Trust Me (13 page)

CHAPTER 27

⍫

Art looked down at the girl, vacillating between amusement and annoyance.
Silly little bitch, he thought.
So beautiful. So obedient
.
She had passed out just as he had exploded—exquisite, simply exquisite—and slumped, first onto the edge of the chair between his thighs, and then fallen to the floor, hitting her face on the base of his chair on the way. A small dab of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. He retrieved his phone from his desk and tapped the square icon that would stop recording.

Standing up, he buttoned his pants and fastened his belt. He then knelt by the girl and, first checking the pulse at her neck, pulled up an eyelid. Only white was showing. He stood up and stepped over the girl to walk to his desk, rolling his chair back with him. It could be a petit-mal seizure, he thought. Bloody good thing she didn’t bite.

As he sat, he had a premonition that this could take a dangerous turn for him. From the bottom drawer of his desk he pulled out a small black leather bag. He opened it and peered in at the contents: foil blister packs of pharmaceutical samples, a variety of vials with metal caps that had little rubber dots at their centers, clear tubes of tablets and capsules of all colors, and a pack of disposable syringes.
I don’t even know her goddamned medical history. Fuck! What a bloody nuisance
.

Anger began to boil up now. The girl on his floor. His wife, trying to run his life. Marilyn Fenner—now her goddamned brother was coming to the meetings. If that asshole remembers
me
. . .
The fool would have to have a drug overdose; that much was obvious.

He took a deep breath. And another. He knew if his mind continued in this direction he would lose control, and when he lost control things always turned out badly.

By the fifth deep breath, he realized that there could be an advantage to the situation. Perhaps she won’t remember
.
She had certainly been out long enough now for that to become increasingly more likely. “How delightful, a repressed memory that’s only ten minutes old,” he said out loud, in a better humor now.

Searching within the black bag, he found two ampules and a small pack of Kleenex, which he laid out on his desk along with one of the syringes. It’s risky, he thought, but what the hell
.
He pushed the syringe needle into the rubber dot in the middle of the cap on the bottle labeled “Ephedrine,” then pulled on the plunger until the bottle was empty. He repeated the procedure with the bottle marked “Valium,” then placed the empty bottles in his top drawer. As an afterthought, he reached down and pulled a soda from the small refrigerator on the floor by his desk.

He walked over to where the girl lay, knelt, and chose a spot on her arm for the injection. He pointed the syringe upward and pushed on the plunger just enough so that a small spray of liquid shot out, to ensure that no air would enter the girl’s vein, and then slid the needle into the crook of the girl’s elbow.

The vein was blue and strong. He pushed the plunger and watched as the syringe emptied—in moments the girl would wake.
Or die. Who knows? Jesus, getting her to the car would be awkward.

He pulled the needle out and threw it in the wastebasket. If things went badly he would retrieve it later. During cleanup time. The soda can made a popping sound as he pulled the metal tab.

The girl stirred. He put the soda on the floor, then leaned forward and pulled the girl up and around, arranging her so that they faced each other in a kneeling position. He dabbed at the blood on her lip with a tissue, and then let her fall forward into him so that her cheek was against his chest.

When her eyes opened, she said, “Art?”

“Yes, Holly. Yes, I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “Here, have some of this.” He offered her the soda, which she drank gratefully.

“What happened?” she asked. “What are we doing on the floor?” She pulled away and looked around the room.

He smiled warmly. “We got in a bit deep for a moment there. Into a place where the emotions are strong, overpowering even, I’m afraid. It was very brave of you to go there.”

The girl’s eyes fixed on him, clear and unblinking, and she gazed into him for so long he began to wonder if perhaps she had been present to the entire experience. Then she looked down at the floor and said, “I remember about my uncle.”

“Yes,” he replied. “You were very young. How do you feel about what he did?”

“I can’t believe it. It’s so disgusting. How can that happen?” She looked up at him, waiting for an answer, hoping he would have one that made sense. Trusting him.

CHAPTER 28

⍫

There was something so refreshing and open about Leanne’s face, Ron was hap
py just to sit and watch her.
They were sitting in the back room at Renee’s Garden, quiet on a Sunday night.

“I love this place,” Leanne said as she forked a piece of chocolate raspberry cake and brought it to her mouth.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” He dipped his spoon into the coconut sherbet he had ordered. “It’s the best kept secret in town. I hope she makes it.”

