Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

  “I believe they make the point nicely,” Sa’ad said.

  Edmund had zeroed in on the six machines, was inspecting them with his head cocked and his lips nearly invisible from concentration.

  “What do you think, Edmund?” Sa’ad asked.

  “I think . . .” Edmund put a hand in his pocket, and Joel heard the sound of coins rubbing against one another. His hand churned and dug before reappearing. “I think, my old friend, that the legal system ain’t always what it’s cracked up to be.” Edmund opened his hand. There was no money to be seen, only a flat pocket knife, probably two inches long. He walked to the machines and began working a blade in the lock slot on top of the closest one. The blade he’d chosen didn’t do the trick, and he folded out a shorter, thinner tool. He jimmied and pushed and wiggled his wrists until he finally got into the raised silver lock just right and was able to turn the knife in a cautious clockwise circle. Edmund removed the lid and took out a handful of Chiclets, then tipped back his head and dropped several in his mouth. “Want some of Sa’ad’s gum, Joel?”

  Joel grinned. “No thanks. But I certainly admire your resourcefulness.”

  It occurred to Joel when he and Edmund arrived outside that he didn’t have a place to stay. He had most of the two hundred dollars remaining but had no idea how much a decent hotel would cost. Before he could question Edmund about the subject, his new business partner volunteered that he’d reserved a room at the Golden Nugget under the Henry Louis Williams alias. He handed Joel a thousand dollars in hundreds and instructed him to pay in cash.

  “It certainly won’t be this expensive,” Joel protested. “And I’ve got most of the two hundred left. I paid for a taxi in Missoula and one here, and that’s it.”

  “Room will run you eighty-five and tax durin’ the week. The rooms are great, too. Remember last time how classy the place was? Don’t let the price fool you.” He and Joel were standing in the parking lot under a crackling desert sun, waiting for Sa’ad to pick them up. “The rest is for you, some walkin’ around money. WAM, we like to call it.”

  “I can’t accept this, Edmund. I appreciate it, but—”

  “It’s an advance against your share, nothin’ more, nothin’ less. I don’t want to see you livin’ like a street person, Joel.”

  “You’ll deduct it from my share at the end?”

  “I will. You don’t have to worry about that. As much as I respect our friendship, business is business.” Edmund was holding a chunk of bills squeezed together in a gold clip. There looked to be several thousand dollars in paper money. “Sa’ad and me will drop you off downtown so you can spruce up and take care of check-in, then you catch a cab to the restaurant. I always treat Sa’ad to a drink at Caesar’s Palace—our little tradition—and we’ll meet you for dinner. Oh—tip the doorman two dollars and the cabbie three.”

  “Okay.” Joel reached for his wallet, and when he was loading the cash inside, a Subway card fell out and fluttered onto the asphalt. The card had three stamps stuck to it, needed five more to earn a free sandwich. “Edmund, I’m only going to do this once. It’s probably wrong on some level, and I assume I’m going to have to lie and who knows what else. I don’t think you realize what it took to push me to this point, or how low I’ve fallen. One time, and no more. It seems to be my only choice, and I pray the Lord doesn’t punish me too harshly for it.” He recovered the card and crammed it between the hundreds and twenties, his wallet so bloated that it was difficult to fold in half.

  Christy Darden’s lawyer was standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. She was sitting in a handsome leather chair, and she could hear his voice and smell his aftershave but couldn’t see his face. He’d been speaking since she sat down, and Christy was only now tuning in.

  “Leaving the University of Virginia, attending rehab, the accidental overdose—these events will bolster our lawsuit, make your position stronger.”

  Her mother and father were on her right, and another lawyer, an “associate” wearing a dull, baggy suit, was standing in the corner to her left, taking notes and pushing up his glasses each time he raised his head from his scribbling.

  “There’s no need to hide these matters, and no need to be ashamed. It’s the same as a broken leg or a fractured ankle—these are part of the injuries caused by Reverend King and the church. You should, and will, be compensated for them.”

