A time for reckoning, p.4
A Time for Reckoning, page 4
She looks doubtful. “You do not understand the…” she begins, then pauses to search for a word before she looks to Peter. “The powiat, Uncle. How do you say that in America?”
“The county,” he replies.
“The Lewis family is very powerful, Mr. Valenti,” she says after turning back to me with a tight smile. “Professor Dabrowski explained this to me, that even in the USA that is so proud of their talk about freedom and opportunity, there are places where people are like serfs and the nobility are like feudal lords. Mark’s father acts like he is a lord, and people treat him as one! How do I fight them?”
“Be independent, Grazyna,” I reply. “They don’t own you.”
“Ha! Mark took my driver’s license, my bank cards, credit cards, and even my passport! There was no one to help me until Professor Dabrowski.”
“He did what?” Penelope asks angrily.
“He took it all away.”
“Demand them back,” I interject.
She laughs, then smiles mischievously. “Professor Dabrowski helped me get a new driver’s license and passport, even some credit cards.”
“Your own credit cards?” Penelope asks.
“Most of the cards are from Mark, but I have one from Poland. Mark won’t know I have new cards right away. They have accountants for such things.”
“Won’t he just cancel the credit cards when he finds out?” I ask.
She nods. “He will be very angry.”
“You know you can’t go back to Wyoming, right?” Penelope asks her.
“I must go to school.”
Penelope shakes her head. “You don’t need to be in class all the time, correct?”
“No, but I like to go sometimes, and Professor Dabrowski is my best American friend.”
Penelope sits forward. “You have to get away from Mark.”
Grazyna nods miserably. “Yes, but how?”
“Divorce him.”
Sounds simple enough, but we’ve done some research and determined that filing in Wyoming would be a disaster. Grazyna would have to file in Converse County, where they live. There’s an elected sheriff, a circuit court with an elected judge—there’s even an elected county attorney. All appear to be loyal to Paul Lewis. Grazyna’s unlikely to receive anything resembling a fair shake in a contested divorce, and the likelihood of the authorities rescuing her from further abuse seem slender, at best. She simply can’t go back.
“How will I live if I ask for a divorce, Miss Brooks?”
“Most universities offer work programs for students,” Penelope replies. “I’m sure they can find you something.”
“Perhaps. I will speak to Professor Dabrowski.”
The more I hear of this professor, the more I like her. She urged Grazyna to turn to her uncle for help and seems be taking care of her as best she can. We’ll need to speak with her.
Peter shakes his head. “We looked into that. Wyoming has some sort of law or regulation that reserves grants and teaching-assistant positions at public institutions for Wyoming resident students.”
“Figures,” Penelope grumbles. “The degree of nativism creeping into this country infuriates me.”
“Can you help Grazyna with a divorce in Wyoming?” Peter asks me.
As if I’m the world’s greatest legal expert in divorce. My experience of divorce is largely limited to one acrimonious case, which happened to be my own. I can’t claim that it turned out well. Maybe a good example of why a lawyer should never represent himself? Perhaps I can do better for someone else.
“We checked and I can join the bar there if we decide to take the case,” I reply. “But the odds of things turning out well seem pretty slender.”
“There must be something we can do!” he exclaims in frustration.
“We can file for divorce, Mr. Zaluski,” Penelope says. “But bear in mind that it may turn out to be a waste of money—especially if Mark contests it in court.”
I tune them out while I Google Illinois divorce law, and catch Penelope shooting me an annoyed look as I do. She probably thinks I’m surfing, or texting someone.
“There may be a way,” I say after a minute or two of reading.
Conversation stops and three sets of eyes turn to me.
“Illinois residents can file for an out-of-state divorce after ninety days of residency,” I continue with my gaze settling on Grazyna. “You’re out of school until late August?”
She nods.
Well, color me clever, I think before I continue. “It’s the middle of May. If you establish residency in Illinois now, you can file for divorce from Mark in a Chicago court in ninety days.”
“Move to Chicago?” Grazyna says uncertainly. “School is in Wyoming.”
“You don’t have to attend classes, right?”
“True, but where would I live?”
“With us, of course,” Peter says. “We won’t charge you rent, and we cook three meals every day. Setting an extra place won’t be a problem.”
“I cannot take advantage of you that way,” she protests.
“You’re family,” he replies.
“Max out those credit cards so you have some cash,” Penelope suggests with a devilish grin.
I meet her eyes and chuckle. “Great idea!”
A smile dies on Grazyna’s lips. “Mark will be furious.”
“Mark will be in Wyoming,” I remind her.
“But I will have to go to Wyoming at least some of the time,” she says nervously.
“Sneak in and out,” I suggest. “The campus is in Casper, so you can fly in and stay at a hotel, or even with Professor Dabrowski. Mark won’t even know you’re there.”
“Everyone in Wyoming knows the Lewis family, Mr. Valenti. Somebody will see me and tell him.”
“Staying with Mark would be a huge mistake, Grazyna,” Penelope says. “You’re not safe there.”
We spend a few more minutes urging her to leave, but she still hasn’t committed to my plan when they leave ten minutes later. She says she’ll think it over for a day or two and let us know what she decides.
