And I completely fell for it!
Thetrouble I’m in becomes terribly clear.
“I really don’t think I should say anything else until my lawyer arrives.” Detective Vincent glares at me, but I simply return his hardened stare with one of my own. I’m obviously not walking out of here anytime soon, so I might as well hold onto whatever rights I still have and keep my big mouth shut. He smiles and nods and agrees, having another officer escort me back to the holding cell until I can have a private meeting with Quinton.
Fifteen hours later.
By the time we’re finally in a room together, I throw myself into his arms. It takes all my strength not to break down sobbing, and his calming whispers of, “It’s okay, take it easy, it’s gonna be okay,” do help to relieve my overwhelming anxiety.
But they can only do so much.
Quinton says, “Okay, first the bad news; the judge wants to set bail at a million dollars.”
“A million -? But that means I’ll need a hundred thousand deposit, I don’t have that!”
Quinton nods slowly, eyes dipping shut to tell me he understands, to urge me not to panic. He says, “I think I can bring it down to a lot lower than that. You’re hardly a flight risk. I mean, they’ve frozen your accounts, taken your passport -”
“You’re kidding? They got to my bank account, and the building accounts?”
“And the buildings! Addie, this is big. The DEA is all over it, FBI, if they can bring a case before a judge, we could have a real fight on our hands.”
“Quinton?” My voice is frail, quivering and trapped; it sounds precisely how I feel.
Quinton says, “The good news is you’re innocent, and that’s a rarity in the judicial system. You’ve got no criminal record, no real options, you’re not a physical danger to anyone; yourself perhaps, but if I can get the court to see around that, I might be able to get you released to my custody.”
“What’s Emily going to say about that?”
“Don’t worry about Emily,” Quinton says. “As soon as I get back, I’m packing my things.” Reading my quizzical expression, he explains, “She was gonna let you languish here forever. I can’t live with that. It was too much; the jealousy, the materialism, just wasn’t the right fit.”
I am physically unable to experience happiness right now, or I probably would. Not that any two people breaking up should be the cause of another’s happiness. But he’s right that they weren’t a good fit, I always felt that. And after Emily turned her back on me when I needed a friend most tells me I’d just as soon not be friends with her anymore. And I’m glad she won’t be a corrupting influence on Quinton, since he’s now my official legal representation. He’s got too strong a sense of character to be swayed by her, but there would have been a conflict of interest, I’m sure. Ethical man that he is, Quinton probably would have disqualified himself from representing me.
But I need Quinton now; not just because I need a lawyer (which I do) and a friend (ditto). But I need to know my lawyer believes in my innocence and isn’t merely turning up for his appointed job representing someone he thinks is guilty and is ready to sacrifice to the legal system just so he or she can go home early and get on with their lives.
“And your firm is okay with it ... I’m not too smalltime?”
“I pulled some strings,” Quinton says. “Anyway, it is one of the bigger busts in town. That’ll win somebody a lot of favors down the line, probably a lot of people.”
I try not to, but I have to ask, “You?”
He shrugs, his genuine disinterest plain on his face; eyes rolling lazily, mouth turned in half a frown. “Probably.”
“So now what do we do?”
Quinton tries to smile, but he can’t. “Stay calm, keep your head down -”
“Keep my head down?”
“There’s a bail hearing scheduled for Thursday morning, nine o’clock.”
“Thursday? Today’s Tuesday!”
“It’s just over thirty-six hours, only two nights and -”
“Only two nights? You know how long that is in here? You know what can happen to a person over two nights and thirty-six hours? How am I supposed to keep my head down all that time?”
Quinton holds his hands out to calm me. “It’s not ideal, I realize that, but there’s just nothing we can do about it right now. So relax and make as little eye contact with the others as you can. With any luck, you’ll be out on Thursday.”
“And if not?”
“I’m not sure, Addie, to tell you the truth; I really can’t say. But if the bail is down even close to a reasonable amount, maybe we can raise the money somehow, call your family in Colorado -”
“No, no way, I -”
“Addie, this is no time to be proud! If they’re willing to help, and we need their help, I won’t let you shun it as an option out-ofhand like that. Anyway, there are other options too, and I’ll learn everything I can about your Randolph MacLeish in the meantime. So let’s just keep an open mind, a closed mouth, and pray like crazy.”
♡
Jail is designed to be like hell. The doors slam shut, the stink of sweat and breath settles in the air. They want it to stink and be miserable. Line after line of miserable people with crushed souls and broken hearts; everybody’s either furious or terrified or hopeless or some measure of all three.
The guards cover me with lice spray, which burns to the touch. I wear the hideous orange jumpsuit, a papery material that tells me how little the State is willing to spend on me, how little it cares. The buzzers, theslamming doors, the echoes of the shuffling feet; it’s all terribly loud and then, at other times, horrifyingly silent.
I can feel the eyes of the other prisoners looking me over in the food line as the kitchen staff slops the beef stew and creamed corn onto my tray from the other side of the glass. I walk alone to find a place to sit. I begin to eat, keeping a sharp eye around me. It seems like everybody is staring at me, or pretending not to be staring at me.
