Mitigating Circumstances

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Lily didn’t want to dampen her excitement, but she couldn’t let her think she was going to start dating a boy as old as Greg. The whole thing had been a mistake. Everything she did seemed to be a mistake. “He’s too old for you, Shana. And from what his dad says, he’s a little wild. But there are other boys your own age.”

  Shana sat upright in her seat, angry. “Don’t treat me like a baby. A lot of girls my age date older guys. He probably wont call anyway.”

  “We’re going to have to have a boy talk soon,” Lily said. “We’ve really never talked about things like that.” They used to talk about the boys in Shana’s classes, but that was quite a while back, and Greg was far out of that league.

  Shana shot Lily a look like she was the dumbest person alive and turned on the radio. She then spoke loudly over the music. “Really, Mom, don’t you think I’m a little bit more mature than other girls my age? Why don’t you just accept it? I have.”

  Lily’s heart started to race. Kids were survivors, Richard had said. She didn’t want her daughter to be a survivor. Rats were survivors. What she wanted to believe was that nothing had changed, at least not with Shana. But that was far from the truth.

  “No, I don’t think you know everything. And I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Mom. I mean, it’s not like someone I know is going to hurt me.”

  Lily turned onto a side street and parked, turning off the ignition and letting her hands fall into her lap. “I’m going to tell you something awful…something that happened to me when I was a girl, something that has been with me all my life like an ugly scar. I never thought I could tell you, but…” Lily’s voice was soft, her mouth dry. “I don’t want you to think that people you know are harmless and only criminals pose a threat. When I was eight years old, my grandfather raped me.”

  Shana’s mouth fell open and Lily could hear her sucking in air. “Your grandfather?”

  “Yes. It’s called incest. It continued from the time I was eight until I was your age, thirteen.”

  “But why didn’t you tell someone…your mom?”

  “I tried to tell her, but she didn’t listen. She didn’t listen because I was a little girl and because people didn’t talk about things like that back then. Not only is incest common, there are other situations that develop with teachers, neighbors, people you see everyday. And don’t ever think that just because a boy looks nice that he might not try to force himself on you. That happens a lot too.”

  “I can’t believe this happened to you. I can’t believe you’re telling me this,” Shana said, shocked.

  Lily sighed deeply and looked straight ahead. They were parked in front of someone’s house in a residential neighborhood, and a man was getting into his car, looking at them. “Well, it did happen to me, Shana. And I did the worst thing I could possibly do. I tried to pretend it never did; I suppressed it, buried it deep inside.” She turned and looked at her daughter. “Now, after all these years, I think that’s the reason I never let anyone get really close to me, because this horrible secret was there. It feels so strange to talk about it…and to you, my own daughter.”

  “You can talk to me about anything you want, Mom. Everyone’s always talked to me about their problems. I don’t know why, but they have. What happened to him—your grandfather? Did you hate him?”

  “He died. I thought it was all over. I was happy he died. But you know what? Now I wish he’d lived and that I’d been able to confront him, tell him what he did to my life, tell everyone.” Lily started up the car, the radio started blasting, but Shana reached over and turned it off.

  “You know, Mom, I’ve thought about all kinds of things since the rape: God, dying, why things like this happen. In school once I read this book and it said that God never gives you more than you can handle. Maybe these bad things happened to us because we can handle them and some other person couldn’t. I mean, you became a district attorney and you put people like that in prison, so…” She reached over and placed her hand on Lilys. “And me, well, I’m gonna do something important someday, just like you. I’m going to be happy too and I won’t let myself be afraid of every little thing…every person…every sound.”

  “You’re a remarkable young woman, baby,” Lily said, squeezing her hand. “I’m so proud of you…so proud you’re my daughter.”

  “Hey,” Shana said, “there’s a Baskin-Robbins.” She smiled. “How about a great big hot fudge sundae with nuts and whipped cream? Yum. Doesn’t that make your mouth water? Let’s get one.”