“That feudal-lord chatter was spot on, partner,” Penelope says after they leave. “Sheesh! In modern-day America. Anyway, good thinking on filing the divorce here. I like her chances a lot better in a Chicago court.”
“If she’ll go that route.”
“True,” Penelope says thoughtfully. “Maybe we need to speak with this Professor Dabrowski in Casper—before Grazyna talks herself into going back and getting beaten up some more.”
“Or worse,” I mutter.
5
I’m sleeping over at Trish’s condo the following night when she begins thrashing about, which isn’t uncommon. Nights with Trish have changed since she was attacked. I miss the relaxed evenings when we hung out for hours, lazily anticipating making love before Trish fell asleep contentedly in my arms until morning. As often as not, we used to wake up with another round of lovemaking. I roll to face her as she goes stock-still, staring up at the ceiling. My hand finds hers and squeezes. Instead of squeezing back, she withdraws her hand, turns away, and curls into a ball. I glance at the digital alarm clock resting on the nightstand. 2:38. We still have over three hours before the alarm.
My thoughts turn back a few hours while I stare at Trish’s back. We had a nice dinner and then watched a movie as we tend to do, but instead of looking forward to making love, the prospect of another disappointing bout in bed hung over the evening. We had made love, but I sense she only does so to please me. She certainly doesn’t seem to enjoy it like she used to. I suspect it physically hurts her, but she insists that isn’t a problem. I’m not buying the story, but don’t know how to deal with things. I’m afraid of hurting her, and I know she’s scared that she no longer appeals to me after what happened.
I’ve suggested a change of scenery, either a temporary move or even going so far as to sell her condo. After all, this is the room where she was attacked. She counters that she doesn’t remember any of what happened, so being here doesn’t haunt her. I wonder if maybe her subconscious does remember. Perhaps she remembers during the unsettled dreams that leave her moaning and sweating as she tosses and turns, but she recalls nothing when she awakens. I rest a hand gently on her hip. She pushes it off and eases farther away, then goes still and seems to fall asleep a few minutes later.
When the alarm wakes me at six o’clock, Trish isn’t in bed. The sheets on her side of the bed are a tangled mess, and the duvet is pushed to my side. I roll across to silence the alarm before crawling out of bed and stumbling into the bathroom. After doing my business and giving my teeth a quick brush to wash away my morning breath, I wander out and find Trish standing in the middle of the kitchen. Her eyes are red and puffy—she’s clearly been crying. She looks stressed. Uncharacteristically, Trish makes no move to hug or kiss me—doesn’t even wish me a good morning. Something’s horribly wrong.
“What is it?” I ask. “Are your parents okay?”
She stares back at me with an expression just this side of fear. It registers that she’s wearing a pair of long-sleeved, full-length flannel pajamas I’ve never seen before. I’m used to seeing her in negligees or short nighties when I’m visiting.
“What have I done wrong?” I ask while stepping closer and reaching for her.
She backs away with a look of horror. When my hands settle on her shoulders, she brushes them aside, then sets a hand on my chest and gently pushes me away. We stand a couple of feet apart and stare at each other.
Tears well up in her eyes. Her mouth turns down in a haunted frown as a steady stream of tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “It was Frankie,” she murmurs in a strangled voice. “It was your brother.”
I almost ask for an explanation before the truth of what she’s telling me slams into my gut like a battering ram. My eyes inadvertently stray toward the bedroom. Hers follow. When I meet her gaze again, she nods. Her face crumples. When I try to hug her again, she takes another step back.
“Your brother raped me, Tony! The bastard…” Her anger drains away as she spins away from me, wraps her arms around herself, and shakes uncontrollably. “Stay away from me,” she hisses when I ease closer.
Both my friend, Pat O’Toole, and I suspected that it was Frankie, so this doesn’t come as a complete surprise. After I had fought Frankie a few weeks earlier—an incident that had ended with his arrest—his shadowy employer had somehow managed to get all charges dropped in a case that had several witnesses, including two cops. By the time I learned that Frankie was out of jail, he’d disappeared without a trace—and now it’s clear he assaulted Trish on his way to God knows where.
What do I do now? Aside from tracking down my big brother and breaking every bone in his body—a rock-hard body that outweighs mine by at least twenty pounds of muscle.
“Trish?” I say softly.
She leans her hands on the countertop and hangs her head. Her bedraggled hair covers her face. “Just leave, Tony. Please. Just leave.”
6
Joan Brooks pokes her head into my office just after eleven o’clock on a Monday morning ten days later. Penelope and I are flipping through the latest report from the private investigator Peter Zaluski hired to poke around Wyoming. He flew into Chicago over the weekend and is meeting with us after lunch.
I glance up at Joan. “What’s up?”
“Trish is here to see you.”
“Were you expecting her?” Penelope asks in surprise.
“No,” I reply. What’s she doing here? Giving her the space she asked for over the past week and a half has been as tough a thing as I’ve ever endured—especially as the days without contact piled up. Trish promised that she’d touch base when she felt ready to discuss what happened with Frankie. I wonder if she’s come to try to pick up the pieces of our battered relationship, or if she’s here to put an end to it.
