened, my father wouldn’t be able to handle it.

  I froze at the realization.

  “I am an honorable man,” he stated, suddenly without emotion. “And it’s within my rights as a father to defend my child at any cost. I cannot let this lie.”

  His bland, factual declaration sent shivers down my spine again. A Southern gentleman through and through, my father truly believed his words, despite laws to the contrary. If the system failed, then he felt that he had no choice but to act.

  It was his duty, his responsibility of chivalry. We’d been taught all our lives about the Golden Rule and manners. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. It’s good advice, but what happens when someone does evil unto you?

  Turn the other cheek?

  No, for my father, it became a matter of honor, a reason to fight.

  I understood him, and I even understood his impulse to seek revenge, but that didn’t make him right.

  Silence fell as he paced down the hall. He stopped at the border between the foyer and kitchen, remaining immobile for a long time.

  I kept my lips tightly clamped while I thought over what to say next. Should I list the alternatives if the case were thrown out? There was civil court, or the possibility that other victims might come forward.

  Should I try to talk him out of this insane mindset?

  “I know,” he began, his tone sounding strangled. “I know you were trying to do right by taking that evidence.”

  “I was,” I confirmed.

  “But—”

  “But it isn’t over yet,” I said, throwing aside caution and fear of his reaction. I walked toward him. My voice came out hard and cold. “And all this talk of honor and retribution…it’s dangerous. If you ‘put down’ Slidell, then you’ll be committing murder. If you don’t get the death penalty, you’ll go to prison for the rest of your life. And you’ll finish the work that Slidell started by destroying Tricia and Mom.” After a pause, I added, “And me.”

  My father finally turned back to look at me, his face registering surprise at my words.

  “If only you hadn’t taken that evidence,” he said.

  Heat flushed through me, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about his outburst. Embarrassed? Angry? Maybe both.

  “I’ve said the same thing to myself a million times, but I can’t take it back now. And you can’t go around talking like that about Slidell. Do you really think it’s going to help?”

  “He needs to pay for what he did,” my father snarled.

  “I agree,” I said, “and I did something illegal in order to make sure he pays. Look where it’s gotten me. I’ll probably lose my job over this, and I’m facing possible felony charges. What do you think will happen to you? And what will it do to Tricia when she finds out she turned her father into a killer?”

  “I have to do something. There has to be something….”

  “There is something you can do,” I said, and he eyed me in disbelief. “Do what you tried to do right after the attack. Comfort her. Tricia isn’t the same person she was all those years ago. She’s not even the same person she was a few months ago. Go to her and comfort her like you wanted to after the rape. It’ll be different now.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late for that.”

  “It’s not too late,” I insisted. “She needs you, not some misguided revenge plan. You. Promise me you won’t make the same mistake I did.”

  He didn’t respond. “What about you?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  Other than not murdering Slidell?

  “We have to wait to hear from the judge. In the meantime, don’t talk to the press,” I said. “Aside from that, I don’t think there’s anything that can be done.”

  Twenty-five

  Whistling, the watcher strolled through the parking lot of Bonnie Millstone’s apartment complex. He spotted Bonnie’s neat little Nissan Maxima, double-checked the license plate, and then sauntered toward it. When he was within arm’s length, he dropped the key ring he’d been carrying. In one swift movement, he knelt, reaching for the keys with one hand and using the other to adhere a small GPS tracker inside the plastic bumper of Bonnie’s car.

  The tracker’s batteries probably wouldn’t last more than a few days, and the antenna was unlikely to work under the cover of the courthouse parking garage, but for his purposes, it would do just fine.

  Satisfied with the installation, the watcher rose, shoved the keys into his pocket, and circled around the complex to get a look at Bonnie’s apartment. He saw her cross in front of the windows occasionally, her head covered with a bright blue bandana.

  It didn’t seem like much, but that was all the information he needed.

  Strolling back to his car, he made the call using a prepaid phone card. Prepaid cards offered him a quick and dirty way to get around Bonnie’s caller ID, even using his own cell. She answered on the fifth ring, her voice considerably less bubbly than normal.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he purred into the phone.

  “You—you,” she stuttered and then continued in a strained whisper. “You lied to me. You told the press about that poor woman.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But it couldn’t be helped.”

  “You probably already cost me my job. What do you want now?” she said harshly, her voice rising. He nearly laughed at her attempt at hardness. If a perturbed butterfly could speak, it might sound like Bonnie.

