"I'm not staying, Jack. But what I came to say, I wanted to say in person." Annalise regarded him soberly. "Do you know how many women I've seen after a rape?"
Jack tried to draw a breath but couldn't. It was not enough that his employer, his students, his attorney, and his colleagues believed this charge. His own mother did, too.
"You ... you can't think I'm guilty," he whispered.
Annalise raised her brows. "Why on earth would a woman lie about that?"
Suddenly Jack remembered when his mother had taken him to the Central Park Zoo as a child. He'd stayed too long in the dark hut of the bats, fascinated by the way they could fold themselves up like tiny umbrellas. When he'd turned around, his mother had been gone. He had not been afraid for himself, not even at seven; instead, he'd felt bad for his mother, who surely would have been frantic by now. But he found her standing outside the hut, talking to an acquaintance she'd met. Jack had pressed up against her leg, a limpet. "Oh," she'd said blithely, as if she'd never noticed his absence. "Are we finished here?"
Now, Jack swallowed hard. "You have to believe me. I'm your son."
"Not anymore," said Annalise.
He puts his hands under my shirt, and I feel them burning. I'm aching for him. Oh, Jack. I know it won't hurt with him, because he promises me. Even when he's sticking it in me, I don't mind, because finally we are one.
Jack pushed away the photocopied pages. "What is this shit?"
Melton shrugged. "Discovery. Evidence. This is the diary entry that apparently sent Catherine's father over the edge." He shuffled through his own notes. "Well, along with the birth control pills."
"Did anyone ever stop to consider that maybe this is fiction?"
"Of course, Jack." Melton pushed his half-glasses up on his nose. "But she also says you were the one who took her to get contraception."
"By default, Melton. She wanted to sleep with her boyfriend and no one else would take her to Planned Parenthood!"
"According to Catherine, there was no boyfriend. She says she got the Pill because you wanted to sleep with her."
"Look. She has a crush on me. I knew that on some level, even if I didn't address it. I didn't want to embarrass her, and I figured she'd just grow out of it. Things like this happen all the time."
"There's a difference between a minor imagining she has a crush on an older man and a minor who has sexual intercourse with that man."
"You've got it backwards! She's imagining the sex!" Jack took a deep breath. "Okay. So they have her testimony, and this diary. And some birth control pills. I don't see how any of that conclusively points to my carrying on an intimate relationship with her."
"I agree," Melton said. "You'd be in much better shape if the police hadn't found anything when they searched your house."
Jack frowned. The police had arrived with a warrant, and he'd let them search the premises, but he hadn't realized anything fruitful had come of it. Melton pushed a photograph across the table at him. "What is this, a rag?"
"Apparently," Melton said, "it's Catherine Marsh's bra. It was in your briefcase."
Jack stared at it for a second. Then he started laughing. "Christ, Melton, they can't think ... I picked it up for her after she left it in class. No, wait--that came out sounding bad. We were working on a unit on ancient Greek history in this sweltering heat, and the kids had all gotten into togas made out of tablecloths, and--"
"And the police found a bra, with Catherine Marsh's name sewn into it, in your briefcase. That's all they know, Jack. And that's plenty."
"But I can explain it."
"I know," Melton said. "Unfortunately, so can the prosecutor."
Jack had to see her. He had read and reread the conditions of his bail, which stipulated in black and white that he stay away not only from minors but specifically from Catherine Marsh. If he was caught, there would be another hearing. He would be charged with violating his bail condition and held in contempt of court. He would most likely be put into jail until his trial came up on the docket.
If he were caught, it would contribute to the prosecution's case against him.
But if he could get away with this one small thing, he had a chance of stopping this charge from going forward.
The schedules of students at Westonbrook had been computerized two years ago, thanks to the diligence of an intern who happened to be a technical whiz. It took Jack less than ten minutes to find Catherine Marsh's whereabouts. Within an hour, he was standing behind a large oak at the edge of the campus, watching as girls passed by in small clusters, bright butterflies lighting from conversation to conversation.
