“I do have a boyfriend, and no, he has never raised his hand to me, and he better not!”
“What if he did?”
“Bob wouldn’t do that, but if he hit me, I would file assault charges against him.”
“Even if you loved him and you had been together for years?”
“Mr. Harris, if a man loves a woman, he doesn’t beat her. Because that’s not love. That’s abuse and control.”
“Is it really that simple?”
“Can I tell you something off the record?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I mean it. Can I trust you to keep this private, just between us?”
“You have my word.”
“I have lots of relatives and we always gather at Thanksgiving for dinner. Growing up, I was especially close to my cousin Monica, who was a couple of years older than me. She always included me when she and her friends shopped in Elmira or went to a movie—even their pajama parties. When she was sixteen, Monica fell in love with Gary and I thought it was magical. But a year later, she got pregnant. Abortion wasn’t an option in our family and she and Gary didn’t want to put the baby up for adoption. My aunt and uncle opposed them getting married, so they eloped and moved to Canada. Even though they were estranged from her parents, my mom invited her and Gary to our family Thanksgiving. I remember how excited I was when I saw Gary’s old pickup pull up in front of our house. When the doorbell rang, I flew to open it and what I saw left a scar on my heart. Monica stood there with little Gary Jr. in her arms. She was pregnant again and her right eye was swollen shut. It was black and blue and so was her right cheek. Her lip was cut and looked like it had been stitched. Gary was nowhere in sight.”
Harris said, “How did your family react?”
“Monica told everyone that she had been in a car accident, but my mom knew better and I was suspicious because they only had that old pickup and it was fine and Gary wasn’t with her. That afternoon, Monica and I had a chance to talk privately and she broke down and told me that Gary had lost his job, he’d started drinking, and he blamed her for ruining his teenage years. He wished that they’d had an abortion and never married. She told me that the first slap was over a meal he didn’t like. It was followed by progressively worse beatings. I told her to go to the police, but she said, ‘I love him, and besides, it’s my fault. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant, we both would have gone to college. He would have gotten a good job and not started drinking. Besides, I’m pregnant again and who’ll want me?’”
Harris interrupted. “How old were you when this happened?”
“I had just turned seventeen.” Continuing, I said, “Monica stayed for the night and everyone was told that she was in a car accident and was lucky to be alive. Only Mom and I knew. My mom tried that night to get her to move in with us and leave Gary, but she left for Canada the next morning. A few months later, I was in college and my mom called and said Monica had miscarried when she was rushed to the hospital one night after Gary had beaten her. Of course, she told doctors that she had slipped and fallen.”
“Are they still together?”
“Yes, they are but she no longer stays in contact with us. He has cut her off from us.”
“I see, so you know personally what it is like to have domestic violence in your family.”
“That’s right. I wanted you to know that, but I don’t want it in the papers.”
I stopped to buy Junior Mints on the way back to work. With everything going on, I felt like I deserved a box or two.
21
“I made a mistake this afternoon,” I told Wilbur, who was brushing up against my leg while I stood at the sink in my kitchen slicing apples for him. He grunted, and for a moment, I suspected he actually was listening and not simply urging me to hurry up with his dinner. “I told a reporter about Gary and Monica. Oh God, Mom is going to kill me if he writes about them. Even if he doesn’t use their names but describes them as relatives, I’m going to be in real trouble.”
Wilbur grunted again.
I debated calling Mom and telling her what had happened, but I didn’t. Instead, I called Bob in Albany and listened as he gently reprimanded me for being so trusting—especially of reporters. That night I hardly slept.
Just before six a.m., I jumped out of bed and slipped on my jogging pants, sweatshirt, and running shoes and headed out the door to a neighborhood grocery that carried the White Plains Daily. My photograph—a picture provided by the D.A.’s office—was just under the fold. The headline read: “Feisty Female Prosecutor Fights Abusers.”
In the first paragraph, Harris described how I had filed felony charges against Rudy Hitchins. He quoted me calling Hitchins a “controlling, abusive coward.” I quickly scanned the remainder of the story for some mention of my cousin and her husband. They were not mentioned. Harris had kept his word. Our talk had been off the record. I breathed a sigh of relief.
My kitchen phone was ringing when I got home. Mom, I thought. Who else would call me so early in the morning? But when I picked up the phone, a male voice said, “Dani Fox?”
I didn’t recognize the voice.
“Yes, this is Dani Fox.”
“You fucking bitch! We’ll see who’s a coward.”
The line went dead.
Had the caller been an angry husband or had I just heard from a furious Rudy Hitchins? I called the White Plains police and left word for Detective O’Brien to contact me as soon as he got to work.
22
My office phone didn’t stop ringing. Most callers were women who thanked me for condemning domestic violence. A few asked for help. The director of the White Plains women’s shelter telephoned to tell me that the federal government was awarding grants to local prosecutors who wanted to prosecute domestic violence cases. The money was coming from the LEAA, an acronym for the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration. Three years earlier, the LEAA had caused a national uproar by announcing it would not award any federal funds to local police departments unless they dropped height requirements for new applicants. The cops had started using minimum-height rules to avoid hiring women as officers. The LEAA’s stipulation put a stop to it.
