Birthdays of a Princess (21 page)

Chapter
46

Dr. Stanley Eaton’s pre-trial report was waiting on Macintosh’s desk.
It must have arrived after he had left the previous day or, God forbid, even
earlier. It wasn’t marked urgent, so it could have taken days for its
bureaucratic in-house journey between the mail arrival and his department. The
report, addressed to the Presiding Judge of the Family and Youth Court,
Vancouver, BC, was only five pages long.

He sat down and opened it. His hands were shaking a little and he
had to steady himself before he started. He speed-read over the introductory
part and highlighted what he found important:

…Tiara Brown is charged following an incident where she was observed
by multiple witnesses and on video stabbing an older female individual multiple
times without any apparent provocation …

…has not cooperated with investigators and has only provided
information to myself up to the time of this dictation …

…was raised by her mother … homeschooled and isolated from her peers
… from age four, she was enrolled in beauty pageants … put under significant
pressure by both her aunt and her mother to succeed in these competitions …

…indicates that beginning at an early age Tiara Brown was
photographed …pictures became increasingly sexually explicit … at times drugs
were administered to her to sedate her for purposes of taking the pictures …

…became socially isolated … refused to attend school … became
increasingly estranged from her biological mother …

…Psychological testing was done … indicates high intelligence … being
highly defensive and unwilling to disclose details about herself … consciously
suppressing emotional responses …

…indications of a significant tendency towards dissociation … noted
to isolate herself … demonstrated extreme reluctance to being touched … depression
with difficulty sleeping and obvious neurovegetative slowing …

…as time went on, she became somewhat more disclosive …

… at age 10 was sexually assaulted …

…shows some degree of agitation and emotional distress if attempts
made to discuss emotional details of her life …

So far, all this had been clear to Macintosh, but now that he came
to the psychiatrist’s all important conclusion, he put his yellow highlighter
aside and concentrated on every single word.

Your Honour, Tiara Brown has been charged with a serious assault,
without apparent provocation.

Our assessment has demonstrated significant emotional numbing,
withdrawal, and dissociation. We do not have significant evidence of a
psychotic disorder but she is demonstrating significant symptoms of depression.

Tiara Brown herself is unable to understand her behavior and in that
context we cannot provide the courts with any assurance as to her safety or the
safety of the public should she be released.

If Tiara Brown is remanded in custody, she will continue to have
access to mental health services. She will be seen on a continuing basis by
members of the mental health team and will continue to have access to myself
for ongoing psychiatric care and assessment.

If the courts were to choose to release this young woman, given the
history made available to us, it would not be appropriate for her to return to
the care of her biological mother. If she was to be released to the community,
we would ask that she be subjected to very strict conditions that would include
regular attendance for ongoing assessment and treatment through Youth Forensic
Psychiatric Services and if she is in the public she should be accompanied by a
knowledgeable and responsible adult.

Until we get a clear understanding as to what provoked Tiara Brown’s
behavior, final diagnosis and treatment recommendations cannot be made.

I trust this report will be of use to Your Honour in making an appropriate
determination at this time. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel
free to contact us at Youth Forensic Psychiatric Services, Inpatient Assessment
Unit, South Burnaby region.

Respectfully submitted,

Dr. Stanley Eaton, M.D., F.R.C.P.

Good and bad! The shrink seemed to have his suspicions if Tiara was
really completely unaware of her actions, but at least he opened the door wide
for the judge to consider mental and emotional problems. But with this report,
Tiara would never get probation. She would stay locked up indefinitely.

Macintosh still digested this rather bleak outlook for the girl who
had so unexpectedly captured his heart, when Harding rushed over to his desk. Macintosh
put the report aside.

Apparently good old Josh had tracked down Tony Alvares.

“He’s living in Phoenix now,” Harding said, “giving so-called dance
lessons to young girls again, the sick bastard.”

Macintosh laughed. “You never learn, do you? The accused is innocent
until proven guilty.”

