Mommy met the man in church. In a holy place.
He came into their lives, moved into their house. He took them wonderful places: the zoo, the park for picnics, into the country for a pony ride. She loved him. She was his little princess.
It started when Mommy was out working. Mommy worked nights. She was a waitress.
It started as a game. First she liked it. Warm and gentle and sweet. But then the secrets came. Ugly, dark secrets.
The pressure got too strong for her little–girl heart. She started wetting the bed, her grades fell way off in school. Then the night terrors came.
She told a friend at school. Her friend told her mother. And the evil came to the surface.
The man was in jail, awaiting trial. Her mother had thrown him out, called the police.
And every night, mother and daughter huddled together, afraid of his magic.
It went on a long time but I never moved. I'm good at it. I learned in all the right places. Reform school. Prison. In Africa, where a quiet man in a rich suit I met in a Houston hotel room sent me.
The Jamaican woman was talking urgently to the little girl now, one hand on the child's shoulders, the red–lacquered nails like talons, guarding.
2
Is it magic you want, my child? I have magic. True magic. Magic I learned from my mother, who learned from her mother. Look in my garden, see?"
The child's face turned. "It's all stones," she said.
And it was. A rock garden, set into a long slab of polished butcher's block. On a miniature scale, the boulders no bigger than my fist, the pebbles as tiny as grains of sand.
"Magic stones, child. Each has great power. But the power comes from choice, you understand? Let your soul guide you. Close your eyes, now. Take a stone from the garden. It will always protect you, I know this."
The little girl hesitated. I felt the waves of encouragement even outside the room. Finally, she closed her eyes and reached out a tiny hand, feeling her way, guided by trust. Her hand closed on a small stone…it looked like rose quartz.
"Look at it," the Jamaican woman told her. "Hold it in your hand. Feel how warm it is? That is the power. All you will need. And you can keep it with you, child. When you testify in court, hold it in your hand. It is magic, true magic."
The little girl's smile was fragile, holding the stone.
3
It took almost another hour before they were done. I watched as a police matron came for the little girl. The guard at the desk nodded his head curtly at me.
"Go on, you waited long enough."
I stepped inside the playroom. The Jamaican woman stood, held out her hand for me to shake. Her grip was strong, dry. Like her eyes.
"Mister…ah, Cross, is it?"
"Yes."
"How can I help you?"
"I'm the child's father."
Her eyes hardened, black fires in her mahogany face. "The child's biological father, you mean."
"Yeah."
"You've never met her?"
"No."
"But you know she's yours?"
"I sent money…."
"Yes, so you did," she said, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. "For a little more than three years, and then the payments stopped."
"I was inside."
"I know. It's all here. Five years. A payroll robbery, wasn't it?"
"That's what the court said."
"Are you saying you were innocents'
"No. I'm not saying anything. A little rat said it all, and got a walk–away out of it. I did my time, paid what I owed."
"And now you've returned to your…profession?"
"I'm out of work. Just looking around."
She waved the sheaf of papers in my face again, like a talisman to ward off evil spirits. "According to this information, work isn't something you do very often, Mr. Cross."
"Check those papers of yours—I've never been on Welfare."
"No, you've not, have you? Let's see, now…two convictions for armed robbery, one for assault with intent to murder. And you've worked as a mercenary, too." She said the word mercenary like it was coated with maggots.
"I didn't come here for this."
"What do you want?"
"To see if there's anything I can do…to help."
"A bit late for that, isn't it?"
"Not for justice."
"Oh, it's justice you wants Seems to me you're a bit ill–equipped to play at that game."
"Maybe better than giving the child a voodoo story about magic stones."
"You fight the Devil with the Devil, Mr. Cross. And it will work. Watch and see."
4
I did watch. Watched the little girl testify in court, her tiny hand clutching the magic stone. The defense attorney hammered away at her, like a sweating, fat pig, boring for truffles. But she stuck it out—he couldn't change the truth. I was proud of her.
I saw her mother across the courtroom, but I didn't move toward her. Saw her take my daughter's hand and lead her away after it was over.
They looked so alike in my eyes.
5
When it came time for sentencing, the courtroom was near empty. The case hadn't made the papers—I guess it was no big deal.
The defense attorney put an expert on the stand. This expert, he was a doctor of some kind. He told the court the man was sick. A pedophile, that's what he called him. Said he'd done a couple of dozen children the way he'd done little Mary. A sickness in him, couldn't be helped. But they had this program he could go into, fix him right up. So he'd be okay.
The D.A. wanted him to go to prison, but the judge said a lot of stuff about mental illness and let him off with probation. Said he had to attend this special program. He could barely keep the smile off his face when he thanked the judge.
6
I can't make up for it, I know. There's only so much I know about life—I'm a thief.