  “I’m calling to help you, of course.”

  Bonnie laughed with as much
bitterness as she could muster. “I doubt that.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that, my dear. If you just listen to me, I can keep you out of trouble.”

  She didn’t laugh this time. “I doubt that too.”

  “People are going to ask you questions, and you have to deny everything. Play dumb. That shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”

  There was a long pause.

  He probably shouldn’t have added that last part, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Finally, she said, “Why shouldn’t I tell on you? Give me one good reason.”

  “You know why,” he said, turning onto the downtown sidewalk where he’d parked his car. “Because I’m watching you. I see you and your little blue bandana. It’s a cute look for you, my dear.”

  He heard a nice gasp on the line.

  “W—what? Where are you? How do you know that? Are you here?”

  He imagined her at the window, searching for him.

  “I’m everywhere,” he said. “I can get to you anytime and anywhere. I’ll be watching you. If you say one word to anyone about me, I’ll know. And it will be the last word you ever say.”

  “I won’t say a word,” she declared, her voice shaky. “I swear.”

  Twenty-six

  Shortly after my father left, the reporters descended on my house like turkey vultures on a deer carcass, and they arrived approximately nineteen seconds before I planned to leave for Sunday lunch at my mother’s house.

  For what seemed like the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours, I peered furtively out a window. News trucks from Mercer’s three local TV stations, followed by one unmarked van, arrived in a convoy.

  Had they orchestrated their arrival for maximum impact, or was that just coincidence?

  I shuddered as I recognized the brunette anchor who had broken the news on TV that morning. Her photo was also plastered on the van from channel 2 with the name “Emily Donwell” in bold lettering beneath it. She looked as eager to get the rest of the story as the other crews did. I watched as they erected cameras, tripods, and mini satellite dishes on the sidewalk in front of my house.

  Jeez, were they thinking of going live from my front yard?

  Their appearance left me three choices: hide inside and skip my family meal, make a run for it, or go out and brave the interview.

  Honestly, I remained undecided about which option to take until I got a closer look at three of the gathered people in particular. They caught my attention because they were out of place among the other vultures who had come to pick my bones clean. These three piled out of the plain black van. Not one of the fancy TV news vans that were also out in force, but an old vehicle that looked like it had seen better days.

  Unlike the other reporters, they didn’t tote paraphernalia. Instead of setting up camp, one man and two women walked slowly toward my door. The man clearly controlled the situation. He spoke over his shoulder to the women as he led them up the walkway, nodding to the other reporters he passed. Through the window glass, I heard him say, “Now just do everything like I told you, and we’ll have her just where we want her.”

  The older of the women nodded, and cold fear rushed over me.

  Just where did these reporters want me? Hadn’t they done enough already?

  Nervous, I began to review Martling’s advice for how to handle the press, but it all flew out of my head when I realized who the two women were. They were not journalists.

  Instead, I was looking at Marnie Jacobs and her daughter Kaitlyn.

  Holy crap. Some slimy reporter had towed Slidell’s girlfriend and her teenage daughter to my house. From behind my curtain, I stared at the man. He looked as if he’d subsisted on a diet of coffee and donuts to rival that of any stereotypical cop, and when he spoke, his uncountable number of chins waggled. This asshole, whoever he was, probably wanted to use Marnie and Kaitlyn to get a rise out of me, and frankly, it was already working. My eyes were riveted to Kaitlyn, and I felt my heart rate increase.

  Her blond hair hung around her face like a veil, but I thought I could detect sullen eyes peeking through the strands. Clearly, she was an unwilling participant in this charade.

  And what else had Kaitlyn been forced to endure?

  Witnesses seemed to hint that Slidell might be sexually abusing Kaitlyn, but authorities were never able to confirm the rumors. Once the charges were filed against him, the police became concerned about both mother and daughter because they’d been living in the same house alongside an alleged rapist for years. Representatives from the local PD and child and family services had visited and questioned them about potential abuse. Marnie made a huge show of support for her boyfriend. Kaitlyn, on the other hand, remained silent.

  Kaitlyn wasn’t simply quiet or withdrawn.

  She was silent.

  Even though there was no concrete proof, I couldn’t help feeling suspicious that Kaitlyn might be Slidell’s current victim. I was certainly influenced by the fact that she resembled my sister back in the day.

  But in my mind, that meant Kaitlyn fit Slidell’s victim profile.