Catherine was walking alone, the first stroke of luck since this whole debacle had begun. Sweat broke out on his brow as he willed her to come closer. The sun glinted off the brass clutch of her knapsack, momentarily blinding him.
He reached out to grab her upper arm. Pressing her up against the tree, his hand clapped over her mouth. Catherine's eyes went wide with fear, then suddenly softened. He let go of her. "Coach," she said, smiling, as if she had not overturned the whole bowl of his life.
He swallowed, reaching for reason, but it was the anger that finally pushed one sentence through, rough and rusty as a spike. "Catherine," Jack hissed, "what the hell did you do?"
She had never seen him angry before. Well, maybe once or twice, but that usually had to do with a player whose mind was on some stupid guy instead of practice. The bite of his fingers into the bones of her shoulders scared her with one heartbeat, then thrilled her the next. He came here for me, she thought.
Suddenly, he got himself under control again. "What did you tell them?"
In that moment, her feelings were a featherbed, downy and inviting. Catherine took a deep breath and jumped. "That I love you."
"You love me," he repeated, the words sounding all wrong on the twist of his mouth. "Catherine, you don't love me."
"I do. And I know you love me, too."
"Anything I've ever said to you or done with you I would have said or done with any student," Coach said. "Catherine, you've got to stop lying to them. Don't you see I could end up in jail?"
For a moment, Catherine's heart stopped beating. And then she realized this was a test. A way of safeguarding his heart, until her own was laid bare. She smiled tremulously. "You don't have to hide the truth anymore."
"The truth?"
"You know ... how we're going to be together."
His eyes flashed. "Before or after I'm tried for a felony?"
"Oh, Jack," Catherine whispered, and she reached out to him.
He recoiled, unwilling to touch her, unwilling to be touched by her. And this, finally, gave Catherine pause. Even as she called to him, he continued to back away with his palms raised, as if he was no longer seeing a pretty young girl but a poisonous snake that might strike when he least expected.
"Of course she's skittish," the prosecutor said gently to Reverend Marsh. Loretta Winwood folded her hands on her desk, patient. "If she wasn't reluctant to testify, I'd be concerned about her motivations. But it's common to have underage witnesses balk. In fact, a hesitant witness on the stand is a powerful piece of evidence in a statutory rape case."
"But you heard her! She says she made the whole thing up."
Loretta gave the man a moment to compose himself. Poor guy, to find out just a few days ago that his daughter had been carrying on an affair with a teacher and then today to have her recant in a puddle at his feet. It was at moments like this that she truly understood why attorneys were called counselors. "Reverend Marsh, do you believe her?"
"My daughter's a good Christian girl."
"Yes, but she's either lying about this sexual affair ... or she's lying about lying about it."
Marsh pressed his fingers to his temples. "I don't know, Ms. Winwood."
"What reason would Catherine have to make up a story about a consensual sexual relationship that doesn't exist?"
"None."
"All right. Now, let's assum
e that she has been involved in a relationship with Dr. St. Bride, upsetting as that is to consider. What reason would Catherine have to suddenly retract everything she's confessed?"
Marsh closed his eyes. "To save him."
Loretta nodded. "One reason it's against the law to have intercourse with people under the age of sixteen is because minors are so susceptible to manipulation. What your daughter just told me--well, I see it a lot, Reverend Marsh. Unfortunately, these girls are in love. And once they triumphantly tell the world and the object of their affection is carted off in cuffs, they suddenly wonder if that was such a good idea."
"Can ... can you force her to be a witness?"
"I can force her to sit on the stand, but if she won't testify, she won't testify. That's why so many of these cases never make it to trial." She closed the file in front of her. "If Catherine tells the jury this affair existed only in her imagination, I can't impeach her with her prior statements to the contrary. We have some incriminating evidence ... but nothing as strong as Catherine's testimony. And I'm sorry to say that means Jack St. Bride will most likely be acquitted--and will most likely seduce another underage girl in the future."