  When Big Bill Darden discovered Joel’s misconduct, he’d hired his baby girl an attorney from Richmond—not Roanoke—and carried on about how Henry Clay Hanes was the “top dog” at Hunton and Williams, Virginia’s biggest and grandest law firm. To Christy, Hanes seemed brilliant and mean as a striped snake, and he made her nervous, almost nauseated, every time she met with him to sign papers or talk about the case.

  Hanes came around her chair and settled on the edge of his desk, not quite standing and not quite at rest. At least she could see him. “I want to make sure on some of the particulars, mostly having to do with the chronology, okay?”

  “I guess.” Christy sunk farther into her seat. “But haven’t we been over this already? Like a zillion times?”

  “This will make a zillion and one.” He swatted her away, didn’t seem at all put off by her petulance. “This is a multimillion-dollar lawsuit. We will be prepared, and we will leave not one breath to chance.” Hanes wasn’t looking at her when he spoke. He brought his gaze down and focused on her. “Would you like some privacy? I know this is difficult and emotional. It must be hard for you. I respect that. I have a psychologist who specializes in rape trauma on call if you feel the need. She can be here in ten minutes. I’m also bringing in a female associate to assist Oliver and myself with the case.” He acknowledged the other lawyer in the room, and the awkward young man shuffled his feet and adjusted his glasses with his index finger. “Please let me know what I can do to make this tolerable. And again, let me point out that you have every right to talk to me without your parents present.”

  Christy was watching Oliver. She waited until he finally ceased writing and glanced up from his pad before she answered. “What you’re saying, Mr. Hanes, in a kinda nice way, is don’t fuck with me. Right?”

  Christy heard her mother gasp, and her father’s neck filled with blood. Henry Clay Hanes registered a hint of amusement and little else. He righted himself, took a step toward Christy and crouched in front of her. He was balanced on the tips of his feet, his face about even with hers, poised there with his knees akimbo like a mammoth toad, ready to leap. “That, Christy, is exactly what I’m saying. I appreciate your perceptive nature.”

  “But he’s already confessed, right? How hard can this be?” Christy didn’t want to slog through the story again, and doubted she could get all the details correct.

  “I’ve spoken with Mr. Roland, his attorney. He’s a most able lawyer. We have your deposition scheduled in a few weeks. I will depose Mr. King on the same day. My best assumption is that after you’re questioned by Mr. Roland, and after he has reviewed the physical evidence, he’ll make us an offer. He’ll offer something unacceptable, I’ll counter, and we’ll wind up in the middle. I’m guessing this case will land between one and two million, depending on how you’re perceived. If you come off as a sullen, spoiled party girl, we have a problem. If, on the other hand, you come off as a typical teenager who’s suffering because of her minister’s misdeeds, we have a lot more to gain. That’s why the deposition is so important. I’m certain the church wants a quick settlement rather than months and months of bad publicity and a nasty trial, but their insurer holds the purse strings, and if the fine folks at Liberty Underwriters sense you might appear unappealing to a jury, we’ll go to court. The insurance company won’t give a damn about the church’s problems if they can save several thousand bucks.” Hanes rose from his squat. “You get what I’m saying?” His tone was completely neutral, constrained. “You’ll need to put on your good dress and best manners for me at least once.”

  “The better I act, the m
ore money you get.”

  “The more money we both get,” Hanes replied. “So, would you like me to call the rape counselor?”

  Christy didn’t answer. She inspected the irregular edge she’d gnawed in her thumbnail, ignored her lawyer.

  “Christy?” Hanes’s voice remained steady and sterile.

  “Christina, sit up straight and answer the man,” her mother snapped. “And quit acting like a brat.”

  “Why would I need a rape counselor?” She drew her thumb closer to her face.

  “I thought it might make you more comfortable,” Hanes said, “but it’s completely your decision. I’ll have my associate Mrs. Patterson prepare you, if you’d like. She can handle the actual questioning. You tell me.”

  “It wasn’t rape. I had sex. In fact, I liked it. I wanted to sleep with Joel.”

  “Great,” her mother said. “Just great.”

  “So what’ll it be?” Hanes asked.

