False Witness

by Karin Slaughter

  Why was she with him? She should find someone else. She was out of his league. Too pretty. Too young. Too smart. Too classy. Why did she give a stupid brute like him the time of day? What did she see in him—no, tell him in detail, right now, what exactly was it that she liked about him? Be specific.

  He constantly told her she was beautiful. He took her to nice restaurants, upscale hotels. He bought her jewelry and expensive clothes and gave her mother cash when she was short. He would beat down any man who even thought about looking at her the wrong way. The outside world would probably think that Callie had landed like a pig in shit, but, inside, she wondered if she’d be better off if he was as cruel to her as he was to everyone else. At least then she’d have a reason to hate him. Something real that she could point to instead of his pathetic tears soaking her shirt or the sight of him on his knees begging for her forgiveness.

  “Daddy?”

  Callie shuddered at the sound of Trevor’s voice. He stood in the hallway clutching his blanket.

  Buddy’s hands kept Callie locked in place. “Go back to bed, son.”

  “I want Mommy.”

  Callie closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see Trevor’s face.

  “Do as I say,” Buddy warned. “Now.”

  She held her breath, only letting it go when she heard the slow pad of Trevor’s feet back down the hall. His bedroom door creaked on its hinges. She heard the latch click.

  Callie pulled away. She walked behind the bar, started turning the labels on the bottles, wiping down the counter, pretending like she wasn’t trying to put an obstacle between them.

  Buddy huffed a laugh, rubbing his arms like it wasn’t sweltering in this wretched house. “Why’s it so cold all a sudden?”

  Callie said, “I should go check on him.”

  “Nah.” Buddy came around the bar, blocking her exit. “Check on me first.”

  Buddy guided her palm to the bulge in his pants. He moved her hand up and down, once, and she was reminded of watching him jerk the rope on the lawnmower to start the motor.

  “Like that.” He repeated the motion.

  Callie relented. She always relented.

  “That’s good.”

  Callie closed her eyes. She could smell the pinched-off tip of his cigarillo still smoldering in the ashtray. The aquarium gurgled from across the room. She tried to think of some good fish names for Trevor tomorrow.

  James Pond. Darth Baiter. Tank Sinatra.

  “Jesus, your hands are so small.” Buddy unzipped his pants. Pressed down on her shoulder. The carpet behind the bar felt wet. Her knees sucked into the shag. “You’re my little ballerina.”

  Callie put her mouth on him.

  “Christ.” Buddy’s grip was firm on her shoulder. “That’s good. Like that.”

  Callie squeezed her eyes closed.

  Tuna Turner. Leonardo DeCarpio. Mary Kate and Ashley Ocean.

  Buddy patted her shoulder. “Come on, baby. Let’s finish on the couch.”

  Callie didn’t want to go to the couch. She wanted to finish now. To go away. To be by herself. To take a breath and fill her lungs with anything but him.

  “God dammit!”

  Callie cringed.

  He wasn’t yelling at her.

  She could tell from the shift in the air that Trevor was back in the hallway. She tried to imagine what he’d seen. One of Buddy’s meaty hands gripping the counter, his hips thrusting at something underneath the bar.

  “Daddy?” he asked. “Where did—”

  “What did I tell you?” Buddy bellowed.

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Then go drink your medicine. Go.”

  Callie looked up at Buddy. He was jamming one of his fat fingers toward the kitchen.

  She heard Trevor’s chair screech across the linoleum. The back banging against the counter. The cabinet creaking open. A tick-tick-tick as Trevor turned the childproof cap on the NyQuil. Buddy called it his sleepy medicine. The antihistamines would knock him out for the rest of the night.

  “Drink it,” Buddy ordered.

  Callie thought of the delicate ripples in Trevor’s throat when he threw his head back and gulped down his milk.

  “Leave it on the counter,” Buddy said. “Go back to your room.”

  “But I—”

  “Go back to your damn room and stay there before I beat the skin off your ass.”

  Again, Callie held her breath until she heard the click of Trevor’s bedroom door latching closed.

