Finding You

by Jenna Bennett

  I wasn’t prepared for the clutch in my stomach when I saw him.

  It wasn’t fear, exactly. He was in prison, and couldn’t hurt me again. And he hadn’t really hurt me the first time. I’d had a few scary minutes amid the tombstones in the old Key West Cemetery, until Ricky Fuentes showed up and arrested Stan, but I’d always known he was somewhere nearby and would come to my rescue.

  And I’d gone on with life as usual the next day. I’d lost my virginity to Ty that night, and enjoyed it. I’d spent the past year talking to rape victims on the phone and in person several nights a week. I hadn’t thought much about Stan, and it had never occurred to me that the attack had left any marks.

  But this was the first time I’d seen him since that night, and I guess looking at him brought something to the surface I hadn’t realized I had buried. I wasn’t afraid, because I knew he wouldn’t be able to touch me again. They’d find him guilty—because he was—and he’d spend a lot of years behind bars. But facing him from the stand tomorrow was going to be harder than I’d expected. Just looking at the back of his head was hard.

  The prosecutor moved on to talking about what had happened when Carmen was raped. Since Stan had drugged her and she couldn’t remember it, she wasn’t able to tell him much. And that was the big problem with this trial: other than me, and one other girl he hadn’t been able to dose as well as he should have because he’d already used too much of the drug on me, none of the victims remembered what had happened. Carmen hadn’t even realized she’d been raped until Stan told me about it.

  So my testimony, along with Ty’s and Ricky Fuentes’s—those of us who had actually been conscious during what happened—was pretty crucial.

  Up at the front, the prosecutor finished talking to Carmen and went to sit down. Stan’s lawyer bounced to his feet to cross-examine.

  He started by sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Miss Fuentes.”

  Carmen nodded.

  “You’re Detective Enrique Fuentes’s sister, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Carmen said.

  “And Detective Fuentes is the officer who arrested my client last March.”

  “Yes,” Carmen said, with a glance at her brother. He was sitting on the front row, next to a head of light brown hair that could only be Ty. They’d both been nodding occasionally, encouraging Carmen, while the prosecutor had asked her questions. A row of black heads behind them might have been the rest of the Fuenteses, come to support Carmen—and I suppose, Enrique. There were five siblings, as far as I knew, plus parents and grandparents, although I’d only met one other, Juan, before. Ricky was the eldest, Carmen the youngest, and Juan was somewhere in the middle.

  The lawyer sent a significant glance toward the jury box at Carmen’s admission that her brother was the arresting officer, but he didn’t actually comment. Instead he asked, “Did you ever report your rape to the authorities, Miss Fuentes?”

  “No,” Carmen said.

  “Did you tell your brother about it? Privately?

  “Objection,” the prosecutor said. “Asked and answered.”

  “Withdrawn,” the defense attorney answered, as smoothly as a snake. “Why not?”

  “Because until Stan was arrested, I didn’t know—”

  Carmen stopped talking, but by then it was too late. Stan’s lawyer pounced. “You didn’t know it had happened, did you?”

  “No,” Carmen said.

  “Because at that time you were drinking heavily and partying every night and having sexual relations with numerous men, is that not correct?”

  “Objection,” the prosecutor shrieked, coming out of his chair, the back of his neck purple with rage. Ricky Fuentes and Ty were radiating anger, too, and the row of dark Fuentes heads turned and whispered to one another before turning as one and staring daggers at the defense attorney.

  “Withdrawn,” he said happily. “Nothing further.”

  He skipped back to his table, obviously pleased with his performance. Stan slapped him on the back, so he must be happy, too. Looked like their defense was going to be a cross between “they were asking for it because they were sluts” and “you don’t remember what happened, so how do you know it actually happened?”

  “Redirect?” the judge asked the prosecutor.

