Victim Rights

by Norah McClintock

  Anger flashed in her eyes.

  “I told him to stop. I told him no. But he wouldn’t listen to me. He forced me, Dooley. He forced me.”

  “If you didn’t want to be with him, why did you go up to his room?”

  Her whole body went rigid.

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah. He invited you upstairs to see some pictures.”

  “He forced me.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “You heard? From who?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “He forced me.”

  “Yeah? Then why isn’t he locked up?”

  “I told my mom what happened,” she said. He could see she was struggling to get a grip. “She didn’t know what to do, so she called Nevin’s dad.”

  Nevin again.

  “Nevin’s dad was a good friend of my dad’s. My mom trusts him. Whenever she has a problem, she goes to him. He’s a lawyer. Not criminal. Corporate. But he knows about these things.”

  Of course.

  “She told him what happened.” Her voice was shaky again. “He said if I went to the police, I’d have to tell them everything. He asked me a lot of questions. Then he said since I wasn’t hurt, maybe I should just let it go.”

  Well, that explained a lot about Nevin.

  “He said unless there were marks on me—”

  “Weren’t there?”

  She refused to look at him when she shook her head.

  “There were red marks in a couple of places right after,” she said. He wondered what places. “But there were no bruises or anything like that.”

  “What about on him?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was a whisper now. A tear splashed onto the table.

  “If you told him no, you must have tried to fight him off, right, Beth?”

  “If I told him no?”

  “Did you scratch him, bite him, anything like that?”

  No answer.

  Then: “He—Parker—” Her whole body was shaking now. “I heard him tell a couple of guys that he’d nailed me. He told them I got all pissy—that’s what he said, all pissy—when he told me it was just fun. He said he’d told me that right from the start. He made it sound like I was the one who was after him. Then Nevin’s dad said that unless I could prove what happened, there was a really good chance that the police wouldn’t believe me. He said that even if they charged Parker, he would probably have no trouble getting off. He said, because of the circumstances ...” She stared at her coffee for a few moments. “He said I’d have to go into detail in front of a judge, a jury, a whole courtroom about what had happened. He said Parker’s lawyer would go into detail, too.”

  Dooley closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what kind of detail or what she would say.

  “I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want you to know,” she said. “Because of what you would think.” She looked at him, studied his face. “Because of what you do think. Nevin’s dad is right. So is Parker. Everyone saw us together. Everyone saw me go into the house with him. No one would ever believe me. I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. Then I saw you at the tennis club—I don’t know how you found out, Dooley, but when I saw you there and saw how angry you were, I knew I had to do something. So I did it anyway. I went to the police.”

  Right.

  “This happened on Friday night and you waited until yesterday afternoon to go to the police—after you found out I knew?” Did she think he was an idiot? “If he scared you so bad, Beth, why didn’t you call the police right after it happened? Why did you wait to talk to anyone about it?”

  She stared at him, her face white now. She stumbled to her feet.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “You should have called me like you said you were going to. Like you promised. You shouldn’t have gone up to his room with him. Jesus, you were holding his hand on the way up.”

  She shook her head. She turned and ran from the coffee shop.

  Shit.

  Dooley’s uncle was at the counter of his original dry-cleaning store when Dooley walked in at lunchtime. He glanced at Dooley and then turned back to the woman who was pointing to a skirt she was holding.

  “We’ll take care of it,” Dooley’s uncle said in a soothing voice that Dooley rarely heard around the house.

  But the woman wasn’t satisfied.

  “I paid for good service.” Her voice more whiny than sharp. “And I didn’t get it.”

  “We’ll take care of that, too,” Dooley’s uncle said. He waved to Irene, the woman at the cash. “Mrs. Loewen needs a refund.” He handed her the skirt with its covering plastic, bill attached. He smiled at Mrs. Loewen. “The skirt will be ready by the end of the day. That’s a promise.”

  Mrs. Loewen nodded brusquely and moved to the cash for her refund. Dooley’s uncle waved Dooley over.

  “School let out early?” he said.

  “I’m on lunch.”

  “And?”

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  His uncle waited.

  Dooley glanced at Mrs. Loewen and Irene. His uncle got the point. He lifted the trap in the counter to let Dooley in and led the way to the back of the store where his office was. There was a coffeemaker on top of the filing cabinet. His uncle poured himself a cup and added a teaspoon of powdered creamer.

  “What’s up?” he said, stirring the powder into his coffee.

  Dooley hesitated.

  “Rape cases,” he said finally. “They got someone special to handle those or is it just regular cops?”

  His uncle had been lifting the coffee mug to his lips, but stopped and lowered it again.

  “Do I even want to know why you’re asking?” he said. “And, FYI, it’s called sexual assault, not rape.”

  “Whatever. And it’s not about me. I didn’t do anything.”

  His uncle nodded, but Dooley could see he was still chewing on why Dooley would ask such a question. He lowered himself into the chair behind his desk.

  “They have detectives who are trained for that.”

  “You know any of them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. If I don’t, I probably know somebody who knows somebody. Why? What’s going on?”

