Now and Forever (16 page)

"Sorry, ma'am. Courtroom's closed."

"Yes. I know." She looked almost pleased at his news, as though she were responsible and was comforted to learn that her orders had been carried out. "I'm sitting in on the case."

"An attorney?" He started to step aside. The tremor in her eye now felt as though it would tear off the lid.

She nodded quietly. "Yes." Oh, Jesus. No. What if he asked for credentials? Or went inside to talk to the judge? Instead he held open the door for her with a smile, and Jessie walked sedately into the room. The whole scene had been typically Jessica. No one ever questioned her. But what now? What if the judge stopped the proceedings? What if he threw her out? What if ...

The judge was small and undistinguished, with glasses and blond-gray hair. He looked up momentarily, unimpressed by the new arrival, and directed a raised eyebrow at Martin Schwartz. After a sharp glance at Jessica, Schwartz nodded reluctantly, then threw a rapid look at the assistant district attorney, who shrugged. She was in.

Inspector Houghton was seated near the bench, making some sort of statement. The room was wood-paneled, with leather-covered seats in the front row, and straight-backed chairs behind them. It was hardly larger than Martin Schwartz's office, but there was an aura of tremendous tension in the air. Ian and Martin sat together at a desk, slightly to the left. And only a few feet away sat Miss Burton and the assistant district attorney, who, much to Jessie's chagrin, was a woman. Young, tough-looking, with oversprayed hair and an abundance of powder on too fleshy cheeks. She wore a matronly green dress and a sedate string of pearls, and at the corners of her mouth the hard edges of anger had formed. She exuded righteous indignation for her client.

The young attorney turned to look at Jessica, and Jessie figured her to be about her own age, somewhere in her early thirties. The two women exchanged a look of ice. But Jessica saw contempt in the other woman's face as well, and then she understood what this was going to be. A class war. Big, nasty, college grad, preppie Pacific Heights Ian had raped poor little lower-class, abused, misunderstood secretary, who was going to be defended by clean, tough, pure, devoted middle-class young attorney. Jesus. That was all they needed. Jessica suddenly wondered if she had worn the wrong thing. But even in slacks and a shirt, Jessica had the kind of style those women would hate. How insane even to have to consider what she was wearing.

Miss Burton hadn't seen Jessica come in, or had shown no sign of it, at any rate. Nor had Ian. She slipped quietly into a straight-backed chair behind him, and then suddenly, as though he had been slapped, he raised his head and spun around in his seat, a look of shock on his face when he saw her there behind him. He started to shake his head, and then leaned toward her as though to say something, but Jessica's eyes were steely. She squeezed his shoulder briefly, and he averted his gaze: it was pointless to argue. But as he turned away, his broad shoulders seemed to sag.

Inspector Houghton rose from the seat from which he'd been addressing the judge, thanked the court, and returned to a chair on the other side of Margaret Burton. Now what? Jessica's heart pounded. Suddenly she wasn't so sure she wanted to be there. What would she hear? Could she take it? What if she fell apart? Went crazy ... screamed ...

"Miss Burton, take the stand, please."

As Margaret Burton slowly left her seat Jessica's heart seemed hell-bent on freeing itself from her body. A pulse thundered at her temple and she wondered if she'd faint as she stared down at her trembling hands. The oath was administered to Miss Burton, and Jessica looked up, her whole body trembling now. Why her? She was so plain, so ugly, so ... cheap. But no, she wasn't really ugly. There was something about her, a grace to the hands folded over her knees, the vestige of prettiness in a face now grown too hard to be arresting. Something ... maybe. Jessie wondered how Ian felt, sitting just in front of her. He seemed a thousand miles away. Margaret Burton seemed much, much closer. Jessica felt as though she could see every pore, every hair, the slightly flared nostrils, the weave of the dreary beige suit. She had a wild urge to run up and touch her, slap her maybe, shake her into telling the truth. Tell them what happened, damn you! The truth! Jessica's breath caught and she coughed, trying to clear her head.

"Miss Burton, would you please explain what happened on the day in question, from the moment you first saw Mr. Clarke. Tell us simply, in your own words. This is not a trial. This is merely a preliminary hearing, to determine if this matter deserves further attention from the court."

