Sacrifice

by Andrew Vachss

"I understand what you're getting at, Burke," Storm said, "but I don't see how it helps us. The gun couldn't do the killing by itself."

  "Neither could Luke."

  Lily walked right up in my face, her chin tilted at an aggressive angle. "What?" she demanded.

  "You know Wolfe, how she is about playing with the law. Remember the time she proved that rapist wasn't having 'flashbacks'? No 'Vietnam Vet syndrome'? Remember when she shredded that 'episodic dyscontrol' defense…when that guy shot his wife and said he had some kind of brain seizure that made him do it?"

  "You're a real fan of hers, huh?"

  "Oh, chill out, Lily," Storm said. "Burke, all the stuff you talked about, it was Wolfe fighting some sophisticated defense. That's what she does, she attacks…not defends."

  "No, that's not what she does. Not all of it. Victims get defended, right?"

  "Or avenged." Lily.

  "Yeah, or avenged. Sometimes both. But how about this: Luke comes in, okay? The defense is this Multiple Personality Disorder. Insanity, okay? And Wolfe'll know the kid's crazy—no way he's faking—he'll stand up to any test. But you can't end up like Luke unless somebody does something to you. Something real ugly. For a long time."

  "You think she'd want to go after Luke's parents? For child abuse?"

  "Not for child abuse, Storm. For homicide. Like Luke was the gun, but they pulled the trigger."

  Nobody said anything.

  I lit another smoke, letting it percolate.

  Storm made a noise. "The baby kicked," she said.

  I bowed. "She agrees with me."

  Lily smiled her Madonna's smile. "You really think she'd go for it?"

  "She's your sister," I reminded her. "You tell me."

  81

  I went by the restaurant the next morning, to check my messages before I called Wolfe. Immaculata was at the register. A fear–jolt hit me—I never saw anybody but Mama there before.

  "Where's Mama?" I asked her. "You taking over for her?"

  "Downstairs. With Luke."

  Something in her voice. I came close, leaned over to her. Her face was set in hard straight lines, white streaks under the golden skin, jaw tight, eyes moist.

  "What?"

  "He…tried last night. Max had to hold him. Flower…she woke up. He was…like demons in him. When he finally stopped, he just slept. This morning…like it was nothing. I brought him here."

  "Do you want…?"

  "No! I'm just…"

  "I know," I told her. Like trying to sleep in prison. With the cell doors unlocked.

  82

  I left her there. Called the DA's office. They told me Wolfe was on trial, in Long Island City, Part L–3. Bureau chiefs don't try cases. I put it together. Threw on my lawyer suit and headed out to Queens.

  When I walked in the courtroom, Mary Beth was already on the stand. That's the way Wolfe trained them: no prelims, no dancing—come out throwing bombs, try and drop the other guy soon as you hear the bell. Lola was leading the little girl through her testimony, her body language suggesting she was pulling softly, coaxing the child out past her fear. Bringing the monster into the light. Lola's slim body was a gently weaving wand in front of the little girl, pacing back and forth on her high heels, blocking the defendant's view of the witness box.

  Sheba sat next to Mary Beth, the little girl's hand on her head. The dog's eyes followed Lola.

  "Just one more question, Mary Beth. You told us what he did, what he did to you. It went on a long time—how come you never told anyone?"

  "He said…he told me he'd make something bad happen to Mommy. He said he'd made her get sick and die. He showed me…in the paper where a little girl's mother got sick and died. He said he did that to her. Because the little girl told."

  "No further questions," Lola said, sitting down as Mary Beth brushed tears off her cheeks.

  The defendant's lawyer got to his feet. A fat, jowly man, his hair was plastered to his scalp with sweat, carefully combed up and over his head from one side to advertise his baldness.

  "Your Honor, I again renew my objection to the presence of that animal while the witness testifies. The Rulon decision clearly holds that…"

  The judge was a regal–looking woman, reddish–blonde hair cut stylishly short, square shoulders, almost a military bearing. I'd seen her before—she started out in Family Court, where they get closer to the truth. Hard to tell her age, but her eyes were old. "Counselor," she said, "the court is familiar with the Rulon case. That involved a witness who testified sitting on the lap of a social worker. Surely it is not your position that the dog is signaling to the witness?"