  He said no, and the judge told Carmen she was excused. She went and sat down with her brother and Ty, who moved to the side so she could slide between them. And once she was seated, they both leaned in and started whispering encouragement to her. Meanwhile, the rest of the family leaned forward to pet and touch, too.

  It was lonely here in the back of the room. I had downplayed the whole ordeal when I told my parents about it last year, and I’d made it seem like this trip to testify was no big deal, either. But now that I was here, I wasn’t so sure. My mother had asked whether I wanted her to come along, but she doesn’t really like to leave my father and Braxton, so I’d assured her I’d be fine on my own. I’d told her Mackenzie and Quinn would be here—neglecting to mention that they wouldn’t be coming until sometime next week—and that I had friends in Key West from last time I visited. But sitting here, alone on the back row while the cameras behind me clicked and whirred and zoomed in on the back of Carmen’s head and Ty’s arm around her shoulders, I felt alone, like I didn’t have a single friend in the whole world.

  THE TRIAL continued with several video interviews on a screen in the front of the room. Most of the girls Stan had assaulted had been here on Spring Break, so they weren’t here anymore, and they hadn’t been required to come back to testify. There wasn’t much they could add to what had already been said, since they didn’t remember much about what happened. Stan’s lawyer was a bit miffed that he wasn’t given the ability to cross-examine, but the state prosecutor had made sure that each girl said she didn’t remember who had given her the drugs or raped her, so the public defender pretty much got what he wanted—except for the chance to point out that the girls had been out partying, had been drunk¸ and had been asking for it.

  It was frustrating and nauseating. The only good thing was that the girls themselves didn’t hear what he was saying. They were somewhere else, going about their lives, with no idea that down here, Stan’s defense attorney was doing his best to smear their reputations and make it seem like Stan had just taken what they’d offered.

  But that would change tomorrow. Other than Carmen, who was local and convenient, and who could add some background on Stan’s motivations, there were two of us who had actually made the trip to Key West to testify. Me, and the girl Stan had attacked the night he’d had me and then lost me. I’d run into her in the hospital the next day, and the poor thing had looked awful, all beaten and bruised. But she remembered things. And of course I did, too. So between the two of us, and Ty and Ricky Fuentes, there was plenty of testimony to put Stan away. No matter what Stan’s lawyer said or did.

  Court adjourned for the day just before five. I stayed in my seat and watched while two uniformed cops put handcuffs on Stan and took him away, back to jail. Carmen, Ty, and Ricky Fuentes got up, followed by the rest of the Fuentes clan, and filed out. None of them looked at me. Not even Ty. He was too busy murmuring sweet nothings in Carmen’s ear. She had paired that prim white blouse with a black skirt that reached to her knees, but which was so tight it was a miracle she could walk. They minced out the door at a snail’s pace, with Carmen’s booty swaying under the black fabric.

  I was about to get up and head toward the front when I heard a voice. “Cassie!” Juan must have noticed me sitting here, because he made a detour in my direction.

  “Nice to see you,” I said.

  “We’re going to my mom’s house for dinner. You wanna come?”

  And watch Ty hand-feed Carmen morsels of food? No thanks.

  “I should go introduce myself to the prosecutor,” I said, and tried to sound like I regretted not being able to take him up on the invitation. “I just got here this
afternoon. And we haven’t spoken yet. Other than on the phone, I mean. But he’ll probably want to talk to me in person now that I’m here.”

  Juan nodded. “You’re testifying tomorrow?”

  I told him I was, if everything had gone according to schedule. Up at the front of the room, the prosecutor finished putting legal pads and pencils into his briefcase and reached for the jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

  “Go,” Juan said. “We’ll probably be at Captain Crow’s tonight, if you wanna stop by.”

  “Captain Crow’s? Not Captain Tony’s?”

  Juan works at Captain Tony’s. While Captain Crow’s is where Mackenzie, Quinn and I spent most of our time during Spring Break last year. Mackenzie’s Austin tended bar there, and Quinn’s James had occupied a corner with his buddies, tossing back shots of Tequila.

