Damaged (11 page)

Edward sniffled, and Mary knew it was hard to hear the graphic details of the abuse, but it was necessary going forward, for her lawsuit. She credited Cassandra for presenting the information in such a professional manner. It had to help Edward to deal with it, like being at a doctor's office and hearing a diagnosis of terminal cancer.

Cassandra looked up from her notes, pausing. “The third incident of physical and sexual abuse occurred in the morning of Wednesday, September 16. The incident took place in the same room, but the activity escalated.” Cassandra paused, then kept going. “To stay on track, on the morning of the sixteenth at Grayson, there was an assembly. Patrick was walking with his class to the assembly, and Mr. Robertson managed to get him away from the others, which went unnoticed.”

Edward wiped his eyes, and Mary could see that he was using every ounce of strength to maintain his composure. She wondered again if Machiavelli knew what scum he was representing. She had to believe he didn't, that even he couldn't be that low.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “On this third incident, Patrick tells me that Robertson led him into the closet, fondled him, and this time, tried to force Patrick's hand on Robertson's own genitals. Patrick refused and vomited, so Robertson struck him in the face in anger.”

Edward's eyes brimmed again, and Mary's heart broke for him.

Cassandra continued, “We have a pediatrician on our premises, and she examined Patrick. She found no evidence of damage to his genital or anal area, though she did find faint bruises on his face consistent with his account. We made photographs of the bruise for evidentiary purposes.” Cassandra exhaled, sliding her notepad away from her. “Let me explain what our procedures are. I'll make recommendations to you for a therapist for Patrick and I'll write up a report about my forensic interview for the team here, which includes a caseworker from DHS and a detective from Special Victims Unit. They will read my report, view Patrick's DVD, review our medical report and photographic evidence and also review the police investigation report, when that is sent from the Twenty-fifth Precinct. We will then make a recommendation to the District Attorney's Office about whether charges will be filed.”

Mary asked, “What will you recommend?”

Cassandra turned to Mary, her dark gaze steady. “The district attorney makes the charging decisions, but I would recommend that Robertson be charged with sexual assault, statutory sexual assault, sexual abuse of children, endangering the welfare of a child, corrupting the morals of a minor, simple assault and battery, and unlawful restraint.”

“Amen,” Edward said hoarsely, wiping his eyes. His parchment-thin skin looked mottled again, and his shoulders sagged, letting down now that the worst was over.

“I agree,” Mary said, patting his arm.

“Edward,” Cassandra said softening her tone. “I think Patrick is a very special boy. I'm aware that he has challenges, and I saw evidence of his dyslexia and reading issues myself. But I truly believe that he's got some fight inside him. He's going to get through this.”

“Thank you.” Edward managed a shaky smile. “God bless you.”

“You're welcome.” Cassandra smiled back at Edward, brighter than before. “And I will tell you one thing, that boy sure does
love
his ‘Pops.' He couldn't stop talking about you. He loves taking care of you, making soup and helping with your meds. That gives him a lot of self-esteem, that he helps with your insulin. You're everything to him, and he loves you very much.”

“I love him too,” Edward said, his eyes spilling over. “Very much.”

Mary felt her own eyes brimming and grabbed a Kleenex from the box, which was definitely unlawyerlike, but she didn't care.

Cassandra straightened up, in a back-to-business way. “Okay, folks. Unless you have any questions, I think we should go get Patrick.”

“No questions.” Edward rose slowly, pushing himself up by leaning on the table.

“I have a question,” Mary said. “During his interview, did Patrick mention anything about a scissors? About Robertson threatening him with a scissors, or him attacking Robertson with a scissors?”

Cassandra frowned. “No, why?”

“That's the allegation in Robertson's suit against Patrick. I think what happened was that when Robertson's ‘attempt' failed, he started to worry. He knew that sooner or later, Patrick would tell somebody, so he filed the suit to preempt Patrick.”

Cassandra nodded. “He shouldn't have done anything.”

“He didn't want to take a chance and he thinks that Edward has money. Robertson saw his opportunity and took it, killing two birds with one stone.”