“You should apply for a grant,” the director urged. I listened intently as she told me more about the process.
Shortly before ten a.m., O’Brien returned my call. When I told him about my early anonymous caller, he said, “Probably some prick who slaps around his wife and didn’t like you implying he was a coward. The detectives handling the case still believe Hitchins is hiding in Canada, and the last time I checked, the White Plains Daily isn’t circulated there. Just the same, it might be a good idea if you made one of those out-of-town trips this weekend that you like to take.”
I’d not mentioned Bob or my sojourns to Albany to O’Brien and I wondered how he knew, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking. When I didn’t respond, O’Brien said, “Oh yeah, I heard Whitaker’s polling numbers are on an upswing. I’m sure he loved today’s story.”
As soon as I placed down the receiver, my phone rang.
“This is Miss Hillary Potts calling. Mr. Whitaker would like you to come to his office at eleven a.m. sharp.”
I grabbed some candy and hurried upstairs only to have Miss Potts keep me waiting in the outer office for a few minutes until it was precisely eleven. When I was allowed to enter his office, Whitaker was all grins. “Great story today, Miss Fox,” he said while seated at his massive desk. “Bravo!” I’d made a point of mentioning to Will Harris how supportive Whitaker had been in prosecuting Hitchins and the reporter had included several quotes that flattered my boss.
Mark Steinberg was sitting across from Whitaker and he added a quick “Congratulations.”
“I’m so pleased,” Whitaker said, “that I’d like you to begin speaking to women’s groups about domestic violence. Make it a top priority, at least for now.”
I said, “You mean—between now and the November elections?”
W
hitaker gave me a startled look.
I thought, If you want me to help you win reelection, then I want something in return. Otherwise, you might simply forget about domestic violence cases after the ballots are tallied.
“Mr. Whitaker,” I said. “The LEAA is awarding federal grants to a handful of prosecutors to create Domestic Violence Units, specifically to go after married men who beat their wives. I’d like to apply for a grant—especially since you are asking me to speak out about domestic violence.”
Whitaker leaned back in his chair and looked at me suspiciously. “Why, Miss Fox, are you seeking a quid pro quo here?”
“I simply want to help our community, and the LEAA grant seems like an excellent opportunity to address domestic violence.”
“My, my,” Whitaker said, “I am going to have to keep an eye on you when it comes to politics.”
Steinberg asked, “Do we really need a separate unit to prosecute domestic violence?”
“Judging from the calls that I’ve been getting, we certainly do,” I replied.
“Shall I assume,” Whitaker asked, “that you would want to run this unit if you were fortunate enough to get a grant?”
“That would make sense, sir, wouldn’t it?” I asked in my most innocent voice.
“Yes, I guess it would,” he said appreciatively. “Okay, Miss Fox, you can apply for an LEAA grant. Give it your best shot. Meanwhile, I’ll expect you to begin speaking to as many groups as possible. I think it will be a good deal for both of us.”
23
I left work early so I could get home and fix dinner for Bob’s weekend visit. It was his turn to drive down from Albany. Because of conflicts in our schedules, three weeks had passed since we’d last gotten together and I was eager to tell him about my meeting with Whitaker.
I decided to fix a traditional Lebanese meal beginning with mezze, the Middle Eastern equivalent to French hors d’oeuvres. I was fixing baba ghanousch, a dip from cooked pureed eggplant. My main course would be a lamb casserole that I would serve with rice and a fresh salad that I planned to season heavily with olive oil, garlic, salt, and lemon. Marcook, a flat, fire-baked bread would round out our main course. For dessert, I prepared a milk-based custard.
I got everything going, then jumped into the shower, worked on my hair, and slipped into a sexy short dress and red pumps. Everything was ready and I was eager for our romantic evening to begin. As if on cue, Bob arrived armed with a bottle of champagne. He gave me a long hug and said, “Your mom read the newspaper story to me first thing this morning on the telephone before I went to class. She’s very proud of you and so am I.”
He kissed me passionately. I loved that my mom and Bob got along so well.
While I was bringing out the baba ghanousch, I told him about the LEAA grant.
“It’s great to see you so excited about this,” Bob said.
I intentionally didn’t ask him about medical school. The last time that we’d talked, he’d mentioned that he’d been thinking about his residency. I’d always assumed he would do it at one of Manhattan’s premier hospitals. But he’d talked about going west, possibly to Colorado or California, neither of which made sense since both of our families lived in New York. Besides, I had my career here. We had argued, which was rare for us. I didn’t want to get into a disagreement tonight. I wanted to have a magical evening, much like the one we’d enjoyed on Christmas Eve years ago at his grandfather’s farm.
“Where’s Wilbur?” Bob asked.
I nodded toward the back door and Bob went out to see him. By the time he returned, I had the candles lit on the dining-room table and the champagne on ice.
“Here’s to us!” he said, popping the cork.
