Never Tell (6 page)

“We still owe it to that girl and to those parents to be a hundred percent positive before we take her name from the board.”

The car fell silent once again. Ellie finally reached for the radio but Rogan blocked her hand.

“None of your new wave Devo Flock of Seagulls shit when I’m driving.” As far as Ellie could tell, Rogan thought any music by white people between 1983 and 1997 was either Devo or Flock of Seagulls.

But then the silence must have gotten to him, as well. He turned on the stereo and stopped the dial on a rap song she actually recognized. She muttered the lyrics as she looked out the window.
“Ain’t nothin’ but a g-thang, baby.”

It was enough to get a laugh out of her partner. “You kidding me with that?”

“What? I grew up in Kansas, not on a commune.” She put a little more swagger into her performance, swaying in her seat.
“And now all you hookas and hos know how I feel.”

“Damn, woman. You got to ruin everything for me, don’t you? I won’t be able to listen to that again without picturing your bony butt bouncing around.”

She placed a hand on her hip. “Ain’t nothing bony about this. You just want
a small piece of some of that funky stuff.
”

He shook his head, but he was smiling. “This mean we’re all right?”

“We’re always all right. You should know that by now.”

“But you still think you’re right and I’m wrong.”

“Yep.”

“Want to go talk to this homeless kid, Casey?”

“Nope. But I will. Last time I checked, that’s what we do.”

Chapter Eleven

Second Acts: Confessions of a Former Victim and Current Survivor

“M
AKE
I
T
S
TOP
”

I’m continually surprised at the way ordinary events trigger revelations about abuse and survivorship. This morning, my daughter awoke to the sounds of jack hammers thanks to a construction project on the street below her bedroom window. She wandered from her bedroom bleary-eyed and bed-headed, her palms pressed against her ears. “Make it stop. That’s all I want right now: Just make it stop.”

Make it stop. It’s a perfectly rational reaction, isn’t it? To want to put an end to whatever unpleasant stimuli one is experiencing? To crave the exact opposite?

Ear-shattering noise? Give me total silence instead. Blisteringly hot food? Hand me cold water. Blinding light? I shut my eyes to enjoy the darkness.

Rape? Make it stop.

But what does it mean to crave the
opposite
of rape? No sex? No physical contact? No men?

But rape, we must always remind ourselves, isn’t about sex. It’s about power. Our abusers want to exercise dominion over us. They want to steal our agency.

And so what do we do? We take our agency back, however we can.

I couldn’t force that man out of my house, but I could choose not to go to school. I couldn’t bar him from my bedroom at night, but I could get a fake ID and a six-pack at three in the afternoon. I couldn’t stop him from eyeing me every time my mother averted her gaze, but I could start hanging around the people my mother had always called “bad influences.” I needed to know I could make choices that belonged to me.

We have all read about some rape case that goes uncharged or unpunished because of evidence that the victim engaged in consensual sexual activity with another man (or men) immediately after the rape. Why in the world, prosecutors and jurors ask, would a woman who had just been raped go out and have sex with someone else? They assume that a desire to “make it stop” necessarily translates into a lack of interest in sex.

But, once again, I thought we all knew by now that rape is not about sex. If “make it stop” means a craving for the opposite, then isn’t it perfectly predictable that some of us respond to rape by exercising agency over our own sexual intimacy?

In my case, I couldn’t protect my body from him, but I could choose to start sharing it with someone else. And of course I chose an unacceptable “someone else”—at once too old and too immature. That decision in turn led to its own forms of damage, self-inflicted in some sense and yet, it seems to me, still wholly attributable to my abuser.

Part of survival is getting to a place where we are able to exercise true free will, not just a reaction or rebellion against the abuse. Yesterday I wrote about forgiveness, not of our abusers, but of the people who enabled them. We must also forgive ourselves for reacting to the abuse in destructive ways, harming ourselves and others in response to our loss of power. We have to learn how to accept our pasts and determine our own futures. It’s the only way to really “make it stop.”

