Scrafield madly kicked out at his head and sent him flat. Wasting no more time, Scrafield pulled up his trousers as he hobbled to the door.
He yanked the front door open in time to see two men in blue uniforms leap out of a patrol car and come racing up the walk.
The two policemen had him by the arms.
"Wait a minute, buddy!" the taller policeman yelled at him. "Where in the hell do you think you're going?" Scrafield couldn't find his voice.
"We have a report there's been a rape," the other policeman was saying.
"The rapist, he's inside," Scrafield coughed out. "Well, let's all go inside and see . . ."
"No!" shouted Scrafield, trying to tear away.
"If not inside, you're going to the station," the taller policeman announced, and that instant Scrafield realized that the second policeman had drawn his hands behind him and had clamped handcuffs around his wrists.
Scrafield went limp, gave up.
Early the following morning, when District Attorney Hoyt Lewis entered his reception room on his way to his office, he found Dr. Freeberg, as well as Gayle Miller with a young man he did not know, already waiting for him.
Lewis halted with an apology. "Forgive me for awakening you so early, but I felt it important that all of us get together before the day got too busy. Please come into my office."
They all rose and Gayle, who was holding the young man's hand, said, "Mr. Lewis, this is my boyfriend, Paul Brandon. Do you mind if he comes in with us?"
"Not at all," said Lewis affably. "Let's go inside."
Once they were in his office, Lewis gestured for them to find places across from his desk, and after they were seated he settled into his leather swivel chair.
Lewis concentrated on Gayle. "I'm sorry about what happened last night, Miss Miller. It must have been terrible."
"It was terrible," Gayle snapped. "I'm just lucky that Paul —Paul Brandon—came in at that moment. What's going to happen to that dreadful preacher?"
"We'll talk about that shortly," Lewis said. "I have something else on the agenda first." He picked up his briefcase, set it on his knees, unlocked and opened it, and pulled out two manuscripts.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked Freeberg. "It's a journal, two copies of a journal, that one of your patients kept during surrogate therapy. It was the basis for my prosecution against you, Dr. Freeberg, and you, Miss Miller. Do you want to know who kept this journal and turned it over to us?"
"Who was it?" demanded Freeberg.
"A patient of Miss Miller's named Chet Hunter," said Lewis.
"Chet Hunter?" said Gayle with disbelief. "But he couldn't—he wouldn't . . ."
"He did it," said Lewis.
"The bastard," Brandon interjected.
Lewis held up a placating hand. "He's not entirely to blame. He had the idea, but it was I who gave him—with support from the Reverend Scrafield—the go-ahead to pull off this little sting operation. With this evidence in hand, I authorized your arrests."
Gayle was furious. "What about us? Are you actually going to put us on trial?"
"That, too, can wait a bit, if you don't mind," said Lewis.
"Before answering you, I must know something else." He leaned across his desk, handing one copy of the Hunter manuscript to Dr. Freeberg and the other to Gayle Miller. "I want you both to read the journal Chet Hunter kept and to let me know if it is entirely accurate in its account of your surrogate therapy."
"One minute," said Freeberg. "If this is evidence against us and you want us to verify it, I want to have my attorney present."
"You won't need your attorney," said Lewis. "You have my word that whatever you say will not be used against you. All I want you to do is read it and tell me if it is accurate." He stood up. "I'll be making some calls from my secretary's office. I'll be back in a half hour."
Hoyt Lewis left his office, and in a half hour, he returned to his own office and desk.
"Well?" he said to the others.
"The part about me, my own role, is perfectly accurate," said Freeberg.
Gayle threw the journal back on Lewis's desk. "Yes, he's got it just right about me, too."
"Thank you," said Lewis. "Now, let me tell you why I brought you here. When I first read Hunter's report, I read it hastily and with prejudice. My mind was searching only for evidence for a headline case, not for the truth. Last night, before the chief of police called to tell me of the Reverend Scrafield's violent attack on you, Miss Miller, I began to have second thoughts about Hunter's report."
"What do you mean, Mr. Lewis?" Freeberg wanted to know.
