Tortured Teardrops (Tamara's Teardrops Book 3)

by P. D. Workman

  The morning dragged on interminably. The room got still hotter. Lynch turned on a desk fan, but it didn’t blow anywhere near Tamara and he didn’t turn it toward her. By noon, she was parched and, while she wasn’t hungry, she slurped down her red jello and the fruit drink they provided her. There were also drying-out sandwiches and some potato chips that glistened with oil. Tamara didn’t touch them.

  She tried not to drink too much, aware that although there was a toilet in the cell, there was no privacy and, if she filled her bladder, she would have to pee in front of the guards. While it certainly wouldn’t be her first time peeing in front of strangers, she wanted to avoid it if she possibly could.

  But the liquids were meager and Tamara had been sweating all morning. They didn’t even come close to replenishing her lost fluids.

  The guards talked with each other occasionally, but neither said anything to Tamara. As the room became stifling hot early in the afternoon, Tamara asked if they knew what time she would be called.

  Blau looked at her, and then pointedly did not answer. Tamara looked at Lynch to see if he would be more accommodating. He didn’t even acknowledge that Tamara had spoken.

  So that was how it was going to be.

  Mid-afternoon, another man in a uniform stepped into the room from the courtroom side. He didn’t have a utility belt full of deterrents, but he looked imposing anyway.

  “She’s going to be called next,” he warned. “Probably about twenty minutes.”

  If anything, the next twenty minutes crawled by even slower than the rest of the day. Tamara licked her sandpaper lips and tried to prepare herself. Her stomach was queasy and her head started to spin. She was both glad and irritated that she hadn’t had anything solid to eat all day. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep it down, but she was starting to feel lightheaded. It was probably just the heat. She watched drops of sweat trickle down Blau’s temple. And he was sitting by the fan. Tamara was no longer sweating, but her clothes hung on her damp and limp. She probably looked like something the cat dragged in instead of fresh and neat like she had when she’d first put on the clothes that morning.

  The courtroom door opened again, and the man called in a voice that was intended for the entire courtroom to hear, “Tamara French is called to the stand.”

  Tamara waited, jittery and anxious. Blau used a key to open the cell, took her by the arm, and escorted her across the room to the courtroom. He walked with her right to the witness stand.

  Tamara sat down, only to be told to stand up again so she could be sworn in. She took a nervous glance around the courtroom as she sat down again. Ritter was not sitting at one of the lawyer tables, but in the first row of seats behind them, like he was just part of the audience. Mr. Baker sat at one of the tables with his lawyer. He looked pale and like he’d lost some weight. It made her glad, because it was a good indicator that he was still in prison and not out on bail. She wanted him to suffer for what he had done.

  He had been leaning forward on his elbows whispering with his lawyer, but after Tamara was sworn in and sat down, he and his lawyer both sat back. Mr. Baker leaned way back in his chair, looking at her with an attitude that was both challenging and dismissive. Tamara swallowed and stared into middle distance, not meeting his eyes. She could give him attitude too. She was there to make sure he stayed behind bars. She was strong and confident and she was going to be sure he never got out of prison again.

  Mrs. Baker was there too. Sitting in the row behind the other table. Perfectly bleached and coiffed hair. Clothes that were almost business wear, but showed too much cleavage and skin to make it all the way to conservative. Her lipstick was blood red. She too studied Tamara, evaluating her.

  It was then, even before the first question was put to Tamara, that she started to fall back into the past.

  Mrs. Baker’s eyes were bottomless as ocean depths. Tamara held on to the arms of the chair, keeping herself steady. She looked at the lawyer who sat in front of Mrs. Baker. He was the one who would question her, Ritter had told her. Then the lawyer by Mr. Baker would try to attack Tamara’s testimony and discredit her.

  The lawyer stood up and took a couple of steps toward her, buttoning up a couple of buttons on his suit jacket with one hand. The courtroom was air-conditioned, the air conditioning blowing icy air down Tamara’s back, making her damp clothes clammy against her skin.