  Dooley had spent the whole morning chewing over what Beth had told him. She said she’d called the cops. He wanted to know if that was true. He needed to know.

  “Ryan? You can’t ask me something like that and then clam up.”

  Dooley looked at his uncle—his uncle who wasn’t really his uncle. He was still trying to wrap his mind around that. Why would a straight-up ex-cop like Gary McCormack take on a fucked-up case like Ryan Dooley when he wasn’t even related to him? Jesus, he hadn’t even wanted to know him for the first fifteen years of his life. What the hell was that about? And while he was on the topic, why did life have to be so goddamned complicated? Why was he always having to figure shit out? Deep shit. Why couldn’t things run smoothly for a while?

  “Ryan, for God’s sake—”

  “Can you find out if a guy named Parker Albright was charged with rape yesterday afternoon or last night?”

  “Who the hell is Parker Albright? Please don’t tell me he’s some guy you used to know.”

  “I didn’t even know he existed until recently,” Dooley said. “Can you find out or not?”

  His uncle studied him for a few moments.

  “I suppose.”

  “Will you?”

  Another few moments passed before his uncle nodded.

  “I’ll explain later,” Dooley said. “I promise.”

  Dooley was sure his uncle would quiz him over supper. He didn’t. He didn’t raise the subject at all except to say, “I put a few calls in, but I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  “I was just trying to steer clear of Nevin.”

  “She was making eyes at him all week.”

  “He forced me.”

  “I saw them go ups
tairs together.”

  “He scared me.”

  “They were holding hands.”

  Don’t think about it, he told himself the next morning. She cheated on you, for God’s sake, and it wasn’t even the first time. She never introduced you to any of her friends. It was easy to see why not. How could he even begin to measure up to the private school kids she spent her days with? Well, fine. Whatever. Pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend she never existed. Except, Jesus, how do you pretend a girl like Beth never existed? How do you pretend she never pressed her sweet soft lips against yours? How do you pretend you never ran your hand down the full length of her naked body? How do you remove the memory of her from your head?

  Why had she gone up to Parker’s room with him? Was she really so naïve? What had she been doing at the tennis club? Was it like Nevin had said—she’d been dumped but wasn’t ready to let go? Why had she waited so long to talk to the cops, if she really had? Why had she waited until after she’d seen him at the tennis club to tell him her side of the story?

  He kept his head down at school. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t bother to turn on his cell phone—what was the point? He focused every minute on just that minute, nothing more. Concentrated on getting through the next sixty seconds and the next sixty seconds after that. His gut was rock-hard from the tension. His hands kept curling into fists. He wanted to smash something. Someone. Parker Albright. He wanted to hit him so hard in the face that he drew blood. Wanted to keep hitting him until he dropped. Wanted to kick him after that. Did other people ever feel that way, or was it just him?

  He got through school. He dragged himself home and ate something, even though he wasn’t hungry and the sandwich he made himself sat like a lump in his stomach. Then he set off for the video store, where he was scheduled to work until midnight. The store was in sight. He was ready to walk through the door. But he couldn’t stand it anymore.

  He dipped into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and turned it on. I must be out of my mind, he told himself, but he punched in Beth’s number anyway. Voicemail. Again. He left a message: “It’s me. Call me.” Then he pressed END—and almost dropped the phone when he happened, just happened, to glance across the street. He stepped back automatically, wanting to avoid notice. But the guy on the other side of the street didn’t turn his head even once. No, he swung along, an enormous duffle bag over his shoulder. Dooley watched him—front view, side view, back view, the guy getting smaller and smaller until he finally turned a corner and disappeared. It wasn’t until Kevin came out of the store, looked around, located him, and said, “I thought I saw you out here. Your shift started five minutes ago,” that Dooley realized he was trembling all over. Kevin noticed, too. He said, “You’re not going to tell me that you’re sick, are you? Because Brendan already called in. It’s Friday, Dooley. I don’t have to tell you what that means, do I?”

  Dooley supposed he must have followed Kevin into the store. He supposed he must have gone into the back room and opened his locker and pulled on his red golf shirt and pinned on his name tag. He supposed he must have taken a shot at doing his job. But it must not have been a good shot because eventually Linelle said, “Who exactly are you expecting to see out there? Dr. Death?”

  Dooley looked blankly at her.

  “You’ve spent more time staring out that window than Drea Chappelle spends staring in the mirror,” Linelle said.

  “Who’s Drea Chappelle?”

  “She’s this princess I used to go to school with.”

  The words weren’t gelling for Dooley. Linelle at school with a princess?

  Linelle shook her head. “What’s up with you, Dooley? You look like you’ve seen a ghost—literally.”

  “I’m fine.”

  But he couldn’t shake what he had seen. Couldn’t shake the feeling that had come over him.

  Dooley heard Linelle say, “Tall. And ripped. Definitely ripped. I want a guy who puts as much work into his body as guys expect girls to put into theirs. And any shade of brown, light or dark, doesn’t matter.”

  He became aware of Linelle staring at him.