The next morning is my bail hearing. The prosecuting attorney, a Miss Sabrina Jerome, calls for the maximum bail of one million dollars. Her pouchy cheeks and chunky frame make her look like she’s nearly fifty, but something tells me it’s from premature aging and she’s probably still in her latethirties. “I don’t see any reason the bail should be reduced, much less mitigated!”
The judge, a stout man of Japanese descent (his name is Yoshi Takimara), glances at an opened manilla folder in front of him.
“Your honor,” Quinton says, “my client is an innocent woman, whom we believe has been setup by an associate entirely without her knowledge. She has no criminal record, no history of violence or any antisocial behavior. To keep her locked up during her pre-trial period could be tantamount to a death sentence for her. She’s not capable of surviving in jail and there’s no reason she should have to face that.”
The judge seems to give it a little thought, then wraps his gavel. “Bail is set for two hundred thousand dollars.” He mutters a few more words about me being remanded into the custody of the State, pounds his gavel again, and sends me back among the murderers and rapists at the county jail.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Miraculously, Quinton gets me out on bail, having raised the twenty thousand from my family in Colorado. “Your dad told me he would have kissed you off forever, but for a note you sent him a while back. Said he was quite touched by it. They’ll be coming here, by the way.”
“They’re coming here ... to live?!”
Reading the nervous crackle of my voice, Quinton releases a little chuckle and shakes his head. “To testify at your preliminary hearing, help persuade the judge that he shouldn’t bother holding the matter over for trial.”
“And if that happens, I’m free to go?”
“That’s right. If not, we go to trial and fight it out in front of a jury.”
I have to force myself to say, “And ... if I’m found guilty?”
“Addie, let’s not get ahead of oursel
ves. There are lots of options at every stage; appeals, mistrials, let’s just take it one step at a time.”
And of course I know he’s right; there’s only so much we can do, might as well just stay calm and handle things as they happen. The only real alternative is to throw myself off a building, but I’m not at that point.
Not yet.
And with my bank accounts frozen and no job (not even a recommendation), paying my rent is going to be out of the question. However, since Quinton has moved out of the apartment he was sharing with Emily, I move him in with me and he takes over the rent.
Even though he’s paying all o f the rent, Quinton takes the couch and allows me to sleep in the bedroom. And even though I don’t feel very good about it, I accept. Since I may be spending the next three or four decades on a hard cot, we both feel a comfortable bed isn’t a luxury to forego.
Quinton makes me feel good, brings me some measure of security, however fleeting and tenuous it might be. He is my attorney and friend, after all; the only one of either that I’ve got in Los Angeles, maybe even the whole world. But at least I’m not alone, which is a terribly familiar feeling that only now do I realize I’ve been running from all this time; barely able to escape it and still struggling to do so.
But those aren’t the only feelings I’m struggling with. I’m still seething with anger toward Randolph. Still? I’m only getting angrier! Not only did he take advantage of me, lie to me, seduce me with ill intent (one step away from rape, if you ask me); but he set me up to be a front for his filthy drug scheme and it worked. He’d have me rot in jail (one step away from murder, no matter who you ask). And that all hurts, it would hurt anyone. But he lied to me, he tricked me and I fell for it! I feel so useless and stupid and ashamed, no amount of Quinton’s reassurance seems capable of dulling my gnawing self-loathing.
And things get even more complicated when I think of Quinton. I really like Quinton, and I always did find him to be an exceptional person. But my feelings are getting stronger fast, and I just don’t know how to deal with them. On the one hand, I’m nervous that these feelings of mine are inspired by his care for me, his willingness to help me. I never felt that before, except with Randolph. But Randolph was lying. And not only am I not sure if I can let myself trust again, I’m not sure that it’s such a healthy thing that I do. I mean, I trust Quinton with my life; he’s my lawyer and I’m facing a veritable lifetime behind bars. But I don’t think I should trust him with my heart. I can hardly believe I’m even considering it.
Is this really what turns you on? I have to ask myself, actually more of a challenge. You need some father figure to swoop in and save the day for you, make everything all right because you can’t do it for yourself? How can you be so weak and culpable?
It’s not so strange that I should want to be protected and nurtured, I silently respond. Who wouldn’t?
But you need it, I counter, admit it; you can’t take care of yourself. You’re willing to give your heart and your body to whomever will bend down and pick you up out of the gutter!
I won’t admit that, because it’s not true.
Oh yeah? the other me says. Prove it. Treat Quinton the way you’d treat a true professional relationship, and you’ll prove me wrong. Fall into bed with him, and -
You don’t have to worry about that, my stronger self interrupts.I’ve learned my lesson about striking a balance between personal and business, and this is my life on the line! Nothing so personal has ever been such important business.
But I have to admit, in the silence of my own soul, I hope there is a life before this one ends, when we’re united with those we love. I wrestle with it, more and more.
The knowing.
But I mustn’t follow my heart, in my business or my personal life.
So Quinton and I begin strategizing my defense and, if possible, figuring out a way to put Randolph MacLeish behind bars for the rest of his life. It doesn’t seem likely that one is going to be possible without the other.