  When they got home, John was asleep on the sofa. Lily went to the linen closet for the blanket and gently tossed it over him, looking down on him as with a child. She then tiptoed around him, turned out the lights, and locked the doors.

  In Shana’s room, she told her to forgo the homework for the night and finish it in the morning. Shana grabbed her around the neck and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “You know that guy—Greg’s dad—is he your boyfriend?”

  Lily started to blush and didn’t know what to say. “He’s someone I work with and I like him a lot.”

  “You can tell me. Dad told me about his girlfriend and he said he thought you were seeing someone too.”

  Shana went and flopped down on her bed on her stomach, bracing her head in her hands. “I liked him.

  He seemed like a nice man.” Di peeked out from the covers.

  Looking back at her from the door, Lily smiled and said, “You just liked his son. Don’t tell me you’re going to want to pick the men I date and they all have to have good-looking sons.”

  “Why not?” Shana said, her eyes sparkling. “We’re gonna be roommates, remember?”

  In the big bed alone, Lily turned off the light. For years she had been two people without even realizing it. She had gone about her affairs during the day exuding strength and purpose, a woman in control, just as she had gone out and played as a child the morning after her grandfather fulfilled his disgusting desires. But inside there was another Lily, a terrified woman possessed by hatred and rage. This was the night person, the dark one. Her grandfather’s face kept appearing in front of her, and she could smell the sickening odor of Old Spice aftershave. “You,” she said out loud. “I hope you’re rotting in your grave. You stole my life. You drove me insane. I’ve done something worse than even you now. I’ve killed someone. You made me hate so much I killed someone.”

  She stared open-eyed into the darkness. With the black-out drapes, it was like a grave. Only a glimmer of light from the alarm clock made a small circle on the wall. What did it feel like to die? she thought. Was it blackness? Was there a rebirth of some kind? Was there a purgatory like the Catholic church had taught her to believe?

  The ticking of the clock seemed unbearably loud, and she could hear her own heartbeat. In a court of law there were defenses and mitigating circumstances. Was there a final court, a final judgment? If she had killed the wrong man, then it was not God’s hand that had guided her. That was delusional, insanity. God had not appointed her as His executioner. She rolled over onto her side in the darkness, pulling her knees to her chest in the fetal position. But was there forgiveness, redemption? What was required to clear her mortal soul?

  Suddenly the bedside phone rang, jarring Lily back to reality. She grabbed it and whispered, “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” a deep, familiar voice said, but she couldn’t quite place it. “You know, Bruce Cunningham.”

  “Cunningham?” she said, bolting straight up in bed. It was almost eleven o’clock. What in God’s name was he calling about? “Did something go down on Manny?”

  “Nah. I’ve just been thinking. Thought I’d call you up.”

  Lily couldn’t believe it. His words were slurred; he’d obviously been drinking. She didn’t know what to say. Her heart was racing. Had something happened? Maybe another witness had come forward, pointing the finger at her. Or the shell casing, she thought, panic rising. Ballistic
s had found her prints on the shell casings. She raised a finger to her mouth and started chewing on the skin there.

  “That Hernandez was an animal. He butchered that poor girl. Just fucking butchered her like a side of beef.”

  Lily took her finger out of her mouth. She wanted to turn the light on, but she couldn’t move. “He strangled her,” she said softly. “It’s sad, but she was a hooker and that’s a dangerous line of work.”

  “I’m not talking ‘bout the hooker,” he said loudly. “I’m talking bout Carmen Lopez. They did her. They shoved that tree limb in her vagina and shot her breasts like a fucking game. We got to get them. Manny, I mean, and the rest. You got a daughter?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Me too. It makes you think, huh? Makes you think it could happen to your own kid.”

  Lily pulled the covers up to her neck and started twisting one of the corners with her hand. What was he getting at? He hadn’t simply called her up at home this late at night to talk off a drunk. He wasn’t that type of cop. It was hard to even imagine Bruce Cunningham intoxicated. Holding her breath, she listened for sounds that the call was recorded.