  “You listening to me, Dooley?” she said. It was slow in the store for a Friday night, and Kevin was on his meal break. Linelle had been talking pretty much non-stop, filling the time, since all they were allowed to play on the monitors was the latest Disney release, and they had both seen it a zillion times already.

  “You ripped something,” Dooley said.

  Linelle gave him the evil eye.

  “I was talking about guys. About my type.”

  “You’ve got a type?”

  “Everyone’s got a type,” Linelle said. “You obviously like them dark-haired, willowy, with nice perky boobs.”

  “That’s not a type,” Dooley said. “That’s Beth.”

  “You’re telling me she’s not your type.”

  “She’s the only girl you’ve ever seen me with.”

  “Well, you’re definitely her type. Every time I’ve seen her, she’s with some tall, built dude.”

  “Yeah,” Dooley said. “Me.”

  “She’s a type, despite what you think, Dooley,” Linelle said. “She’s every guy’s wet dream. They dog her. Like Rhodes. And that dork in the Jag.”

  “So she’s their type. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re her type,” Dooley said.

  “Right. It’s just a coincidence that you and Rhodes and dork-boy all look the same.”

  “You must mean, we’re all white,” Dooley said. “Because Rhodes had blond hair and wore glasses and dork-boy isn’t anything like me.”

  “Yeah,” Linelle said. “That must be it. You tall, built white boys all look alike. Except that some of you dress a whole lot better than others.” She ran a sharp eye over Dooley’s red golf shirt, black jeans, and battered boots.

  “Yeah. And some of us have to work for a living.”

  Kevin came back to the store and business picked up. It wasn’t until Dooley was on his way home at nearly one in the morning that his brain flashed on the duffle bag. It had words stenciled on it. Little League. The guy was involved in Little League.

  The light was on in the kitchen when Dooley got home. When Dooley had first started living with his uncle maybe ten months ago now, his uncle had waited up for him every night. He’d given that up after a few months when Dooley never showed up late. Well, hardly ever, and never without a solid reason.

  But he was waiting up tonight.

  Dooley went into the kitchen. His uncle was sitting at the table, nursing a beer. The look on his face scared Dooley.

  “Is it Jeannie?” he said. “Did something happen to her.”

  “Jeannie’s fine,” his uncle said. “Sit down, Ryan.”

  Uh-oh. Dooley sat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was about Beth?”

  Oh. Dooley stood up again. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know and wished now that he hadn’t raised the matter with his uncle.

  “What’s going on with you, Ryan?”

  “Nothing.” And that was the truth.

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Who?”

  “Who? Jesus, Ryan, who are we talking about here? Beth. Did you talk to Beth?”

  “I heard her side of it, yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And what? Look, forget about it, okay? It’s not important.”

  “What? Are you dumping her over this? You’re one of those guys? She’s damaged goods, and now you’re not interested?”

  Dumping her? His whole body tensed up again, and again he wanted to smash something—anything.

  “She was supposed to call me when she was away. She didn’t. Turns out she was hanging out with this guy,” he said. “She didn’t call when she got back, either. She didn’t even return my calls.”

  His uncle was silent for a few moments. Then: “So you want to know what my contact told me or not?” When Dooley didn’t answer, he said, “Sit down, Ryan.�
��

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sit.”

  “I said I’m fine.” He shouted the words at his uncle, surprising him, making him jump a little. His uncle waited a few beats.

  “Please sit down,” he said finally.

  Dooley stared right back at him. The guy wasn’t even his uncle. But he was the person Dooley was supposed to live with for another couple of months. He was the guy who had agreed to be responsible for him. He was the guy who had bailed him out a couple of times already. Dooley yanked out a chair, its legs scraping loudly against the tile floor, dropped down into it, and crossed his arms over his chest. If his uncle had something to say, he could go right ahead and say it. There was no law that could make Dooley listen.

  “I talked to a detective in sex crimes.”

  “I said it’s not important.”

  “It seems Beth and a bunch of the kids she went on that trip with were at a party at this boy Parker Albright’s country house. Parker’s mother was there, but the party was outside and she was inside. After the first hour or so, Mrs. Albright went to visit friends. There was a housekeeper present. She was supposed to call Mrs. Albright if anything happened. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, preparing snacks.”

  It must have been some party.

  “Altogether, there were about twenty kids at the party, pretty much an even split between boys and girls.”

  How convenient.

  “It seems that Beth and the Albright kid spent a lot of time together that night,” his uncle said.

  Dooley squirmed in his seat. He didn’t want to hear it again. He didn’t even want to think about it.

  “Apparently, it was a friendly atmosphere—goofing around, dancing, some underage drinking, probably a little dope. The detective I spoke to, she talked to everybody who was there, and that’s what they said—except that no one actually admitted to the dope. Then, sometime around midnight, Beth went upstairs with Parker.”

  Dooley felt his gut tightening.

  “There was a witness who saw them go up.” Annicka. “According to her, they were holding hands.”

  “Jesus!” He couldn’t stand it anymore. He jumped to his feet, toppling the chair.

  His uncle looked calmly up at him. He got up, circled the table, and set the chair upright again.