Say No More

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

Jake tried to gauge this guy’s reaction. So far, simply calculating. Wary.

  “D’you know, Mr. Tarrant,” Jake went on, deciding to push him a little, “most people are not required to do so? You don’t have to, say, pull a drowning person out of a swimming pool. If they die, even if you’re right there, it’s not your fault. Legally, at least.”

  Tarrant raised an eyebrow, didn’t respond. The guy was no idiot. He had to understand Jake was going somewhere with this.

  “Thought you might want to know that,” Jake went on. “But in addition, I’m hearing that these students feel you failed—neglected? You choose the word—to report something that happened to them. For whatever reason. And that you convinced them not to discuss it or report it as well.”

  Tarrant nodded. “That’s part of it.”

  “I’m also hearing that you want to trade information about Avery Morgan’s death for some sort of leniency? About some action you fear might be taken by these disgruntled students?”

  “Precisely,” Tarrant said. “You help me, I’ll help you.”

  Jake stood, smiling, making his expression as pleasant as he possibly could. “Mr. Tarrant?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “No. Not a chance in hell.”

  Tarrant rose to his feet, facing Jake, silent. Jake watched the man’s fists clench, his chest rise and fall, his yellow foulard tie adjusting to the slight movement. Tarrant’s chin came up, his shoulders squared.

  “But I have proof!”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Tarrant.” Jake got to the office door in two quick steps, opened it. Possibly a bit too dramatically, enjoying Tarrant’s bewildered expression.

  But Jake had all he needed about Avery Morgan’s death from the Galts. Tarrant would be required to corroborate it, or face possible obstruction charges. What a mistake, to let on he knew what happened. And to think Jake would consider such a deal. Jake’s ace in the hole was Tarrant’s sidekick, Sasha Vogelby. The curly-white-haired Sasha Vogelby. Who, Jake predicted, was about to become very unhappy. And who knew what information that woman would offer to trade?

  Tarrant strode through the open doorway. When Jake turned to follow, Tarrant stopped. Stood, stock still, on the middle of the reception room carpet.

  There, at the door to the homicide reception area, was Jane. And beside her, the young woman she’d brought to the hospital.

  Tarrant whirled, faced Jake again.

  “You bastard,” he snapped. “You set me up.”

  ISABEL RUSSO

  You bastard, Isabel thought, though she wouldn’t say it out loud. Was this why Jane had insisted they come here? Seemed like Jane knew this detective—more than “knew.” She’d heard them on the phone in the hospital closet. I love you, he’d said. She’d heard him, and seen the worry and fear in Jane’s eyes.

  “This is unacceptable!” Tarrant turned to her, his face a mask of scorn. “You?”

  He seemed smaller to her now, standing in this bleak reception room, no longer enhanced by the trappings of his opulent office. And certainly unhappy to see her. Well, yeah, she was pretty unhappy, too.

  “This?” Tarrant hissed at her, pointing a forefinger. “You send your little friends to my office to threaten me? And now you’re following me? Here?”

  Little friends? Isabel hadn’t heard from Manderley and the others. Had they gone to Tarrant’s office while she was trapped at the hospital?

  “Mr. Tarrant? Remember me? Jane Ryland, from Channel 2,” Jane was saying. “Isabel tells me she talked with you about what happened to her.”

  “Happened?” Detective Brogan asked. Seemed like he and Jane were secretly communicating.

  “Right, Isabel?” Jane said. “I’m sure Detective Brogan would like to hear about that encounter directly from you. If you’re comfortable with it.”

  And here she was, and here was the moment. Curtain up, almost, on her new life. The moment she’d imagined, in so many ways, since May, May twenty-first to be exact. Today she’d come here, with Jane, to tell this Detective Brogan she knew Trey Welliver wasn’t guilty of murder. But he was guilty of something else. And now Jane was asking her if she was comfortable revealing that. Isabel had not been comfortable with anything since May, May twenty-first. But heck—hell yes, she was comfortable now.

  “Trey Welliver raped me.” Isabel heard the words coming out of her mouth, strong and confident, words she’d never thought she’d say again, not to anyone.

  She took a step toward Tarrant.

  “I told you, and told you, and you said you would help me. But you didn’t do one thing. Not. One. Thing. Except to order me, and my mother, to keep quiet about it. And she sent you money! All the families did!”