Joan waves Trish in. Penelope, still unaware that Trish remembers what happened that night, stands, turns, and wraps Trish in a friendly hug. “It’s great to see you, Trish! Have you come to take my partner to lunch?”
Trish doesn’t immediately reply. When Penelope releases her and steps back to give her a closer look, her smile falters. Trish’s facial expression is strained, her eyes are haunted, and she looks as if she’s lost weight. Penelope casts her eyes to mine in a questioning look before she turns and walks to the door. “I’ll let you two visit.”
I maintain a poker face and step over to softly close the door behind her.
“Hi, Tony,” Trish says softly when I turn back.
“Good to see you,” I reply, biting off the avalanche of questions I’m anxious to ask.
“Sorry to barge in unannounced.”
I wave the apology aside. “You’re always welcome, Trish. Always.”
We stand uncomfortably about three feet apart while I wonder what to do. Hug? Kiss? I decide the right move is to leave the next step to her. She stares back forlornly, then brushes her fingertips down my forearm before she settles into one of the two guest chairs in front of my desk. After a moment of indecision, I take a step toward the other guest chair. When she draws back ever so slightly, I change course and walk around my desk and drop into the chair behind it.
“Thanks for giving me space,” she murmurs.
Does she mean over the past ten days or by sitting across the desk from her?
“I needed some time to process things,” she continues. “I still need time and space.”
I try not to let my disappointment show.
Her brow furrows. “I can talk a little bit, but not about what happened that night.”
“Understood. What would you like to talk about?”
“You, I suppose. How are you?”
Is it any wonder I’ve fallen head over heels for this woman? How does she find it within herself to be concerned about how I’m doing after what she’s been through? I try to summon a smile. “I’m hanging in, Trish.”
She eyes me skeptically. “I’ve had a couple of sit-downs with Detective Greenwood, which have been really tough.”
Greenwood is the Chicago Police Department detective assigned to Trish’s rape case. I’ll bet her talks with him have been difficult, painful visits. As good a guy as Greenwood seems to be, it’s his job to drag every detail possible out of Trish that might aid his investigation. Given the condition Trish was found in, I imagine the details of her prolonged assault at the hands of my brother are horrific.
I frown. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know, Tony. I know.”
The strain of remembering shows in new lines on her face. She hasn’t slapped on lipstick or makeup—not that she’s in the habit of using an abundance of beauty products, but she usually takes a few minutes getting ready to go out into the world.
“Maybe it’s not my place to say so, Trish, but you need to talk to someone. Have you spoken with your parents?”
She winces. “I can’t bring myself to tell them about what happened.”
I get that she’s in uncharted waters here and is having a tough time navigating them, but my experience with Trish’s parents suggests that they’d be nothing but supportive of a daughter they clearly love and cherish. I worry that she’s missing exactly the kind of love and support that help heal any wound. They’re kind. They’re strong. They’re rocks.
“Why?” I ask.
“I can’t face telling them, Tony. Not yet. Mom will be devastated, and it will kill Dad to hear the details about what happened that night.”
“Healthwise?”
“More emotionally, I think, but that, too. You know his heart isn’t good.”
“You need support,” I argue.
She throws up her hands. “Who?”
I bite back an offer to let me help. I’m not sure if my motivation to do so isn’t simply a self-serving bid to slip back into her orbit. I don’t think it is, but I’m prone to screwing up relationships, so I keep the thought to myself.
“Friends?” I ask. She hasn’t mentioned many friends in our time together, but surely there’s one or two?
She shakes her head. “No one I’d burden with this.”
“I’m sure Greenwood has given you the names of a few good counselors to speak with,” I venture.
She nods. “He has. I’m not ready for that yet, either.”
I disagree but hold my tongue. This is no time to argue.
She winces and drops her eyes. “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about, Trish. Do I wish I could just hold you and chase it all away? Of course I do, but we’re not there right now. I get it. Take as long as you need.”
Her eyes rise back to mine. “Thank you. Thanks for being here for me.”
I hardly feel as if I’m here for her, not when she won’t let me be, but the ball is in her court. So long as she’s comfortable with what I’m doing, that’s all that matters. Then inspiration strikes. “What about Pat? She’s a great sounding board. You two get along.”
Trish’s eyes widen a wee bit as the suggestion registers. Pat O’Toole is an old high school friend of mine who has become friends with Trish over the past several months.
“You told her about Frankie?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, I was just thinking that it might help to talk to her about it. She knows all about Frankie. And remember, she was there for our last run-in. None of this will surprise her.”
“That’s not the worst suggestion,” Trish murmurs.
I summon a little smile.
She manages the ghost of a return smile. “I’m not really sure why I came here today.”
I shrug and say, “It’s good to see you. No need to delve into it.”
“I guess I just feel guilty about leaving you hanging this way, Tony. I want to be able to talk with you, to be with you. I can’t right now. I had to work up my courage to come and try. Now that I’m here, though…”
“No worries, Trish. I can wait as long as you want me to.”
Her face falls. I’ve apparently managed to say exactly the wrong thing.