“Sure, the prick deserves to be treated with kid gloves. I bet he’s
the one with the black leather gloves. Josh thinks so too. He’s already
dripping saliva while getting the search warrant organized. Unfortunately it’s
in Phoenix, which ain’t Texas, so it’ll take a tad longer.”

“Wow, they got something on him?” Macintosh was all ears now.

“You bet. There have been four Antonio Alvares spread over several
States, that’s why it took a few days to figure out who is our man. The one in
Phoenix is not only a dance instructor, he also used to own a photo studio in
Texas City. He sold it three years ago. Nice coincidence, isn’t it? Three years
ago, Melissa brought Tiara back here. Anyway, the Sexual Offense Squad analyzed
some of the Princess Tia video clips, one of them showed a partially covered
window in the background. The prick, excuse me, the accused, wasn’t overly
careful. They enlarged the window and matched the shape of the building outside
to the view from the window of the Texas City studio.”

Harding paused but Macintosh didn’t interrupt. His partner deserved
to spell out his vulpine conclusion.

“It’s definitely our man in Phoenix who’s made those clips.”

Chapter
47

Fireworks for my lost birthdays

I slept like a log. Solid, unmoving, undreaming, like a chunk of
wood left on the ground, too heavy to roll. Stanley let me sleep, I guess he
was making phone calls or seeing other traumatized resident-inmates in the
medical unit of this extraordinary establishment—I can’t be the only one he
needs to assess—until the hourly security check alerted him that I was awake.

One would think that I’m still drowsy after such a death-like
slumber, but I’m refreshed beyond explanation. Stanley’s face reflects his
surprise when he registers my quirkiness.

“I see you are ready to carry on.”

As always, he reads me like an open book. Yes, I want to keep
talking. I have turned on a tap and now the memories are gushing out under
enormous pressure. A wild waterfall of words. He settles down and listens, this
time with his notebook open, ready to record the things done to me.

After Hurricane Ike had passed, the population of southern Texas
began to rebuild their lives out of the destruction it had left them in. Our
small household was no different. For several weeks, or months, I don’t recall
how long it was, I stayed in my room.

Deep inside, I knew that Gracie had been responsible for that
terrifying scene in the motel room. There was no point in telling Mom. Maybe
she didn’t know that Gracie had sold me to this guy, but she must have known
what Gracie and her photographer friend and the Purple Shadow made me do for
their pictures and videos. Mom had always ignored it. Hard to understand? Well,
Connie once told me when children are abused by a relative, quite often mothers
cope by pretending it’s not happening. And when they get confronted with the
truth, they prefer not to believe their kids. Connie should know. Her mom beat
her to a pulp when she told on her stepdad.

Now that I remember what happened on that day, I understand why I don’t
want my mom to visit me. I understand where my intense dislike stems from. One
day, I should confront her with it, but I can’t handle this now. Maybe in a
million years.

She had always taken Gracie’s side, and if I’d confide in Mom, tell
her what Gracie had done, I’d only lose them both, Mom and Gracie. They were
the only family I had. They were part of me, like my arms or legs.  I wouldn’t
chop off my arm or leg because they hurt, and for the same reasons I wouldn’t
cut myself loose from Mom and Gracie. It wasn’t an option. I was ten years old
then, I had been hurt and couldn’t deal with the fact that somebody from inside
our triangle had betrayed me.

Sure, deep, deep inside, I must have hoped Mom would come to my room
and demand that I explain what’s wrong with me. She should have insisted that I
answer her truthfully. She should have protected me. But as I lay in my room I
knew I was waiting in vain for her to hold me and comfort me and gently extract
the horror of what the motel-man had done to me.

And so I slipped into a state of utter uncaring, unfeeling passivity.
It was another girl that got up in the morning, got fed and dressed, that sat
in front of homework without reading or writing a single line, that answered
Mom’s simple questions with a nod or a shake of the head. I lost my ability to
communicate any other way. Mom tried only half-heartedly to snap me out of it,
she had other things on her mind and often said, “don’t worry princess, next
time there is a storm, I’ll take you up north before it starts.”