Marsh's face mottled pink. "He'll burn in hell one day."
This was a gray area in the law. If Catherine had been lying today about never having sex with St. Bride, it wasn't really exculpatory evidence ... which meant her confession didn't have to be turned over to the defense ... which meant that Melton Sprigg would not know that Catherine was unwilling to testify against his client. "Hell would be fine," Loretta said. "But there might be something a little more immediate."
"A plea bargain?" Jack said. "Doesn't that mean they're running scared?"
The attorney shook his head. "Most cases that go to court ... well, ten percent are sure wins for the county attorney, and ten percent are sure losses. But the bulk of the cases--eighty percent--fall smack in the middle. Prosecutors offer pleas all the time, because they ensure a conviction."
"So what am I, Melton? The ten percent that wins or the ten percent that loses?"
"With you, the odds are more like five percent on either side, ninety in the middle. Rape trials, Jack ... a lot of the time, it comes down to one person's word against another's. Conviction or acquittal could hang on whether the jury had a good breakfast that day."
"I'm not taking a plea," Jack said. "I won't admit to something I never did."
"Well, just hear me out, then, all right? Because my job description says I have to read it to you." Melton handed him the fax. "They're willing to reduce the charge to a misdemeanor sexual assault. Eight months in jail, no probation. It's a good deal, Jack."
"It's a good deal for someone who's goddamned guilty!" Jack cried. "I never touched her, Melton. She's lying."
"Do you think you can convince twelve jurors of that? Do you really want to play that kind of Russian roulette?" He lifted Jack's mug and took his napkin from underneath it, then drew a line down the middle with his pen. At the top he wrote PRO and CON. "Let's look at what happens if you go to trial. Best-case scenario? You get acquitted. Worst-case scenario? You get convicted of a class B felony. You get sent to the state penitentiary for seven years."
"I thought the sentence was three and a half years to seven."
"Only if you get paroled, Jack. And to get paroled, you'd have to complete the sex offender treatment program there."
Jack shrugged. "How hard could that be?"
"You're not going to make it through day one unless you're very forthcoming about every aspect of your sex offense. Which means you have to walk in there and tell them you have a thing for little girls."
"That's bullshit," Jack said.
"Not if you're convicted. In the mind of the parole board, you've committed that offense. Period. And you don't get paroled until you're amenable to treatment."
Jack dug his thumbnail into a scar on the table. "The plea," he managed to say. "What's the pro?"
"First, you're serving eight months, period. If you spend every second screaming you're innocent, they're still going to release you after eight months. Second, you're serving time at the county jail, the Farm. You're outside, working. It's a whole different ball of wax from the State Pen. You finish your sentence and you go on with your life."
"I'd still have a conviction on my record."
"A misdemeanor," Melton pointed out. "You can get it annulled after ten years, like it never existed. A felony sexual assault charge--well, that's with you for life."
To his horror, Jack felt tears climbing the ladder of his throat. "Eight months. That's a hell of a long time."
"It's a lot less than seven years." When Jack looked away, the lawyer sighed. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you were the one who got his hand slapped."
Jack turned to him. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Eight months," Melton said in response. "You'd be out before you know it."
The courtroom was claustrophobic. The walls were swaying in on Jack, and the air he drew in through his teeth sat like a block at the base of his stomach. He stood beside Melton Sprigg, his gaze square on Judge Ralph Greenlaw, a man whose daughter had been a goalie for Jack three years earlier. A nonpartisan trial? Not a chance. Every time the man met his eye, he could see him thinking of what might have happened if his own child instead of Catherine Marsh were sitting behind the prosecutor.
The judge scanned the plea bargain, that wisp of paper that had Jack's signature on it, just as sure as if he'd scrawled away his soul in blood. "Did you read this form before you signed it?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Has any pressure, force, or promise been made to you in an effort to get you to plead guilty to this offense?"