  “Fucking kid.”

  “Buddy, maybe I should—”

  She stood up just as Buddy swung back around. His elbow accidentally caught her square in the nose. The sudden crack of breaking bones split her like a bolt of lightning. She was too stunned to even blink.

  Buddy looked horrified. “Doll? Are you okay? I’m sorry, I—”

  Callie’s senses toggled back on one by one. Sound rushing into her ears. Pain flooding her nerves. Vision swimming. Mouth filling with blood.

  She gasped for air. Blood sucked down her throat. The room started spinning. She was going to pass out. Her knees buckled. She frantically grabbed at anything to keep from falling. The cardboard box toppled from the shelf. The back of her head popped against the floor. Wine corks hit her chest and face like fat drops of rain. She blinked up at the ceiling. She saw the bicolored fish swimming furiously in front of her eyes. She blinked again. The fish darted away. Breath swirled inside of her lungs. Her head started pounding along with her heartbeat. She wiped something off her chest. The box of Black & Mild had fallen out of Buddy’s shirt pocket, scattering the slim cigarillos across her body. She craned her neck to find him.

  Callie had expected Buddy to have that apologetic puppy-dog look on his face, but he barely noticed her. He was holding the video camera in his hands. She’d accidentally pulled it off the shelf along with the box. A chunk of plastic had chipped off the corner.

  He let out a low, sharp, “Shit.”

  Finally, he looked at her. His eyes went shifty, the same way Trevor’s did. Caught red-handed. Desperate for a way out.

  Callie’s head fell back against the carpet. She was still so disoriented. Everything she looked at pulsed along with the throb inside her skull. The glasses hanging down from the rack. The brown water stains on the ceiling. She coughed into her hand. Blood speckled her palm. She could hear Buddy moving around.

  She looked up at him again. “Buddy, I already—”

  Without warning, he wrenched her up by the arm. Callie’s legs struggled to stand. His elbow had smacked her harder than she’d first thought. The world had started to stutter, a record needle caught in the same rut. Callie coughed again, stumbling forward. Her entire face felt smashed open. A thick stream of blood ran down the back of her throat. The room was swirling like a globe. Was this a concussion? It felt like a concussion.

  “Buddy, I think I—”

  “Shut it.” His hand clamped down hard on the back of her neck. He muscled her through the living room and into the kitchen like a misbehaving dog. Callie was too startled to fight back. His fury had always been like a flash fire, sudden and all-encompassing. Usually, she knew where it was coming from.

  “Buddy, I—”

  He threw her against the table. “Will you fucking shut up and listen to me?”

  Callie reached back to steady herself. The entire kitchen turned sideways. She was going to throw up. She needed to get to the sink.

  Buddy banged his fist on the counter. “Stop playing around, dammit!”

  Callie’s hands covered her ears. His face was scarlet. He was so angry. Why was he so angry?

  “I’m dead fucking serious.” Buddy’s tone had softened, but the register had a deep, ominous growl. “You need to listen to me.”

  “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute.” Callie’s legs were still shaky. She lurched toward the sink. Twisted on the faucet. Waited for the water to run clear. She stuck her head under the cold stream. Her nose burned. Sh
e winced, and the pain shot straight through her face.

  Buddy’s hand wrapped around the edge of the sink. He was waiting.

  Callie lifted her head. The dizziness nearly sent her reeling again. She found a towel in the drawer. The rough material scratched her cheeks. She stuck it under her nose, tried to staunch the bleeding. “What is it?”

  He was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You can’t tell anybody about the camera, okay?”

  The towel had already soaked through. The blood would not stop pouring from her nose, into her mouth, down her throat. Callie had never wanted so desperately to lie down in bed and close her eyes. Buddy used to know when she needed that. He used to sweep her up in his arms and carry her down the hall and tuck her into bed and stroke her hair until she fell asleep.

  “Callie, promise me. Look me in the eye and promise you won’t tell.”

