9. Chapter 9
After grabbing coffee with Dee and filling her in on the meeting with the Kings the day before, we walk into the office and part ways. As I approach my desk I see the light on my phone blinking, which means I have messages.
I pick up the receiver and punch in my supersecret code: 1-2-3-4. “You. Have. Seventeen. New Messages.” The monotone machine voice tells me.
Shit.
I sink into my chair while my heart sinks into my gut. Having messages is questionable, but an obscene number of messages is definitely a bad sign.
The voice on the other end of the phone continues, “First. New. Message.”
It’s a woman. She speaks like a third-grade teacher who has had plenty of experience talking down to people. “Um, yes, Ms. Mitchell? I’m just calling to inform you that you have made a blatant error in your story. The one about the sexual deviant. I don’t know where you got your information from or how you even managed to get his name, but Martin Stockwell is not the person being charged with having sexual relations with a student ...”
No! No no no no…
Mr. Stockwell is the man who was honored by the Legal Aid Society last night. Oh God, my stomach is coming up my esophagus so quickly I almost barf it up.
“Next. New. Message.”
I cradle the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I roll my chair over to Zach’s desk and grab a copy of today’s paper off it and begin scanning the lead story as the next insult starts.
It’s a man. “Hey, ah, something tells me you got the name wrong in your story there on the front page. Just an inkling ...”
I find the name in the second paragraph. Yep, there it is in black and white: “Martin Stockwell is accused of forcing himself on an underage victim in a car in the grocery store parking lot.” Sweat starts beading up along my hairline. I want to die.
“Next. New. Message.”
“I can’t believe you call yourself a journalist. What kind of a reporter makes a mistake like that?”
I skip to the next message.
“Well, your paper has had some doozies in the past, but this one takes the cake.”
Next.
“What community college did you flunk out of?”
I put the phone back in the cradle before I can hear any more. And unplug it. I slink down in the chair and cover my face with the newspaper.
How could I have done that? How could I have switched the names like that? I feel a hand on my shoulder and the paper slides off my face, but I still have my eyes clenched shut. I know it’s Cherice. I can’t look at her because I know she’ll be calm, and I don’t deserve it.
I’ve seen her go absolutely apeshit for lazy journalism. Errors, grammar, spelling, factual inaccuracies—you name it, it’s happened, and she’s buried all of us for it. I’ve seen her ball up newspapers—and I’m talking the six-section Sunday editions with the coupon inserts—into a large ball and throw it across the room at an intern who made an error.
But when it comes to the big stuff, the colossal stuff, the stuff that even she knows is harder for the person who made the error to take than the editor who has to answer to it, she is good at letting you beat yourself up without any help from her.
“We’ll have to run a corrective story,” she says. “We’ll run it tomorrow. The same position, lead story.”
I nod my head.
“These things happen,” she says in a kind, quiet and gentle voice. I almost wish she were yelling.
“No, Cherice. They don’t. These things most definitely do not happen.” I open my eyes and pull myself upright in the chair. She has one ass cheek plopped on my desk, with her arms crossed over her chest. “I just can’t believe it.” I have to look up toward the ceiling and roll my eyes from side to side to prevent the tears from falling.
“I shouldn’t have dumped the last-minute event on your lap last night. I knew you had a lot on your plate. And so, you were rushed when it came down to deadline. Granted, you could have been extra careful seeing as this is a juicy case. But still, you’re human. And I’ve also spoken with the copy editor to make sure she’s fact checking like she should be.”
“It’s not her fault. She wouldn’t have had any idea that the names were wrong.”
We sit in silence for a beat.
“Take some time. Clear your head,” Cherice begins again.
“No, I’m alright, I just need to focus.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Ohhhh … “I’m being suspended.”
“I have to tell Legal I took appropriate action with the reporter who made the error. I can’t just let it go with a warning.”
I look at the ceiling again, as the tears are dangerously close.
“You’re my best reporter,” Cherice says. “Take a couple of days, mope over it, be pissed at yourself, be embarrassed, and get over it. Come back with a clear head.”
“How many days?”
“Five.”
“FIVE!”
She looks down at me. “Lyzbeth, you did call him a statutory rapist.”
That’s when I snatch the paper out of her hand and place it back over my head. “A sexual deviant,” I say from underneath.