She was occupied with getting the house in order again, arguing with
Gracie over money and hanging around the house waiting for the phone to ring. I
knew she waited for that to happen because she never ventured far from the
phone and she jumped every time it did ring, excited-like, pressing one hand
over her bosom to hold her heart in, and always exhaling resignedly after she
picked it up.

Quite often I could hear Gracie’s voice, shouting at Mom or being on
the phone, but she didn’t come to my room until about two weeks after my
return. Then she sat down on my bed and put her hand on my arm. I tried to pull
away from her but she tightened her grip.

“Mija,” she said, “I know you’re upset with me, but I had no idea.”

I wanted to scream at her.
You brought me to the motel. You left
me alone in the dark. You let that man come to the room. You let him hurt me.
But the words couldn’t break though the barrier of shame and turned inward
instead.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I couldn’t.

“You got to believe me, I would have stayed if I’d known.”

She started to cry and I turned my face to her. I wanted so badly to
believe her.

“Please,” she said, “please, I’m your Gracie. I do love you so
much.”

She was all I had.

“This will pass, and then, one day, you’ll understand it all. It’s
not as bad as you think. It’s all part of growing up. But I promise you, in
future I’ll take better care of you. Soon you’ll feel like a real beauty queen
again. Big promise, cross my heart.”

The last bit of rebellion smoldering underneath my shame died
altogether. Gracie was smiling again and I knew I would be her good girl again.
Mom had failed me. Gracie was all I had.

Months went by. I stoically accepted Gracie’s presence and listened
to her chatting about whatever she thought might get me out of my dark mood,
but I couldn’t react to it. I was in a deep freeze and barely registered what
was going on around me.

Now that the ice has melted, everything that happened then becomes
visible and presents itself to me—and to Stanley—with amazing clarity.

At the end of those months, Gracie said it would do me good to
participate in some photo sessions again.

As soon as she suggested it, Mom agreed. It’s about time I do my
bit, she said, to get them out of their current financial bind. Darkness
engulfed me more than ever when she said it.

“So the photo sessions started again?” Stanley asks me, not really
throwing me off track. “When you were still ten?”

“Yes, and I didn’t even put up a fight. I let it happen because I
saw no way out. They were stronger than me, they relied on me—and I didn’t have
the guts to refuse their demands. Mom didn’t matter any longer, but I finally
understood that I needed Gracie and that she needed me just as much.”

“Do you remember what happened to you in those sessions?”

Of course I do. It has been on my mind since I woke up. The sessions
always followed the same pattern: Gracie takes me there, makes me placid with
her drink and pretty with her paints and brushes, places me on a chair and
leaves the room.

The Purple Shadow glides in. I never see a face or hear a voice, it
is only a flowing, rolling fog, assisted by the photographer friend who tells
me what to do. Sometimes I have to do things to myself, like getting undressed
and touching myself in areas and in a way that would feel wrong, if I could
feel anything. But I don’t. It’s not me.

The Purple Shadow films everything. The photographer friend is
always there too, behind the smaller camera, click-clicking away. Sometimes the
Purple Shadow comes over to me and does things with me before filming again.

I have no will power. I’m not really there.

It was another girl, one I knew and didn’t like very much, my ugly
other, that went through those sessions. The original me-part didn’t care, she
retreated to hide underneath or behind my good shell,
mysoul
, more and
more as time went on. Part of me was ugly and despicable, I felt that every
waking moment, but I learned to live with it. With every session it became more
acceptable to do what they asked me to, even as their demands got more
outrageous.

“What about Gracie? She had promised to protect you.”

This is hard to admit, but Stanley deserves to know. My heart beats
faster and my lungs compress, trying to keep the confession locked in.

“Over time, the sessions made me feel … I began to feel like a
beauty queen again, just as Gracie had promised. They called me Princess Tia
when I did good. Gracie said I’m her best … her favorite … girl.”
That’s my
girl. That’s my girl.
“I wanted Gracie to love me again … like before … I …
started to understand what they wanted from me … and I … I gave them whatever
they asked of me. That went on for nearly two years … until … until one day
when …when a session went really bad.”