  “I never—that is simply not true.” Tarrant rolled his eyes at the detective like she wasn’t even there. “This young woman is clearly—”

  The detective held up a hand, stopping Tarrant. “Is it true that you knew or even suspected that Ms.—”

  “Russo,” Jane said.

  “Russo had been raped by Trey Welliver? And that you did not report it?”

  “I want a lawyer,” Tarrant said.

  “I hear that a lot,” Detective Brogan said. He took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. Jane moved closer to Isabel, put one hand on her shoulder. Isabel felt like she was in a movie.

  “Edward Tarrant.” Detective Brogan’s voice sounded formal, almost hard. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. Misprision of felony. You knew about Trey Welliver. You didn’t tell. Actively didn’t tell. That’s a crime. Not to mention potential extortion. But that’s for the district attorney’s office to handle.”

  “And I’m not the only one.” Isabel moved away from Jane. She had to do this on her own, had to take center stage. Tarrant had to hear this, every word. “And we’re not being quiet anymore. There’s Elaine, and Rochelle. And Manderley kept a record of all of it. You told all of us to keep quiet. Not to report it. Our parents, too.”

  “I assume those are the students with ‘issues’ you mentioned,” the detective said. He seemed really angry. Isabel had never seen such a wonderfully angry face. “It’s prison time, separately, for each incident, Mr. Tarrant. Just so you know. You’ll have plenty of time to do the math.”

  “Bullshit,” Tarrant said. “I’ll wait for my lawyer to rake your absurd case over the coals, but here’s what you might want to know, Detective. I’m only an administrator, not a mandated reporter, as I am sure you are aware. And I didn’t witness any ‘rapes.’ Therefore I’m not responsible to report them. You have no case. Nothing.”

  “Tell that to a judge,” Detective Brogan said. “I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear it.”

  “Is that true?” Isabel whispered to Jane. But Jane was on her phone, maybe texting in the story, or looking up the law. Jane was so cool, Isabel thought, working even while all this was going on.

  “You’re going to be humiliated in front of everyone now, Miss Russo.” Tarrant narrowed his eyes at her, stumbling once with his arms behind his back as the detective led him toward the door. “Everyone will know. Everyone. And your poor mother will be devastated. You silly, stupid, fucking bitches. All of you.”

  “That’s enough,” Detective Brogan said. “But thank you for the corroboration of your cover-up. And sorry, Ms. Russo, for the inappropriate language.”

  “I can take it.” Isabel stood taller, the sound of her own words, her own voice, somehow strengthening her resolve. She wished she had thought to use her cell phone to take video of it all, just as Jane had taught her in the hospital parking lot. It was crazy, right? Here she was, telling the police Trey was guilty of something—when she’d come here to report that he was innocent of something else.

  The detective and the hideous Tarrant headed for a door in the back of the office. Isabel wondered when she’d see Tarrant again. She hoped never. Unless it was in the headlines.

  “Detective Brogan?” Jane was clicking her phone, like she was sending som
ething. “We’ll stand by here, okay? Isabel has more to tell you.”

  63

  JANE RYLAND

  “Hang up, Fee,” Jane said as she arrived at her office door and saw Fiola on the phone. Whoever Fee was talking to could wait. Jane waved her cell, trying to get her producer’s attention. “You’ll want to see this.”

  “Hang on, Jane,” Fiola replied. She tucked her phone between her cheek and shoulder and clicked into her e-mail. “One second.”

  Jane turned to Isabel, shrugging. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I know this is hard for you.“

  “Not anymore,” Isabel told her. “It’s okay. Or, it will be.” She sighed, so deeply her shoulders rose, then fell.

  Not in defeat, Jane knew. In change. In hope. As she’d watched Tarrant being led away, Jane thought she could almost see Isabel come back to life. And when—brave young woman—she’d then told Jake the whole story of her assault by Trey Welliver and the ensuing cover-up by Edward Tarrant, and then her calendared alibi for Trey’s whereabouts, Jane had watched the color return to Isabel’s cheeks, and the fire to her eyes.