♡
Quinton and I spend some time talking it out, trying to find the missing piece that will solve the puzzle and set me free. Not that Quinton and I aren’t certain who’s behind all this; Randolph MacLeish. But proving it is another matter. And according to Quinton we not only have to prove that there is insufficient evidence to warrant my trial, we also had better suggest a more plausible scenario. Unbelievably, we’ve got to give them something better, or I’m toast. The burden of proof, it seems, lies with the accused.
So we pace and snack and think and go around and around, scarcely seeming to get any closer to our goal. Sometimes it seems that we’re getting further away with every step.
“Why would he want to go through all this remains a question,” Quinton says, pacing around the living room. “From what I can gather, he may not be Donald Trump, but he really doesn’t do that badly. He does well enough so that he doesn’t have to try anything drastically risky like become an international drug kingpin.”
“Unless he gets somebody else to take all the risk for him,” I say, adding, “namely me,” without really needing to.
“Still, it’s a big operation and a tremendous risk. And it’s not like his expenses are that immense, the house is paid for.”
“Taxes?” I ask. “With all his wheeling and dealing, there could be something there, some need for extra cash flow.”
“That’s good thinking, but I checked back at the office.” Quinton scratches his chin, shaking his head. “Though again, it’s not like he’s Andrew Carnegie.”
“No, but ... all those investment deals, his clients, there must be a lot of money floating around in his circle. Maybe he’s embezzling it, or -”
Quinton shakes his head, his smile reflecting the futility of my train of thought. “That’s what I’m telling you, he really didn’t make that many investments; one or two, but not for a while. Truth is, one could say his business has sort of petered out.”
“That’s not true, I’ve been following him around for a year, watching him buy properties for ... ” My words trail off; my suddenly useless, childish, naive words. “Oh, that was all a show, wasn’t it? Of course, not just the Florida thing, but all of it.”
“A lot of it,” Quinton answers, “at least as far as you were concerned.”
“But, that house, the two cars, how did he afford them?”
“Inherited from his wife. She died a few years before -”
“Of cancer,” I say, my voice low and grainy as I recall him telling me the awful story. “Their baby died too.”
A solemn silence settles around us before Quinton says, “Yes.”
I have to clear my throat. “At least he wasn’t lying about that.”
“No,” Quinton has to admit. His voice takes an upward turn as he says, “The house and cars and things, a lot of that came as her ... contribution to the household; from a trust fund left by her parents after their own deaths years before.”
“So much tragedy in a single family.”
“Everybody dies, Addie.”
I look at him, feeling the sorrow in my own eyes as it builds up, about to break the damn of my iron will. And Quinton senses it; as if he feels my sadness as his own, sharing the burden of my fear, my numbing hopelessness.
“It’s okay,” Quinton says, putting his hand on mine and giving it a little squeeze. “We’re gonna get through this.”
“How, Quinton? That bastard’s got me trapped!”
“It only seems that way. But we can still come up with something the District Attorney can take before a judge, some way to turn this guy’s scheme on its ear, turn it against him. If we can do that, you’re off the hook.”
Much as I don’t want to, I can’t resist asking, “What if we can’t?”
“You won’t be alone and it may not even happen! Let’s stay positive, constructive. To put Randolph into a position where the investigation turns to him, we need to establish three things. We’ve got opportunity, we’ve got a meth
od. We just don’t have a motive.”
“You just said he’s got money troubles.”
“No, I said he’s not doing as well as he might have seemed to be doing. That’s a far cry from enough motivation to risk his entire life, even if he’s got a pigeon like you to take the fall.”
I decide not to be offended by his use of the term pigeon. That’s what I allowed myself to become, after all. But something else he says gnaws at me.
Thinking out loud, I say, “He seemed like such a tender, caring person. But of course he’s a pure BS artist, so he was lying about that too!”
“Stands to reason.”
“So probably, this guy doesn’t really care about anything at all. Maybe after losing his family, he just decided, y’know, Screw it! Right or wrong, legal or illegal; what’s the difference? He might have been a decent person before that, but then he just sort of ... fell off the moral grid.”
“And when you don’t believe in anything,” Quinton suggests, “when everything you’ve ever loved has been taken away from you ... ”
“When nothing means anything, money’s as good a thing to have, to love, as anything else.”
“Better, if that’s the way you see the world.”
We look at each other, each asking ourselves what kind of person we truly are inside, how guilty we might not be of the same transgressions.
Well, I quickly decide, I’m not as guilty of anything as this dirtbag con artist is! None of us is perfect, but some of us are a damn-sight closer to it than others!
Moving away from the question for a moment, Quinton asks me, “You’re sure you never knew this man before moving here?”
“I’m sure of it, absolutely.”
“Your father’s never heard the name, doesn’t have any longstanding feuds or -”
“We’re from Colorado, Quinton, not the Ozark Mountains or the Okefenokee Swamps.”
“Revenge is a primary motivator of almost every type of crime there is, Addie.” He looks at me with stern coolness, his line of sight holding my own in its icy beam. “Now isn’t the time to be careless. We can’t afford to overlook a single possibility. I’ll ask him. Or ... you could.”
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