  "No, Your Honor. But…"

  "The court has already ruled, sir. You may have a continuing objection, and your exception to my ruling. Ask your questions."

  Sheba watched the fat attorney like he was mutton in a three–piece suit.

  The questioning wasn't much. The usual: Did she ever watch horror movies? Ever see a porno tape on the VCR in her mother's house? Have bad dreams? Anybody tell her what to say?

  Mary Beth answered the questions. Sometimes the judge had to tell her to speak up a little bit, but she was getting through it. Patting Sheba, drawing comfort and strength.

  The defense attorney asked, "Do you know it's a sin to tell a lie, Mary Beth?"—stepping aside dramatically so the jury would understand it was his client being lied about.

  "I know it's a sin," the child said, calmly. "I'm not lying."

  "She can't see me!" the defendant hissed suddenly, whispering for his lawyer's ear but loud enough for everyone to hear. "She can't see without her glasses."

  Wolfe was on her feet and charging forward like they just rang the bell for the last round and she needed a KO to pull it out. "Was that an objection?" she snarled.

  "Yes, that was an objection!" the defense attorney shouted, scrambling to clean up the mess the molester made. "My client is being denied his Sixth Amendment right to confrontation."

  "He doesn't want confrontation, he wants terrorism. The law says he gets to see and hear the witness—it doesn't say anything about her having to stare at the likes of him."

  "That's enough," the judge snapped. "Take the jury out."

  The court officers hustled the jurors away as everyone sat in silence. One of Wolfe's people took Mary Beth and Sheba out a side door. The judge turned to the lawyers.

  "That will be just about enough, counselors. You both know better than to make arguments like that in front of a jury. I don't want to hear a lot of rhetoric now. Mr. Simmons, have you any authority for the proposition that the Sixth Amendment requires a witness to wear corrective lenses?"

  "Not specifically, Your Honor. But if she can't even see the witness, how can she identify him?"

  "She already did that, counsel. On the prosecution's direct case, remember?"

  "Yes, I remember. But she was wearing her glasses then."

  "What's your point?"

  "My client has rights."

  "None that have been abridged by this court. Now…that won't be necessary, Ms. Wolfe…I have already ruled. Bring the jury back in."

  "Your Honor, in light of your ruling, I have no choice but to ask for a mistrial."

  "On what grounds, counselor?"

  "Prejudice, Your Honor. The jury heard what my client said. A statement like that will poison their minds."

  "Are you claiming the prosecution caused your client's outburst, Mr. Simmons?"

  "Well, yes…I mean, if they hadn't…"

  "Denied! Let's go."

  Wolfe turned away from the bench to return to her seat. Caught my eye.

  The defense attorney stood up again. "Your Honor, may I have a few minutes with my client before the jury comes back in?"

  "No, counsel, you may not."

  "Your Honor, I ask for this time because I believe it might promote a settlement of this matter."

  "There is no settlement," Lola snapped out at him. "It's too damn late for that."

  "I don't
need your permission to plead to the indictment," the defense attorney shot back.

  "Then do it. It's a B felony, and we're asking for the max."

  "Your Honor, could we approach?"

  The judge nodded. Wolfe and Lola came up on one side, the defense attorney on the other. Couldn't hear what they were saying. Finally, the defense attorney walked back to his table, began talking urgently to his client, waving his arms.

  I felt it coming.

  The defense attorney stood up one last time. "Your Honor, my client has authorized me to withdraw his plea of Not Guilty and to plead to the indictment as charged. My client is a very ill man. Besides that, he wishes to spare the young lady the trauma of cross–examination. I believe…"

  "Counselor, save your presentation for the dispositional phase of these proceedings. If your client wants to change his plea, I will take his allocution."

  They kept the jury out of the courtroom while the defendant admitted the whole thing. His lawyer promised extensive psychiatric testimony to explain the whole thing. Lola and Wolfe sat silently.