  “Tamara, you were a foster child with the Bakers for a year or so, is that correct?”

  Tamara rubbed her goose-bumped arms. “Yeah.”

  “Speak into the mic, please.”

  The guard standing nearby stepped in to adjust the microphone that pointed toward Tamara’s mouth. Tamara nodded and repeated her answer.

  “How did you feel about joining their family?”

  Tamara tried to swallow. She tried to lick her lips and moisten her mouth. But her tongue stuck to everything, dry and tacky. The inside of her mouth was all cleaving together and she couldn’t find her voice.

  The lawyer waited. The judge and the jury and the whole courtroom waited. Tamara tried again to lick her lips. On the first row of the audience, Ritter half-stood. “If we could get the witness a glass of water, your Honor?”

  The judge looked sharply at Ritter. He frowned at Ritter’s dark suit and snazzy blue tie and briefcase. “And you are…?”

  “Bron Ritter, your Honor. Advocate for the witness.”

  “You don’t talk out in my courtroom.”

  “No, your Honor. I apologize.”

  Ritter looked like he was going to sit down, lowering himself toward his seat, but still looking at the judge, waiting for his response.

  “Glass of water,” the judge muttered to the clerk standing nearby.

  In a minute, Tamara was handed a glass of cold water, condensation collecting on the outside. She took a sip, worked it around her mouth, then took a couple of bigger gulps, trying to slake the desert inside her mouth, to little avail.

  “How did you feel about becoming a member of the Baker family?” the prosecutor repeated.

  “I… I was excited. Thought it would be cool… to be part of a real family.” Tamara wiped her forehead with her arm. She was coated with cold sweat. “A mom and dad and two little girls. I thought it would be fun.” Tamara stopped, then continued before she realized he was starting to ask another question. “But it wasn’t.”

  “Pardon?” the lawyer stopped and asked her to repeat herself.

  “It wasn’t. Fun. Like I thought.”

  “And why is that?”

  “He… Mr. Baker…” Tamara took a quick glance at Mr. Baker. Trying to make it too fast for her brain to actually process his face and bring back the memories. “He was trying to get to me right that first day—”

  The other lawyer bellowed out an objection that made Tamara jump. She looked toward the lawyer to see what he was upset about, but her eyes landed on Mr. Baker. He looked at her through lowered lids and licked his lips, a movement that was only meant to be seen by her. Not because his mouth and lips were dry and cracked like hers, but intended to invite her and mock her at the same time. Even in the position he was in, facing the prospect of years in prison, he was still making advances toward her.

  Tamara plunged into the memories like falling into a frigid, bottomless lake. No way to stop or slow herself. She was suddenly in his arms, under his control, forced to do whatever he wanted. She felt herself smothering, gasping for breath, sickened by his demands. Her body hurting from his abuse.

  “Stop,” she begged out loud. She sobbed and swore. “Please, stop, please…!”

  She was aware that she was two places. In the courtroom, silent and still, and back there with him, eleven or twelve, powerless against him.

  “Do you need a moment, Ms. French?”

  She couldn’t answer. She was again powerless and voiceless. There was whispering around her. She tried to focus on her body in the courtroom, like Zobel had prompted her, and to leave the memories behind, but
she couldn’t escape. He was right there in front of her, smirking at her, superior and powerful and bound to get whatever he wanted.

  “Your Honor…?” Ritter tentatively addressed the judge.

  “Go ahead.”

  Ritter was right there in front of her, nudging her glass of water toward her lips and encouraging her to take a drink, murmuring to her in a low voice, his other hand smothering the microphone.

  “You can do this, Tamara,” he said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “Just like we talked about. Just like we went over when we met. You just need to stay calm and focused, and tell them what you saw. Corrine and Julie, remember? This is about them, not you.”

  Tamara sipped the water. She tried to focus on the coldness, to ground herself in the sensations.