I let myself sulk for three minutes, bang out the correction and then grab my purse, along with my notebook so I can work on some things from home if necessary. Then I dart out the door, hearing Dee yell at me, “Liz—what the? Where are you going?”
I don’t answer.
When I get home I take hesitant steps up the front stoop. I kick the copy of today’s paper off the top step and into the bushes, and drag myself up the stairs.
It turns out the worst thing you can do to someone who already has too many things swarming around her head is sentence her to solitary confinement. Maybe that’s a tad dramatic, but that’s what it’s felt like the past two days. Between the shame of my error, hiding from the Kings, and avoiding my husband, it feels like I shouldn’t leave the walls of my apartment.
“What’ll it be, today?” I ask Kennedy as he joins me on the couch, circling a few times before curling up by my blanket-covered legs. “Murder-mystery? Drama? Comedy?”
I flip through the streaming options on Netflix but nothing sounds appealing. I want something mindless to take me away from my current woes.
After a half-hour of searching, I turn off the TV and toss the remote onto the loveseat, then stroke my pointer finger down Kennedy’s soft snout as he sleeps on my lap, for once happy for his company. I’m startled by a quick rap at the door.
I pull my legs out from under Kennedy, causing him to stir but not wake, and pad toward the door, wondering who it could be. Looking through the peephole, I see Monty’s big brown eyeball looking back at me.
“What are you doing here?” I groan as I swing the door open. It’s then I see he is joined by Dee.
“We’re on a rescue mission!” she says and pushes past me.
“Well, not really a rescue mission, but more of a welfare check,” Monty says as he crosses the threshold, hands in his pockets.
Hearing we have company, Kennedy wakes up and starts barking.
“I brought snacks,” Dee says as she plops down on the couch, and Kennedy jumps up and places his front paws on her lap and sticks his head in her crotch. She swats him away and he continues barking.
Grabbing him by the collar, I usher him into the bedroom and shut the door. When I turn back to my company, I see Dee pulling packages of Twinkies and Hostess cupcakes, as well as Dipsy Doodles from a brown paper bag, along with a box of cheap wine.
“I’ve got sweet, salty, and saucy, as in alcohol,” she says. “Pick your poison!”
I snatch up a cupcake and make quick work of tearing open the wrapper and cramming half the treat in my mouth in one shot. “I’ll skip the alcohol,” I mumble around the chocolate cake and vanilla filling. “I’m already about as productive as a maggot these days.”
“What the hell are Dipsy Doodles,” Monty questions as he makes his way to the other side of the couch, coming from the kitchen where he thoroughly washed his hands. He picks up a package and pinches it open.
“Just eat it,” says Dee, who is munching on a Twinkie.
I lick cream from my finger. “You guys didn’t have to check on me. I’m fine. Really.”
Monty and Dee exchange a look, as he digs into the foil bag and she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Baby girl, we’re not worried about your little sabbatical from work,” she says. “But we know you and Knox are a little mixed up. I’m sure it was nice to be able to take your mind off things by going to work, and now you’re stuck in this apartment all by yourself with nothing to do but, well, think.”
I blow out a dramatic breath and plop down on the couch between the two of them, causing them to sink in toward me on each side. I slouch down and rest my head on the back cushions.
“I just hate him. I hate him so fucking much.”
Dee rests her head on my right shoulder while Monty rests his right hand on my left leg.
“That’s fair,” he says.
“Cock-sucking motherfucker,” Dee grumbles.
“Good, God, woman!” Monty leans over me to get a look at her. “You go around kissing men with that mouth.”
“And other things …” she mumbles.
I want to laugh, but nothing comes out. “I hate myself, too,” I continue. “I drove by his dad’s house the other day and saw a car in the driveway that I didn’t recognize and went mad wondering whose it was. How pathetic is that?”
We are all silent for a moment.
“Was that the night you mixed up the names?” Monty asks quietly.
“Yep.”
“Want me to go cut a bitch?” Dee asks from my other side.
I pause before answering. “Maybe?”
“All this shit started rolling downhill after the accident, huh?” she asks.
I nod.
Monty’s hand gives my leg a squeeze. “There’s no manual for how to navigate these waters, kid. You feel how you feel. You’ve been with Knox a long time, and I think it’s admirable that you haven’t just thrown in the towel.”