  Trey was still in custody. Before Jane and Isabel left the police department, Jake had whispered a promise to describe to Jane his next encounter—the delicious moment when he’d get to tell Welliver’s attorney his client was being cleared of murder, but charged with rape.

  Edward Tarrant’s future was a legal snafu. Jake had called Jane a few moments earlier with that disturbing reality. Tarrant’s cynical recitation of the law had been correct: In Massachusetts, there was no legal requirement to report a rape unless you had witnessed it. And under federal law, a school administrator was not required to convey information about a reported rape to law enforcement officials.

  “So Tarrant’s done nothing legally wrong?” Jane had asked him as she and Isabel arrived at Channel 2. She’d watched Isabel’s face fall as she heard Jane’s end of the phone conversation. “I can’t believe that. Like you said, obstruction? Or how about blackmail? He’d told Isabel’s mother that if she ever—”

  “Yeah,” Jake had said. “Interesting that he knew those particular laws so well, right? We’ll hold the creep as long as we can. The students were obviously drinking alcohol in that poolside video at Avery Morgan’s house. If we can prove he was there, knew they were under twenty-one, even provided the stuff, we may be able to get him on that. The DA’s focused on the underage-drinking thing, big-time, and you know McCusker’s a pit bull. But the law is the law. And being a slime-bucket jerk is not illegal. We’ll have to see.”

  They’d all have to see. For Isabel it would be a difficult road, pitted with obstacles, and questions, and scrutiny. Isabel had not chosen what happened to her in the past, but she could try to choose her future, and Jane predicted she could handle the journey. Jane and Fiola, and the SAFE women, would all be there to help.

  “One step at a time,” Jane said out loud.

  Fiola had finally hung up the phone.

  “Huh?” Fiola said. “Anyway. Wait till you see what I have in my e-mail.”

  “Great,” Jane said, “but I just sent you one, too. Open it.”

  Fiola clicked her mouse, twice, and a ping signaled the end of the download. The video clip Jane had sent her was only about three minutes long.

  “You bastard!” the video began.

  “That’s Edward Tarrant.” Fiola paused the screen, turned to Jane. “What is this? Where? What’s the deal?”

  “Oh!” Isabel clamped a hand on Jane’s arm. “You taped it on your phone! I thought of it, too, but too late.”

  “Doing my job.” Jane leaned down, clicked Fiola’s mouse to play the rest.

  Even though the video was shaky—Jane had tried to hide her cell phone—there was the homicide squad waiting room, and the fuming and obscene Tarrant, and Jake putting him in handcuffs, and his arrest for obstruction of justice.

  “Wow,” Fiola said. “Remember how smarmy that guy was when we tried to interview him? But I’d never have thought—I mean, he’s the school’s Title Nine coordinator. He’s supposed to make sure all assault complaints are investigated, if the students want. Not to talk them out of it. Ugh. Disgusting.”

  She clicked off Jane’s video, opened another file. “And, now, you look. At this.”

  Jane stepped closer to Fee’s monitor, felt Isabel close behind her. Cell phone video, obviously, starting with a flare of light from a window behind whoever was the subject. Taken by an amateur, Jane couldn’t help thinking. The voices, though, were clear.

  “We’ve come to chat with you.” A woman’s voice. “About what you’re doing to us.”

  “That’s Manderley!” Isabel pointed to the screen. “And that’s Tarrant’s office. How’d you—”

  “Watch,” Fiola said. She turned her screen so Jane could get a better view.

  “Holy…” Jane’s voice trailed off as she listened, watched the women of SAFE confront Edward Tarrant, watched them defy him with their irrefutable knowledge of his manipulation of their lives.

  “He threw the notebook out the sixteenth-floor window—can you believe it?” Fiola said. “I can’t help it. Sorry, Isabel, I know I shouldn’t laugh. But it’s just so freaking perfect.”

  “Bad news, though,” Jane said. “We can’t use any of it on TV.”

  “Why not?” Isabel looked like she was about to cry. “Why?”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the deal. What we did in the hospital parking lot is fair game,” Jane explained. “That’s a public place. But this other stuff, shot in Tarrant’s private office? Without his knowledge? And at the police department? Under state law, we can’t put it on the air.”

  “What if you don’t use the sound?” Isabel asked. “How about then?”

