Corrupted (7 page)

“Smells great,” Bennie said, to show she came in peace.

“I suppose you want a cup of coffee?”

“No, I'm fine, thanks. I just had some.”

Doreen cocked her head. “You're from Philly.”

“Does it show?”

“Like you're wearing a sign. South Philly?”

“No, west.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Believe it or not, all the difference in the world.”

Doreen smiled, seeming to warm up. “Okay, well, sit down. Oh, wait!” Her smile disappeared as she picked a blue backpack off the chair, then dropped it on the tile floor. “I tell them not to leave their crap on the chairs, but do they listen? Here, sit.”

Bennie sat down.

“You're going to have to talk while I bake the cookies, because if I stop, I'll never get the twins bathed and in bed.”

“That's fine. Can I help?”

“No, thanks.” Doreen was already stabbing the cookie dough with a teaspoon and dropping it onto the cookie sheet. “I'm no Martha Stewart. They're holiday cookies because I say they're holiday cookies. They're not red, they're not green. They're not shaped like reindeer, Santa, or any of that happy horseshit, but they taste good.”

“That's all that matters.”

“Right. Kids don't know the difference. If it's sugar, they eat it.”

Bennie hadn't expected to like Doreen, but she was beginning to. “You got your hands full.”

“That's one way to put it. I hate the holidays. You know why? Whatever you have going on, there's just
more
of it at the holidays. You have to buy
more
food. You have to do
more
errands. You have to buy
more
presents. If you bake, you have to bake
more
. If the kids are busy in school, they're
more
busy. Every single thing is
more
.” Doreen paused as more yelling came from upstairs, then she resumed making the cookies. “I worry when they're quiet. If they're loud, they're alive.”

“So I guess Richie has siblings?”

“Two brothers, six-year-old twins.” Doreen dropped another ball of batter onto the sheet, making a neat row, and Bennie was getting the sense that Richie wasn't uppermost on Doreen's mind.

“So about Richie. Were you there, at the courthouse?”

“Yes, it was
ridiculous
.”

“I heard they put them in shackles.”

“Right,
ridiculous
,” Doreen said again.

“I just came from River Street. It's horrible to think of them being there. They're too young for an out-of-home placement, in any event. Were you considering getting a lawyer? I'm going to file a petition on Jason's behalf, and if you do the same thing, that makes our position much stronger.”

“How? Jason's a nerd. They butt heads all the time. They're not friends.”

“It doesn't matter, at this point. They're both in the same situation vis-à-vis the Commonwealth.” Bennie caught herself speaking legalese. “They have a common enemy now. The system.”

“Hold on, let me see if the first batch is done.” Doreen stuck the spoon in the batter, crossed into the kitchen, and grabbed a quilted pot holder in one hand while she opened the oven door with the other. She squatted, eyeing the cookies, and the light from the oven illuminated her strong, if pretty, profile. She closed the oven door, stood up, and tossed the pot holder back on the counter. “This is what I hate about making cookies. You take them out too soon, they're gummy, but if you leave them in another minute, they burn.” Doreen came back to the table and picked up the spoon. “So you were saying…”

“I was curious what you're going to do about Richie. I think his and Jason's civil rights were infringed, their constitutional rights. Did Richie have a lawyer? They have a right to counsel.”

“No, they told us we didn't need one.” Doreen dropped another cookie on the sheet.

“They were wrong.”

“How would I know? I'm a hockey mom, not a lawyer.”

“Did you sign a waiver form?”

“Yes, it's around here somewhere.” Doreen dropped another cookie, finishing another row.

“So, about Richie, what sentence did he get?”

“Sixty days.”

“Jason got ninety.”

“Told you, he started it.”

Bennie let it go. “Did the judge know that? Did you get a chance to present Richie's side of the story?”

“Are you kidding? No way. We were in and out of the courtroom in five minutes. The judge gave Richie a lecture, then sentenced him to River Street.” Doreen frowned as she scooped out some cookie dough. “I don't even know how the judge knew about the fight, I guess from the probation lady. We told her that Jason started the fight. He pushed Richie and he should've known better. My son's not going to take that crap and he's twice Jason's size.”