Just then, Renee herself came to their table.

“Hello, darlings. How is everything tonight?” She was a tiny woman, made even smaller by her pronounced stoop. She spoke with a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“Perfect,” Leanne said. “This place—” she looked around the room “—it’s just so lovely.” The restaurant was decorated like a New England country home, with antique prints on the walls and steamer trunks against the walls with colorful quilts draped over them.

Renee put her hands together and nodded, then turned to Ron, raising an eyebrow theatrically.

“Exquisite,” he proclaimed. “I’m in love.”

Renee looked back at Leanne, her head cocked to one side now, and said, “Yes. If you two don’t stay together, I’m going back to being a showgirl in Vegas.”

He blushed as he realized how his statement had been interpreted and then decided that maybe Renee wasn’t so far off the mark.

“Well, you children come back soon, okay?” She turned and walked away.

“What a character,” he said, shaking his head and smiling.

“My God, and that accent. She’s too much!” Leanne laughed, white teeth against her tanned face, her shoulders bare in a sleeveless blue silk top. She was beautiful, he thought, but what was more important was how comfortable he felt with her. He had always found her attractive, but until now it hadn’t seemed appropriate to ask to see her in the context of a date.

⍫

They had met nearly six years earlier. Ron had been assigned to cover the trial of a prominent West Valley attorney suspected of trying to murder his wife. According to the police testimony, Peter Christensen had beaten his wife, pushed her through a sliding glass door, and then shoved the woman into their pool. Paramedics, responding to a call from the fourteen-year-old daughter, found the woman lying face down in the water in a cloud of blood. The husband had a .21 percent blood-alcohol level. When the police arrived, he told them to mind their own business.

Ron had watched and taken notes throughout the testimony: police, paramedics, the daughter, and then, finally, the victim herself.

Leanne Christensen was a prosecutor’s ideal victim—just what the DA needed to counter the fact of her husband’s stature as an attorney. She was composed, articulate, and attractive without being cold or unsympathetic. She had been Teacher of the Year two years previous and had since written a book about the education system that had been well received.

During her testimony, Leanne Christensen delivered an unemotional narrative of the events preceding her plunge into the family pool. She maintained her bearing during gentle prodding for details by the assistant DA, and she remained level, if somewhat icy, during most of her husband’s defense attorney’s questioning. It wasn’t until late into the cross-examination, when Harry Wise began to insinuate that she had provoked the fight, that Leanne began to betray any emotion.

Wise spoke, ostensibly to Leanne, while facing the jury.

“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Christensen, that after starting an argument in a fit of jealousy over an affair that never happened,”—Wise audibly smacked his left palm with his right fist, punctuating his points—“and after threatening to divorce your husband and ‘rake him over the coals’ financially”—SMACK!—“and after physically assaulting your husband,”—here a demonstrative and extra-loud smack of the fist for the jury’s benefit—“isn’t it true that you then, unresponsive to your husband’s attempts to calm you down, ran hysterically toward the back yard, at which point you went through the glass door?” Wise turned and faced Leanne, silent, questioning and slightly reproachful in his attitude. To just lay the seed for the possibility of doubt in the mind of one juror, that was his job.

Leanne Christensen had stood up.

“You son of a bitch,” she said in a cold, controlled fury. “I’ve served you dinner.” She turned to the jury. “Our children go to school together. Our families have been friends for ten years. We vacation together, for God’s sake.” She turned back to Wise. “I’m not on trial here. You know me and you know that the way you painted the scene was entirely false.” She sat down. After a moment’s silence, she leaned toward the microphone and said, “Will there be any more questions?”

The jury deliberated three hours before delivering their verdict: Peter Christensen was found guilty on all counts.

Ron had managed to catch Leanne alone for a brief moment after the trial. He asked her if he could see her briefly, perhaps for lunch, and discuss the case.

They met the next day at a trendy dining spot on Ventura Boulevard called Dominic’s. Leanne still wore a stiff, severe look, and lit a cigarette as he approached the table.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” He shook Leanne’s hand and slid into the booth.

A waiter came. They scanned their menus and ordered.

When the waiter left, Leanne spoke first.

“Jerry Hadfield asked me not to discuss the case.” Hadfield was the prosecutor. “He said that on the off chance the motion to appeal was denied, it would cause trouble if I were to talk with you before sentencing.” She blew a cloud of smoke into the air and then drummed her fingernails on the polished wood table.

