Interest of Justice

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “You’re out of line, Collins,” Lara said, giving him a stern look. It used to be people worked for recognition, honors. Now everyone worked for expensive toys. “Mr. Steinfield, can you tell me why your client failed to accept the people’s offer?”

  “My client worked in the aerospace industry with a top-level security clearance before the state snatched his children and destroyed his life. If he ends up with a felony conviction, he’ll never get another job.”

  “I see,” Lara said, leaning back in her chair and removing her glasses, rubbing her eyes. “Did you advise him of the likelihood of conviction?”

  “Of course I did,” Steinfield said, insulted by her implication that he hadn’t fully informed his client, or had exaggerated their chances for acquittal.

  She turned to the district attorney. “Are you prepared to reduce to a misdemeanor battery?”

  “Never,” the D.A. said emphatically. Lara’s small lamps with the green shades had bathed his face in shadows, giving his skin an almost greenish cast. “This woman is permanently scarred. I mean, we sympathize with what Adams has been through, and yes, it was a royal fuck-up, but Adams went crazy out there. A misdemeanor is totally unacceptable.”

  Lara sighed. “I guess we have nothing more to discuss,” she told the attorneys. The trial would continue and Adams would suffer both the conviction and the staggering legal fees. Everyone wanted their day in court, it seemed, no matter what the penalties. The D.A. wandered out into the outer office, but the defense attorney lingered.

  Raymond Steinfield was a distinguished man in his late forties with neatly trimmed brown hair, a thick mustache, and a face like Tom Selleck’s. But he looked a lot better seated than standing. He was short and squat. Once he stood, any resemblance to Tom Selleck vanished.

  “Yes,” Lara said, looking up and seeing Steinfield. “Is there something else, Ray?”

  He was leaning in the doorway. “Do you know they’re trying to take his kids away again?”

  Lara fell back in her chair and it squeaked on the plastic mat. “No,” she exclaimed. “Social Services, you mean? Why would they do that? The abuse charge was unfounded as I understand it.” For a moment she thought she was losing her mind. She’d read all the medical and psychological reports, but she’d been under a great deal of stress. “After all this, why would they try to take his children away again?”

  “His wife was committed to Community Psychiatric Hospital last week. The woman’s completely destroyed. They’re medicating her, but no one knows when she will be released. They think she may have suffered a psychotic break or something.” Steinfield paused a moment, frowning. “I mean, they had the poor woman convinced her husband was a child molester and that she had to divorce him to get her kids back. If she had continued to live with him, she could never have her children. She loved the man. It’s been horrid for these people, just—”

  “Go on,” Lara said. “That still doesn’t explain why Social Services feels they must remove the children again.”

  “Because Adams is on trial, pending almost certain conviction, and he’s unemployed, a nervous wreck…well, you know…” He looked hard at Lara.

  How well she knew. After what had occurred with Josh, she was beginning to think these people did more harm than good. “Their actions are unconscionable. Why are they harassing this man?” she said, consumed with the injustice of the whole situation, shaking her head. “Are you saying that they don’t feel he’s psychologically stable enough to care for the children?”

  “Basically.” Steinfield paused. “And of course, he did lose his cool that day.”

  Lara bit the corner of her lip. That was an understatement. The reports indicated the social worker would need extensive plastic surgery, but Steinfield knew that. “What about relatives?”

  “His mother is alive but infirm. Her parents reside out of the state in a retirement village in upstate New York where they don’t allow small children.”

  Lara felt for the man. She placed her head in her hands, thinking. A few seconds later, she looked up. “What about a live-in homemaker? Surely that would work?”

  “He’s had three. They’ve all quit. Evidently, the little girl who was abused in the foster home is seriously disturbed and acting out, screaming for her mother every day, tearing up the house. And no one wants to live with a single male. In addition, there’s been tons of press. People think the man is violent. He is terribly despondent right now. I’m actually quite concerned.”

  “I can imagine,” Lara said thoughtfully. “And you’ve fully discussed this with him, attempting to get him to accept a plea?”

  “Believe me,” Steinfield said, “I don’t need another Mercedes. I already have one. Not only that, I’m handling most of this case gratis.”

  “Well, if he accepted a plea agreement, he could go on with his life, put this behind him, and possibly get Social Services off his back. Do you want me to speak with him personally? I will if you think it will help.” This would be a highly unusual tactic, but Lara was a highly unusual judge.

  “We’ll see,” the attorney said, glancing at the outer office, noting that the D.A. had already left and returned to the courtroom. “Maybe tomorrow. He just can’t afford a felony conviction. He’ll never get another job like the one he had. His career will be over.”

  They walked together to the courtroom, and Lara studied the man at the counsel table next to Steinfield. He was pale and drawn. As she watched, the muscles in his face twitched and he blinked his eyes about every five seconds. From all appearances, she thought, he was about to have a breakdown himself. As tragic as it was, Social Services might be doing the right thing by removing the children. The whole case was nothing but a nightmare.

