by Shenda Paul
20
During Samuel’s visit, I deliberately avoided the news, but now, with him gone, I’m back to anxiously watching and reading. In the latest report, I learn that a judge ruled that both Marcus and Caius have cases to answer. Joseph, it’s said, waived his right to a hearing, but his trial will go ahead. Then, in closing, the newscaster reminds viewers of Justin’s trial date and the fact that the station will be providing full coverage of events as they unfold.
Amy calls later that evening. “Guess what?” she asks excitedly but continues before I respond.
“Adam Thorne’s interviewed Natasha!” she says, dropping the bombshell as if it’s something to be celebrated. Natasha Perkins is no fan of mine, and I can’t imagine her saying anything good about me. In fact, I have no doubt that she eagerly divulged whatever she knows about Justin and me. The very thought of her providing Adam Thorne with more ammunition makes my stomach turn.
“Amy, why would I be happy to hear that?” I ask, irritation flaring.
“You said if other escorts were interviewed, it would mean they’re not only after you,” she says, and I instantly regret my impatience. Amy doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.
“I did say that, but Natasha hates me. I’m sure whatever she said isn’t going to help.”
“She’s just jealous.”
“I’m not worried about her feelings; it’s what she’s said because of them that concerns me.”
“Well, I told them good things, so that must cancel what she said, right?”
“I hope so,” I tell her, wanting to end the discussion, but she’s on a roll and repeats every detail she learned from Natasha, including how she tried to ‘charm Adam Thorne,’ but that, much to Natasha’s disappointment, he didn’t respond. That comment, of course, leads to Amy talking about his physical attributes.
I pretend to listen, but my mind’s occupied with the fact that it’s becoming increasingly apparent that I’ll be forced to testify. When that happens, I’ll have to keep my promise to Samuel and tell Mom.
To keep myself occupied, I offer to work more shifts at Starbucks and spend as much time at the studio as I can. Watching the enthusiasm and innocence of my students has become bittersweet. It evokes so many happy memories, but it’s also a reminder of what I’ve lost, how different my life could have been.
On Monday, a week after Samuel’s visit, I receive a call from the DA’s office, requesting a second interview. I have no choice but to comply and agree to a meeting at five on Wednesday. The contact leaves me even more anxious, and I spend the next days battling my growing fear.
I choose my outfit with the same care as before and wear a slim-fitting, dove-gray dress, teamed with my black open-toed pumps. My hair’s loose and, again, in an attempt to amp up my confidence, I paint my lips red. Then, despite my outward poise, I leave my apartment feeling like I’m about to meet my doom.
I don’t expect this meeting to be any different from my other encounters with Adam Thorne. He despises me, and I think he’s obnoxious. His opinion shouldn’t matter this much, I know, but his blatant disdain stings. And, for some inconceivable reason, he both attracts and repels me. It’s terribly confusing, but whatever my inner turmoil, I can’t let him know. At the faintest whiff of weakness, he’ll go in for the kill, like the highly trained legal bloodhound he is.
The door to the meeting room opens, and a petite, dark-haired and extremely attractive woman walks in. My sense of reprieve is short-lived, however, because Adam Thorne enters close on her heels. My stomach flips with the disorienting feeling his presence always brings. I try to look impassive, but I’m not sure I succeed.
“Ms. Bain, thank you for coming in again,” he says cordially, stepping around his companion. “This is my colleague, Assistant District Attorney Jodi Maddox.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Bain,” she smiles and offers her hand. She, at least, seems pleasant, I think, as I rise to greet her.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Ms. Maddox,” I say, taking her hand. She gestures for me to sit before settling into a chair across from me. He sits beside her.
“I’m sure you already know why you’re here—” he opens the conversation, his brusque tone making my hackles rise.
“I have a good idea, Mr. Thorne, but why don’t you tell me again?” I challenge and watch, with perverse satisfaction, how much it annoys him.
“The Wade trial starts next week as I’m sure you already know.” He looks at me pointedly, but I refuse to react. “At our last meeting, I asked you to consider testifying. We’d like to raise that matter again,” he adds after a moment’s silence.