This evening the blog was being read on a display laptop at the Apple Store in the Meatpacking District. The reader made a point to stand close to the computer, blocking the screen from view of the crowds of shoppers who provided further anonymity.

It did not take long to type a reply to the post:

“I will show you damage. I will show you loss of free will. I will show you harm. And you will never make it stop.”

The typist did not know that on a different computer, at a public library in the suburbs of Buffalo, an ex-convict named Jimmy Grisco was doing some online reading of his own.

Chapter Twelve

E
llie loved the arch at Washington Square Park. Serving as a frame for the view up Fifth Avenue to the Empire State Building, the arch had an impressive historical pedigree, with origins dating back to George Washington, but Ellie would always think of it as the spot where Harry dropped off Sally after their road trip home from Chicago.

She also thought of it as the usual location of Marty, the city’s best hot dog vendor. They were in luck. Tonight was one of the first warm evenings of spring, and he had set up shop just west of the fountain.

After they parked on Waverly, she led the way to the snack cart. “Let’s stop here for a dog.”

“How is it that wherever we go you have a food stop within a one-block radius? It’s like you’ve got a culinary map of this city implanted in your brain.”

Actually, she did, but on this particular night, she was more interested in Marty himself than the fact that he used Hebrew Nationals, stocked Fresca in the can, and always had fresh buns. Marty had been her eyes and ears in this park back when she was on patrol.

She loaded her bun with yellow mustard and relish, while Rogan opted for ketchup only. “So, Marty, do you know a street kid around here named Casey? Male, about twenty years old? Hangs out here with some of the other homeless kids?”

“Not sure you have the right info, but I know who you mean.”

“Why do you say we don’t have the right information?”

“You’ll see for yourself. The one you’re looking for is over there.”

He pointed to a kid practicing handstands in the grass just north of the dog park. Ellie thanked Marty and she and Rogan started making their way toward Casey. Halfway there, she realized what Marty had been alluding to.

“You mind if I take the lead with this one?” Ellie asked.

“You still think you’ve got it going on for teenage boys, huh?”

“Like you don’t turn on the charm for the cougar crowd when opportunity calls. Just promise me you won’t say anything that’s going to scare this kid off. In fact, just don’t say anything.”

“C
asey Heinz?”

Casey wiped his palms on his khakis and looked around as if someone else might step forward to have this conversation.

“That’s pretty good,” Ellie said. “It’d kill my wrists if I tried something like that. Probably a sign I spend too much time typing up reports at a computer. Your friend Ramona told us we might find you here.” She introduced herself and Rogan with a flash of her badge.

At the sight of Ellie scribbling his name in her notebook, he added, “Heinz like the ketchup, not like hind legs.”

“Casey short for anything?”

The pause was barely perceptible, but it was there. “Nope. Just Casey.”

“Got it,” Ellie said with a smile. “You knew Julia Whitmire?”

“I knew her. I mean, only through Ramona, and not like the two of them, but, yeah, sure, um, I’d say we all knew each other.”

“Julia’s mother mentioned meeting you one time at the townhouse. Did you go there often?”

Casey raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I can’t believe I even registered on that woman’s radar. Oh, wait, let me guess? She didn’t remember me at all. Just some homeless kid?”

“I think ‘from the streets’ may have been her phrase of choice. She said there were a few kids over that day.” She had mentioned two boys and a girl, to be exact.

“Yeah, I think it was Brandon, and this girl we see at the park sometimes named Vonda.”

“Did you go to Julia’s regularly?”

“Oh, huh-uh. I’d been there maybe four or five times, and usually it was just to swing by to meet her on a day out with Ramona. That was bad luck the one night her mom came in. Vonda was always fawning all over Julia’s clothes the couple of times we’d hung out by the fountain together.”

“Here at the park, you mean?”