Cassandra glowered. “Well, now I've heard it all.”

Mary stood up. “Thank you so much, for all you did for Patrick and all you do for children in Philly. It's really admirable.”

“You're welcome.” Cassandra smiled at Mary, rising and picking up her pad. “In terms of timing, this will proceed fairly quickly, and in the next few days, somebody will get back to you about charges and the like.” Cassandra turned to Edward, as she walked them to the door. “Edward, in the meantime, I would advise you not to open a discussion with Patrick about this. If he initiates discussion, answer his questions. If he brings it up, let him say what he needs to say.”

“I understand.” Edward nodded, drained.

“Be supportive, but don't question him further. We want you to support him, but not position yourself in a way that might hinder or compromise the investigation.” Cassandra flashed Edward a final smile. “I know this is difficult.”

“Thanks.” Edward heaved a heavy sigh, then stood tall. “Now. Let's go get my boy.”

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mary hurried past the antique shops and artsy jewelry stores to the bridal salon, troubled after her meeting at PCA. She couldn't shake what she had heard about Patrick being abused, and Edward and Patrick had remained silent the entire ride home, during which she had kept a watchful eye out for the brown sedan. After she'd dropped them off at home, she'd emailed their firm investigator, Lou Jacobs, a former cop with plenty of contacts on the force, asking him to see if a brown sedan was registered to a Steven Robertson and to find out where Robertson lived. She knew that Lou's Blue Mafia would come up with an answer, ASAP.

Cars and buses clogged Pine Street, which was only wide enough for colonial traffic, and she plowed down the sidewalk through the businesspeople thumbing their phones as they walked. Ahead she spotted the sign for the bridal salon in curlicue script,
POUR LES BRIDES
. Mary got the gist of the French translation; a bride who bought her dress here would end up poor. She made a beeline for the faux French Provincial door, opened it, and entered the air-conditioned salon, which was like walking into a cumulus cloud, with dove-white cushiness everywhere and no harsh reality in sight.

White wedding dresses hung on padded hangers around the perimeter of the room, and the walls were of raw white silk. A white shag rug covered the floor, and a matching curved couch sat at the center of the room, embracing a dramatically lit elevated pedestal with a trifold floor-to-ceiling mirror. On the far side of the room, next to a pickled-white French Provincial desk and a completely American cash register, sat a circular glass display case of veils, tiaras, and more grandiose bridal headpieces, which Judy and Anne were gawking at, plastic champagne flutes in hand.

“Mary, Mary!” Anne and Judy squealed, almost in unison, spotting her. They rushed toward Mary, hoisting their flutes so they didn't spill their champagne.

“Hey guys,” she called back, rallying at the sight of her friends, though the two women couldn't have been more different: Judy in her funky yellow hair, multicolored outfit, and Mario-Batali crocs, and Anne exquisitely dressed in her sleek Lilly Pulitzer sheath with tan Manolo mules, so that together they looked like a punk-rock star and her chic stylist.

“I'm so glad you didn't cancel!” Anne said, hugging Mary in her bony way.

“Me, too!” Judy said, throwing her arms around Mary like a bear. “How else would we get to drink champagne on a school night?”

Mary smiled, coming around. “Sorry I'm late. This special ed case is such a tough one.”

“Why?” Judy asked, frowning.

“It's so—”

“Stop!” Anne said, raising her manicured hand. “No shop talk tonight, bitches. This is a lawyer-free zone, and we're here tonight for love, marriage, and most importantly, clothes.”

Judy grinned. “Good point, except for the ‘bitches' part. I'm not your bitch. You're
my
bitch.”

Anne snorted. “We're both Mary's bitches, since she's a partner and almost a wife.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Don't start. Now, where's my dress?”

Judy giggled. “Natalia the Slavic Saleswoman will materialize at any minute. You won't see her coming. She's stealthy, from years of training with the KGB.”

Mary smiled at the nickname, which she herself had thought up. She wondered uncomfortably if Machiavelli had been right; that it was a South Philly thing, or if she was being mean at someone else's expense.