“You didn’t ask me; as I recall, you tried to threaten me into doing your bidding,” I snap.
“I assure you, that was not my intention. I merely outlined evidence pointing to your knowledge of matters relating to this trial. I mistakenly believed that you’d welcome the opportunity to cooperate and clarify the role, it’s become apparent, you played in this sordid business,” he returns. The way he says sordid makes me cringe with shame, but I refuse to let him see how much his insult hurts. Jodi intervenes before either of us can speak, her tone conciliatory.
“Ms. Bain, we’re only trying to get to the truth. As Mr. Thorne has explained, we’re in possession of documents that implicate you in Joseph Cordi’s prostitution network. We guarantee you’ll be treated fairly, and if you were in any way coerced into working for him, we’ll make sure you receive justice. Talk to us,” she appeals. I wish I could admit to being forced, but I wasn’t. I want to cry, but I can’t fall apart, not here.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Maddox; I can’t help you,” I say, trying, desperately, to sound convincing.
“You should know that we intend subpoenaing you. It would be better if you cooperated.” She leans across the table, her lovely face marred by concern.
“Better for whom?” I ask, unable to stop my voice from breaking.
“Better for you, Ms. Bain,” he answers, eyes boring into mine. “If you think you’re protecting Senator Wade, then you’re wrong. If you think you’ll avoid having your name leaked during this trial, you’re wrong. Ms. Maddox is right in saying you’d be better off working with us. “
I don’t respond, and he looks at his colleague; I’m not sure if he’s asking for help or wants to share his exasperation. She doesn’t speak, so he continues.
“I’m not sure whether Thomas Martin has asked you to testify, but I very much doubt that he has or will because they have more to gain by you not appearing. Trust me when I tell you that neither Defense Counsel nor his client will be thinking about what’s best for you. They’ll act in the Senator’s best interest, and he’ll do everything he can to deny or downplay his association with you. Despite his and your best efforts, your involvement will get out, and the media will have a field day assassinating your character. Thomas Martin and Justin Wade will do nothing to protect your reputation and everything to protect the Wade name. All we ask is that you tell your story; no embellishment, just the truth, Ms. Bain. “
He’s extremely disquieting, and pretty accurate in his assessment of Justin and Tom’s behavior. If he’s this compelling in an interview room, I shudder to think how effective he’d be in court. Now, more than ever, I wish I hadn’t made promises to Tom. Dad’s belief that if you don’t have your word, you have nothing, and Samuel’s plea that I look out for myself, swirl around in my mind. I’m so conflicted, especially, because I honestly believe Justin saved me from an even worse fate.
“If you cooperate with us, Defense will try to discredit your testimony; but, as I’ve said, they won’t want to draw attention to your association with the Senator. Ms. Maddox and I will prepare you for anything we believe they’ll throw at you,” he continues, speaking more persuasively, as if sensing a possible capitulation.
“You have the opportunity to salvage whatever you can of your reputation; surely you have an interest in doing that?” He leans forward, but I refuse to meet his g
aze. “Joseph Cordi and Justin Wade have expensive attorneys working to protect their freedom and reputations. Don’t you want to give your account of things, fight for your reputation?” he asks, his exasperation evident once more. Nervous, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Ms. Bain?” Jodi intervenes. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” I look up into her eyes, clouded with concern, and shake my head
“Then I’m afraid you’ll be subpoenaed in the next few days. We regret that it has to happen this way,” she says almost apologetically. She’s so pleasant that I feel bad about letting her down. ‘What’s one more person?’ my subconscious taunts.
“I appreciate your concern, Ms. Maddox, but I’ve decided what I should do,” I tell her, my voice almost a whisper.
He stands abruptly. “If your decision is based on a need or desire to protect Justin Wade or aid Thomas Martin, it’s a wasted gesture,” he tells me. “They don’t care about your wellbeing now, and they won’t care about it after the trial, whatever the outcome. When this is over, I hope you remember that you had a choice in the matter, Ms. Bain. You still have,” he says, barely containing his frustration, but he waits, giving me time to change my mind.