"To be truthful, I became ashamed of myself," said Lewis, "of my role in this action. Hunter was to have been our star witness against you. But he was so moved by what Miss Miller had done for him that he backed out of the case, and I was prepared to do the same thing. Still, when Scrafield suggested that he himself go to Miss Miller with that wild proposal, I did agree to let Scrafield do this. Later, when Scrafield had gone, I began to feel uneasy about the whole thing. That's when I reread Hunter's account of your therapy with him—I reread it with care. It gave me a better insight into your work, a better understanding, and I wished more than anything on earth I could recall Scrafield, but it was too late. He was already with you." Hoyt Lewis paused. "Again, I'm so sorry about what happened last night. I'll take my share of the blame. Therefore, I think you should have a voice in the disposition of the Reverend Scrafield. Once that's settled, I'll go on to discuss your futures. But first, since I'm seeing Scrafield in a half hour, what would you have me do with him, Dr. Freeberg, and you, Miss Miller, and yes, you, too, Mr. Brandon? What would you have me do with the Reverend Scrafield?"
For ten minutes after Dr. Freeberg, Gayle Miller, and Paul Brandon had left, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis remained seated alone, waiting for his next guest. Now his eyes were fixed on the door to his office as it opened and the Reverend Josh Scrafield stepped inside.
Lewis had expected the clergyman's bearing to be erect and his manner aggressive, that of an innocent victim who had been put upon, and Lewis was not surprised that Scrafield's deportment was exactly as he had anticipated.
"I'm glad you could see me," said Scrafield, crossing the office, moving vigorously.
Lewis neither rose to greet him nor offered a handshake. The district attorney merely jerked his head toward the empty chair beside him and waited for Scrafield to be settled. "I wanted to be the first to tell you this," said Lewis. "Scrafield, you're a stupid fool."
Scrafield's composure didn't waver. "Listen, Hoyt, there's more to it."
"I read the charges you're booked on," Lewis said. "I've talked to the two witnesses, Miss Miller and Mr. Brandon, at length—"
"You don't really think I tried to rape her?"
"No, you were only trying to tell her you were sorry for harassing her."
"You've got to hear my side of it."
Hoyt Lewis nodded. "That's why you're here, Scrafield. To let me hear your side of it before I put you away."
Ignoring the last threat, Scrafield gathered himself together, and with the earnestness so well known to his television viewers, he proceeded to expound his defense in a winning and melodious voice. "Hoyt, in all fairness, hear me out," he began. "You may not believe me, but I went to see Gayle Miller with the sole intent of performing the mission we had agreed upon. The instant I made our offer, Miss Miller lost her head, reverted to type. Not only did she vehemently decline our offer, but she began cursing both of us in a stream of the foulest invective I've ever heard. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything better from her, but somehow I did, and I was taken aback, to say the least."
Momentarily, Scrafield examined the district attorney to assess what effect his account was having on the official, but Hoyt Lewis's expression revealed no reaction.
Hastily, Scrafield resumed his account. "When I realized that I'd get nowhere with her, I decided to leave. I was just getting ready to go when the little chippy changed her tactic
s. She began to act provocatively. She was wearing next to nothing, and she was clearly shaking her ass at me. I told her she was acting like a whore and it would get her nowhere. Then she sidled up to me and said, 'I have a better idea if you want to talk it over.' She led me to her bedroom—of course I should have known better than to follow her in there—and then she said that she still wouldn't turn state's evidence against Freeberg, but there was something she could do on her own. She said she had a counterproposal to make. If I could convince you to free her, she said she'd give me a free fuck on the house. I was astounded, believe me—"
Hoyt Lewis interrupted. "Scrafield, I don't believe you. I don't believe you at all. If she was giving you one on the house, why was she fighting you tooth and nail when her boyfriend pulled you off her? Why did she call the police for help? And how come the police found you running into the street without your pants fastened?"
The clergyman's poise began to dissolve slightly. "Hoyt, I'm telling you, Gayle's a lying slut, and her boyfriend's in collusion with her."