Jack thought of the cocktail napkin, the pro and con list, that Melton had drawn up. He had saved it after their meeting. The next day, he'd flushed it down the toilet. "No."
"Do you understand the rights that you are giving up by pleading guilty and not going to trial?"
Yes, Jack thought. The right to live my life the way I always imagined it would be. "I do," he said.
"Do you understand that you're entitled to a lawyer?"
"Do you understand that you're entitled to a jury trial?"
"Do you understand that the jurors' vote would have to be unanimous in order to find you guilty?"
"Has any evidence obtained illegally against you been used to secure this conviction?"
He felt Melton hold his breath as the judge asked the next question. "Are you pleading guilty because you are guilty?"
Jack could not force a syllable from his throat.
*
Catherine couldn't stand any of it--the weight of her father's solid body pressed against hers, the stoic resignation of Jack sitting beside his attorney, the truth that she was the one who had set this cart in motion. And even after she'd tried to fix it, it had been too late. No matter how many times she insisted she'd made this all up, they didn't want to hear. The prosecutor and her father and the psychiatrist he'd dragged her to for counseling all told her that it was perfectly normal for her to want to keep Jack out of jail but that he deserved to be punished for what he had done.
Me, Catherine thought. I deserve to be punished.
She wished with all her heart that this had happened differently, but she had learned that words were like eggs dropped from great heights: You could no more call them back than ignore the mess they left when they fell.
She felt herself coming out of her seat, as if she'd swallowed helium. "Don't do this to him!" she cried.
"Sit down, Catherine." Her father clamped an arm around her. The prosecutor and the judge didn't stop the proceedings. It was like they'd expected her to say this.
The judge nodded at the bailiff. "Please remove Ms. Marsh from the courtroom," he said, and suddenly a burly man was gently leading her outside, where she wouldn't have to bear witness to her own folly.
It was as if Catherine had never spoken. "Mr. St. Bride," the judge rep
eated, "do you admit that you knowingly had sexual contact with Catherine Marsh for the purpose of sexual arousal or gratification?"
Jack could feel the Reverend Marsh's eyes on the back of his neck. He opened his mouth in denial, only to choke on words that had been lodged in the pit of his belly, fed to him by his own attorney: You finish your sentence, and then you go on with your life.
Jack gagged until his eyes teared, until Melton pounded him on the back and asked for a moment so that his client could compose himself. He coughed and hemmed and hawed, but something still seemed to be caught, irritating as a bone. "Try this," Melton whispered, passing Jack a glass of water, but he only shook his head. He could drink an ocean and never dissolve the pride that was stuck in his throat.
"Mr. St. Bride," the judge said, "do you admit to committing this offense?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Jack answered, in a voice that was still not his own. "I do."
Late April 2000
Salem Falls,
New Hampshire
Selena Damascus kicked the tire of her Jaguar so hard that pain shot up her leg. "Goddamn," she yelled, so loudly that both Jordan and the mechanic jumped.
"Feel better?" Jordan asked, leaning against a tool chest.
"Shut up. Just shut up. Do you know how much money I put into that car?" Selena thundered. "Do you?"
"Every lousy red cent I ever paid you."
She turned on the mechanic. "I could buy a Geo for the price you just quoted."
The man looked distinctly uncomfortable, but Jordan understood. Selena was formidable when she was in a good mood. In a temper, she was downright terrifying. "Um, there's something else," the mechanic muttered.
"Let me guess," Selena said. "You don't have someone qualified to service Jags."
"No, I can do that. But it's gonna take a week or so to get the part." A telephone rang in the service station, and the mechanic excused himself. "You make up your mind. This car ain't going nowhere anyhow."
Selena turned to Jordan. "This isn't happening to me. I'm just going to turn my life back twenty-four hours and when your son calls, I'm gonna let the phone keep on ringing." She shook her head. "You know this guy has a monopoly going on in this town."