  “What he did to me…” she squeaked out.

  “No. What he did to Corinne and Julie. He’s already served his sentence for what he did to you. The more the prosecutor tries to bring that up, the more the defense is going to object. You aren’t going to tell your story here. You’re going to tell them about Corinne and Julie. Just what you saw. Just like you told me.”

  Tamara took another sip of water and gave a little nod. She blinked and watched Ritter as he returned to the seat he had previously occupied. There was silence in the courtroom as Tamara collected herself and looked at the prosecuting attorney, waiting for him to ask her the next question.

  “You didn’t enjoy living with the Bakers?”

  “No,” Tamara agreed in a low voice, leaning close to the mic.

  She tried to keep a narrow focus on the lawyer. She could ignore Mr. and Mrs. Baker; she wasn’t there to talk to them. She was only there to answer the lawyer’s questions.

  “When you lived with them, the Bakers had two children. Can you tell me about them?”

  “Corrine, she was three. And Julie, just a baby, not a year old yet. I was supposed to help to take care of them.”

  “Like a good big sister.”

  Tamara looked at the lawyer, then looked at Ritter. He hadn’t really asked anything, so Tamara didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say to that. She hadn’t been like a good big sister to the girls. She’d been like a slave. As much as she tried to love and care for them, she also hated them. Every time one of them cried, she was terrified of Mr. and Mrs. Baker’s reactions. If either of them thought she was neglecting or hurting her charges, there would be consequences. Tamara stared at the lawyer, trying to shut out everything else, but she could see Mrs. Baker behind him. Mrs. Baker, who was like a wild animal when enraged. She wasn’t a delicate little woman. She could easily take Mr. Baker down. A skinny little twelve-year-old didn’t stand a chance against her attacks.

  “Tamara.”

  Tamara cleared her throat.

  “Yeah?” she whispered.

  “You spent a lot of time helping take care of your foster sisters.”

  “Yes. Whenever I wasn’t in school.”

  Her sisters. Tamara had never thought of them as her sisters. She knew that the lawyer was playing with words. Her ‘sisters.’ ‘Helping take care of’ them instead of being forced to take on more responsibility than she could manage. As if she had been that ‘good big sister’ that he had mentioned. He was trying to paint a picture for the jury. One that he and Tamara knew very well was not accurate—but he wanted the jury to see her as a helpful big sister for a reason.

  “Did you ever see either of the Bakers hit their little girls?”

  Tamara shivered with cold. “No.”

  “Did they appear to love their children?”

  Tamara gripped hard to the arms of the chair. After giving her a minute to think about her answer, the lawyer prompted her again.

  “Did the Bakers give the appearance of loving and caring for their children?”

  Tamara looked at Ritter for the answer. He hadn’t told her how to answer that question. He gave her no signal, waiting, like the courtroom, for Tamara’s response. Tamara looked at the judge, leaning forward over his desk to watch her. He raised an interrogating eyebrow.

  “Ms. French. Please answer my question.”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  There was a murmur in the audience watching the trial.

  “Did they… ensure that they were fed, and clean, and dressed appropriately for the weather?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the children were not physically neglected or beaten.”

  “No.”

  “Did they yell at the children or use verbally abusive language?”

  Tamara shifted her position and rubbed her cold arms. “Um… sometimes…”

  The prosecutor raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised at her response, but he continued smoothly, not drawing attention to the fact.

  “Did they spend time playing with or reading to the children?”

  Tamara’s guts were tied in knots as she saw Mr. Baker in bed with Corrine, cuddled up close under the covers with her while he read her bedtime stories. She nodded, tears flooding her eyes.

  “You need to answer out loud.”

  Tamara nodded again, swallowed, and tried to clear her voice so she could produce a sound. “Yes.” It came out in barely a whisper, but he didn’t censure her.

  “And did you become aware at some point that there was something wrong with Mr. Baker’s relationship and care for his daughters?”