  “Nope,” Jane said. She paused, regretting, imagining how great their documentary might have been. The good the videos could have done, revealing Tarrant for the manipulating creep he clearly was.

  The three women stared at the last frame. Slam-dunk devastating. And all completely illegal.

  “Jane?” Fiola said. “I know it’s unorthodox. But I bet the cops would love to see this.”

  Jane blew out a breath. Why was there always this conflict? She could not give Jake this video. That was precisely the line she could not cross. This whole thing had started with her stating her principles, refusing to help the DA’s office. Then being forced to do just that. And regretting the hell out of it. She couldn’t now suddenly decide to hand over video to the cops.

  “No way, Fee,” Jane said. “We simply can’t.”

  “I can, though,” Isabel interjected. “Right? I’ll talk to Manderley and everyone. They’d do it in a flash.”

  “Because even if what Tarrant did is not technically illegal—” Fiola said.

  “It’s all about the cover-up,” Jane finished the sentence. “He threatened Isabel and the others. Told them they’d be faced with humiliation, and public embarrassment, and infinite disgrace. But when school officials hear about this? And the faculty? And parents? And other students? Seems like that’s exactly what’ll happen to Mr. Tarrant himself.”

  “Vincerò,” Isabel said.

  64

  JANE RYLAND

  “Okay, so yeah, you arrested Sasha Vogelby. But she as much as confessed!” Jane said, yanking open her front door before Jake’s key had a chance to turn in the lock. Before he took a whole step into her apartment, she continued the conversation where they’d left off half an hour earlier, as if they’d never stopped talking. “She did confess. Isn’t that what you said? How can they nail you for that?”

  She kissed him, hard, then handed him a beer. Friday night—he didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. And that was the problem they now faced. He’d broken the news to her on the phone, but she’d demanded he come talk about it in person. Instantly, if not sooner.

  The August night was softly dark, and she opened her windows to catch the end-of-season breeze. No matter what the calendar said, the night had a tou
ch of September. Anyone who understood Boston would feel the change.

  She followed Jake into the living room, knowing she should give him a chance to answer, but this whole thing was incomprehensible. “Not that you need any more ammo, but Vogelby turned on Tarrant to save herself, right? So you nailed this, sweetheart.”

  She planted her fists on her hips, too infuriated to sit down. “They should be giving you a promotion, instead of—”

  “I’m just gonna collapse for a minute, okay?” Jake said. “Then I’ll tell you the whole ridiculous thing.”

  Jane couldn’t believe it. And Jake looked so sad. But there was something else she didn’t understand. “Can I ask you, before we talk about the other thing? Even though Vogelby was jealous of Avery Morgan, wasn’t she required to—didn’t she have to—save Avery from drowning? She was right there!”

  “Nope.” Jake took a sip of beer, put the bottle on the coffee table. “Not legally. Morally, that’s her own problem. But all Willow Galt saw was Avery falling into the water. And then Vogelby walking away.”

  “Yow.” Jane plopped onto the couch, scooting Coda’s furry body aside. “That’s so chillingly tragic. Like Tarrant wasn’t required by law to report the rapes—since he didn’t see them.”

  “Kind of, yeah,” Jake said. Coda resettled into Jake’s lap, swirling her tail. Jake wasn’t much of a cat person, and Coda reminded him of that as often as she could. “They’re quite the duo. Vogelby admitted she was jealous of Avery. Over her closeness with Tarrant, over the attention she got, over Avery’s job and position. She admitted she watched Avery trip on one of Popcorn’s toys, a yellow ball. She said Avery fell into the pool and got the wind knocked out of her. Told us she thought Avery was just ‘pretending’ to struggle. Being ‘dramatic.’ Said she didn’t believe Avery would actually drown.”

  Jane pictured it, remembering the party video, the happily smiling Avery Morgan. Could her death have been an accident? “Did you believe that?”

  “Well, it’s possible. I guess. But pretty early on, you’d have to comprehend your friend was not playacting, wouldn’t you? When I confronted her with that—and with the likelihood that she realized Avery would drown and be out of her life if she simply walked away—Vogelby panicked. Figured she was in deep trouble. To save herself, she offered to trade information about Tarrant’s cover-ups and extortion. It was her idea to call us pretending to rat out Trey Welliver—but she insists Tarrant was complicit.”