Behind His Eyes - Convicted: The Missing Years

by Aleatha Romig

  “What do you think?”

  “I think what I’ve thought before. I fuck’n hate having questions answered with questions.”

  “Okay, tell me why you aren’t convinced she sounded happy.”

  The soft soles of his shoes muffled his footsteps as he traveled from one side of the office to the other. “I’d just proposed. I was in the office making arrangements, and she was scared to walk in.” His dark eyes shot darts toward his therapist. “Didn’t you hear that? She was fuck’n petrified to knock on the damn door.”

  “Would she have needed to knock?”

  Tony’s eyes opened wide at the question. Well, yes, she would… but later, after their divorce, she wouldn’t have. Fuck! He’d never thought of it like that before.

  “Anthony, would she have been required to knock?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would have happened if she knocked without being asked to your office, say… upon her arrival to your estate?”

  Tony dropped back into the chair, his gaze once again transfixed beyond his counselor’s eyes as his jaws clenched pulsating the muscles in his neck. Finally, he replied, “We’ve been through that shit. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to fuck’n read anymore of the damn book. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “No. I want to talk about this.”

  Tony’s hands clenched in an attempt to rein in the red. Glaring with what Tony was sure was what Claire referred to as his dark gaze, he stared at Jim.

  “How often do you hear that word?”

  “I hear it too often.”

  “Now you do. What about before? What about during the time of this book? Did anyone tell you no?”

  “No,” Tony replied.

  “How did you feel back then?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have someone who stared at me three times a week asking me about my damn feelings. I just did. I just was. I didn’t think about it.”

  “Did you think about what Claire was feeling?”

  “I told you I want to talk about something else. I wrote the letter that you said I should.”

  Jim’s words slowed dramatically. “Anthony, did you think about Claire’s feelings?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Jim’s brows rose questioningly.

  “Like during the proposal. I wondered what she was thinking and feeling.”

  “So now you have an idea. What do you think?”

  “I don’t want to think about it. All right?” Tony replied. “I don’t want to think about how she felt like a whore. I hate even saying that word. She wasn’t!”

  “Is that you talking now, or how you felt back then?”

  “I never thought of her as a whore.”

  “How did you think of her?”

  The moisture burnt Tony’s eyes. He stood and walked back to the window. Snow had begun to fall. It was almost the fourth anniversary of his first wedding, almost Nichol’s first birthday, and almost Christmas, and he was stuck in a freak’n hellhole.

  “Anthony?” Jim didn’t repeat the question.

  “I thought of her as an acquisition. She’s used that word in the book because I told her that—later.”

  “What did you tell her in the beginning?”

  The red threatened again. Tony had said this before. What was the damn point of repeating it?

  Jim cleared his throat, as he stood and began walking around the desk. “I believe you told me that you didn’t like to repeat yourself.” Stepping next to Tony, looking out the window, he added, “Neither do I.”

  “I told her that I owned her. She belonged to me. I made her repeat it.” Tony turned on his heels. “That didn’t mean she was a whore!”

  “If you would’ve known the way she felt, what would you have done?”

  He closed his eyes. “Today, I’d take her in my arms and convince her that she was wrong, that she deserved all the love and respect, and to keep her chin held high because she had nothing to ever be ashamed of. She was never a whore. She’s always been my queen. In our fuck’n wasted game of chess, the king can survive without the queen, but he doesn’t want to—he needs her.”

  “That’s today. What would you have done and said on that morning after you proposed?”

  Tony sighed. “How the fuck should I know? I don’t remember.”

  “Anthony, we have few rules in this office. You’re allowed more liberties with your speech, demeanor, and even your movement than anywhere else. That’s because I want you to be comfortable enough to talk. But do not lie. If I ask you a question, I want the truth.”

  “Even though I demanded that same thing of her back then, I don’t think she would have told me.”

  “But if she had?”

  Tony shook his head. “I’m not lying. I don’t know what I would have done. I probably would have told her she was wrong and chastised her for not behaving like a future Rawlings. A Rawlings would never be self-deprecating.”

  Jim glanced at his watch. “One more thing before our time’s up: Claire said something else in that passage that I’d like you to think about between now and our next session.”

  Tony didn’t want to think about any of it. “What?” he asked.

  Jim smirked. “Is it just me, or is it Yankton that has taken away your predilection for using complete sentences?”

  “What do you want me to think about?” he corrected.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Twenty-six weeks and four days,” Tony answered matter-of-factly.

  “So, about six and a half months. What did Claire say, in what you just read, that had happened to her in only eight months?”

  Tony contemplated. “Something about not having her own thoughts and conforming to what I wanted.”

  “How would it feel to be forced to do that? Forced to conform your previous way of life to someone else’s rules and direction?”

  It didn’t take a genius to know where Jim was going. “I don’t need to think about it,” Tony replied. “It sucks.”

  “I’d like you to think about it. Think about the guards and the corrections officers. Think about their roles and yours. Then think about how Claire was feeling. When you come back, tell me exactly why she didn’t knock on that door. Then, without the aid of continuing your reading, I want you to tell me what happened when you went to the suite.”