  Maybe I was predisposed to see abuse where none existed, but in this case, I thought the odds were pretty good that I was on track. Perhaps now that Slidell was safely tucked away in jail for a few weeks, Kaitlyn might feel freer to speak out than she had just after his arrest.

  At that moment, I decided to help her if I could.

  Quickly grabbing what I needed, I went to the garage and raised the door. To make a quick getaway, just in case some of the reporters got any bright ideas about following me, I backed out the Explorer and left it idling in the driveway while I went to speak with them.

  The hefty reporter was still on my front stoop with the Jacobses when I appeared in the driveway, and I enjoyed the man’s surprised look when he realized I had flanked them.

  “Good afternoon,” I said calmly, walking up to them and taking control of the situation from the beginning. “Reporters, right?”

  I tried not to flinch as three newspeople pointed cameras at me. I focused instead on the rat who had brought Marnie and Kaitlyn to my door.

  “Marty Hunter from the Messenger,” the rat said. “I’d like to ask you a question, Ms. Jackson. Why did you frame this woman’s boyfriend for rape?”

  Because his words flooded me with a number of conflicting emotions, I’m not sure what expression registered on my face, but I hoped for confidence. It probably came off more as shocked anger, but I tried.

  I’m sure that would play well on TV.

  I decided to act as if he hadn’t spoken.

  “Ms. Jacobs, Kaitlyn,” I said, offering my hand.

  They both ignored it.

  “I know this has been a difficult time for you—”

  “A—answer the question,” Marnie stuttered, looking to Hunter for support. He gave her a quick thrust of his chins. “Why did you frame Clay?”

  I shook my head at her.

  “I’m afraid that the judge has issued a suppression order, so it’s against the law for me to comment. My lawyer will hold a press conference when the order is lifted.” I turned to the newspaperman. “This is something Mr. Hunter knows very well.”

  “You’re not going to let a lawyer speak for you,” Hunter said, pulling out a small digital camera and snapping a picture of me from what I was sure would be an unflattering angle.

  I’d like to say that I didn’t fall into temptation and let his goading get to me, but I can’t.

  “On the subject of the gag order,” I snapped at the press corps in general, “I’d like to know which of you is protecting a felon? Who tipped you off?”

  I guess reporters aren’t used to being questioned, and a hush fell over the crowd. The shock didn’t last long.

  “We would never violate the sacred trust we share with our sources,” Hunter said. “Besides, you’re the only felon here.”

  I ignored him again and turned back to Marnie and Kaitlyn.

  “I’m sorry that you�
��ve ended up in the middle of this,” I said to Marnie. Then I glanced at Kaitlyn, who was busy studying the cement driveway. “I want you to know that if there’s anything you need—help, someone to talk to—you can call victim’s assistance at this number.”

  I displayed the card to Hunter, Marnie, and—God help me—the cameras, making sure the MPD logo was visible.

  Marnie slapped my hand away. Hunter clicked his camera gleefully.

  “Victim’s assistance…why would we call them or anyone you suggested?” Marnie demanded, making it sound as if I were dirtier than the mud on her shoes. “You are ruining the life of an innocent man! You framed him. You admitted it!”

  I had done no such thing, but I couldn’t deny it without violating the gag order and risking further legal hassle.

  Again, this was something Hunter and the other reporters knew well. And that was the reason for this charade. They wanted me on the record and on film looking evasive, refusing to comment.

  Kaitlyn finally lifted her eyes while Marnie continued to rant at me. Hunter looked pleased with himself as he snapped more pictures. Cameras rolled.

  Other reporters pressed in close, their microphones crowding into my space, but I reached across them and showed the card to Kaitlyn.

  “As I said, I’m legally prevented from saying a word about this, but these people can help you.”

  I pressed the card into her hand. Her fingers felt limp and cold as dead fish, and the card ended up wrinkling and then falling to the ground in a wad.

  I faced her mother, trying not to feel defeated. “If you don’t need help, then call that number and complain about me.”

  I turned and hurried toward my idling SUV.

  “Don’t think we won’t call and complain!” Marnie shouted at my retreating back. “You’ll go to jail for this! I’ll make sure of it.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Kaitlyn. The girl watched me, the card crumpled at her feet. She showed no hint of intent, curiosity, or any emotion at all.

  When I got into my Explorer and backed out of the driveway, Kaitlyn’s sullen blue eyes still watched me.