Silence. Are there even words to explain?

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Stanley holds my
glance, searching behind my eyeballs to find both of me. He is not scared of
the ugly other, and I shouldn’t be either, his inaudible acceptance offers.

Yes, there is, but my increased heart rate begs me not to confront
it. Suddenly my hands cramp into fists.

Now my heart races even faster, cold sweat makes me shiver. This is
a lot harder to tell than to think. Yet the cascade of my wordfall shoots over the
cliff and cannot be halted.

“Gracie had prepped me in one of my contest dresses. I had outgrown
it and she had worked on it for days, adding a middle section to accommodate my
longer torso and had cut off the sleeves altogether. As far as I was concerned,
whatever they dressed me up in was inconsequential, it never stayed on my body
for long.”

Before Gracie left, she said: “You’re such a good girl, I know
you’ll do this for me. Just this once. Let the man do what he needs to do to
get this video done. I owe the sponsors. They’ve been very patient. But I
insisted, wanted to wait for my little girl to be ready for it again. Wouldn’t
do anything to upset you, you know that. But you’re twelve now, soon you’ll be
too big. If you don’t do it, I’d have to pay back a lot of money, and I can’t
do that. And I know you’re into the whole thing now—you’ll enjoy it. Here,
drink some more. Just relax, then it won’t hurt.”

I can’t go on. It is not necessary. Stanley knows.

All he asks is if I was raped again. Two years and a promise later,
it happened again. One quick question, one nod, and the wordfall finally comes
to a trickle.

“I couldn’t … I couldn’t fight him. The Purple Shadow behind the
camera filmed it all.”

A sudden realization hits me. It’s like a lightning bolt strikes my cerebral
cortex. Electric charges fire up those parts of my gray matter that have been
dormant for so long and lift the fog that has enveloped my every waking moment
since I’ve attacked the woman at Starbucks. In one brief instant I’m catapulted
from comfortable none-and-then-partial remembering into the horrific realization
that I do remember it all.

All of it!

I remember.

I see what has been leading up to the attack, every single detail,
every sordid and shameful step toward the ultimate inevitable explosion. I can
see and understand it all, and the images which penetrate my memory shield at
nail-gun speed are so shocking, I cover my face with my hands. A simple gesture
meant to hide the monstrous moment of enlightenment not only from myself, but
also from Stanley.
If I don’t see you, you don’t see me.

I know who I stabbed now.

And I know why.

“You have no idea who that person is?” Stanley probes gently. “The
one you call the Purple Shadow?”

I’d love to tell him, right here and there, but I can’t. I can’t. I
can’t. I’m still reeling and can only hope Stanley attributes it to my earlier
account of my rape. I need to concentrate on his questions, deflect from the
mad race inside my mind. Time—please, give me time.

I can’t lower my hands. I can’t look at him.

“I have no idea who she is.”

Stanley abruptly sits up. “A woman?”

That much I can admit. After years of being touched and manipulated
by the Purple Shadow, I should know.

“Her body was quite square, her grip was very firm, but I think of
her as female.”

“Can you describe her face?”

I need time to think. The implications of what I have just
discovered are too far reaching. I can’t even comprehend what this means for my
future. How to react to it. How to deal with it. It’s all too much. It’s not a
simple case of crying a little and feeling better—what’s inside me is breaking
me apart.

Behind my hands, I weep hot tears. I shake with disgust.

He backs off. “Don’t worry about it now, let it rest. Is there
anything
you remember about her?”

Oh, dear Stanley. I remember so much. And I can’t tell you.

After many minutes I finally take my hands off my face. My expression
is stiff with the knowledge I need to hide.

“She always wore a long cape of sorts that covered her from head to
toe, one like some of those Muslim women wear, only hers was purple.”

He doesn’t look surprised at all by this. “I’m wondering if you’d be
willing to talk to the police about it.”

The police? Only if it’s Macintosh.

“I’m sure they want to hear about this person, and about the
involvement your aunt had in this. You realize she has committed a serious
crime, don’t you?”