The judge spoke as though he were reading an orange-juice label--words he had spoken a thousand times before and no longer heard. But it was all the invitation Margaret Burton needed. She cleared her throat with a small look of importance and the tiniest of smiles. Inspector Houghton frowned as he watched her, and the prosecuting attorney seemed to be keeping an eye on the judge.

"Miss Burton?" The judge looked off into space as he spoke, and everyone waited.

"Yes, sir. Your honor." Jessica felt that the "victim" didn't look sufficiently distraught. Victorious, maybe, but not distraught. Not violated. Pleased? That was crazy. Why should she be pleased? But Jessie could not put aside that impression as she stared at the woman who claimed her husband had raped her. And then the recital began.

"I had lunch at Enrico's, and afterward I started walking up Broadway." She had a flat, unpleasant voice. A little too high. A little too loud. She would have nagged well. And she sounded too loud to be hurt. Hurt inside. Jessica wondered if the judge was listening to more than just the words. He didn't look it.

"I was walking up Broadway," she went on, "and he offered me a ride."

"Did he threaten you, or just offer a ride?"

She shook her head, almost regretfully. "No, he didn't threaten. Not really."

"What do you mean, 'not really'?"

"Well, I think he might have gotten mad if I'd turned down the ride, but it was kind of a hot day, and I couldn't see a bus for blocks, and I was late getting back to the office, and ..." She looked up at the judge and his face was blank. "Anyway, I told him where I worked." She stopped for a moment, looked down at her hands, and sighed. Jessie wanted to wring her neck. That pathetic little sigh. She dug her hand into Ian's shoulder without thinking, and he jumped, and turned to look at her with a worried face. She forced a tiny smile and he patted her hand before looking back at Margaret Burton.

"Go on." The judge was prodding her. She seemed to have lost the thread of her tale.

"I'm sorry, your honor. He ... he didn't take me back to my office, and ... well, I know I was crazy to accept the ride. It was just such a pretty day, and he looked like a nice man. I thought ... I never realized ..." Unexpectedly, a small tear glided from one eye and then the other; Jessie's grip on Ian's shoulder became almost unbearable. He reached for her hand and gently held it until she nervously pulled it away.

"Please go on, Miss ... Miss Burton." He checked the name on the papers on his desk, took a swallow of water, and looked up. Jessie was reminded that this hearing was no more than daily routine to him; he seemed totally separate from the drama that absorbed the rest of them.

"I ... he took me ... to a hotel."

"You went with him?" But there was no judgment in the voice; it was only a question.

"I thought he was taking me back to my office." She sounded strident and angry suddenly. The tears were gone.

"And when you saw that he hadn't taken you back to your office, why didn't you leave then?"

"I ... I don't know. I just thought it would ... he only wanted to have a drink, he said, and he wasn't unpleasant, just silly. I thought he was harmless and it would be easier to go along with it--with the drink, I mean--and then ..."

"Was there a bar in the hotel when you went inside?" She shook her head. "A desk clerk? Did anyone see you go in? Could you have called for help? I don't believe Mr. Clarke held a gun on you, or anything of the sort, did he?"

She flushed and shook her head reluctantly.

"Well, did anyone see you?"

"No." The word was barely audible. "There was no one there. It looked like ... like sort of an apartment hotel."

"Do you remember where it was?"

She shook her head again, and Jessica felt Ian stir restlessly in front of her, and when she looked there was anger on his face. At last. He looked alive again, instead of buried under grief and disbelief.

"Could you tell us the location of the hotel, Miss Burton?"

Again, the negative shake of the head. "No. I ... I was so upset I ... I just didn't look. But he ... he ..." Suddenly her face was transformed again. The eyes lit up and almost glowed with such hatred and fury that for an instant Jessie almost believed her, and she saw Ian go suddenly very still. "He took my life and threw it away! He ruined it! He ..." She sobbed for a moment, and then took a deep breath as the glitter left her eyes. "As we went inside, he just grabbed me, and dragged me into an elevator and up to a room, and ..." Her silence said it all, as she hung her head in defeat.

"Do you remember what room?"

"No." She didn't look up.

"Would you recognize the room again?"

"No. I don't think so." No? Why not? Jessie couldn't imagine not remembering a room you'd been raped in. It would be engraved on your mind forever.