  And it was where I’d met Ty.

  “Captain Crow’s,” Juan said, already on his way toward the door, hustling to catch up to the rest of his family. “See you.”

  He was already gone, so there was no point in telling him I probably wouldn’t show up. Seeing Ty from a distance had been difficult enough. Having to deal with him would be worse. Especially at Captain Crow’s. And especially with the way he was slobbering all over Carmen.

  But there’d be time to make that decision later. Right now, I had to catch the prosecutor before he left.

  I scurried to the front of the room and stopped him just as he turned toward the door. By now the room was mostly empty. I introduced myself—“I’m Cassie Wilder. We’ve spoken on the phone,”—and waited.

  “Cassie!” He perked right up. “We need to talk. Have you eaten?”

  “A hot dog for lunch,” I said.

  “Let’s go grab some dinner.” He took his briefcase in one hand and my elbow in the other and headed for the door. Stan’s attorney, who was still standing at the next table shoveling things into his briefcase, watched us go with a calculating look on his face.

  “I don’t like that man,” I told the prosecutor when we were out in the hallway.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “He’s just doing his job.”

  “I wouldn’t want his job.”

  He let go of my elbow and just walked beside me as we approached the double doors to the outside. The security guard was standing beside them, probably ready to start closing up shop for the day once all the stragglers had left the building.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want it either,” the prosecutor said. “But everyone is entitled to counsel. People who can’t afford to hire their own, get a public defender appointed to them.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that.” Of course everyone is entitled to legal representation. It’s a basic right. “I just don’t like this guy’s attitude. It seems like he’s trying to make all the girls look like—”

  At the last minute I edited out the word sluts and substituted, “like they were asking for it.”

  “He’s doing his job,” the prosecutor maintained, nodding to the security guard on our way past. “See you, Don.”

  “Have a good evening, Mr. DeWitt,” the security guard answered. “Miss Wilder.” He nodded to me.

  We walked outside with the prosecutor telling me, “He’s right, you know.”

  “The defense attorney?” How could he say that? And how could he possibly prosecute Stan if that’s what he thought?

  “They don’t know that the defendant raped them,” the prosecutor said. “Aside from you and Paula, nobody can identify him.”

  “But that’s not their fault! He drugged them.”

  “And we’ll get him for it. But it’s the public defender’s job to make the defendant look as innocent as possible. And if he can knock a couple of the assault charges off the table, because we can’t prove that the defendant actually raped some of the girls, he’s doing his job.”

  He shook his head. “We all want Laszlo to pay. We all want him put in a cage for as long as possible. But he’s entitled to have someone point out all the holes in the prosecution’s case, and that’s a big hole. I’m not very happy with the tactic opposing counsel has chosen myself, but he’s entitled to structure his case as he sees fit.”

  I supposed. “There’s no question that Stan will be found guilty, right?”

  “There’s always a question,” the prosecutor told me. “But in my more than twenty years on the job, I’ve never had a more air-tight case than this one.”

  He smiled. “So where would you like to eat?”

  We ended up at an Italian restaurant, where we spent several hours going over what would happen tomorrow, and my testimony. He told me what he planned to ask me, and I gave him the answers I’d be giving when he did. And he warned me about the kinds of questions I could expect to hear during the cross-examination, which I had already figured out on my own. We went over those, too, and even though I knew I had done nothing wrong and was not to blame for what Stan did, I could still feel myself blush at some of the things he asked.

  “Wear a pretty summer dress tomorrow,” he told me when we parted ways outside the restaurant just before eight. “Something that makes you look young and sweet.”

  “I am young and sweet,” I said. “So you don’t want me to wear what Carmen wore?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “God, no. With Carmen, we were trying to play down her sex appeal. She’s a stunner, and I knew the defense would try to paint her as a tramp. I didn’t want the jury to see her that way. So we did our best to tone her down. I’m not sure how well it worked.” He grimaced.