  By the end of the day, Lara was completely exhausted, both emotionally and physically. At least she didn’t have to run to the school to get Josh. Ricky Simmons’s mother had agreed to drive him home every day until they moved. She called him at the condo and told him she would be a few minutes late, then remained in her chambers reviewing the facts of the case. If only she could convince the district attorney’s office to reduce to a misdemeanor, these people could resume their lives. The social worker, the victim in this case, wasn’t the one pressing for the felony conviction. It was the D.A.

  As much as she hated to do it, she picked up the phone and called Lawrence Meyer, the district attorney. How he could have said the things he did about her yesterday, she didn’t know. But regardless of the mud-slinging and back-stabbing, many lives were on the line and she had to give it her best attempt.

  Luckily, she caught him in the office. “Can I come over?” she asked him. “I need to discuss a case with you.”

  “Certainly,” he said. He couldn’t very well deny a judge. “I could come over there if you need to speak to me.

  “No,” Lara said. “I’ll walk over now. I’m tired of sitting.”

  Unlike the courts, the district attorney’s office was far from empty. Dozens of attorneys were still moving about the offices, and phones were ringing off the walls. Most of the D.A.‘s spent so much time in court during the day that they had to utilize the evening hours to play catch up, prepare arguments, dictate motions, return phone calls.

  Lawrence Meyer stood when Lara arrived, extending his hand but shifting his eyes down to his desk. “Have a seat,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  He was intelligent and well groomed, but needed exercise badly, Lara thought, noting that he had a pot belly that made it impossible for him to close his jacket. They’d once been fairly close when Lara was a D.A., and he was the second man in the agency. His harsh comments to Rickerson had stung.

  “I think you should reduce to a misdemeanor battery on the Victor Adams matter and let this one go. The poor man is completely destroyed and about to lose his children again. I think he’s been pushed as far as he can go.”

  Meyer bristled, staring hard at Lara. “When did you get to be such a bleeding heart? When you w
ere a prosecutor, you were into nailing people to the wall.”

  Lara pressed back in her seat and didn’t flinch. “Look, Larry I’m about as far from a bleeding heart as a person can get and you know it. But enough is enough. The system has to take some responsibility for what happened in this case and make some concessions.”

  “We are not prepared to reduce,” he said flatly. “If we reduce on this, we’ll look like fools. I don’t care what the circumstances are, a person can’t viciously attack someone and scar them for life and end up with nothing more than a misdemeanor on their record.”

  Lara stood. This had been a waste of her time. She started to leave and then turned around. “Why did you attack my reputation the other day?” she said impulsively. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Oh,” he said, blanching, “that detective—what’s his name—he repeated our conversation?”

  “His name is Rickerson and yes, he did.”

  “Hey,” he said, “talk to Evergreen. He’s the one who called me and accused you of improprieties. He wanted our investigator to check out all your affairs, even on a personal level…and provide him with a full report.”

  “What personal affairs?” Lara said, trembling with anger. She felt perspiration breaking out on her upper lip and blotted it with her hand.

  “How do I know? You know, the usual dossier we prepare on any subject: associates, finances, romances, etc.”

  “Have you given him this report? Has it been completed?”

  “Some time ago. Let me see.” He rubbed his forehead, thinking. “A week ago, maybe two…something like that.” His face turned bright red. “I’m really sorry, Lara. And yes, I do consider you a friend. I simply became enraged with this man Rickerson the other day, barging in here demanding that we get him a search warrant to gather evidence on Evergreen himself. Hell, he’s the presiding judge. I thought it was some type of war between you and Evergreen, and we’d get caught in the middle. I bowed out, that’s all.”

  “Thanks,” Lara said facetiously. He certainly didn’t bow out gracefully, not the way Rickerson had explained it. “And for your information, Rickerson might be a little rough around the edges and overzealous about Evergreen, but he’s a fine investigator. I’m not completely convinced as to his suspicions about Evergreen either, but I don’t think it’s wise for either of us to simply discount them.”

  “Fine,” Meyer said, standing to follow Lara out, grabbing his briefcase. “Bring me something concrete and we’ll go after Evergreen with everything we’ve got. We don’t care who he is; we’ll get our sharp knives out without a problem.”

  He offered to walk Lara to her car, but she was parked in the underground garage. She left and trudged back to the courts by herself.

  Lara packed her briefcase with the court file on Hob-son, thinking she’d review it that night in greater detail, and headed down the elevator to the car. She might be able to dismiss on a technicality. The victim could always sue Adams for damages. That was the latest rage. Women sued rapists, families sued child molesters, sons sued fathers. Recently a child had sued his parents for divorce and actually won. Now they had three cases filed already in Orange County of children who wanted to dump their parents. It was absurd.

  Certainly enough lawyers around, she thought. That was part of the problem. They could tie up the courts with litigation for the next fifty years.

  She had nothing for Josh’s dinner, her head was pounding, and she was still riddled with anger over Evergreen and the pending matter before the Judicial Counsel. With the proposed budget cuts, Evergreen could have decided to railroad her. She knew he would have a strong voice in this decision, and it was a difficult one. A number of judges would be competing for the same slot next year.

  Only one car was left in the garage, and her footsteps echoed in the empty space as she walked across the concrete floor to the Jaguar. Digging in her purse for keys, she had a strange feeling and glanced behind her. She’d heard something, like a brush of a broom across the floor. And it was close, the sound—very close.