She could have told him this by phone, he thought. He remained silent, hands clasped in front of him.

Leanne put out the cigarette. “Damn these. I quit, until this whole thing happened.” She looked up at him. “Anyway, you’re probably wondering why we’re here, if I can’t talk about the case.”

He opened his hands and gave a slight nod in a gesture of assent.

“The answer,” Leanne continued, “is that I don’t know. I just had a feeling I could talk to you.” She smiled and softened, vulnerable for a moment.

He made an easy decision. “Okay. I’m not here as a reporter, and whatever we talk about is between you and me, okay?”

Leanne nodded and looked away. When she turned back to face him she said, “Look at me. I’m an intelligent, fairly with-it, relatively successful woman. I marry a guy, we have a beautiful child, we prosper, he tries to kill me. It doesn’t make sense. How did this thing happen to me?”

“You want the short, no-bullshit answer?” he asked.

“Be my guest.”

“It’s clear,” he said, “based on the testimony in court, that your husband attacked you in an alcoholic rage.”

“I know. He has a problem with drinking. I’ve been telling him to go to an AA meeting for years.”

“The trouble with that,” he went on, “is that people don’t go to AA until they really want to. Meanwhile, to answer your question, to live with an alcoholic is to participate in the disease of alcoholism.”

Leanne’s face tightened slightly around her mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that there’s such a thing as co-alcoholism. And that, by virtue of living with your husband’s drinking and his behavior, even prior to this attack, you qualify as a co-alcoholic. Your daughter too. The question is, do you want to do something about it?”

Leanne stared at him for a moment and then lit another cigarette. “I didn’t come here to be given a label. Anyway, I’ve moved out, with my daughter, and so the problem is removed. Isn’t it?” She gestured for the waiter. When he came, she asked for a check. They waited in silence. When the waiter returned, Ron pulled out his wallet. Leanne said, “Forget it. There’s no money left anyway, so what’s a couple of wasted lunches?” and she offered her credit card.

He reached into a compartment of his wallet and pulled out a business card.

“Here. I have some familiarity with these matters. I didn’t mean to offend you. Call me if the going gets rough.”

Six months later, he received a call from Leanne. She had moved to Santa Monica with her daughter. She couldn’t handle going back to teaching, so she was waitressing at a local restaurant. There really wasn’t any money left and that was okay, her husband was in prison, no problem, and her daughter was doing fine in the local school, but something much more basic was wrong. At first she thought it was just shock from the whole episode and then she thought it was depression, but now it wouldn’t go away.

“I remember,” she said, “that you said there was something I could do about it.”

⍫

Renee’s was emptying out, the moviegoers checking their watches as they stood up from their tables. Ron and Leanne finished their desserts in silence, looking up at each other and smiling a couple of times, not feeling compelled to make conversation.

Leanne took his hand as they walked out of Renee’s.

“You know,” Leanne said, “I hated you when you told me that alcoholism was a family disease.”

He nodded and laughed. “I remember. You didn’t hide it.”

“Now I’ve been in Al-Anon for five years . . .”

“Crazy,” he said, “how it goes by.”

“Everything about me has changed. The things I value. The way I live. The way I see other people.” They had reached the Land Rover. Leanne turned to him, still holding his hand.

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him. “Thank you for caring.”

He looked back at her, thinking how his caring had changed. He had cared for her enough, at first, when they were strangers, to tell her the truth about her situation, and she had run from it. Later, when she began to pursue her own recovery, he had cared for her as a companion, responding to her need, talking with her on the phone late into the night. They took up running together on the sand at State Beach.

When, inevitably, Leanne began to take tentative steps into a new social life and began dating, he had stepped aside. For a long while they lost contact.

Now, he thought, he cared in an entirely new way. He found he could only nod his head as she thanked him so earnestly; there was really nothing he could say. Instead, he drew her to him. He touched her hair with his lips, and then her eye as she turned her face up to meet him, and her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. Her mouth opened as she turned slightly and their lips brushed past each other until they found center and fit together. He felt her fingers move up his temples into his hair, up to the top of his head and then sliding down softly to his cheeks as they kissed.

Leanne drew back.

“They say this is the way to ruin a perfectly good friendship.”

He opened the door and helped her step up to the seat.

“I don’t think so,” he said.