Bennie couldn't let it stand uncorrected. “You know, it's true that Jason pushed Richie first, but Richie was teasing him, saying his mother was fat and that's why she died.”

Doreen looked up sharply. “Is that true?” she asked, her lips set in a firm line.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” Doreen forgot about the cookies for a moment, resting the spoon on the edge of the bowl.

“Jason told me. He owned up to pushing Richie, but that's tough for a kid to deal with, the death of a mother. He started crying and just lashed out.”

“Christ!” Doreen spat out, disgusted. “I'm sorry about that. That's horrible, that's really horrible. Richie didn't tell me. Tell Jason's father, I'm very sorry about that.”

“Thank you, and I will tell him that. He's grieving, too, they both are. You can imagine.”

“Of course I can.” Doreen picked up the spoon and scooped out the cookie dough, practically throwing it at the cookie sheet, like paintball. “You know, Jason's mom, Lorraine, was a sweetheart, always at the school, helping out. I never do that crap, I don't have the time, but she was the one, making the phone calls, running the canned-goods collections, doing the bake sale, whatever it was, she did it.”

Bennie had no idea how many extra things mothers did these days. Or maybe they did them in the old days, too, but her own mother had opted out, because of her illness.

“Poor woman, so what, she was fat, but you gotta die of something. I just quit smoking, I got the patch, but it'll kill me in the end, if my kids don't.” Doreen kept throwing cookie dough at the sheet. “I swear, I don't know what to do with Richie, I just don't. He's angry, we never know what mood he's gonna be in when he comes home. Last week I had to break up a fight with one of the twins. I swear, I thought Richie was going to choke him.”

Bennie tried not to act as shocked as she felt.

“They say ‘boys will be boys,' but this is way beyond that, and the thing I worry about, besides when he beats up on his brothers, is when they start acting like him. If they grow up thinking they should be like him, then they'll start bullying everybody, even
me
.”

“That sounds tough.” Bennie felt for her. “I'm not a mother, I don't know what I would do in that situation.”

“You know what?” Doreen looked up from the cookies, her dark eyes flashing. “You wouldn't do anything, because there's nothing you
can
do. When Richie was little, I could punish him, I could make him take a time-out. I could take stuff away from him. Or I could beat his butt with the belt. But now, he's
way
bigger than I am. He pushes me
back
. He doesn't listen to a frigging thing I say!” Doreen threw up her hands, still holding the spoon. “He's mad because his father left, so am I! Welcome to the club, kid! You think I wanted to be on my own with
three
kids? Or what else, he's a bad seed, he gets it from his father, that's possible, too! What am I, Dr. Phil? I don't know what to do with him! And to be honest, sometimes I can't stand him.”

Bennie fell silent, and for a moment the only sound was the children upstairs, but Doreen seemed not to notice, gesturing at the front door with the spoon.

“And when I hear him out there, his footsteps on the porch, I tense up. The twins do, too.” Doreen's dark eyes blazed as she gazed down at Bennie. “It's the truth, the absolute
truth
. I'm on eggshells. I thought of sending him to military school, but now he gets arrested, he's a juvenile delinquent!”

Bennie could see how much Doreen loved her son, but at the same time how deeply she was troubled by him.

“Here's the silver lining, maybe they can turn him around at River Street, scare him straight. Maybe he'll listen to
them
because he sure as hell won't listen to
me
!”

“MOMMMEEEE, OWWWW!” yelled one of the kids upstairs, his cry unmistakably urgent.

“Oh no!” Doreen dropped the spoon, turned away, and hustled for the stairwell. “Sorry, you'd better go!”

