Aftershock (32 page)

“And …?”

“And they wouldn’t do it! They gave me a million lame excuses, but the bottom line was they weren’t going to do it. They even tried to tell me that my getting raped before my mother’s boyfriend did it was going to make my case—the one against Jerry Milhouse, I mean—harder to prove.”

“That’s just—”

“—a lie. I know. Either they believed me or they didn’t, I said. And if they believed me about Jerry Milhouse, they had to prosecute those others, no matter how ‘hard’ it would be.”

“And they never budged?”

“Why do you think I live in that group home now? That was their worst threat: if I didn’t press charges against my mother’s boyfriend, well, then, they’d just have to send me back there, wouldn’t they? They’re even dirtier than he is,” she said, more sad than angry, as if resigned to a world where the sun would never shine. “I knew if I was sent back ‘home’ it was as good as telling that filthy animal he could do whatever he wanted to me.”

“Did you have a lawyer?”

“Me? Why would I have a lawyer?”

“I … don’t know. It just seems as if you should have had one.”

“Oh, I had this ‘advocacy center.’ They were, like, partners with the DA. They told me all the great counseling I could get if I would only press charges. Against my mother’s boyfriend. When it came to anyone else, they really didn’t see the point.”

“You’re right,” Debbie said firmly.

“About what?”

“About all these agencies that were supposed to be on your side. They were even more foul than your mother’s boyfriend. So what did you do?”

“I ran away. I found somebody who wanted me. A pimp. He hurt me sometimes. But sometimes he didn’t. I guess I lived for those times.

“Then I got caught. I guess I don’t look old enough—or maybe pretty enough—to be flagging down cars in Portland. They sent me all the way back here, and the judge sentenced me to the group home.”

“Did you run away again?”

“I thought about it,” the girl said, a little surprise in her voice
that Debbie would know. “But I didn’t do it. I kind of like it there now. I have friends. And the staff is pretty nice.”

“And that’s when you started a program?”

“To lose weight? That’s right. I’m already twenty-five down. Only another fifty to go and I’ll be able to stand looking at my body in a mirror. My face, there’s nothing anyone can do about that.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Who?” the girl said, shocked.

“You.”

“I don’t get it.”

“If you have the strength, if you have the will to lose … seventy-five pounds! If you have that, I promise your face will change, too. All by itself.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re pretty. That’s something you’re born with.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Oh, come on! You’re old enough to be my mother, but you’re really cute.”

“When I was your age, I thought I was so ugly my face could break a mirror.”

“Stop it!” the girl said. But Debbie had managed to tease a little giggle out of her.

“It’s the truth,” Debbie said. “My counselor helped me understand that the mirror was a reflection of my feelings. I was seeing what
I
saw, not what other people did. And when I lost that weight, I looked in the mirror and, like magic, I liked what I saw. Because my counselor taught me to respect what I’d achieved—losing that weight.”

“Hold up!” the girl said. “You’re telling me you were fat?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought you were ugly, and no man would ever want you?”

“Yes.”

“And you went into counseling?”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re a cute little psychologist?”

“I’m not a psychologist; I’m a clinical social worker. And I guess I’m not all that big. But the other is a judgment. Some might agree; some not.”

“I agree.”

“Then make the same deal with yourself,” Debbie urged her. “And I’ll make you another promise: If you’re the one who helps MaryLou get found not guilty of killing that filthy rapist, you’ll be a lot more than ‘cute,’ you’ll be a warrior. A true warrior for justice. And
that’s
what you’ll see in the mirror!”

“Y
ou’re really good,” T.D. told Debbie. “That is one angry young girl, just like our Number One. But this is anger she can use. It doesn’t have to eat her insides out; it can make her into Wonder Woman. Beautiful!”

“Can we all have something to eat before we look at another one?” Dolly said. To save her girlfriend from passing out.

If T.D. knew the effect his praise had on Debbie, he kept it off his face.

But not completely off. Especially if you were looking for it.

I
kept thinking of Danielle as an old
Perry Mason
episode, something like “The Case of the Disgusting Diva.” But I never let her get even a whiff of that—I made sure Patrice Laveque’s personal assistant stayed in contact with her.