  Buddy’s hand was on her shoulder again, but more gently this time. The rage inside of him had started to burn itself out. He lifted her chin with his thick fingers. She felt like a Barbie he was trying to pose.

  “Shit, baby. Look at your nose. Are you okay?” He grabbed a fresh towel. “I’m sorry, all right? Jesus, your beautiful little face. Are you okay?”

  Callie turned back to the sink. She spat blood into the drain. Her nose felt like it was cranked between two gears. This had to be a concussion. She saw two of everything. Two globs of blood. Two faucets. Two drying racks on the counter.

  “Look.” His hands gripped her arms, spinning her around and pinning her against the cabinets. “You’re gonna be okay, all right? I’ll make sure of that. But you can’t tell nobody about the camera, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, because it was always easier to agree with him.

  “I’m serious, doll. Look me in the eye and promise me.” She couldn’t tell if he was worried or angry until he shook her like a rag doll. “Look at me.”

  Callie could only offer him a slow blink. There was a cloud between her and everything else. “I know it was an accident.”

  “Not your nose. I’m talking about the camera.” He licked his lips, his tongue darting out like a lizard’s. “You can’t make a stink about the camera, dolly. I could go to prison.”

  “Prison?” The word came from nowhere, had no meaning. He might as well have said unicorn. “Why would—”

  “Baby doll, please. Don’t be stupid.”

  She blinked, and, like a lens twisting into focus, she could see him clearly now.

  Buddy wasn’t concerned or angry or eaten up with guilt. He was terrified.

  Of what?

  Callie had known about the camera for months, but she had never let herself figure out the purpose. She thought about his weekend parties. The cooler overflowing with beer. The air filled with smoke. The TV blaring. Drunken men chuckling and slapping each other on the back as Callie tried to get Trevor ready so they could go to a movie or the park or anything that got them both out of the house.

  “I gotta—” She blew her nose into the towel. Strings of blood spiderwebbed across the white. Her mind was clearing but she could still hear ringing in her ears. He had accidentally knocked the shit out of her. Why had he been so careless?

  “Look.” His fingers dug into her arms. “Listen to me, doll.”

  “Stop telling me to listen. I am listening. I’m hearing every damn thing you say.” She coughed so hard that she had to bend over to clear it. She wiped her mouth. She looked up at him. “Are you recording your friends? Is that what the camera is for?”

  “Forget the camera.” Buddy reeked of paranoia. “You got conked in the head, doll. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  What was she missing?

  He said he was a contractor, but he didn’t have an office. He drove around all day working out of his Corvette. She knew he was a sports bookie. He was also an enforcer, muscle for hire. He always had a lot of cash on him. He always knew a guy who knew a guy. Was he recording his friends asking for favors? Were they paying him to break some knees, burn down some buildings, find some leverage that would close a deal or punish an enemy?

  Callie tried to hold on to the pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite snap together in her head. “What’re you doing, Buddy? Are you blackmailing them?”

  Buddy held his tongue between his teeth. He paused a beat too long before saying, “Yeah. That’s exactly what I do, baby. I blackmail them. That’s where the cash comes from. You can’t let on that you know. Blackmail’s a big crime. I could be sent away for the rest of my life.”

  She stared into the living room, imagined it filled with his friends—the same friends every time. Some of them Callie didn’t know, but others were a part of her life and she felt guilty that she was a partial beneficiary of Buddy’s illegal scheming. Dr. Patterson, the school principal. Coach Holt from the Bellwood Eagles. Mr. Humphrey, who sold used cars. Mr. Ganza, who manned the deli counter at the supermarket. Mr. Emmett, who worked at her dentist’s office.

  What had they done that was so bad? What horrible things had a coach, a car salesman, a handsy geriatric asshole for the love of Christ, done that they were stupid enough to confess to Buddy Waleski?

  And why did these idiots keep coming back every weekend for football, for basketball, for baseball, for soccer, when Buddy was blackmailing them?

  Why were they smoking his cigars? Swilling his beer? Burning holes in his furniture? Screaming at his TV?

  Let’s finish on the couch.