Anne smiled at Judy. “Girl, didn't you ever work retail? They have a buzzer that sounds in the back when a customer comes in, and they can look on the security camera and see who it is. Natalia will be here in three, two, one…”

As if on cue, Natalia the Slavic Saleswoman flagged them down as she approached, carrying a fake silver tray with a plastic flute of champagne. Natalia was a middle-aged woman with a blonde chignon, dressed in a fashionable black shirt, straight skirt, and worn mules with flattened backs, which she scuffed around in like bedroom slippers. Natalia's Russian accent and imperious demeanor inspired confidence as well as obedience, and Mary was happy to have help, even if Natalia could occasionally be Stalinesque.

“Hi, Natalia.” Mary smiled. “I'm sorry I'm late, I had to—”

“Not a problem, Mary.” Natalia handed her the champagne flute. “But we have only two hours until closing time. You are the bride, so you must go first. Then Judy, then Anne.”

“Okay.” Mary sipped the champagne, which was free, if you didn't count the cost of the dress, the veil, the new shoes, the “good” bra, and the alterations, which were going to be revealed tonight.

“Mary, come with me.” Natalia took off, scuffing toward the fitting room. “Judy and Anne, sit on couch. Judy, touch nothing.”

“Aww, Mom,” Judy whined, and Mary followed Natalia like a baby duckling, if ducklings drank champagne.

The two women passed through the door to the fitting rooms, which led to an all-white hallway with louvered doors on either side. The setup reminded Mary unhappily of the interview rooms at PCA, but she took another sip of champagne to chase those memories away. Natalia unlocked the door to the first room on the right, using a key ring as full as a corrections officer's.

“Come,” Natalia said, ushering Mary inside the small fitting room.

“Is my dress here?” Mary glanced around excitedly, but the white fitting room was bare except for a white chair against the wall, next to a row of grimy white pumps you could borrow to try dresses on with, collapsed in a loopy heap, like drunks at an orgy.

“I will bring. You have bra and shoes?”

“Yes.” Mary hoisted the Bloomie's bag that held the bra and shoes, then set it on the floor with her purse.

“Handbag does not belong on floor.” Natalia picked up Mary's purse and put it on the chair. “Change into underwear, but not shoes. I will return momentarily.”

“
Da,
” Mary said, since it was the only Russian she knew.

Natalia winked in a good-humored way, left the fitting room, and closed the louvered door, and Mary drained the champagne flute and set it down on the chair, beginning to relax. She took off her dark suit and white silk shirt, which she practically had to unpeel from her armpits, then kicked off her shoes. She changed quickly into the fancy bra, which had cost a fortune, and as soon as she looked in the mirror, she understood why. It came with its own breasts. There were two white lacy mounds on either side of her chest, exactly where her breasts would have been, if they filled the cups.

Mary peeked inside the bra, surprised to see that her nipple was looking back at her. She looked at her body in the mirror, equally surprised to see that she was kind of thin, for her. Her waist went in on the sides, which was a new thing, and her tummy was so flat she could see her crotch, also a first. She had struggled with weight most of her life and was delighted to see that she might have lost a few pounds without even trying, or getting that intestinal flu that every girl prays for before her wedding.

Mary did a little happy dance, wiggling her butt in her cottony bikini underwear, having gotten over thongs a long time ago. She heard a swishing in the hall, and the next moment, the keys jingled as the door was unlocked and Natalia appeared with a massive mound of pure whiteness in an overlong garment bag of clear plastic.

“My dress!” Mary clapped, jumping up and down, but Natalia frowned, eyeing her up and down.

“Your body. What happen?”

“Let me have my dress!” Mary reached for her dress, but Natalia didn't let go.

“Mary, you lose weight.”

“Let's put on the dress!” Mary squealed, the alcohol beginning to take effect. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. Maybe last week. “I'm so excited, and Judy and Anne are waiting!”

“Allow me.” Natalia hung the dress on a high hook, and Mary's gaze drank in every detail of the dress, which was perfect. It had a lovely sweetheart neckline, short cap sleeves, with a simple, dropped waist. It was cotton lace all over, with only the lightest beading, which gave it just a hint of sparkle.