Two weeks later I went into the building where they interview the abused kids. The ladder was in my pocket—a couple of hundred yards of dental floss, woven into a rope. I went up the side of the building like it was a staircase.
They don't even lock the windows on the fourth floor. I found the Jamaican woman's playroom with my pencil flash. The lock yielded in an eye–blink.
I filled my pocket with stones from her garden.
7
It took me another five days to find the man's address, watch his movements, get the timing right.
It's almost midnight now. Dark inside his apartment building too—I unscrewed the light bulbs in the hallway. I'm waiting on the landing just outside his door. Waiting for him to come home from his therapy group.
Waiting with a sock full of magic stones.
The Promise
I got a Legal Aid lawyer. Just like the last time. Young dude. White. Nice suit.
He told me I was busted 'cause this is a racist society.
The Probation Officer is this old man. Maybe forty. Tired old white man. Losing his hair in front. Sorry old suit, don't even fit him right.
I told him the girl was riding through the park on her bicycle. She said something nasty to me, so I threw this bottle at her. Didn't even hit her. She called the cops. I was right there when they came.
PO said the girl said she didn't say nothing to me. I told him she was a lying cunt.
PO didn't say nothing after that.
Girl was riding through the park on her pretty red bicycle. Never even looked at me with her eyes but I know she was laughing inside. I said hello to her, and she went past like I wasn't there. Bent over the handlebars, her ass bouncing in the air like she was telling me to kiss it. I threw the bottle as hard as I could. Right at her fucking head.
Women laugh at me like that all the time.
I got to see the judge tomorrow. Some old man in a black robe. Won't even look at me.
I'll tell him I never meant nothing. Say I'm sorry about the whole thing. It won't take long.
They'll probably send m
e to counseling again.
One night I'll catch one of those bitches alone.
The Unwritten Law
Sometimes it's easy, but this time Joanne didn't even have her clothes off. I sprayed a lot of shots around the plush private office, making sure the first one got him in the back of the head. Then I dropped the pistol, slumped in a chair like my life was over.
Joanne stripped real fast, tossing her clothes on the leather couch, the black garter belt and push–up bra floating on top of the conservative gray business suit. Still in her black stockings, she took care of the other guy, leaving only his calf–height argyle socks.
Head wounds don't bleed much. She stuck her finger in the opening, painted a little splatter on one cheek. Then she crawled over in a corner, wrapped herself in his suit jacket.
By the time the cops came in the door, she was trembling.
"Oh Christ." the first cop said, looking at the body. "That's Gerald Lee Ransom."
At the police station, they took me and my wife into separate rooms. Read me my rights. I kept mumbling how I didn't care anymore. My wife would be telling them how I turned the gun on myself when I was finished, held it right against my temple, pulled the trigger over and over again on the empty cylinder.
The cops let me smoke, asked me if I wanted anything to eat. If I wanted a lawyer.
I told them it didn't matter now. I'd suspected Joanne for weeks. Whispered conversations on the phone, hang–ups when I answered it myself some nights. A motel key in her purse. Expensive jewelry we couldn't afford—I'm a commission salesman and I wasn't making that much. One day I was so discouraged, I came home early. The back bedroom smelled like sex. I slapped her around then, I admitted that. But she never confessed, never told me the truth. The night it happened, I told her I had to go to a sales meeting, but it wasn't true. I waited down the block. When I saw her car leave, I followed. Right to the big office tower. I knew where she was going. She's an interior decorator—I'd heard her talk about "Gerry" before…how she was going to redo his whole office, give him a giant discount, get him to talk about her work to all his big business pals. I knew it was a lie.
Was I going to kill her too? the cops wanted to know. I told them I didn't know what I was going to do, maybe just throw a scare into him, tell him to stay away from my wife. But when I saw them together, her bent over his big desk, her butt in the air like that, him plunging into her from behind like a dog…the noises she was making…it all went red.
I was in jail almost six months before the trial started. Pleaded Not Guilty. Temporary Insanity. Ransom's wife said she knew he'd been sneaking around, just not with who. My wife admitted the affair. Admitted others too. She cried on the witness stand, said she didn't know what was wrong with her—she'd always been like that.
There were three women on the jury. They watched as Joanne crossed her legs, flashing her round thighs for everyone to see. They didn't believe her, the slut.
My lawyer never mentioned The Unwritten Law, just told the jury I was a good man, unhinged by a cheating, scheming whore of a wife. I'd never been in trouble before. They acquitted me of murder, found me guilty of manslaughter.
The judge gave me three years in the state pen. Ransom's wife got all his money. Joanne left town
She'll be waiting for me when I get out. A million dollars isn't bad pay for three years at hard labor. Ransom's wife will pay the money as soon as the estate is settled and she can convert some of it into cash.
And if she balks, Joanne will play the tapes for her.