  Callie’s eyes followed the triangle from the one-inch hole drilled into the front of the bar, to the couch directly across from it, to the giant TV that weighed more than she did.

  There was a glass shelf underneath the set.

  Cable box. Cable splitter. VCR.

  She had grown used to seeing the three-pronged RCA cable that hung down from the jacks on the front of the VCR. Red for the right audio channel. White for the left audio. Yellow for video. The cable threaded into one long wire that lay coiled on the carpet below the television. Not once, ever, had Callie wondered what the other end of that cable plugged into.

  Let’s finish on the couch.

  “Baby girl.” Buddy’s desperation was sweating out of his body. “Maybe you should go home, all right? Lemme give you some money. I told you I got paid for that job tomorrow. Good to spread it around, right?”

  Callie was looking at him now.

  She was really looking at him.

  Buddy reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted off the bills like he was counting off all the ways he controlled her. “Buy yourself a new shirt, all right? Get some matching pants and shoes or whatever. Maybe a necklace? You like that necklace I gave you, right? Get another one. Or four. Be like Mr. T.”

  “Do you film us?” The question was out before she could consider the kind of hell that the answer could rain down. They never made love in the bed anymore. It was always on the couch. And all those times he’d carried her back to tuck her in? It was right after they had finished on the couch. “Is that what you do, Buddy? You film yourself fucking me and you show it to your friends?”

  “Don’t be stupid.” His tone was the same as Trevor’s when he promised he wasn’t tapping the glass on the aquarium. “I wouldn’t do that, would I? I love you.”

  “You’re a goddam pervert.”

  “Watch your nasty mouth.” He wasn’t screwing around with his warning. She could see exactly what was going on now—what had been going on for at least six months.

  Dr. Patterson waving at her from the bleachers during pep rallies.

  Coach Holt winking at her from the sidelines during football games.

  Mr. Ganza smiling at Callie as he passed her mother some sliced cheese over the deli counter.

  “You—” Callie’s throat clenched. They had all seen her with her clothes off. The things she had done to Buddy on the couch. The things that Buddy had done to her. “I can’t—”

  “Callie, calm down. You’re getting
hysterical.”

  “I am fucking hysterical!” she screamed. “They’ve seen me, Buddy. They’ve watched me. They all know what I—what we—”

  “Doll, come on.”

  She dropped her head into her hands, humiliated.

  Dr. Patterson. Coach Holt. Mr. Ganza. They weren’t mentors or fatherly figures or sweet old men. They were perverts who got off on watching Callie get screwed.

  “Come on, baby,” Buddy said. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

  Tears streamed down her face. She could barely speak. She had loved him. She had done everything for him. “How could you do this to me?”

  “Do what?” Buddy sounded flip. His eyes darted down to the wad of cash. “You got what you wanted.”

  She shook her head. She had never wanted this. She had wanted to feel safe. To feel protected. To have someone interested in her life, her thoughts, her dreams.

  “Come on, baby girl. You got your uniforms paid for, and your cheerleading camp, and your—”

  “I’ll tell my mother,” she threatened. “I’ll tell her exactly what you did.”

  “You think she gives a shit?” His laugh was genuine, because they both knew it was true. “As long as the cash keeps coming, your mama don’t care.”

  Callie swallowed the glass that had filled her throat. “What about Linda?”

  His mouth fished open like a trout’s.

  “What’s your wife gonna think about you fucking her son’s fourteen-year-old babysitter for the last two years?”

  She heard the hiss of air sucking past his teeth.

  In all of the time Callie had been with him, Buddy had talked constantly about Callie’s small hands, her tiny waist, her little mouth, but he had never, ever talked about the fact that there was more than thirty years between them.

  That he was a criminal.

  “Linda’s still at the hospital, right?” Callie walked over to the phone hanging by the side door. Her fingers traced the emergency numbers that were taped onto the wall. Even as she went through the motions, Callie wondered if she could go through with the call. Linda was always so kind. The news would devastate her. There was no way Buddy would let it get that far.