Chapter Ten
We spend the better part of the next
hour carefully dissecting Rory's case files, searching for any and
every foothold to condemn that
motherfucking bastard. Mitch puts the
photos of Rory's injuries away in his desk drawer, adamant that I
shouldn't look at them. I don't fight him, because I'm not
confident that he's wrong, and I'm not sure I can be the calm,
cool-headed man Rory needs me to be if I have opportunity to add
more laser-printed images of her suffering to my memory. The one
from the alley consumes me enough. But I make a mental note that he
has them, that if I decide I want to see them, then I will fucking
see them.
I don't feel like we're
accomplishing anything more than going through the play by play of
Rory's past hell, and if the sickening animosity raging through my
insides with each uncovered detail is any indication, then my
father was right to keep me from seeing those photos.
But as impotent as I feel
right now, my father appears to be in his element. His brow is
furrowed in concentration, his eyebrows rising in peaked interest
every now and again as he jots down barely legible notes on his
ever-present legal pad. He murmurs to himself, and asks me random
questions, though I rarely have the answers. Aside from what I
witnessed in Miami, I only know what Rory has told me, and most of
that is already laid out in nauseating detail in the
files.
Finally, he gets to Miami.
I watch with no small amount of discomfort as he reads through my
own statement to the police, then Tucker's, and finally,
that motherfucking bastard's. I already read it while my father was going through the
report from Cameron Foster's accident.
It's what I'm looking
through now, and this time, I don't hide from the photos. I see his
car molded around a tree, looking no more durable than
aluminum—like a beer can crushed by some drunkard's
fist.
It's strange to feel grief
for someone I never met, and even more so for someone who, if he
was alive, would be my primary rival for Rory's love. But I feel
vaguely as if I did know him, as if perhaps we might understand one
another in some visceral way. Because we are, or were, or are,
marked by the same mission—the well-being of one incredible girl,
whom we would both kill for, would both die for, and for whom he
already did.
"Okay," my father says
suddenly, and I startle and slam the accident file closed and
return his gaze. "I've read all of the statements from April
twenty-third. Now I need you to tell me what really
happened."
I glare at him, not
exactly sure what he's asking. Or accusing. I clear my throat,
gesturing to the statement he's just reviewed. "It's like I said in
my statement. He attacked her, I pulled him off of her, he swung at
me and we fought." I shrug.
"The three of you were
alone in the alley, and then you called out to Tucker…" he says,
and I nod.
"Right, like it says." I
try to suppress my growing impatience and silently remind myself
that he's just doing his job—the one I asked of him.
My father sighs. "Sam, I
need to ask you these questions. Because his lawyer certainly will,
and you need to be prepared. But more than that, I need all of the
information. If you don't trust me as your father then at least
trust me as a professional. Anything you tell me is
privileged.
"You need to understand
that you've been accused of a crime, though thankfully you haven't
been charged, and I doubt you will, but I need to know everything
we are working with to devise the best possible plan of
action."
"Damn it, Mitch! I didn't
come to you to defend me against that
motherfucking bastard's bullshit
accusations! We need to focus on making sure he gets the maximum
jail sentence so he can't come after Rory again. That's
it!" I don't mean to
lose my temper, but my burgeoning exasperation is getting the best
of me. My father, however, stays cool and collected, still the best
version of himself, and it makes me feel childish in
contrast.
"I understand why you've
come here. I've already made you a promise on that front, have I
not?" he asks with measured patience.
I stare at him,
incredulous. Does he seriously believe that one morning of apparent
remorse and five years of supposed sobriety have erased every broke
promise of my childhood?
He seems to recognize my
sentiment without me having to utter a single word, and I watch him
deflate before my eyes. His shoulders sag, he rubs his eyes, and
he's no longer the seasoned professional in his element. Instead,
he's just a man with a lifetime of regrets, and this one
opportunity not to make it right, but at least to head in the right
direction. And he's still my best option—Rory's best option—and so I swallow
my pride back down to keep company with the perpetual weight in my
chest and gut.
"Samuel, listen carefully.
Robin Forbes' allegations against you are relevant to your friend's
case. The past assaults may very well not be admissible, since the
charges were dismissed in exchange for not contesting the
Injunction for Protection. So the incident in Miami is everything.