“Ms. Maddox will see you out. If that’s all right?” he asks when I don’t respond—the question aimed at her, not me. He leaves then and shuts the door with a resounding click.
I remain seated, my body seemingly turned to stone while my heart tries to pound its way out of my chest
“Ms. Bain?’ I take a shuddering breath.
“Yes?” I answer, my voice strained.
“Are you okay?”
I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Can I leave now, please?”
“Yes, but I still wish you’d reconsider,” she pleads again, and then, receiving no reply, extends her hand. I wonder, as I place my hand in hers, if it feels as cold to her as I feel inside—cold and desolate, I morbidly think.
“Thank you,” I whisper, loosening my grasp. Jodi accompanies me in silence and when we reach the elevator, reaches out to touch my arm.
“Take care of yourself,” she says before turning away.
I remember crying when leaving the building. I remember hailing a cab and giving the driver my address. I think he asked if I was all right, but I have no recollection of the actual journey. What I do remember is the feeling of overwhelming relief when entering the sanctuary of home. I remember falling apart while undressing, and succumbing to wracking sobs. I remember longing for Mom’s arms, but wondering how I could expect comfort from her when I’m about to destroy any illusion she’d held of the good girl she and Dad tried to raise.
And now, three in the morning, unable to sleep, and wrapped in a blanket on my sofa, all I can think about is that Justin’s trial starts next week and that I’ll be subpoenaed to appear as a witness—a hostile witness, most probably.
I need, somehow, to find the strength to tell Mom what I’ve done and the trouble I’m in without her blaming herself. I also have to prepare both her and myself for the almost inevitable fact I’ll be publicly vilified. Sometime, in the early hours of the morning, I decide to travel to New York on Friday. I have less than forty-eight hours to prepare myself for the ordeal of breaking my mother’s heart. Only the wait in telling her about Peter’s death can compare to my current state of wretchedness.
At eight, I finally admit I’m in no state to face my students and call to tell Ruth I’m not feeling well. I ask her to cover my classes, and she agrees without question, her concern only adds to my guilt. I call my Starbucks manager with the same excuse and ask that my weekend shifts also be covered.
Unable to entertain the thought of food, I make myself a cup of tea before booking my flights. Next, I steel myself and call Mom about my unscheduled visit. She’s delighted, of course, and, thankfully, doesn’t push for a reason for the change in plans. I call Rachel to ask if it would be convenient for me to stay with her. She’s thrilled to have me, and Mandi’s equally happy and invites me to dinner with her and Josh on Saturday. I suggest that I meet with her in the afternoon instead, saying I need some girl-time.
Finally, I send Samuel a quick text, filling him in my plans and letting him know I’ll call when he’s home from work.
“You look tired, Sweetie. You’re not working too hard are you?” Mom asks as I fluff her pillows. She looks content, despite the little frown now marring her brow. I marvel at the stoicism with which she’s accepted her disability and the restrictions on her life. Twice, I wondered if I’d ever see my mother happy again; both times had been because she’d lost the man she thought she’d spend the rest of her life with. The lump in my throat becomes even more constrictive when thinking about how, in just a little while, I’m about to destroy her world once more.
I arrived in time to help Mom with dinner and tried hard to act as I normally would. I wanted to make sure she was settled in for the night before I told her, but, as the time drew near, I became increasingly nervous. So, when her carer arrived to bathe and get her into bed, I took a walk in the garden. There, I bolstered myself with reminders of Samuel’s encouraging words—that it’s the right thing to do, that Mom loves me, and that she’ll forgive me.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I answer her question.” I just have a lot on my mind, and there’s something I need to tell you.” My voice catches at the end.
“Angel, what’s up?” she asks, struggling to sit up. I help to prop her up and pull a chair up before clasping both of her hands. They’re fragile where once they’d been strong and competent; a potent reminder of how dependent Mom is on me now. And I hate myself even more for the hurt I’m about to cause.
“I’m in trouble, Mom….” I start hesitantly and then force myself to continue before I lose my nerve. Mom’s concern turns to shock, then pain, and, finally, deep sorrow. The guilt I see in her eyes feels like a blow to my heart. We’re both crying, but I don’t stop talking, and Mom’s either too shocked to speak, or she’s letting me get it all out.