“Yeah. So then Julia told me the next time I saw Vonda, I should try bringing her around because Julia had all these clothes she wanted to give away. We were just about to leave when her mom came home. She acted like we were going to walk out with the china or something.”

“That was awfully generous of Julia. Was that typical?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. But she also wanted everyone to know when she did a good deed. Sorry, that sounds mean, under the circumstances.”

“Were you and Julia ever alone?”

The kid looked panicked. “You think I had something to do—”

“No, no,” Ellie said, taking a step backward to give him more space. “Nothing like that, Casey. I only asked to get a better sense of how well you knew Julia. It might help put your impressions in context.”

“Yeah, okay. Um, we never arranged anything with just the two of us or anything. But, yeah, a few times, we’d all be hanging out and Julia and I would end up walking in the same direction afterwards. One time, everyone else had to bail early, so we walked over to see the new part of the High Line when it first opened. You know, that kind of thing. Mostly, though, I’d say we knew each other through Ramona.”

“And I take it you know what happened to Julia last night?”

“That she died? Yeah, Ramona called me and I went up to her place. She said Julia’s mom doesn’t believe it’s suicide. Is that why you’re here?”

There was no reason for this kid to know that Ellie and her partner had a split of opinion on that issue. “You seem like a pretty straight shooter, Casey.”

He squinted. “I try to be.”

“So give it to me straight. What can you tell us about Julia that her best friend might not be willing to say?”

“There’s not a lot to tell. I mean, she’s super rich. Pretty. Probably had some baggage with her parents—always fighting with her mom, talking about her dad, trying to get more time with him, feeling kind of ignored. You know. But otherwise pretty normal.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No, it was more like she’d just hook up. She told me she was into some guy a few weeks ago, but I never asked what happened to that.”

“Who was the guy?”

“No clue. She only mentioned it once. Like I said, we were both friends with Ramona, but not as much with each other. This was during one of those few times we were actually alone. We’d gone to this place called Black and White.” Ellie suppressed a smile. The bar was a little lounge in the East Village where her brother, Jess, and his band, Dog Park, sometimes played open-mic nights on Sundays. She’d always teased Jess that the place was overrun by kids with fake IDs, but Jess wanted to believe it was the next CBGB. “Ramona hopped in a cab uptown, and I walked Julia home. She was pretty tipsy and was saying she was tempted to drunk-dial the guy. I was having a little fun with her, trying to get her to call him. Then she said she didn’t even have his cell phone number—that she wasn’t supposed to call or something. It was a little weird.”

“Does Ramona know?”

“I’m not sure. Julia said Ramona wouldn’t approve.”

“Why wouldn’t Ramona approve?”

“You know that daddy baggage I mentioned? Let’s just say it manifested itself in Julia’s dating preferences. Ramona was always trying to get her to see a therapist about it. I just assumed when she made that comment about Ramona not approving that it was some old guy.”

“How old are we talking about here?”

“Not, like, you know, Hugh Hefner old. But I think one guy last summer was, like, thirty! Ramona kind of lectured her about it, and since then I got the impression Julia decided the less Ramona knew about those things, the better.”

In any other situation, Ellie would bristle at the thought of thirty being “old.” But to have a relationship with a junior in high school? Thirty was ancient.

“What made you think she was keeping Ramona out of the loop?”

“Ramona seemed to buy Julia’s act that she wanted more down time to read and study and stuff. Maybe I’m too suspicious but it seemed to me she was lying. One time she said she’d gone to the rooftop at the Standard with this guy, Marcus, but then later Ramona found out Marcus was at a birthday party for some girl at school the same night. Ramona blew it off, but other times Julia would tell Ramona she fell asleep watching TV, and I could just tell she was lying. When she didn’t show up today, I assumed it was another one of her secret disappearances. I feel awful now.”

“How about her friends? Would you say she was well liked?”