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bennie headed back to Wilkes-Barre toward the hotel, more determined than ever to get justice for Jason, since he'd been so clearly victimized by Richie, a boy troubled enough to victimize even his own family. She followed the street around a curve and spotted a lighted sign for Larry's Beef 'n Brew, a long rectangular building of pine paneling plastered with white plastic banners advertising Miller Lite, Yuengling Beer, and the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series Schedule. Bennie realized she hadn't eaten dinner and doubted the hotel would have room service this late, so she pulled in.

She cut the engine, grabbed her purse, and got out of the car, hustling into the building through the snow. She yanked open the door, and the men at the bar turned to see who'd come in, every expression telegraphing: YOU'RE NOT FROM HERE, AND WE SUSPECT YOU HAVE OVARIES.

Bennie smiled back politely, deciding where to sit. The place was a medium-sized room, dimly lit by recessed lighting in a dropped-tile ceiling. Beer bottle caps the size of hubcaps shared the paneled walls with mounted deer antlers, photographs of the Rat Pack, and sketches of Frank Sinatra that looked hand-drawn. The kitchen was at the back, there were a few tables on the right and a U-shaped bar with a TV on the left, where an older bartender served a handful of male patrons hunched over bottles of Rolling Rock. One man wore a baseball cap with an embroidered revolver above the words
I
D
ON
'
T
C
ALL
911
.
Bennie decided not to sit at the bar, as she had no problem calling 911.

She opted for one of the tables alongside a lineup of lighted cases with refrigerated beer and another TV, playing the Weather Channel on mute. She pulled up a chair, slid out of her coat, and sat down at one of the square pine tables. The menu was a trifold plastic affair, and she lost herself in the down-home fare of kielbasa, Texas Tommy, and Italian sausage, even though she was a vegetarian.

“How can I help you?” said the bartender, setting down a tumbler of water, and Bennie looked up. He smiled, a short man with gray hair, a white shirt, and worn jeans.

“I'd like a grilled cheese, please.”

“Kitchen's about to close, but I'll see what I can do. Be right back.” The bartender left, and Bennie rummaged in her purse for her cell phone, which she flipped open. Heads turned at the bar, and she pressed in the phone number, realizing that she was the person everybody hated, the certified big deal who talked on the cell phone in public. Still, she had a client to update. The phone rang once, and Matthew picked up.

“Bennie, how did it go?”

“I talked it over with Doreen, and she apologizes for Richie's behavior. But I'm not sure we can count on her help going forward, and I'm going to stay over, do some legal research, and see what I can do tomorrow.”

“Do you think you'll be able to get him out?”

“I won't know anything until I do the research, so I'll let you know tomorrow. Fair enough?” Bennie looked over as the front door opened, letting in a blast of cold air and a very tall, dark-haired man in a brown Carhartt coat and jeans, who nodded to the men at the bar.

Matthew was saying, “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome, good night.” Bennie pressed E
ND
, noticing that the man in the Carhartt coat was eyeing her with a vaguely cocky smile. He was handsome, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd been picked up in a bar with antlers.

“Do you mind if I join you?” the man asked, crossing the room toward her table. “I'm Declan Mitchell—”

“Um, I'd rather not—”

“—Doreen Grusini's brother. You must be Bennie Rosato.”

“Oh, sure, sit down.” Bennie blinked, taken aback.

“I just missed you at my sister's.” Declan eased his large frame into the seat, oversized for the table. He had to be six-foot-five and maybe 230 pounds. “I was on the way home when I saw your car.”

“How did you know it was mine?”

“The residential parking sticker for Philly.”

“Observant.”

“Occupational hazard. I'm a state trooper.”

Bennie thought it explained his size and demeanor, which was generally authoritative. It didn't, however, explain his hotness. Not that she was interested. She went for the brainy, bespectacled type who tried harder, not the drop-dead-babe type with the world on a string. She glanced reflexively at his hand, which lacked a wedding band.

“I wanted to talk with you about my nephew Richie.”

“Sure.” Bennie noticed that over Declan's shoulder, the bartender was coming over, carrying a glass of water.

“Sergeant Mitchell,” the bartender said, with a grin. “You want the usual? Meatball sandwich?”