My words peter out in a broken apology. “I’m sorry, Mom… I’m sorry for shaming you… for hurting you. I’m sorry,” I sob.
“Come here.” She opens her arms, and I scramble onto the bed and into her embrace. “Oh, my baby, my poor baby… I’ve failed you,” she cries, her tears mingling with mine
“No, no, Mom. I made the decision—”
“Because of me! I’m a burden, and now you’ve become…oh God, Angel, what you’ve had to do because of me. God forgive me, your dad—”
I raise my head to look at her. “Mom—please don’t blame yourself. This all is on me.”
She doesn’t respond, and I know that, no matter what I say, Mom will hold herself responsible. I don’t know how to alleviate her guilt. I still have to tell her about the trial and the implications of being forced to testify, but I think we’ve both had as much as we can take right now. We remain cuddled until the attendant returns to take care of her last needs for the night. Ignoring her protests, I tell him Mom’s had some upsetting news and ask if he’d get the duty doctor to prescribe something to make sure she sleeps.
I watch as Mom reluctantly takes the pill and then wait until she drifts off before I leave, feeling empty and haunted by the memory of her desolate expression. Samuel was right; she does still love me, and I pray that, with time, I’ll see her happy again.
I have a predictably restless night and return to see Mom in the morning before meeting Mandi. Mom’s pale and drawn, a sharp contrast to her appearance when I arrived yesterday, but smiles at me with the same love she always has. We have breakfast at a local restaurant before spending time in the facility’s garden, where I tell Mom about the upcoming trial. She blanches visibly, and her eyes tear up when I tell her I’ll almost certainly be named in the media.
She questions me about Justin, her lips pulled into a disapproving line, even when I try to explain that he’d probably done me a favor. “Angel, that man may well have been responsible for you being with fewer m
en, but he did not care about you. If he had, he wouldn’t have treated you like an object.”
“Did they… did any of them hurt you?” she brokenly asks.
Shame floods me, and I feel my face flush, but force myself to hold her gaze. “No, Mom, they didn’t physically hurt me.”
“But they did hurt you; they damaged your spirit…” She’s crying again, and now I am too.
“You got hurt so I could have this damned chair! I don’t want it now. Useless bloody legs, useless person that I am—”
This is the first time since I confessed that Mom’s displayed anger. In fact, it’s the first anger she’s expressed about her disability, in my presence, at least; and I believe this may be the first time I’ve ever heard her curse. Dad said bloody on rare occasions, but he never used it when he thought I was within earshot. Swearing had been actively discouraged in our home; both my parents detested it.
“Mom,” I interrupt, kneeling to wrap my arms around her waist. “Please don’t… you’re not useless. As awful as this is, what’s done is done. It would negate everything I stupidly did and what I’ve been through if you stop using the chair… please, for me?” She’s silent, so I look up at her, pleading. Mom nods, but I can tell she’s agreed only to appease me.
“When does the trial start? I want to be there,” she announces determinedly.
“I’d love nothing more, Mom, but my apartment doesn’t have an elevator, and I can’t take care of you properly. I won’t be alone, though,” I cut off her protest. “Samuel’s promised to be there.”
She’s mollified, but still not entirely happy. I don’t know what more I can say or do to satisfy her need to comfort me or to assuage her guilt, so I leave it at that. The rest of the weekend proves to be just as harrowing. Mandi and I both cry. Her response is predictable; shock, horror even, and pain. She’s also angry, but not at me, I think, until we leave the restaurant. In her car, she berates me for not asking for help. She doesn’t stay mad for long; she never does. She tells me she loves me and, feisty as ever, vows to knee Joseph, Justin and every man involved in their private parts, then promises to be in Boston for the trial. Mandi says she’ll tell Sammy and Bron. “They’ll understand,” she says when I protest that I should speak to them. “You’ve been through enough.” I leave her, feeling grateful and lucky to have both her and Samuel’s support. I know I’m going to need it.