  The judge discharged the jury, thanking them for their attention. I watched their faces—the defense attorney had read them right—if they had gotten their chance, his client was going down.

  The defense attorney asked for bail to be continued. Lola pointed out the defendant was now a convicted felon, facing mandatory imprisonment, with great motivation to flee the jurisdiction.

  The judge listened, asked the defense if there was any rebuttal. Listened again. Then she revoked the defendant's bail, slammed her gavel for emphasis, and walked off the bench.

  The fat defense attorney turned to Wolfe and Lola. "You just put a very sick man in prison. I hope you're pleased with yourselves."

  Wolfe and Lola looked at the lawyer, blank expressions on their faces. Then they slapped each other a loud high–five.

  83

  She stopped in the aisle next to where I was seated, like she'd forgotten something. Never looked down.

  "I need to talk to you," I said, just past a whisper.

  "You know the Sun Bear bar. On Continental, just off Queens Boulevard?"

  "I can find it."

  "Seven o'clock," she said, walking away.

  84

  I got away from the courthouse complex. Found a pay phone and went to work.

  "My bread is upon the waters, mahn," Jacques said. "When a message comes back, I will reach out for you."

  "Okay, thanks. Is Clarence around?"

  "Yes, my friend. He is around you. Guard your health."

  "Gardens," Mama answered the phone.

  "It's me, Mama."

  She waited, not saying anything. Hell, she's the one who taught me. "Is the boy there?"

  "Sure, boy here. Good boy, helps Mama."

  "Doesn't he have an appointment? You understand…?"

  "Sure, understand. With the lady. Lady come here now."

  "Every day?"

  "Sure, every day."

  "Okay, anybody call?"

  "Your friend, say to meet him at car wash, tomorrow at seven. She didn't say who called. Didn't need to."

  "Thanks, Mama." She hung up.

  85

  Plenty of time. I found a Korean joint in Jamaica, combination greengrocery and deli. I was eating a bagel and cream cheese, sipping a cold Ginseng–Up, watching the owner's daughter test pineapples for ripeness by pulling up on the stalks. If the stalk comes out, the pineapple's ready to eat. The cash register had two sliced lemon halves on either side on the drawer. The clerk ran his fingers across the lemon's surface as he counted bills. Big sign by the register. NO CHANGE. A stocky guy with one of those small–billed painter's caps turned backward on his head came in, mumbled something about change for the bus. The counter–clerk pointed at the sign, said something in Korean. The guy kept pressing, raising his voice, sounding drunk. I came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled on me, face snarled. "You got a problem?" I shook my head, smiled. "No," I told him, "I got change." I gave it to him. He swaggered out of the joint, sneering. A guy who knows the score—probably bets on pro wrestling. Before the clerk took the money for my bill, he slipped the revolver he'd been holding back under the counter.

  86

  The main branch of the Queens Public Library wasn't far away. I parked in the lot nearby, went inside. Used the InfoSearch computer to track down articles on Multiple Personality Disorder. There were a lot of them. Found a quiet place to myself. Killed some time.

  The Sun Bear had little round marble tables scattered all around, long dark wood bar against one wall, blue smoke mirror behind. Wolfe was sitting alone, wearing a plum–colored sheath, black stockings, and matching heels with ankle straps. Her hair was tied up in a loose knot with a black ribbon around it. Man sitting one table away: sunglasses hooked over some gold chains resting on his chest, gold coin ring on his little finger. He shot back a cuff, checked his watch. More gold.

  I walked up on Wolfe's left just as he approached from the right. Focused on his target, he didn't see me.

  Wolfe dragged deeply on her cigarette, eyes straight ahead.

  The man leaned over her table. "I wish I was that cigarette," he said, flashing a mouthful of caps, white against tan.

  Wolfe took the cigarette out of her mouth. Looked at it carefully. "So do I," she said, looking right into his face. Dropped the cigarette to the barroom floor, ground it out with the tip of one shoe.

  The man flushed red under his tan just as I pulled out a chair, sat down next to Wolfe.

  He muttered something as he walked away.

