Not Dead Yet (5 page)

Despite the oppressive climate, Theia was determined to be positive and cheerful.  She refused to let her past or Rose’s present situation steal her happiness.  All her hard work and struggles were pointless if she had a miserable life.  Theia fed the cats, had her one daily cup of coffee, and drove her ten year-old Toyota to her office, listening to upbeat music on the way.  She pulled into the parking garage and slipped into the building before her hair and makeup wilted.  Taking the elevator up to her floor, Theia put a determined smile on her face as she greeted Darcy, the receptionist in the office suite she shared with eight other lawyers. 

The message light on her phone was blinking, as it usually was in the morning.  Monday mornings were the worst.  People would fight with their spouses over the weekend, and in the wee hours of Monday morning they would leave long messages on her voicemail.  Some would keep talking until the voicemail system hung up on them. As this was the middle of the week, there were usually not as many messages in the morning.

On this morning there was one message.  The call had been placed at 3:11 am.  The person on the message was hard to hear, as the woman was whispering.  “Theia, it’s Rose.  I know you’re not there, but I had to call and let you know what happened.  The dispatcher said the police are on the way, but I’ll believe that when I see it.  And I called my sister but she didn’t answer.  Donald’s in the bathroom now, so I took a chance and called you. He beat me. It’s bad. I should have listened to you and gone to a shelter.  He is pissed off that I made him go to court.  He’s mad at you, too, for trying to help me.  He beat me so hard.  This is the worst ever.  He knocked out a couple teeth and I can’t see out of my left eye.  I don’t know what to do.  I can’t take this anymore.  Oh no!”  she cried out.

Theia heard a man’s voice.  “Bitch!  Give me that phone.  I told you not to call anyone!” 

A clattering sound, as if the phone had been dropped to the floor.  Thud – the sound of a fist making contact.  A soft groan.  Another thud, and another.  Then the snap of leather, and a sharp crack.  The woman wailed in pain.  Another sharp crack, another, another.  The cries stopped, but the beating did not.

There was a high-pitched dinging sound.  “Time to take the banana bread out,” the man said.  During the next few minutes, the woman sniffled and cried with little energy.  “Now where was I?” the man asked.  A sharp crack.  A cry of pain.  Another crack.  Another.

Theia’s heart raced.  She forced herself to hear the entire message, to get as much information as possible to help her client.  The beating continued until the voicemail system hung up on the call.  Theia saved the message and, fighting her churning stomach, called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?” the robotic voice asked. 

“A client of mine, Rose Catalino, has been beaten.  I need to send the police to her house.”

“Are you at her house?”

“No, I’m at my office,” Theia replied.

“What is your address?”

“That’s not important.  You need to send someone to her immediately!”

“Ma’am, what is your name?”

“Theia.  Theia Pearson.”

“What is your relationship to the person in question?”

“I’m her lawyer.  Listen, I just listened to a voice message from her in which she was horribly beaten.  Can you just send someone to her house to help her and get my life story later?”

“What is her address?”

“Oh, hell.  Let me grab her file.”  Theia stooped down to grab the file from her briefcase, and read off Rose’s address.

“And what is your address?” the emotionless voice continued.

Theia was standing at her desk.  She blew her bangs away from her face and recited her office address. 

“Play the message for me, please,” the voice commanded, more than requested.

“I can’t do that,” Theia began.

“This would be a lot easier if you would be more cooperative, ma’am.”

“I’m not being uncooperative.  There are two good reasons I am not going to stand here and play the voice message for you.  One is because I am calling you from my office telephone, the one on which the message was placed.  It is not possible for me to be on the telephone with you at the same time that I retrieve and play messages.  The second reason is that the message is very long, and this is an emergency.  This is 911, isn’t it? The place we are supposed to call with an emergency?  Has someone been dispatched to her house?  Or are you going to let her lie there and bleed to death while you fill out forms?”

“There is no reason to be rude, ma’am,” the voice droned.  “I have not yet determined if there is an emergency.  Since you refuse to play the voice message for me, this is likely a crank call.”

“What is your name?” Theia asked.

“You don’t need to know my name.  You need to play the message for me.”

“I have told you that is impossible.  I need to speak with your supervisor at once,” Theia demanded.

The line went silent, except for occasional high-pitched beeps.  After several minutes, another voice came on the line.

“How may I help you?”

“Are you the supervisor of the person with whom I was speaking, who refused to tell me her name?” Theia asked.

“Yes, how may I help you?”

“I called to report an emergency and to request that someone be sent immediately to the house of Rose Catalino.  She has been badly beaten.  She needs emergency medical treatment and possibly law enforcement assistance as well.  Your operator refused to take my call seriously or to dispatch any help to my client, and accused me of making a crank call.  I am Rose’s lawyer, and she needs help NOW.”

“I am very sorry for the delay.  I am sending a unit to the address immediately,” the supervisor responded.

Theia finally exhaled.  “Thank you.”  She dashed down the hall to the bathroom, where she promptly threw up her breakfast and what seemed like her internal organs into the toilet.  She cleaned herself up and went back to her office.

Theia picked up a file to prepare for an upcoming court date, but found herself staring out the window, wondering where Rose was and if she was alright.  Forcing herself to write a list of issues to cover at the court appearance, soon Theia’s head drifted forward as her eyes closed.  With so little sleep thanks to the nightmare, she probably should have had a second cup of coffee. 

Too rattled to focus her work, Theia walked down the hall to Mollie’s office. Theia and Mollie each had their own law practice. Mollie had the good sense to do estate planning work as well as family law. She found writing wills and trust documents a welcome break from the stress of practicing family law.