  “Can we do this some other time?”

  “No. We may do it again on another day, but we’re going to prep you now.”

  “I like you, Mr. Hanes. You don’t take any shit, do you?” Christy dropped her thumb and changed her position in the chair, slid closer to the rounded seam at the cushion’s lip. Her outright fear of Hanes had disappeared, although she still had the impression he wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

  “It would seem I just did, no?”

  “How much could we get, like today? Without me having to give this deposition?”

  “Why do you ask?” Hanes had returned to the front of his desk.

  “Because I don’t want to do it.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, and I’m also confident they’re not going to hand me a check without having a gander at you and hearing what you have to say.”

  “They won’t give us anything? Right now, today? Nada? He admitted he did it, and you’ve got the tests from the hospital—what else is there? How good a lawyer do you have to be to win this one?”

  Hanes sealed shut his eyes, pointed his face at the ceiling and emitted a laugh that was a few notches short of a howl. “Worried about your lawyer, are you?” he said when he finished baying at the roof. “I guess we’ll soon find out how good I am.” He put his hands flat against his belly and made the noise again. “See, we don’t doubt the preacher’s liable. What we don’t know is how much it’ll cost him. To know that, we have to know you. I could run over you with my car, but if you stand up without a scratch and in good spirits, then you have no damages and no case. Understand?”

  “What if I just made this up? What if I told you that?” Christy looked at the paint on her toenails. Her mother had badgered her to wear proper shoes, but it was August and way too sweltering for anything other than sandals and a ponytail.

  “I’d say you were understandably anxious about having to go through a difficult process and doing all you can to avoid reliving a horrible segment of your life.”

  “Maybe I’m just making all this up. Maybe I’ll contradict everything.”

  “I’m guessing Reverend King didn’t admit his crime and end his career because he’s innocent.” Hanes looked at Oliver. “When’s the deposition set?”

  “Two weeks from today, at one o’clock. In Roanoke at Mr. Roland’s office.” The young lawyer didn’t hesitate, seemed to have the time and date committed to memory.

  “Good. We’ll have plenty of time to work with Christina. By the way, how are you spending your summer?”

  “I’m serious, Mr. Hanes, what if Joel didn’t do what I said he did? I’m having second thoughts about this.”

  “Oh?” For the first time, Hanes seemed unsure of himself. “Despite his guilty plea, and the fact the combings at the emergency room revealed his pubic hair in your private area and evidence of fresh vaginal tears?” He regained his composure, squinted at the girl across from him. “If there’s truly something wrong or you’ve not told the truth, by all means let us know. I don’t have any interest in tarring an innocent man, but hard as you might find this to accept, I genuinely believe in you and this case, and think it’s horrible that a minister would break faith with you and your family. You need to decide if you want to pursue this and quit jerking everyone around. If you’re in, great. If you’re out, fine. Just don’t sit here and waste my time.”

  “Christy, for once, just for once, please act like you have some sense,” her father pleaded. “I know this has been terrible, and I know at times we’ve probably handled things wrong, but please let this man help you.”

  “I’m taking a class at Hollins and working part-time at the mall. They let me withdraw from UVA instead of expelling me, and I’m going to start at Sweet Briar in a few weeks.”

  “Ah. Good. It seems you’re doing all you can to put this behind you.” Hanes appeared satisfied with her response.

  “And she goes to her AA meeting once a week,” her mother added. “Every week.”

  “That so, Christina?” Hanes asked.

  “I go every Wednesday night.” In fact, she wouldn’t dream of skipping it. At her second meeting after rehab, she’d met a woman named Celeste, a thirty-five-year-old divorcee with a house on Smith Mountain Lake. They’d burn a joint in the parking lot before each meeting and practically bust up every time a speaker mentioned the need for a “higher power” in day-to-day living. Afterwards, they’d drive to the lake and smoke more dope and sit on Celeste’s dock and listen to music and scan the sky trying to identify constellations. Sometimes Celeste’s boyfriend would come by with a boat full of friends and a keg of Bud Light.