And the evidence—Aurora's scrapes and bruises—can also be explained
by his version of
events. If it comes to a trial, it's going to come down to
testimony. A jury will either believe Robin Forbes or Aurora Pine,
as is often the situation in these cases, and he is presumed
innocent unless proven otherwise, beyond a
reasonable doubt. The burden is on
her.
"But Aurora has one other
card, and that's you. You are the only witness to any of these assaults aside
from the victim. But the defense will argue that your relationship
with the alleged victim makes you biased. We would have to argue
that the fact that you care for the victim does not mean you would
lie for her. Your credibility might just be the thing that gets you
the outcome you want so badly. And these allegations about your
actions that night can destroy that, Sam. If a jury believes you
would assault someone for her, then they will believe you would lie
for her, and in fact, that you already did, in this
statement."
He presses his open palm
to the closed file and pats it once, and I stare at it, very aware
of its contents, and how they are only partially true. I feel bile
rise in my throat. If my need to exact violent vengeance in that
alley has compromised Rory's safety, I could never forgive myself.
I rub my eyes with my
fists and take a deep breath. "Tell me what to do."
"Just answer my questions.
And don't leave anything out."
I do. I tell my father
every single detail from my argument with Rory over Cameron Foster,
to every last thing that went down in that alley, including after I
delivered Rory to Carl, and returned to find Tucker kicking
that motherfucking bastard in the ribs.
My father asks question
after question, coaching me on what to emphasize and what to omit
in future statements or testimony. He gives me alternative things
to say, and ways to say them.
He wants to meet with Rory
at some point, but I'm not sure how to make that happen. I don't
want anyone to know I got my father involved. Not Bits or my
mother, because God knows it will only tear open old wounds, and
certainly not Rory, who already suffers from enough
self-recrimination without hearing that I reached out to the father
I despise just to help her.
I tell him I'll think
about it, but as Rory wasn't in the alley at the point in question,
I don't really see why he needs to go over her testimony. The only
relevant thing he asked me not to mention again is our fight about
Cam, because it implies that I am jealous, and that supports
that motherfucking bastard's story that I beat him up not to protect Rory, but out of
jealousy.
But I can talk to Rory
myself about keeping quiet about our fight, especially since I
doubt she would want to speak of it anyway.
Assuming she and I are
even speaking by then.
Fuck. Everything is so
fucked up. I feel emotionally exhausted, completely drained. And
the day is far from over.
My father's intercom
buzzes and Sue's voice reminds him that it's twelve thirty. We've
been going at this for over two hours.
"Oh," he says, and then
starts closing the open folders and piling them neatly. "I need to
get to Fifth for lunch. I think I have what I need, Sam. I'm going
to review everything again, and then make some calls, and then
we'll touch base." He stands up, dismissing me, and it's a bit
startling. One moment we're deep in it, and the next, he's ushering
me out.
I feel unfinished. We
haven't really resolved anything, and I got a call from Detective
Karanek down in Miami that there's going to be a hearing in a few
weeks.
"Mitch-"
But he cuts me off,
anticipating my concern. "We'll be ready for the motion hearing,
Sam, okay? I expect to have the motion emailed to me by the end of
the day, and we'll take it from there. Once we know their argument,
we can come up with a game plan."
I exhale my worry. He
can't let them dismiss the charges. We can't. I nod.
He walks out with me to
reception, and Sue stands with giant grin plastered across her
face, but it falters as soon as she gets a good look at
me.
"Jesus, boy, you look like
you've been through the ringer! What'd you do to our boy,
Mitchell?" Sue exclaims.
With that, my father rolls
his eyes, and I exhale deeply, composing myself.
"You mind your business,
nosy wench," he teases her, and she shakes her head.
"Right, my business, like
that lunch appointment you'll be late for if you don't get moving,"
she retorts.
My father nods as I push
the call button for the elevator.
"Did she call?" he asks
Sue, and I turn to face them.
She?
I realize my father has
female clients and colleagues, but something about the way he asked
if she called
felt personal, and I suspect my father is heading out on a
date.
"Mmhmm. Told her you were