"Would you recognize the hotel?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think so, though." She still had not looked up, and Jessie doubted her story still further--and then realized what had been happening: if she was doubting the story, then at some point she must have believed it might be true. In that one burst of tears and fury, the woman had convinced them all. Or come damn close to it. Even Jessica. Almost. She turned to look at Ian and saw him watching her, his eyes bright with tears. He knew what was happening too. Jessica reached for his hand again, this time quietly and with strength. She wanted to kiss him, hold him, tell him it would be all right, but now she wasn't so sure. She was sure of only one thing--of how much she hated Margaret Burton.

Martin Schwartz was looking none too happy either. If the Burton woman claimed not to remember where the hotel was, they had lost the last shred of hope of finding a witness who had seen them there. Ian couldn't place the hotel either. He had been just drunk enough that his memory was blurred, and the address he thought he remembered had turned out to be wrong. It was a warehouse. There were plenty of small sleazy residential hotels in the area, and Martin had sent Ian into dozens of lobbies before the preliminary hearing: Nothing looked familiar. So it was going to remain a case of his word against hers, with no one to corroborate either side. Schwartz was liking the looks of the case less and less. She was a damn unpleasant witness. Erratic, emotional, one moment hard as a rock, the next heart-wringing and tearful. The judge would ship them off to trial for sure, if for no other reason than to avoid dealing with the issue himself.

"All right, Miss Burton," the judge said, fingering a pencil and gazing at the opposite wall, "what happened in that room you don't remember?" His tone was dry and uninterested.

"What happened?"

"What did Mr. Clarke do after he dragged you into that room? You did say he dragged you?"

She nodded.

"And he wasn't using a weapon?" She shook her head, and finally looked up at her audience.

"No. Only ... only his hand. He slapped me several times and told me he'd kill me if I didn't do what he wanted."

"And what was that?"

"I ... he ... he forced me to ... to have ... oral copulation with him ... to do ... to, well ... to do it to him." My, how painful you make it sound ... Jessica wanted to slap her again.

"And you did?"

"I did."

"And then? Did he ... did Mr. Clarke have an orgasm?"

She nodded.

"Please answer the question."

"Yes."

"And then?"

"Then he sodomized me." She said it in a dull, flat voice, and Jessie could feel Ian flinch. She herself felt increasingly uncomfortable. She had anticipated drama, not this slow, drawn-out recital. Christ, how humiliating it all was. How dry and ugly and awful. The words, the acts, the thoughts, all so old and dreary.

"Did he climax again?"

"I ... I don't know." She had the grace to blush.

"Did you?" Her eyes flew open then and Houghton and the young district attorney watched tensely.

"I? But how could I? He ... I ... he raped me."

"Some women enjoy that, Miss Burton, in spite of themselves. Did you?"

"Of course not!"

"You did not climax, then?" Jessica was beginning to enjoy the other woman's discomfiture.

"No, of course not! No!" She almost shouted it, looking hot and angry and nervous.

"All right. And then what?" The judge looked terribly bored and unimpressed by Miss Burton's indignation.

"Then he raped me again."

"How?"

"He ... he just raped, me. You know ... the usual way this time." Jessica almost wanted to laugh. A "usual rape"!

"Did he hurt you?"

"Yes, of course he did."

"Very much?"

But she was looking down again, distant and pensive and sad. It was at those moments that one should feel sorry for her. And for a tiny flash of a second, Jessica wondered about her own reactions. At any other time, the story she was hearing would have touched her. Maybe even very much. But now ... how could she let it touch her? She didn't believe the woman. But what did the judge think? There had been no answer to his last question.

"Miss Burton, I asked if Mr. Clarke hurt you very much."

"Yes. Very much. I ... he ... he didn't care about me. He just ... he just ..." The tears flowed slowly down her face and it was as though she were talking about someone else, not Ian, not a total stranger who had raped her. Why would he care about her if he were raping her? "He didn't care if I got pregnant, or ... or anything. He just ... just left." And now the tears turned to anger again. "I know this type, they play with poor girls like me! Girls with no money, no fancy family, and then they ... they do what he did ... they leave ..." Her voice sank back to a whisper then as she looked blindly into her lap. "He left, and went back to her."