  No one was there. She craned her neck and squinted, trying to see into the shadows of the garage, but still she saw nothing; it was completely silent. It was probably a rat or something, she thought, just wanting to get in the car and leave.

  Fumbling with the keys and the briefcase, she finally dropped it on the ground and unlocked the car. Just as she put one leg inside and started to reach back for her briefcase, a hand snaked from underneath the car and her leg was locked in a steel vise. She fell forward, slamming her head on the roof, one leg out and one leg inside, her legs spread apart like a wishbone, the muscles in her groin stretching like salt water taffy. Pulling her leg out of the car before she was split in two, she suddenly found herself on her back on the concrete floor.

  A huge man in dark clothing scurried out from under the car and kicked her onto her stomach. Seizing her leg again, he pulled her across the floor, like an animal taking his kill back to his lair.

  “God,” she screamed, her heart in her throat, trying to keep her face off the concrete with sheer strength of will, trying to wrench her head around, kicking out with her other leg. Her elbows scraped against the rough surface. She couldn’t see his face, but he was tall enough to play professional basketball.

  “Help me,” she screamed, her heart beating even faster, the sound hammering in her eardrums, so loud that she felt she was under water. Her bladder emptied; warm urine spilled inside her panty hose.

  She screamed again in terror. “God, someone help me. He’s going to kill me. Help me.” This couldn’t be happening, she told herself. It just couldn’t be happening. She was going to die just like Ivory.

  As soon as she was out of range of the car, the man stopped and peered down at her. She quit breathing. She was so completely terrified, she thought her heart had stopped as well.

  His face was distorted. He looked grotesque, like something from a nightmare, a horror movie. His nose, eyes, and mouth were squashed inside a woman’s stocking, which was knotted on the top of his head. She saw his leg move back to kick her again and rolled across the concrete to escape. She couldn’t.

  The blow struck near her ribs, and a enormous gush of air left her lungs. Blinding pain seared through her body.

  “Where are the pictures?” he yelled, his voice laced with venom, his lips barely moving under the tight stocking mask. “Give me the fucking pictures, bitch.”

  “In my briefcase,” Lara said, panting. “Over there.” Then she shrieked again, hoping someone, anyone would hear her. Her voice echoed in the underground garage, and she was surrounded by her own shrill screams.

  In his hands was a large knife—a hunting knife or carving knife. Light bounced off the gleaming blade in the overhead light.

  “No,” she yelled again, completely panicked. “God, no. Please. Don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.”

  The knife was at her throat and she dared not move. His breath was hot and foul on her face, filtered through the stocking mask. He pressed down and she felt the cold edge of the blade on the delicate tissue of her throat. She was terrified beyond all reason. She gulped and gagged, certain he’d already cut her throat, imagining the perspiration dripping from her face and dampening her shirt was her own blood. The man was reeking in body odor. To Lara it smelled like death.

  I’m dying, she thought. I’m going to die just like Ivory, and Josh will be alone. I’m going to die right in this garage—right underneath the courts. She prayed, her lips moving silently. She tried to think. She waited for death to take her or the man to plunge the knife into her heart. Her eyes darted back and forth frantically. She looked to the ceiling, the pipes crisscrossing and disappearing into the dark corners. She remembered that one car had been left in the garage. She prayed that someone might still be coming. But everyone had gone for the day. She’d never seen the car that was parked in the far corner before. There was no one—no one to help her, save her.

  “If those pict
ures aren’t there, you’re fucking dead,” the man spat in her face, removing the knife from her throat and standing, flipping her over on her side with the tip of his shoe like a sack of garbage.

  Lara’s hand went to her neck. She tried to get up and fell back down on the hard surface beneath her. For a second she thought she was going to pass out. Everything went black and then returned in blazing color. He was more horrifying than ever, larger than life, a monster sent from the bowels of Hell to destroy her, kill her, cut her into tiny pieces.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, panting. “Don’t move or you’re dead. There’s nowhere for you to go and no one’s coming, so you can stop all the screaming.”

  Lara was consumed with rage. It was vibrating, pulsing. She was a fighter. She wasn’t going to let this man get away with this. She sprang off the garage floor and lunged at him, trying to stick two fingers in his eye sockets and poke his eyes out. Her fingers just struck the panty hose and the man laughed, knocking her back to the ground. Again she leaped up and managed to jump on his back. She tried to press her arm against his carotid artery in a choke hold, something she’d seen police officers do. She even let all her weight go, actually hanging from his body, but he didn’t budge. While she was holding onto him, the man started walking off. Lara fell to the concrete floor, landing on her feet, feeling impotent and helpless. The man was a giant. She could never take him down.

  “You’re a stupid bitch,” he said. “Get down and stay down or I’m going to slice your pretty pussy.” He turned around and lashed out with the knife, almost connecting with her body. She started to reach for the knife and then realized it was sheer madness. She had felt the blade. It would cut right through her hand. He kept swinging the weapon at her, bent over, reaching out from the level of his waist. When she screamed and stepped back to avoid the knife, she fell backward to the floor. He started cackling again.