  There was an immediate objection from Mr. Baker’s lawyer and some legal argument back and forth that Tamara didn’t try to follow. In spite of the chill of the courtroom, she was suddenly sweating again and all of the water that was sitting in her stomach threatened to come back up. Tamara stood, looking for some escape. Back to the anteroom or to a restroom. Somewhere, anywhere other than stuck in that room with Mr. and Mrs. Baker looking at her, having to describe what Mr. Baker had done. Blau stepped closer, gesturing for her to sit down.

  “I don’t feel good,” Tamara objected. “I have to go!”

  When she tried to push by him to get into the other room, he grabbed her arm and wrenched her back. “Sit down!” he insisted, pointing to the chair. “You’re not done.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Sit.”

  The courtroom was loud with people all talking at once. The judge was banging his gavel down over and over again, shouting for order. When the spectators settled down, the judge turned his steely gaze to Tamara.

  “Young lady. You are not finished your testimony and you have not been cross-examined. Take your seat.”

  Tamara hugged her stomach. “I’m sick, I can’t,” she moaned.

  “You can and you will.”

  Blau grabbed Tamara’s shoulder and shoved her in the direction of the seat. Tamara wiped at tears and sweat on her face.

  “Please…”

  “Mr. Ritter,” the judge looked for the lawyer in the audience. “Can you please direct your client.”

  Ritter emerged from the spectator seats and approached Tamara, his eyes wide and uncertain. Dealing with a freaking-out client was apparently not part of his usual job description. He stood in front of Tamara, arms held away from his body like he was either holding back the audience or preparing to catch her as she darted past like a spooked horse. He blocked her vision of both Bakers, looking steadily into Tamara’s face.

  “Tamara. It’s okay. We talked about this. Just like when you and I met, you need to talk about what you saw. Don’t worry about the objections. The prosecutor will ask you a question you can answer and you just tell them what you told me.”

  “I’m sick. I don’t feel good. I have to get out of here.”

  He was remembering, she was sure, how she had fled the interview at juvie to throw up. He looked at the judge uncertainly, weighing his options.

  “Would it be possible to get a recess, your Honor, so that Miss French could have a minute…?”

  “No, it would not. Let’s get to this.”

  “Sit down,” Ritter urged. “You’ll feel better once it’s do
ne. Don’t draw it out any longer than necessary.”

  “I can’t,” Tamara moaned again, but she sat down in the witness box again. She sat with both arms over her stomach, breathing shallowly, trying to keep her body under control.

  Ritter and the guard both hovered close by, making sure she wasn’t going to flee. After a few moments of silence, Ritter went back to his chair, giving Tamara what he obviously intended to be a reassuring smile.

  The prosecutor was speaking again. Tamara’s eyes glazed and she couldn’t hear what he was asking. She didn’t look in his direction, not wanting to look at Mrs. Baker again. Mrs. Baker was going to be mad if Tamara told about Mr. Baker. She would whip Tamara within an inch of her life and then they would turn her back to social services, and Tamara would have nowhere to live. No family, no home, no one wanted her anymore. Tears streamed down Tamara’s face. She put her face in her arm, resting it on the edge of the witness box.

  The lawyer got closer, centering himself in front of Tamara, standing uncomfortably close and repeating his questions. But it was like he was underwater. Tamara couldn’t hear them clearly. She was in the past, not the present; what he said and did didn’t matter. Only what Tamara did. If she did what she was told and kept her stupid mouth shut.

  The prosecutor was complaining to the judge that he couldn’t get any more out of her. The defense attorney jumped up and started yelling that nothing Tamara had said before or during the trial could be used and that all of the evidence was tainted. Then even Mrs. Baker was on her feet, her voice rising like a siren.

  “If the brat’s not testifying and none of the evidence can be used then I’m sure as hell not testifying!”

  The courtroom was in chaos. Ritter stood to try to talk to Tamara again, but there were more guards in the room than there had been and they prevented him from approaching.