“Are you saying she should just roll over and take his shit?” Dee chimes in, annoyed.
“No, no that’s not what I’m saying,” he puts his palms up in surrender. “I’m just saying, sometimes to make it to the really good stuff, you have to dig through some bad stuff.”
I turn my head and look at Monty. He celebrated his 32nd wedding anniversary last year to his “bride.”
“How is Caroline?” I ask.
He gives me a grin. “She misses you. Wants you to come for dinner again.”
“Tell her I’ll come by soon.”
“Hey, I wanna come!” Dee chimes in again.
“You’re not invited!” Monty retorts.
“You are the literal worst,” she pouts at my side.
This is what I miss. This is what I don’t want Knox to steal from me. My ability to laugh and smile and still use the thing in my skull, despite this hole he bore into the thing in my chest.
The three of us find some garbage on Netflix to watch while we eat junk and open up the cheap wine. Kennedy stays locked in the bedroom, so Monty doesn’t have a canary over dog slobber getting on him.
And although I let Dee and Monty believe they have brought me out of my funk, I can’t help my mind from traveling back in time …
The accident Dee was referring to happened about six months ago, when Knox hit a young woman with his truck while she was crossing the street.
He told me he and a couple of coworkers went out after they had to shut down a site early that day due to an electrical short, and he offered to drive his friend Jenny home. They worked together for Knox’s dad for years. She was living with her boyfriend on the other side of the city and on this particular night, as I understand, she had way too much to drink—and was probably high off her ass—so Knox insisted on giving her a ride.
He told me he simply wasn’t paying attention when the woman darted across the street, and he struck her.
I was at home watching Breaking Bad when it happened. I remember getting a call from Monty, who had gotten a call from George at the office. A call for a 10-55 with a wounded pedestrian came over the radio, so George—who was the only one in the office at the time—grabbed a notebook and point-and-shoot camera and went to the scene. When he realized the amateur camera wasn’t going to get good nighttime shots, he called Monty to see if he could come out. As soon as Monty arrived, he recognized Knox and called me.
When I first pulled up to the scene, I remember thinking it didn’t look like anything terrible. Knox’s truck was in the proper lane, albeit a little crooked. The ambulance had already taken the victim away, so only police cars remained. But as I parked and walked around the side of Knox’s vehicle, I saw blood on the asphalt. Not far from it I saw Knox sitting on the curb. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped and fingers entwined behind his head.
He couldn’t look up at me, but he knew I was there. I know he knew I was there.
I could see his back and torso heaving as he sobbed.
I wondered if the ambulance was from the same company Knox’s brother volunteered for, which I later learned it was, much to Knox’s horror.
Jenny had already been picked up by her boyfriend after giving a statement to the officers.
I sank down onto the curb to sit next to Knox, and I rested my hand on his back and my forehead on his shoulder, which made him shudder and sob even more. I just sat there with him. After a while I finally spoke up. “What do we know?” I asked softly.
Knox sniffed and wiped his nose and face on his shirt. “She’s hurt badly,” he said in a ragged voice. “She’s younger than us. She’s—”
And then he broke down into more tears. I pulled him into my arms as best I could as he cried. “God, Lizzie, I didn’t see her!” he shouted. “I didn’t see her!”
“I know,” I said around tears of my own. “I know.”
Eventually a police officer came over and told us we could go. After taking a breathalyzer test, Knox’s blood-alcohol content registered zero, which I thought was strange, since he had been out with friends. The officer said all he knew at that point was the girl was badly hurt, but her injuries appeared non-life threatening.
We went home. He showered. We laid in bed, silent and awake, until morning.
After a day or so I was able to learn from the police department the young woman suffered an injury to her spinal cord and was at least temporarily paralyzed. I dreaded telling Knox, and when I did, a part of him died right in front of me.
Knox has never spoken about what happened that night. Any time I have tried to get him to open up, I could see his pain and automatically backed off.
But he spoke to Jenny about it. I know he did. And I couldn’t be jealous about that because they shared the trauma from that experience, and I was actually glad he had someone he could talk to, even if I wished that person could be me.
But then he fucked her, and I couldn’t be OK with that.