Hoyt Lewis considered Scrafield coldly. "In short, four people lied while you alone tell the truth?"
"Hoyt, for God's sake, you're not taking that little roundheel's word over mine? You yourself agreed with me that she was a prostie—"
"And I was wrong, absolutely wrong from the start, and I'm prepared to admit it," said Hoyt Lewis. "You're a great talker—I'll give you that—and you're clever about people —I'll concede that as well. From the outset, you were clever enough to play up to my one weakness, my ambition. Yes, I allowed myself to be lulled by you and drawn into this mess. I began to regret it fully when I sent you to see Gayle Miller last night. I've regretted it ever since. You may not like what she does for men, to cure them—maybe it makes me a little uneasy, too—but that's my problem, not Gayle's. She's trained. She's honest. She believes in what she's doing. What she does is useful to many people who need help. She is anything but a prostitute, and I'm going to admit that to the press this afternoon." Lewis caught his breath. "You and I were the real prostitutes, trying to use her body to further our ambitions. I'm ready to confess that publicly. Are you?"
"There's not a thing to confess."
Scrafield's obstinance annoyed Lewis further. "Scrafield, you're a goddamn hypocrite, and you were caught with your pants down. I'm going to prove that in court."
Once again, Scrafield took on his familiar persuasive tone. "Hoyt, I don't want to go to court. Even if I win, it'll destroy me for life."
Lewis shook his head. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this to a man of the cloth. Scrafield, I don't give a shit what you want."
Scrafield's persuasive tone did not change. "Hoyt, you've got to show some kindness," he said smoothly. "You confessed to a weakness. All right, I'm willing to confess to mine. Sometimes, like all human beings, I suffer lust." He came forward in his chair. "Hoyt, don't forget we were in this together. You owe me one."
"I don't owe you a damn thing. But if you think I do, you name it."
"Just don't force me to go to court," he persisted.
Lewis stared at him. "You want me to let a potential rapist run around loose in Hillsdale?"
"You know I'm not a rapist. I had a fleeting aberration, but I'm not a rapist."
"I doubt if a jury would agree with you."
"Hoyt, I'll do anything not to stand trial."
Lewis studied Scrafield thoughtfully. "Anything?"
"Yes, anything."
"Perhaps, then, there is an alternative, one I'm considering just to save the city an expensive trial and to prevent disillusionment to your flock." He was lost in thought once more. "I'm willing to drop the charge against you if you not only leave Hillsdale forever but leave the state of California for good."
"Hoyt, that's like telling me my alternative is the guillotine. My life is here! Everything I have is here!"
"Suits me. You can put it in trust until you get out of jail."
Scrafield gazed down at the carpet, silent. When he raised his head, he said flatly, "You'll drop the rapist charge if I leave town?"
"I'm advising you to skip town, forfeit your bail."
"You won't try to have me brought back?"
"Frankly, I don't want to see you again, ever. You can reconstitute your life somewhere else but not in my bailiwick. I might say that this alternative was not volunteered by me. When I had my two witnesses as well as Dr. Freeberg in to hear their stories, I asked each of them what they thought I should do with you. I was simply for tossing you in jail. Dr. Freeberg went along. Gail's boyfriend, Brandon, thought you should be hung up by your balls. Gayle was more charitable. She suggested you be exiled. She felt it was punishment enough. She had some compassion. She said she knew men. Too many would be prepared to sell their souls, give up anything, to have sex with a woman they coveted. Understanding this, Gayle was ready to forgive and forget. She's a true Christian. You're a fraud. So I'm going along with her wish."
Scrafield sighed. It sounded more like a croak. "Well, I suppose I have no choice but to comply."
"No, you have no choice. What you have is forty-eight hours to pack your belongings and get out of town."
"All right, Hoyt"—Scrafield nodded—"I'll do just that."
It was no use. He could only do what he was ordered to do—get out of Hoyt Lewis's sight. But rising heavily, Scrafield knew that he was not through. He was not quite ready to leave town.