  “I believe in the law, you know,” he continued, his words less slurred, in almost an intentional effort. “No one else does much anymore. Not in the ranks. Everything’s become a big fucking joke. Cops just do whatever they want.” He was silent and then he said: “People too.”

  That was it. The conversation had gone too far. What was she going to do? Sit here and discuss vigilantism with the man who could march her to prison? “Good night, Bruce. Let me know if anything develops with Manny.” She quickly replaced the phone and tried to tell herself the phone call meant nothing. He had her number, he’d had a few drinks, so he just decided to call her. They were working together on a major series of brutal crimes, she told herself. They’d known each other for years, working on cases together, drinking coffee together. It wasn’t really so unusual. Even a seasoned cop like Cunningham might feel the weight of it all now and then. But it was too close. Too close. Every possible negative thought in her mind surfaced and played again and again. She’d killed the wrong man. Cunningham was on to her. Over and over the thoughts turned. Then she tried to rationalize them away, like a trial inside her tortured mind. She was both prosecutor and defense. She had lost her ability to be a judge even in her own fantasies.

  The clock ticked and she watched the hands move until the dial read four o’clock. She crawled out of bed and fell to her knees in prayer. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned, and it’s been…” She didn’t remember when she’d made her last confession. She didn’t remember anything except Bruce Cunningham’s last statement: “Cops do whatever they want…people too.”

  “Please, God,” she continued, “I don’t have the right to ask you to save me from what I’ve done. Please just give me the strength to handle it and protect my precious child.”

  She remained on the floor, on her knees, leaning over the bed, staring into the darkness. Finally her exhausted body gave up and she slid to the floor in sleep.

  Outside, the sun was rising.

  CHAPTER 33

  Officer Chris Brown was parked a block down on 3rd Street, in a black ‘65 Caddy borrowed from vice to use as a surveillance vehicle. He could see the front of the Hernandez house from his position, but had to use the pair of binoculars on the seat next to him to make out facial features of anyone coming or leaving the house. It was eleven o’clock and Brown had just relieved the previous officer. Shucking his uniform in the locker room only a few minutes before, he was pulling a double shift. He needed the money.

  He poured a cup of black coffee, only lukewarm, from the thermos on the floorboard and sipped it, hoping it would do the job and keep him awake. It was going to be a long night. Finishing the coffee, he slid down in the comfortable velvet seat, rolled down the window, and stretched out his long legs. He started to doze, with his arm out the driver’s window, when suddenly he felt a wet, sickening touch on his hand and almost went for his revolver. A large mixed-breed dog had been licking the remnants of his fried chicken dinner off his hand. “Shit,” he said, sitting up in the vehicle, his heart still jumping. In this neighborhood he was lucky that wet feeling hadn’t been his own blood after some dude sliced his arm off to steal his wrist watch. He turned on the ignition and rolled up the automatic windows, flicked the door locks, and looked down the street at the house.

  He stiffened as he spotted a male shuffling to the car in the driveway, already down the front steps of the residence. Grabbing the binoculars off the seat, he saw it was his man and watched as he entered a black 75 Plymouth and backed out into the street. Waiting until the taillights were almost out of sight, he cranked up the Caddy, speeding until the vehicle was once again in sight, catching him just as he turned the corner, and then dropped back at least three car lengths behind.

  Starting to reach for the radio, Brown recalled that he had been instructed to follow the suspect and make contact only if he appeared to be disposing of a firearm. Then he was not to approach unless he had backup. He could relay information to the station via the portable cellular phone; the radio was off limits due to the possibility that the suspect had a police scanner.