But someone like Danielle never trusts anyone. She even tested
Miss Rontempe’s accent by firing off a whole paragraph of memorized questions in her schoolbook French. Fortunately, Dolly not only knew how to sound like a haughty bitch, she hadn’t forgotten the language she’d had to learn when she served overseas. So all that foul little creature got back was:

“
Arrêtez, s’il vous plaît. Je vais parler très lentement, comme ça vous allez peut-être enfin me comprendre
. Listen! Your silly little attempt to speak my native tongue offends me. When you have mastered French as I have English, do try again, if you wish. In the meantime, understand that I do not appreciate your childish games, especially when Mr. Laveque’s schedule is very demanding, which makes him very demanding of
me
. You are not getting the usual ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ are you? You are being kept in the loop, are you not?”

Dolly hung up in the middle of Danielle’s frightened attempt to assure herself that she hadn’t made an enemy, especially when that enemy was a bridge she had to cross to get to everything she wanted in the world.

There’s probably no one word that describes that place, only what being there meant: no standing in line to get into the hottest restaurants; the mere mention of her name replacing the need for reservations. Always being able to order off the menu. And
things
. All kinds of things, from fine jewelry to big houses to a staff of servants. Danielle knew she wouldn’t need more than a couple of years in L.A. before she landed the only fish she was trolling for: a nice, fat koi.

So, when it came time to see if she could be any more use to us than the tape we already had, plus Franklin’s testimony, T.D. stepped in. “I wonder if any of you’d mind me taking a shot at that one?”

I sure didn’t. Neither did Dolly. And Debbie took the opportunity to say something you could tell had been nagging at her for years:

“I not only don’t mind, I wish you would. Let’s face it, my profession
isn’t self-respecting. It’s polluted from the top down. The schools of social work start the prejudgment process, and it doesn’t stop until the holy plateau is reached. Any ‘doctor’ is axiomatically more insightful, more intelligent, more … valuable than all the M.S.W.’s in the world, combined.”

T.D. nodded encouragement. Dolly squeezed my hand. Meaning: Don’t interrupt this!

“Look at social work,” Debbie said. “What’s the missing demographic?”

“White males,” T.D. said instantly.

“Working-class, heterosexual white males,” Debbie came back with.

“True” is all T.D. said.

“This isn’t about ‘role modeling’ or any such nonsense,” Debbie said, speaking to Dolly and me, as if she and T.D. had already passed that point in their understanding. “When they talk about working with ‘at-risk’ youth, that’s code for ‘minority poor.’ But poor
whites
, whoever heard of such a thing?

“How are women going to interact with young men who are just beginning to understand that there’s nothing for them in the future except the feeling of superiority you get from some ‘white pride’ group? Never mind black males, who come with their own set of issues and expectations. Everything starts with the premise that it’s all ‘women’s work.’ ”

“Yeah,” T.D. said. “The degree doesn’t say a thing about the practitioner. I had a clinical internship, inside what passed for a supermax in those days, not sitting at the feet of some air-pumped ‘guru’ and absorbing wisdom. But I probably couldn’t make a living examining conditions of confinement and testifying about them if whoever hired me couldn’t call me ‘Dr. Joel’ when they put me on the stand.”

“Is that why you think you’d get more out of Danielle?” Dolly asked.

“Uh-uh,” T.D. said. “Dell already got enough out of her so that I’d bet my car against a detuned minivan that Debbie and I’d agree on a diagnosis from that CD video alone.”

Debbie nodded.

“So why me? That one’s easy. Debbie’s got a lot more experience than I have working with victims. But I’ve got a lot more than her when it comes to dealing with predators.”

I
t wasn’t easy to set up. Danielle’s calendar was full. But when a fawning, abject call to Miss Rontempe confirmed that talking with the psychologist the defense was going to be using would be
“un éclairage intéressant”
that might add greater dimension to the planned docudrama, Danielle went from cold and distanced to hot and wet without a second’s foreplay.

“We can’t use the same hotel,” I told Dolly. “And we can’t use the cottage, either. Yeah, I know, honey, Nel and Sue might not give a damn, but it’s still bad tactics. Right now, nobody on the other side knows about them, and it’s better that way.”