There was still one bit of unfinished business. A rage welled up inside him. Gayle Miller and Paul Brandon, they had done him in. Scrafield was not through with them. One of them had to pay for this.
One of them would.
That was all that obsessed him as he turned his back on the D.A. and left the room to obtain his vengeance.
Because it was a warm, sunny afternoon, and because the morning newspaper had carried an announcement of District Attorney Hoyt Lewis's impending press conference that gave promise of scandal, a goodly crowd had gathered before the Hillsdale City Hall.
Six broad stairs led down from the glass entrance doors of the city hall to a wide concrete terrace embraced by two semicircles of green planters, one on either side. At the center of the terrace stood a wooden lectern with a microphone attached to a public address system. Off to the left were four rows of folding chairs already filled with reporters from the print media throughout California and various other states in the West. Behind them rose an outcropping of manned television cameras and radio representatives carrying their own microphones and portable recorders.
Stretching down from the terrace were twelve more wide steps that reached the sidewalk and street. A dense gathering of at least two hundred curious citizens filled a portion of the thoroughfare, all kept orderly by a half-dozen blue-uniformed policemen spread out at attention in front of them.
The press conference had been called for two o'clock.
At exactly one minute before two, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis emerged from a lobby door of the city hall, holding two sheets of paper in his hand, and slowly descended to the terrace.
Squinting up from the street at the D.A., Tony Zecca shifted restlessly from one foot to the other in the second line of spectators. This was the moment Zecca had looked forward to with grim satisfaction. Obviously, the press conference was being staged to allow the D.A. to announce that the slimy Dr. Freeberg, already under arrest, was to go on trial for a felony charge. Soon Freeberg would be out of the way and, probably after his jail term, would be forced to leave Hillsdale. And Zecca would have Nan Whitcomb to himself for his very own purposes. Zecca's mind had quickly gone to their reunion and reconciliation. Zecca wondered if he should first punish Nan in some way, as a lesson to her before taking her back, or if he should be magnanimous and forgiving of her waywardness. For the time being, he leaned toward the latter course. It meant better fucking the first night she was again in his bed.
Once more, Zecca focused his attention on the D.A., who had arrived at the lectern and was adjusting t
he microphone to a comfortable height.
Before beginning his statement, Hoyt Lewis glanced about him and seemed to acknowledge several persons whom he knew.
Briefly distracted, Zecca searched the crowd for a glimpse of Nan. As far as he could see, she was not present.
Hearing the tinny reverberations of the microphone on the terrace above, Zecca again gave the D.A. his full attention.
District Attorney Hoyt Lewis was speaking at last.
"I had originally summoned you all here," said the district attorney, "with a different intent in mind. Since that time, certain facts have come into my hands that now force me to alter the content of my announcement. I had considered canceling this press conference altogether, but then I decided to proceed with it to clarify a certain matter and not allow false rumors to run rife.
"As many of you are aware, word was released through the media that my office had undertaken an investigation of a new medical establishment that recently opened in this city. This establishment was and is known as the Freeberg Clinic. Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the founder and head of the Freeberg Clinic, is a licensed psychologist, specializing in sexual problems. He undertook the use of partner surrogates or sexual surrogates—mostly female surrogates—to give guidance and firsthand instruction to his unhappy patients.
"After a preliminary investigation of his activities, I came to the conclusion that Dr. Freeberg and his surrogates had committed a crime under the state's law against pandering and prostitution.
"As some of you know, the day before yesterday I placed both Dr. Arnold Freeberg and one of his female sex surrogates under arrest.
"However, since yesterday, other facts previously unknown to me have come to light. As a result, I have come to realize that the arrests were a huge mistake. My mistake. Perhaps I acted against the defendants too hastily, in my zeal to keep this city clean and orderly.
"At any rate, I am now satisfied that both Dr. Freeberg and his surrogate assistants are engaged in work valuable to our community. I therefore wish to tell you that neither the activities of Dr. Freeberg nor those of his surrogates fall under the criminal provisions of our laws against pandering and prostitution, and all charges against them have been dropped.
The Celestial Bed Page 28