  There was still traffic on the streets, and on several occasions he almost lost the black Plymouth. He was darting in and out of the side streets, but it was almost like he was merely cruising, his speed well within the posted limits. Looking at the street signs, knowing the area well from patrol, Brown thought he was headed to the beach area of Porte Hueneme. It could be that he was going to score drugs. Should he only watch and disregard it? He assumed they weren’t interested in busting him on possession.

  The Plymouth pulled up to a deserted area of beach and parked. Brown watched as he exited the vehicle on foot, both hands in his jacket pocket. There were no other cars in sight, and he was walking rapidly in the direction of the water. If Brown didn’t follow him on foot, he would lose him. He picked up the cellular phone and held it in his hand. If he requested backup and the guy was merely going to take a piss, the surveillance would be blown and Brown knew he’d never make it out of patrol. He shoved the portable phone into the back pocket of his pants, following on foot, hoping he hadn’t already lost him.

  Pulling the nylon parka up around his neck, Brown strolled nonchalantly toward the beach, looking for anything that could provide cover. There were a few light standards near the sidewalk, but the light didn’t reach to the sand. Ducking behind a large garbage can, he saw Manny just as he removed his hand from his pocket. From this distance it was impossible to see the object in his hand, but there was something, and Brown knew he had to move fast. The suspect was now standing at the water’s edge. If the object was the .22 pistol, it would be gone in seconds, tossed into the ocean, any prints obliterated.

  No time to call for backup. He pulled his service revolver from his shoulder holster, crept closer in the dark, and was only steps away from shoving it into the back of Manny’s head when he turned, saw Brown, and fired. The bullet smashed into his shoulder and he hit the sand, frantically grabbing for the portable to call for help. A second shot rang out and this one struck his leg. He tried to reach the phone with his left hand; his right shoulder had been hit and his own weapon had fallen to the sand. Manny was running now. Brown dragged himself up and, grabbing his gun with his left hand, started after him.

  Stumbling in the deep sand, his leg throbbing and warm blood saturating his pants, he went down on his stomach and clasped his gun between both hands, forcing his injured arm to move. Manny was a good distance away, but the sand was slowing him down and he had not yet reached the sidewalk. Brown sighted and fired. The explosion caused the gun to pop out of his weakened hand and fall to the sand several feet away.

  He had missed. Manny was turning with the gun again, about to fire at him, this time at close range.

  He scrambled to retrieve his weapon, his shoulder wound shooting white heat down
his arm. He had the gun. Terror of his impending death brought strength and stillness. He fired. Manny went down.

  “I’m shot. Jesus fucking Christ,” Manny screamed in terror. “I’m bleeding to death. Help me, man. I’m gonna die.”

  Wildly stabbing the tiny button on the cellular that dialed the station, finally hearing the familiar voice of the dispatcher and the beeping of the recorded line, he yelled, “Officer down. I’ve been shot and suspect shot. He’s still armed. Need ambulance and backup.” He tried to recall the cross street nearest the beach. “Anchors Way,” he screamed. “I’m at the beach at the end of Anchors Way…Porte Hueneme.”

  “Stay on the line,” the dispatcher said. “Keep talking until we get there. Where’s the suspect in relation to your location?”

  “Near the sidewalk. I’m on the sand behind him.”

  Manny struggled to get up and fell down again. Brown tried to fire once more, but his right hand was now useless and his left hand shaking and weak. He had to brace it with the injured arm. When he saw Manny make it almost to his feet, he squeezed off another round. This time the man hit the ground face first, sand rising in the night air like a dust storm around him. He didn’t move. He didn’t get up. There was dead silence, but in the distance Brown could hear the emergency vehicles en route.

  By the time help arrived, Manny was in cardiac arrest with two .38 slugs in his back. One must have raced through tissue and muscle and lodged in his heart. The paramedics started C.P.R. and loaded him into an ambulance before they loaded Brown into a second one that pulled up, siren blaring.

  Although Brown was losing blood fast, the .22 had done no major damage, and his condition stabilized once they applied pressure and tourniquets to stop the flow of blood.