  Wolfe turned to me, smiled. "I think that man just called you a runt."

  I ordered a ginger ale from the Japanese waitress. Wolfe took a beer.

  "Nice job today," I said.

  She shrugged. "The real work is always before the trial. You train to go the distance, sometimes it ends early."

  "And sometimes, they add a few rounds at the end."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Two weeks… remember?"

  "Sure."

  "Things happen."

  "Yes. Like babies getting killed."

  "I know. I'm in the middle."

  "No, you're not, Mr. Burke. You're nowhere in this at all. What's between Lily and me…well, that's a lot of things. But one thing it isn't—it isn't you, understand?"

  "I didn't mean between you and Lily," I said. Mildly, to take the edge off her harsh tone. "I mean between two right things, okay?"

  "There aren't two right things. There never are.

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you be willing to take a look—make sure it's always that way?"

  "Take a look at what?"

  "At some things I found…" Rushing ahead as her eyebrows went up. "I'd have to take you there."

  "Just give me the address."

  "I can't do that."

  She lit another smoke, ghost of a smile curling around the filter in her mouth. "You want me to wear a blindfold?"

  "No. I'd trust you."

  Her eyes were a gray–green, set wide apart. "Let's do it with the blindfold," she said.

  "I'll let you know. Soon."

  87

  I was at Lily's a little past nine. The programs were winding down for the evening—the place was jammed with mothers and fathers picking up their kids. That's what they call whoever comes for the kids—parents. Biology doesn't count down here.

  Max spotted me. Put a finger to his lips, motioning for me to come with him. He led me to the one–way glass on the side wall of one of the treatment rooms. Inside, Immaculata, in the lotus position, dressed in a loose white cotton outfit. Facing her a couple of feet away, Luke. Her arms gently parted the air, like she was conducting an orchestra in slow motion. The kid followed along, copying every gesture. Max tapped my shoulder, pointed at his stomach. Inhaled deeply through his nose, expanding his stomach. He exhaled sharply, in a steady, powerful stream, his chest growing
as the air poured out. Yoga breathing. He pointed back into the treatment room. Luke had a blissful look on his little face as Immaculata pressed both hands against her midsection, exhaling as Max had done. Luke was with her, locked in synch.

  Lily was in her office, talking at her daughter Noelle, the dark–eyed limit–tester. Noelle's around fifteen, couple years older than Terry. Lily snapped something at the kid, who responded by cocking her head the exact same way her mother does.

  I stepped inside, lighting a smoke. Mother and daughter both made a face. "Hi, Burke!" the kid said.

  "Hello, Noelle. How's school?"

  "It's summertime," she said, like I was brain–damaged.

  "Okay. Listen, I need to talk to Lily for a minute."

  "Where did you get that suit?" she asked, ignoring what I'd said.

  "Orchard Street."

  "What's it made of?" Stepping over to me, fingering the lapel.

  "I don't know."

  "It doesn't look like anything."

  "It's not supposed to, Noelle."

  "Oh, ugh!" She was wearing black leather high–top shoes, white anklets with little red hearts on the cuffs, black bicycle pants to her knees, a gauzy white skirt over the pants, cheerleader–length, a black silk tank top covered by a red bolero jacket. Two earrings in one ear, no makeup, her glossy black hair cut in a radical wedge, jaunty white beret on her head. I was her father, I'd start stockpiling weapons.

  "Noelle…" Warning note from Lily.

  "I'm going, Mother." She looked at me again. Turned to Lily: "Could I buy Burke a decent jacket…something nice, so he'd have a look?"

  A smile blossomed on Lily's face. "Sure, you want to waste your money.

  Noelle pivoted like a ballerina, held her hand out to me. "Give me some money, I'll get something for you."

  Lily chuckled. "How much money?" I asked.

  "Oh…three hundred dollars, okay?"

  "No."

  "You want me to buy junk?"

  "Look, I'm perfectly happy with what I got, okay?"

  "Oh, pul–eeze, Burke. Your gear is seriously heinous. How about two hundred?"

  "For two hundred, do I get something stuupid dope hype fresh?"