“Yeah,” T.D. echoed. “What’s the point of showing your hole card if the other guy hasn’t paid to call?”

“What’s left, then?” Debbie asked.

I
t was easy to hide the equipment in Swift’s conference room—by now, that’s the way the pig at the front desk thought of it. All that extra clutter we added, plus three walls of law books, made it a snap to hide the microphones. And the huge slab of Norwegian oceanic marble that Spyros had borrowed from some landscaping job, the one Franklin had somehow managed to carry in by himself
and put down gently over the conference table, changed the look completely.

Everybody played their part to perfection, without rehearsal. By then, the transformation of Receptionist Jeannine from dismissive pig to adoring fan was complete. “Please take the young lady straight to the conference room, Ms. Rollo,” she trilled at Debbie. “Mr. Swift is already there, and he’ll introduce her to Dr. Joel personally.”

Swift made the formal introductions. I’d already told him that, considering who we were working with,
his
credentials would be more impressive than T.D.’s. He didn’t understand until he saw Danielle’s reaction to a tape of him being interviewed on Court TV by a pretty blond woman with the kind of angry eyes you only get from looking into those of the takers-by-force.

They’d been “reviewing” that tape when Danielle was ushered in. And they turned it off right away. But not before she saw Swift on TV.

By the time he left—after asking if she’d like a beverage and bringing her the Perrier with a slice of lime I’d bet him ten bucks she’d ask for—Danielle was as moist as if she’d been stroked by an expert’s mink-gloved hand for an hour.

“I
’m just trying to get some background,” T.D. assured her. “I’ve already spoken to a number of your sister’s friends. It seems that they all know a lady …” He paused to consult his notebook. “A lady named Dolly Jackson. Her house is kind of a clubhouse for teenagers, isn’t it?”

“You mean Dolly
Parton
, don’t you?” Danielle cracked. “I’m not sure why girls hang out there, but I sure know what the boys come for.”

“She’s … well endowed?”

“Well …” Danielle yawned to emphasize her boredom, giving her the opportunity to stretch her shoulders—and her T-shirt. “If you like them cow-size, I guess you could say so. But I’d hate to see her without a bra.”

Meaning: Me, I don’t need one
, I thought, wishing there was a way the tape could be edited before Dolly saw it. I hoped she wasn’t enough of a baby to start walking around without a bra herself, but I wouldn’t have bet Rascal an extra strip of rawhide on it.

“Okay. Well, that’s not important here, but it usually is.”

“How well built a girl is?” Danielle asked, frankly curious.

“No. What’s truly important always starts with ‘Why?’ But some ‘why’s are more important than others. Why teenagers hang out at this lady’s house, that’s not important. Why your sister went on that shooting spree,
that
is.”

“Oh, that again. Do you mind if I smoke?”

T.D. clearly did, and let his disapproval show, but said, “Of course not. I’d like you to be as comfortable as possible.”

Danielle smiled.
Another piece of putty
, she was thinking. But when she held the cigarette in her hand for a full minute without T.D. making a move to light it for her, she gave up and used her own pink plastic Bic. A deep inhale gave her another chance to show off the goods. Examining the filter tip of her cigarette to admire the lipstick marks was her deal-closer.

“Well?” she half-demanded.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what comes next?”

“Oh. My apologies. I got the impression you’d been asked that question so many times that answering it again would bore you. But I haven’t heard the answer myself, so, if you wouldn’t mind …”

With a world-weary sigh, Danielle went through her story again. Practically word for word—it was the only script she’d had to study, and she had it down pat. So, when T.D. said, “It’s somewhat unusual for an older sister to be jealous of a younger one,” Danielle was ready. “I’ll bet you never met old Mighty Mary.”

“I’ve not spoken with your sister yet,” T.D. told her. “Is ‘Mighty Mary’ what she called herself? That does sound a bit on the egotistical side.”

You could see Danielle was tempted, but she didn’t take the bait. Probably realized that T.D. would have many other sources of information, and claiming that MaryLou had saddled herself with that title would be a mistake. “No. I mean, no, she didn’t name herself that. But she got it for being such a super-jock, not for winning some wet–T-shirt contest, if you get my meaning.”