Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

“Something obviously went wrong,” I said.

She put a fist to her mouth and whispered, “Yes.” Her eyes looked distant. It was the same expression I’d seen when she told me about the oatmeal incident.

“We got to the motel and I got out of the car and went up the steps with him. Miss Erlene waited in the parking lot. I walked into the room and he closed the door behind me. I took the bottle of scotch out of my purse and asked him if he’d like a drink. He took the bottle out of my hand, set it on a table, and when he turned back around he said he didn’t bring me there to drink. He had this awful look on his face, like he was possessed or something. Then, before I knew what was happening, he hit me in the face. He hit me so hard it knocked me onto the bed. It almost knocked me out.

“I remember him taking off all his clothes, then he pulled off my panties…” She paused and took a deep breath. “He rolled me over on my stomach and he put his thing in my, in my…” She pointed to her bottom.

“He sodomized you?” I said.

“What?” She didn’t know what the word meant.

“Never mind. Can you keep going?”

“It was like it was happening to someone else,” she said. “Like I floated to the ceiling, and I watched him do it from there. It was the same thing that used to happen when Father Thomas did things to me. I remember he was cursing and preaching at the same time, calling me names, and then he took his thing out of me and went over and grabbed the bottle of scotch and took a long drink. He started to stagger and he sat down on the bed. It was like he didn’t even know I was there any more.

“There was a knife on the table. I guess it was his. I remember watching myself walk over and pick it up. It was one of those folding knives. He was already snoring. I opened the knife and walked back to the bed and I just started stabbing him. I stabbed him until I couldn’t stab him any more, until I couldn’t lift the knife. And then I think I just walked out the door. I didn’t even put my panties on.”

“Do you remember what Erlene did?”

“I think so,” she said. “I remember she came running up to me on the stairs and she put her coat around me and took the knife out of my hand. She put me in the car and asked me what happened, and I tried to tell her. I saw her go back up to the room, but I don’t know what she did in there. She took me home and took me into the back yard and washed all of the blood off of me with a hose. She said she didn’t want any blood in her shower. Then she took me inside and said she had to leave for a little while. She was gone for a long time.”

“Did you and Erlene talk about it afterward?”

“Not much,” she said. “She just told me she was sorry about everything but at least he wouldn’t ever hurt another girl, and she told me never to mention what happened — any of it — to anybody. Then when the police started coming around, she told me not to talk to them. She told everyone that worked at the club not to talk to them. When they came to arrest me, she told me to tell them I wanted a lawyer.”

“You didn’t mention cutting off his penis, Angel. Do you remember doing that?”

“I didn’t do it,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t do it. I’d tell you if I did.”

I believed her.

“Telling me what happened was the right thing to do,” I said.

“Am I going to have to stay in jail for the rest of my life?”

“I doubt it. This changes a few things, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t have much of a case against you.”

“What about your sister? I never even talked to her.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “You have to trust me. I’ll figure something out. I just need a little time to think.”

After the guards took her away, I sat at the table alone, unable to get up and walk out. The door buzzed twice, but I just sat there. I couldn’t move.

In my mind, I kept seeing a beautiful, fragile young girl, naively walking up the steps in the rain to a motel room. She’s accompanied by a man more than twice her size, twice her age. She closes the door and offers the man a drink from a bottle. He takes the bottle from her hand, sets it down, and punches her viciously in the side of the face. She sees a bright light and falls backwards onto the bed, dazed by the blow. The giant hovers over her, his drunken breathing foul and labored. He grabs the girl and rolls her like a rag doll. He’s muttering, alternately calling her a slut and praising God for the opportunity to exact some righteous vengeance on a lowly whore. He rips off her panties. He’s excited, but too drunk to maintain an erection. He tries to force himself inside her rectum, but she’s small. He spits on his hand to lubricate her and tries again. She’s struggling but he’s much too strong. He slaps the back of her head and tells her to hold still. He gets inside her and grunts with satisfaction. The girl goes limp. Beads of sweat drop from the giant’s nose onto the girl’s back. He isn’t performing the way he wants, and he notices the bottle of scotch she offered him earlier. He shoves the girl down flat against the mattress and steps over to the bottle. He takes a long drink while the girl whimpers on the bed.

I hear Sarah’s voice… “Get him off of me, Joey. He’s hurting me…

When I was finally able to move, I pushed the button, waited for the door to buzz, and made my way slowly down the maze of hallways and steel gates. What Angel had described to me was a voluntary manslaughter, at worst. A Class C felony, maximum sentence of six years. But I couldn’t bring myself to recommend to her that we go to the district attorney and tell him what had happened. I couldn’t see her spending time in prison for retaliating against a man who had violated her in the most shameful of ways.

As far as I was concerned, the hypocrite got what he deserved.

July 24

6:05 p.m.

I drove straight home from the jail with Sarah’s voice and Angel’s confession alternately ringing in my ears. As soon as I got out of my truck Rio peed on me, and instead of laughing or gently pushing him away like always, I drew my foot back to kick him. I caught myself, but barely. For some reason, the thought of the dog pissing on me right then made me mad enough to want to hurt him. I swore at him and stepped over him as he cowered in the driveway.

I walked into the kitchen. Caroline was standing over the stove. I could smell broccoli. I hate broccoli.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “I heard they continued the trial. What’s going on?”

“I’m going to wring that dog’s neck.”

“I guess it isn’t good.”

“I’m sick of him pissing all over me. I’m sick of everybody pissing all over me.”

“What’s going on, Joe?”

“Nothing.” I marched through the kitchen and into the bedroom to change my clothes. I could feel pressure, a lot of pressure, at each of my temples, and my field of vision was narrowing. I felt a hand on my shoulder, a touch that usually comforted me. It didn’t.

“What’s wrong, Joe? Talk to me.”

“It would probably be best if you’d just leave me alone right now.”

“Leave you alone? Why? What have I done?”

“Nothing,” I said. “That’s part of the problem.”

I’d spent part of the drive home working up a healthy anger toward Caroline. I had to provide for her, which meant I had to keep working. But I was sick of busting my butt for people who neither deserved it nor appreciated it, sick of people using me and lying to me, sick of worrying about whether what I was doing was right or wrong. I was sick of everything.

“I’m not the bad guy, baby. I love you, remember?” she said