Theia stood at Mollie’s door.  Mollie looked up.  A former All-American athlete, she was the picture of good health and fitness.  Theia often teased her that she was a smart blond.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mollie. She could always tell at a glance when something was bothering Theia.

Theia told her about the previous day in court, and the disturbing phone message.  She was just wrapping up the story when Darcy buzzed in on Mollie’s phone and asked if Theia was in there.  A police detective was at the front desk and wanted to speak with her.

Theia came out front and saw the impatient officer pacing in the reception area.  He did not look happy to be there.

“Hi, I’m Theia Pearson,” she said, extending her right hand.

He ignored her outstretched hand and said, “I need to take your statement. Where can we do this?”

Apparently something about her pissed him off on sight.

“My office will be fine,” she replied. They walked to Theia’s office, where she sat in her chair and the detective plopped his pudgy self into one of the two gray guest chairs.

“So you represent Rose Catalino?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“How long have you represented her?”

“A few months.”

“In what capacity?”

“An order of protection and possible divorce. Is she okay?”

He glared at her and ignored the question.

“Did someone go to her house?”

“I’ll ask the questions here.”

Theia glared back at him.  She took out a notepad and a pen, and wrote down his name and badge number.

“What are you doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like.  I’m writing down your name and badge number for the complaint I am going to file about your rude behavior.  It is unprofessional and unacceptable.  I will be happy to cooperate fully with the investigation when I am treated with respect.  If you are incapable of doing that, I’m sure your supervisor can send someone else to take my statement.”

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.“All right, we’ll do it your way. A unit went to the house. No one answered the door, so they kicked it in.  There was no one home, but there were signs of physical struggle.”

“What signs?”

“Furniture out of place, things knocked over, some blood. The officers interviewed neighbors, but no one will admit they saw anything.  We’re going to increase patrols in the neighborhood, keeping a lookout for your client and her husband.  We would like to interview family members, in case she contacted them.  Do you know the names of any of her relatives?”

“Boy, I wish I did.  She mentioned she has a sister, but I don’t even know her name.  Sorry.I wish I could be more help.”

The detective grunted in response.  ”Now will you answer my questions?” he asked, his arms crossed over his large waist.  The middle section of his body looked much too large for his hands and feet.

“Sure.”

“When did she get the order of protection?  It does not show up in our records.”

“She didn’t get the order.  We went to court yesterday, but she was afraid to tell the judge what had happened because her husband was there, intimidating her.”

“And we’re supposed to help her, when she won’t help herself?” he asked. He went on with his questioning. He licked the tip of his pencil occasionally as he wrote notes.

“She was terrified,” Theia snapped at him.  “She’s afraid to stand up to him.  Any will power she may have once had was beaten out of her years ago.”

The officer stared at her. Theia raised one eyebrow and glared at him.

Theia answered his remaining questions before he left.  Based upon the few questions he asked and the lack of detail in them, it was clear his report would just be filed and the case closed. Another domestic violence case—a new one every minute. She put Rose’s file in her outbox and reviewed her calendar of upcoming court dates.

“So, how did that go?” Mollie asked from Theia’s doorway.

“That cop was one royal asshole.  He was rude and he just didn’t give a damn. He’s not going to do anything but file his report.  If they ever find a cadaver that matches her description, they’ll stamp it ‘Case Closed.’  Until then, nada.  At least he did give me a little information, but it’s not good.  They went to the house, found signs of a struggle – furniture moved around, stuff broken, blood on the floor – but no people.”

Mollie sat in a guest chair across from Theia. “What did he say when he heard the phone message?”

Theia’s mouth fell open.  “You know, I was so pissed off at him I forgot about that.  Damn.  I’ll have to call him. I wrote down his name and badge number because he was such a jerk.”

They were silent for a moment. Theia shook her head and said, “I seriously doubt he would come back here to listen to a phone message.  He has probably already put the report in dead files – no pun intended. But I will call and let him know about the message.”

“You know you will feel guilty until you do.”

“You’re right,” Theia admitted.  “I’m already feeling guilty about this case.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know if I handled Rose the right way.  I wanted so badly to help her, to prop her up so she would have the courage to testify against him and get the court’s protection.  When I have dealt with people this emotionally damaged in previous cases, I have found that the only thing they still respond to is force, not kindness.  If you just pat them on the hand and say “you poor thing,” they end up dead.  But if you exercise “tough love,” if you poke and prod them, sometimes they will stand up for themselves.  I really thought I was doing the right thing.  I hope to God I did not make things worse.”

“You did the best you could.  I would have handled things the same way,” Mollie said.

“Yeah, and you would feel as guilty as I do.  You knock yourself out for your clients, yet you never feel you have done enough.  You should give yourself more credit and stop setting the bar so high no one could ever reach it.”

Mollie shook her head.  “But there is always more that can be done, one more question to ask, one more argument to make for my client.”

“And you don’t charge your clients for half the time you put in on their cases. Not that they appreciate it.  Why do we do this, Mollie?  Is this what you had in mind when you decided to become a lawyer?  It sure as hell isn’t what I had in mind.  I can barely remember what I thought it would be like, but I know it wasn’t this.  Are we really going to spend the rest of our careers doing this?  I’m not sure I want to have peoples’ lives in my hands and to agonize over whether my actions saved or ended their lives.  We’re smart.  We’re creative and well-educated.  There has to be something else we can do.  Something less intense.  And something that pays better.”