  “It sounds like you’ve read ahead. It sounds like you know.”

  Jim shrugged. “We’ve found a few things in this book that you’ve contested as accurate. Let’s see how true the next scene is.”

  “We talked about the wedding plans and made love. Then I surprised her with her sister and brother-in-law.”

  “Next time.” Jim stepped back behind the desk and looked up, meeting Tony’s gaze. “Also, think about our definitions. Having sex and making love aren’t the same thing. Think about it.”

  As Tony made his way back to his dormitory, he wondered what the fuck there was to think about, besides the fact that it was almost 4:00 PM, and he had to be back and present for the standing count. As he hurried from one building to the other, Jim’s words came back. What was Claire thinking?

  Tony wanted to go back and ask him to clarify. He wanted to go get that damn book and throw it in the incinerator. He wanted to do many things, none of which included standing by his bunk and being counted. Was that how Claire felt?

  Spring had finally sprung and the South Dakota air was warm enough for outside visitation. Tony liked sitting outside with his visitors much better than being cramped inside. For one thing, with the openness and fresh breeze, it seemed more private. That was an illusion: nothing at Yankton was private. Nonetheless, as Patricia sat across the small table from him and recited numbers and proposals, the illusion felt real. For a brief moment in time, he was living his old life.

  The winter had been hard. Not only had the weather been exceptionally cold, the dormant landscape, as well as Roach’s reports about Claire, all worked to add to his f
unk. Jim even recommended medication. He said that it wasn’t unusual for prisoners to become depressed. Though he made it seem acceptable, Tony’s thoughts went back to his grandfather. The antidepressants in conjunction with his other medication created symptoms of dementia. Tony didn’t want that. He was having enough trouble remembering Claire and Nichol.

  No. That wasn’t true. He remembered everything about them, except now and then he’d think about the scent of baby powder and forget the fragrance. Or another wife would bring in a young child and Tony would wonder about Nichol. How big was she? What was she doing? Courtney sent pictures whenever she could. No one was allowed to bring cell phones near the prisoners. Visitors weren’t even allowed to bring papers or pencils; however, she could mail them. As much as he appreciated it, each time he looked at the images of his sixteen-month-old daughter walking or laughing, another piece of his heart broke. If he was having trouble remembering how she felt in his arms, he had little doubt that she’d completely forgotten him. His stomach twisted at the thought. In her young mind, John was her father. No one had to say that to Tony—he knew.

  As if that wasn’t enough, Roach’s reports were the same. He’d found a source inside of Everwood who was willing to divulge information—at least some. It seemed as though Claire was a mystery to most of the residents and staff. They saw her from afar. Yet, she never joined the other patients in group activities or even in the dining hall. According to Roach’s source, Claire was treated with kid gloves and well cared for. Her needs were met in every way. The source said that Nichol hadn’t been to visit in the last few months. Since Emily never entered Nichol’s name on the registry, it was difficult for Roach to confirm or deny. Now that the weather was improving, he could report that the nanny had both children outside and to the park while Emily was at Everwood.

  Tony’s request to work in the business office had been granted. He’d endured it for most of the winter months, but it hadn’t been what he’d expected. It was clerical. He was a damn secretary—not an assistant, like Patricia, not someone who had a thought or an opinion. No. For $0.17 an hour he filed papers and filled out invoices. As soon as they began planting the flower seeds in the greenhouse in Tony’s horticulture class, he put in for a transfer. Now, his job was landscaping. It was a great way to combine his new knowledge of plants with his job. Perhaps because he had acquired the knowledge through Yankton, the supervising staff actually asked for and accepted his suggestions. It was a joke that he could recommend a geranium versus an impatiens based on the amount of sun exposure and they’d listen, yet in the business office where he’d made a fortune outside of these walls, they weren’t interested in what he had to say.

  Patricia continued her information dump. “Mr. Bronson said to tell you that Bakers in Chicago accepted the first proposal. He’d been prepared to increase the bid, but they bit at the first offer.”

  Tony shook his head. “Maybe it was too high?”

  “Oh, he didn’t think so.” She leaned forward. “It was all about timing. They had a balloon payment coming due…”

  He listened as she gave more details.

  “I almost forgot,” Patricia said with a grin. “A remarkable offer came in the other week to purchase a small company… in Pennsylvania, I think. Darn, it’s hard without notes. But it was almost too good to believe. The company’s been doing all right but there’s no reason to hold on to it.”

  She had his attention. “What’s the name of the company?” Tony asked.

  Pressing her lips together, she pondered. “Mar-tins? No Mar—”

  “Marque?”

  “Yes! In Pennsylvania.” Her eyes lit up. “That’s it. It only employs about a hundred people.”

  “A hundred and twenty-six, the last time I looked,” Tony corrected. “No. The company can’t be sold.”

  “But—”

  “No.” His baritone voice deepened. “Tell Tim I said absolutely not. I don’t care if someone offers ten times its worth. I will not sell.”