  “Stick with it,” Hanes said.

  “I plan to.”

  “Why don’t you and your folks step into the conference room, relax for a moment, and then we’ll get started.”

  “Do you want us to sit in with you, dear?” her mother asked.

  “Whatever. If you want to.”

  “Moral support,” her father said.

  “You know . . .” Christy started, then stopped.

  “What? What is it?” her father asked. “Tell us.” The room became tense again.

  “Well . . .”

  “What?” her mother said, her impatience creeping into the single word despite her best efforts.

  “If I’m going to have to do this deposition thing, I figure I’ll need to look the part, right? So, I mean, I was hoping you guys would take me shopping while we’re here, you know, for some cool outfits.” She batted her eyes at her father at the end of the request.

  “I agree,” Bill Darden said, sounding relieved this was the limit of his daughter’s extortion. “We’ll go after we finish with Mr. Hanes.”

  “And if I have to get ready for this grilling from Mr. Roland, it would be nice if I didn’t have to schlep to the mall every day for work and have all that pressure on me. I know I’ll do better if I don’t have to put in six hours of weekday retail and contend with snotty, rude customers. Mall employment can be extremely daunting. Plus school starts soon anyway.”

  Hanes interrupted Christy’s negotiations. “Why don’t you good people discuss this by yourselves while I locate Mrs. Patterson?” He touched a button on his phone and asked his secretary to show the Dardens to the conference room. A conservatively dressed woman entered the office and accompanied Christy and her parents down the hall. Hanes walked to the door, shut it and looked at Oliver. “I’ll tell you one thing—as spoiled and headstrong as that worthless little bitch is, she’s about the most beautiful kid I’ve ever seen. I can see why the rev was chasing after her—be tough not to. Talk about tying Odysseus to the mast. Jeez. There’s something about our friend Christy, huh, Oliver? Like the red devil came at Joel King with his best pitch.”

  six

  At the Rosewood Grille, Joel gave Sa’ad’s name to a maitre d’ with a mustache and dyed black hair, and the man acknowledged him with a pretentious sweep of his arm, whipped a menu from a stack near his post and swished Joel to the very end of the restaurant, turned the brief trip
into a brisk, tuxedoed piece of theater that wound through tables, busboys and busy waiters. The restaurant was crowded and convivial, full of conversation and the sounds of forks clipping plates and ice sliding and rattling in heavy water glasses. The lights were low, and when the maitre d’ stopped and gestured, Joel didn’t recognize the group sitting at the table, three women and a man seated so Joel couldn’t see his face. He leaned toward his host, smelled cologne and something distantly greasy. “I’m looking for Sa’ad X. Sa’ad’s reservation.”

  “Yes, I know. And this is the table.” A cheesy smile, a quick hand flourish in the direction of the three women and their companion.

  Joel inspected the four people again. “I don’t think—”

  “Hello, Reverend King.”

  Joel heard the voice from behind him and felt a hand meet his shoulder. It was Sa’ad, dressed in the same splendid suit and speckled tie he’d worn at his office.

  “Where’s Edmund?”

  “Right there.” Sa’ad pointed at the man with the three women, and Joel finally registered the outline of Edmund’s head. He’d been thrown off by the women and overlooked Edmund, hadn’t seen what he’d expected when he arrived.

  “Who’s that, the three ladies?” Joel asked.

  “Julie, Rachel, and Lilly. They’re joining us for the evening.”

  Joel didn’t move. He stuck his hands on his hips. “Joining us?”

  “Yes.” Sa’ad applied pressure and urged Joel forward.

  Joel didn’t budge. “Let me do the math. There are three of us and three women. Am I reading this correctly?”

  Sa’ad chortled, but it was difficult to read his expression in the dim light. “You’re free to interpret it any way you want, my friend.”

  “Is this a date you’ve arranged? A setup?”

  The maitre d’ had withdrawn to a wall and was watching them, the menu still pressed under his arm.

  “We simply invited three friends along for the evening,” Sa’ad answered. “No one, Mr. King, is holding a gun to your head. Stay or depart as you please.”