“Seemed like it. They’re both a little more on the wild side, compared to all the matching mean girls at their school, but I think Ramona actually got hassled more than Julia for it. Julia’s dad kind of gave her the cred to be a little off. Compared to the kids at that school, Ramona’s family’s, like, poor or something.”

“And how exactly was Julia
off
, or I think you said a little wild? A lot of drinking? Drugs?”

“No, nothing more than the usual drinking. Maybe a little weed. It’s hard to explain. Just, you know, more curious about the rest of the world than rich kids usually are.”

“That’s funny. Growing up in Kansas, I always thought wealthy kids in New York were incredibly worldly.”

“I don’t mean living in Paris on your summer vacation. I mean hanging out downtown. Taking the subway.” He lowered his voice. “Being friends with people of a different status. Trying
not
to be the spoiled brats they’ve been bred to be.”

“And where do you fall on this status spectrum?” Ellie made sure not to look at the light stains near Casey’s shirt collar or the spot on the sleeve where the fabric was wearing thin.

“Pretty damn low.” He looked down at his canvas sneakers. “I’m currently residing—if you can call it that—at Promises. It’s what they call transitional housing for at-risk young adults. It’s what everyone else in the world calls a homeless shelter.”

“Is that where the other kids who went to Julia’s townhouse with you live, too? Brandon and Vonda?”

“Brandon does, but not Vonda. I haven’t seen her in, like, a week.”

“Do you have last names for them?”

According to Casey, Brandon was Brandon Sykes, sixteen years old. Casey had seen him just that day, and he was probably heading back to the shelter that night. Vonda was supposedly nineteen, but he suspected she was younger. He did not know her last name, nor did he know how to contact her.

“And the shelter’s the best address for you?” she asked.

“Until I win the lottery, that’s where I’m at. I guess you need stuff like ages and last names and addresses for police reports.”

She rotated her wrists in front of her. “Like I said, I do an awful lot of typing in this job. And this
transitional housing for at-risk young adults
is really a better place for you than with your family?” Ellie was no social worker, but she didn’t feel right about leaving this kid in a shelter without at least inquiring.

“My family’s in Iowa, and let’s just say they’re not real interested in being my family these days.”

“Speaking of that report I’ll need to file, I should probably make sure to check your identification.”

“I thought you said I’m not in trouble.”

“You’re not, but I’ve got to make sure we’re not putting false information on a government document.”

Her eyes locked on his was enough to induce an actual tremble.

“I’m sorry, Casey. I’ve got to document every witness. It’s okay. We already know.”

“But—”

“It wasn’t your appearance. I noticed that pause earlier when I asked whether Casey was a nickname.”

There was a full five seconds of silence before Casey sighed and pulled a beaten brown leather wallet from his back pocket.

Iowa driver’s license. Same face. Same stoic expression, masking the softness Ellie had spotted when Casey had first come out of his handstand. All the basic information was there. Five feet, eight inches. DOB March 16, 1992. Green eyes. Full name: Cassandra Jane Heinz.

“Does Ramona know?”

He was looking at his shoes again but nodded. “Yeah. We don’t talk about it, but, yeah.”

She patted him on the shoulder, as she would to reassure any other man. “Thanks. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

C
asey watched the police detectives talking as they walked back toward Waverly. Even from behind, he could recognize the dynamic. The male cop may have remained silent through the entire exchange, but Casey had seen the guy’s expression at the sight of the driver’s license. She was cool with everything. He wasn’t.

That always seemed to be how things went.

As he watched them drive away in their nondescript blue sedan, he wondered whether he had done the right thing. He had told them what they needed to know about Julia, but he hadn’t told them everything. Not really.

One little lie—not even a lie, just a secret—couldn’t possibly make a difference. And the one little secret, if disclosed, would only hurt Ramona even further. He hadn’t done it to protect himself, he told himself. It had been for Ramona.

He returned to his handstands, trying to set aside the terrible feeling that somehow he had made a mistake.