  She reached across the table and gently touched his hand. “Anthony, Mr. Bronson’s made some great decisions that have kept Rawlings Industries strong. He doesn’t believe—”

  Tony pulled his hand away. “Don’t treat me like a child. I’m well aware of the chaos I’ve created. The answer regarding Marque is still no.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rawlings, I’ll let him know.”

  When her brown eyes looked down into her lap, Tony realized the tone of voice he’d used. In many ways he liked it—it felt good. He hadn’t used that tone in almost a year. However, the expression on his assistant’s face washed away his momentary relish. Tony lightly touched her arm, and she glanced his way. “Patricia, I appreciate your traveling all this way to keep me up to date. I’m sorry I barked. Marque has special meaning to me, and I don’t want it sold.”

  Her eyes softened as she smiled. “I really don’t mind traveling. I’m glad to help. I hope you know, Anthony, that I’d do anything you need me to do. I’m happy to help you to not be so lonely.”

  The way her dark hair blew around her face in the gentle breeze reminded Tony of Claire. He pressed his lips together and grinned. “You’ve been great. Thank you. Just tell Tim I said no about Marque. If he wants to discuss it further, he can when he visits again.”

  “I will, and I can come here more often if you’d like. I mean, I don’t need to always fly. It’s only a five-hour drive. I could come up and stay overnight. I read that in the warmer months visitors can come on Saturday and Sunday.”

  Tony shook his head in refusal. “I would never ask that. You have a job, a demanding boss, and a life. You don’t need to waste an entire weekend in nowhere South Dakota.”

  She reached out again. They’d both read the visiting rules. Touch was limited to the beginning and end of each visit. Rules were to be followed or the visitor would be banned and the prisoner punished. “Right now I’m still helping Mr. Vandersol get better acquainted with Rawlings Industries.”

  “Brent said he’s doing well.”

  “You really don’t mind having him work there?”

  “I don’t.” His voice deepened. “Don’t let his past with me influence your opinion. You know a lot about the company, and he could use your help.”

  Patricia shrugged. “If that’s what you want. What about the stuff last year?”

  Tony’s brows rose.

  “The packages you told me to watch out for, the ones addressed to Rawls-Nichols?”

  “What about them?”

  “Is that something Mr. Vandersol should know?”

  “No,” Tony replied. “Why would you even ask?”

  “Well, he asks a lot of questions. I wondered if it would help him understand what happened.”

  Tony wasn’t sure where this was all going. “What do you mean?”

  “You were worried about the packages and said that you didn’t want them scaring Mrs. Rawlings, then she left. I just figured—”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Again her eyes fluttered to her lap.

  “That’s all over. John doesn’t need to know about it, and you don’t need to worry about it.”

  Patricia closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I love the smell of springtime.”

  Tony agreed.

  When their time was up, Patricia touched his hand again. “I meant what I said. And I don’t think my boss is too demanding. It’s not demanding when I want to do it.”

  “Thank you. I’m not demanding or asking. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But I do, Anthony. I do.”

  It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.

  —Mark Twain

  After what seemed like a lifetime, it was finally time for the opening statements of Catherine London’s trial. Tony had already served over a year of his sentence for his crimes, and hers were finally making it to the light of court. It wasn’t that there hadn’t been pretrial motions—there had. Catherine’s attorney had filed alm
ost every one possible. They’d requested a change in venue, to no avail. They’d filed challenge after challenge to the evidence and the witnesses. There was a plethora of expert witnesses who were expected to testify for the prosecution. Catherine’s attorneys had challenged every one of them. At one point they’d even attempted to have the charges dismissed. Since the grand jury had convened and found probable cause, the likelihood of a dismissal was low; nevertheless, they gave it a shot. It seemed like her attorneys were following a handbook on how to delay trial proceedings and checking each box as they went.

  It wasn’t only the defense that filed a pretrial motion. The prosecution filed a request for a gag order. It seemed as though Catherine had no issue with telling the world about her sordid history: however, her story wasn’t hers alone. The gag order on her trial was part of Tony’s plea agreement. He argued that by releasing the information of her trial, it would negatively affect thousands and thousands of workers. Though technically libel and slander were considered civil charges, being part of his plea in conjunction with his sworn testimony against Catherine the order was granted. As Brent, Courtney, Emily, and John all sat and prepared to listen to the government present their opening statement, Brent feared what they’d all learn. It was, after all, the government’s job to prove burden of guilt. From what little Brent knew of the case, they’d done their homework.

  Originally, he assumed that Emily and John would be sequestered from the courtroom. However, during the negotiations, the US government decided to concentrate on the murder charges and dropped the attempted murder of John, Emily, and Claire. Their reasoning was that although John and Emily were locked in the room, the intent to harm was difficult to prove. There was no evidence verifying that Catherine had been the one who placed the poison-laced water bottles in the suite. While Catherine admitted to starting the fire in her own fireplace, the spread of the fire was deemed accidental. There was no longer a reason why either of the Vandersols would be called to testify. Therefore, sequestering was no longer a concern. John applied for special dispensation: after all, Catherine was accused of killing Emily’s parents as well as her grandfather. It was granted and they were now able to attend each and every day of the trial.