  “I imagine she’d be hard to tone down,” I told him, as envy curled through my stomach.

  “But I want you to look like the girl next door. Young and sweet and innocent.”

  Like a preacher’s daughter. Check. “I can do that,” I said. “Be sure to ask me about my parents and my sex life up to last year’s Spring Break. I’ll try not to blush on the stand.”

  “Oh, no.” The prosecutor shook his head. “You blush as much as you want, Cassie. As much as you want.”

  Right. Young and sweet and innocent.

  He looked around, at the streets teeming with tourists and those college students who had Spring Break a week earlier than me. Next week would be insane; this week was merely crazy. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Juan Fuentes told me they’re hanging out at Captain Crow’s tonight. I think I might stop by before I go back to the motel.”

  He nodded. “Make sure you get home safe. Take a cab or get someone to walk with you. These streets can be crazy. No one knows that better than you.”

  Exactly. “I’ll be careful.”

  “See you tomorrow. We start at nine o’clock sharp. I’ll expect you there at eight forty-five.”

  I told him I’d be there and watched him walk off in one direction, briefcase swinging, before I turned in the other.

  Here’s the thing: I was going to have to face Ty in court tomorrow. He may not have noticed me today, hiding in the back, but tomorrow I’d be on the witness stand, and he’d be there on the first row. I wouldn’t be able to avoid him. So maybe it would be easier to deal with it now, in private—or semi-private—instead of tomorrow, in front of the full court, with judge and jury, cameras, reporters, and all.

  Besides, he might not even be at Captain Crow’s. He and Carmen might have gone somewhere else. Maybe it would be just Juan at the bar. And I could ask him whether Ty and Carmen were officially involved, or whether it just looked that way.

  The Italian restaurant was just a couple of blocks from Captain Crow’s, so the trip didn’t take long. When I pushed the door open and walked in, it was like déjà vu all over again: like it was last year, and I’d see Mackenzie talking to Austin at the bar, and James staring at Quinn from the table in the corner.

  But of course it wasn’t: Barry, the bartender from last year, was talking to Juan Fuentes, and the table in the corner was occupied by Ty and Carmen, who didn’t look up
at all when I walked in.

  I ignored them, and headed for the bar. “Hi.” I slid up on the stool next to Juan.

  “Cassie.” He smiled. “Something to drink?”

  “Just a Sprite, please.” I’d learned my lesson about getting impaired. Sometimes the nice guy who offers to see you safely home, isn’t such a nice guy after all.

  In a perfect world, we’d all be able to do whatever we wanted whenever we wanted to, and without having to worry about the consequences. But the world we live in is far from perfect, and I’ve learned that I’m safer if I take certain precautions. Like staying mostly sober and not wandering the streets alone at night.

  And no, I’m not saying that just because a girl is impaired and wearing a shirt that says Save a Virgin – Do Me Instead, she’s asking to be raped. She’s not. And any man who rapes her, is still guilty of rape, no matter what she was wearing or what he thought when he looked at her. But I do think we need to take some responsibility for the situations we put ourselves in. If I get in a cage with a tiger and the tiger eats me, it isn’t the tiger’s fault. It’s mine. The tiger’s just being a tiger, and I should have stayed out of its cage. And while a man isn’t a tiger and should behave better, that’s still no reason to act stupidly. Sometimes, bad things happen to people who aren’t careful. So I try to be careful so they won’t happen to me. Doesn’t mean I’m trying to excuse what Stan did—I hoped he’d spend the rest of his life in prison, with bad dreams every night—but we live in a fallen world (as my father would say), and behaving like the world is perfect and full of only nice people, is dangerous.

  So I was drinking Sprite. Barry put the glass in front of me on the counter and went off to take care of other customers. I turned to Juan. “So.”

  “So?”

  “How long has that been going on?”