“And our fabulous future together,” I added.
I put down my flute and wrapped my arms around him. He kissed my forehead and I looked upward so he could kiss my lips. This is just what I need, I thought.
And at that very moment, the phone rang.
“You need to answer that?” he asked.
“Not a chance.”
But the caller didn’t hang up. The damn phone just kept ringing. Bob said, “It’s okay, really. Obviously, someone really wants to talk to you.”
I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the wall phone. “What do you want?” I snapped.
“Are you always this brash?” Mark Steinberg asked.
“Ur, sorry, Mr. Steinberg, I’m busy right now.”
“In a few minutes,” Steinberg said, “you’re going to receive a call from Mr. Whitaker, who is going to tell you some exciting news. I wanted to call ahead to make sure you’re available.”
“I’ll be here. What’s this about?”
“Just pick up your phone and, Miss Fox, I wouldn’t sound so angry when you answer.”
I walked into the dining room, where Bob had taken his seat at the table. The romantic spell had been broken—at least for the moment. I offered him some baba ghanousch, saying, “I hope you like this.”
“If you made it, I’m sure I will.” But when he tasted it, he got an awful look on his face. “I guess I’m not really much for eggplant. Sorry.”
I put the dip aside and brought my casserole out from the oven. I prepared him a plate and he politely waited for me to sit down with my plate before he tried the lamb.
“Now, Dani, this is great,” he announced approvingly.
“No more eggplant. I promise. Next time hummus. Chickpeas will be more to your liking.”
He laughed. I loved his smile and I was beginning to relax when the phone rang.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shooting him a puppy dog look, “but this is my boss calling and I really have to take it.”
“Sure,” he said. “I understand.”
I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed my phone. “Hello.”
“Miss Fox,” Whitaker said, “I’ve got great news for you. You’re going to be getting a call in a few minutes from the governor’s office in Albany.”
Whitaker explained that the governor was appointing a task force to help draft legislation that would give battered women the option of filing criminal charges against their husbands rather than having the case automatically go into family court.
“It should be obvious why he wants you,” Whitaker said. “The Hitchins case made all the papers and the story in today’s paper caught his eye. He called me after he read it and I told him that you were my liaison with women’s shelters.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whitaker.”
“Listen, there’s a condition. I don’t want you to tell anyone—not a single soul about this. The governor’s office will make the announcement at the state capitol in a day or two about who’s on the task force. I’m having Steinberg coordinate it with Albany so we can have our own White Plains press conference. Steinberg will work out the details but it will be in my office and, naturally, I’ll do the talking. You’ll be there, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So keep your mouth closed because if word gets out before the governor makes his announcement, I can promise that you’ll be dropped from the task force. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
I floated back into the dining room and discovered that Bob had finished his plate. The call had taken ten minutes.
“Must be good news,” he said.
I nodded and said, “Unfortunately, it’s all hush-hush. So I can’t talk about it.” I sat down to my cold casserole.
“Now you really got me interested. A murder? A scandal?”
“I can’t talk about it. I promised.”
He looked hurt.
I said, “Have you heard from your parents lately? How are things in Elmira?”
Bob started telling me about his mom and a new project at the farm, but all I could think about was the task force. I’d never been called by a governor. Bob knew me well enough to know that my mind was miles away.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“Sorry. It’s just thes
e phone calls. Work. It’s very distracting.”
Rising, he walked to my chair and said, “I know a way to get your mind off your job.” He looked toward my bedroom and pulled my chair back from the table so I could stand.
“What about dessert?” I asked.
He kissed me hard. “Afterwards.”
The phone rang.
“I don’t care if there’s been a double homicide,” he said. “Let someone else get it. I want you to myself right now.”
He leaned down to kiss me again and I could feel the intensity in his lips.
“I’m sorry, Bob. I can’t explain it. But this is an extremely important call. I really have no choice.”
“Okay, but make it short.”
I darted into the kitchen, took a deep breath, and answered.
“Is this Dani Fox?” a male voice said.
“Yes, Governor,” I replied proudly.
“This isn’t the governor,” the voice said. “I’m his chief assistant, Benjamin Baker, but I am calling on his behalf. Before the governor calls you, he wants me to ask you a few questions. That okay with you?”
“Oh, sure.”
“It’s background stuff that we ask all political appointees when we put them on a task force. That way no one gets embarrassed later on. Now, tell me when and where you were born.”
I thought: All this for a task force?
One by one, I answered his questions. A half hour later, I hung up and walked out into the dining room, where Bob was patiently waiting.
“This never happens,” I said. “It’s just tonight. I’ve got to take these calls and I’m sworn to secrecy, but trust me, it is very important to my work.”
I put my arms around him and gave him a kiss. But I could tell he was irritated. I took his hand and started toward my bedroom when the kitchen phone rang again.
“Bob, I promise this is the last call of the night. I can’t tell you who is calling, but I must answer it. Just hang on one more minute.”
I dashed back into the kitchen and answered with a cheery hello.
Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel Page 12