Treatment
I
The prosecutor was a youngish man, better dressed than his government salary would warrant, ambition shining on his clean shaven face. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand, waving them for emphasis as though the jury were still in the courtroom.
"Doctor, are you trying to tell this court that it should leave a convicted child molester free in the community? Is that what you're sayings'
I took a shallow breath through my nose, centering myself, reaching for calm. "No, Mr. Montgomery, that is what you are saying. The defendant suffers from pedophilia. That is, he is subject to intense, recurrent sexual urges and sexually arousing fantasies involving sexual activity with prepubescent children."
"Fancy words, doctor, but they all come down to the same thing, don't they? The defendant is a homosexual who preys on little boys…isn't that right?"
"No, it is not right. In fact, your statement is rather typical of the ignorance of the law enforcement community when it comes to any of the paraphilias. A homosexual is an individual whose sexual preference is for those of his or her own gender.
Such a preference is not a disorder, unless such feelings are dystonic to the individual…and that is relatively rare. You would not call a man who engaged in sexual activity with young girls a heterosexual offender, would you? Of course not. The root of much of the hostility against pedophiles is, actually, nothing more than thinly veiled homophobia."
The prosecutor's face flushed angrily. "Are you saying the State has prosecuted this offender because of homophobia, doctor?"
"It is surely a factor in the equation. Isn't it true that you personally believe homosexuals are 'sick,' sir?"
"They are! I…I'll ask the questions here, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind. I was trying to answer your questions more fully, to give the court a better understanding of the phenomena involved. If you check the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association, you will see that homosexuality is not listed as a disorder. Pedophilia is. The specific code, for your information, is 302.20. Homosexuality is present at birth. Hard–wired, if you will. Sexual activity with children is, on the other hand, volitional conduct."
"And they're not born that way?"
"No. There is no biogenetic code for pedophilia. The essential etiology is an early sexual experience—those you would call perpetrators began as those you would call victims. Once infected, the victim learns to wear a mask. They are capable of the most complex planning, often with great patience."
"So every child who is molested becomes a molester?"
"Certainly not. Some do, some don't. As I explained, it essentially comes down to a matter of choice. No matter what a person's circumstances, he always owns his own behavior."
"So, then…what does this manual of yours say about recidivism, doctor?"
"That's a good question. The course of the disorder is usually chronic, especially among pedophiles fixated upon the same sex. Recidivism, however, fluctuates with psychosocial stress—the more intense the stress, the more likely there will be a recurrence."
"So you admit offenders like Mr. Wilson here are more likely to commit new crimes?"
"All things being equal, yes. However, we don't treat such individuals with conventional psychotherapy. We understand the chronicity of their behavior, and it is the goal of treatment to interdict that behavior. To control their conduct, not their thoughts. I am completing my research for a journal entry now, but all the preliminary data indicate an extremely high rate of success. That is, with proper treatment."
"This 'treatment' of yours, doctor…it doesn't include prison, does it?"
"No, it does not. Incarceration is counterindicated for pedophiles. The sentences, as you know, are relatively short. And the degree of psychosocial stress in prison for such individuals is incalculable. In fact, studies show the recidivism rate for previously incarcerated pedophiles is extraordinarily high."
"But he wouldn't be molesting children in prison, would he?"
"I understand your question to be rhetorical, sir, but the real issue is long–term protection of the community, not temporary incapacitation. Even when therapy is offered in prison, and it rarely is, it is an axiom of our profession that coercive therapy is doomed to failure. No treatment is perfect, but we know this: the patient must be a participant in treatment, not a mere recipient of it."
The judge leaned down from the bench. Wi
th his thick mane of white hair and rimless glasses, he looked like Central Casting for the part.
"Doctor, so what you're saying is that motivation is the key?"
"Yes I am, your honor. And Mr. Wilson has displayed a high level of such motivation. In fact, he consulted our program before he was ever arrested, much less convicted."
The prosecutor slapped the table in front of him. "Sure! But he knew he was about to be indicted, didn't he, doctor?"
"I have no way of knowing what was in his mind," I replied mildly. "And the source of the motivation is far less significant that its presence."
"So what's this 'cure,' doctor? What's this wonderful 'treatment' of yours?"
"The treatment is multimodality. Not all pedophiles respond to the same inputs. We use groupwork, confrontation, aversive therapy, insight–orientation, conditioning, even libido–reducing drugs when indicated."
"How much were you paid for your testimony today, doctor?"
The defense attorney leaped to his feet. "Objection! That isn't relevant."
"Oh, I think I'll allow it," the judge said. "You may answer the question, doctor."
"I was paid nothing for my testimony today, sir. I evaluated Mr. Wilson, provided a report to his attorney, a copy of which has been furnished to you. I charge my time at seventy–five dollars an hour. I haven't sent in a bill yet, but I imagine the total will come to around fifteen hundred dollars."
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