Archer Mayor - Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

“They know it was Gail?”

He didn’t answer directly. “She’s a pretty big name in town; a lot of people know where she lives. We’ve had to use the radio to get our people out to her place, and both the Reformer and BRT have scanners.”

I nodded. He put his hand on my arm and added, “They’re usually pretty good about keeping the lid on names.”

I saw that Tony and Susan Raffner were parting company, so I joined him as the Women for Women contingent headed up the hall toward Gail’s room. “Trouble?”

He smiled thinly. “No-just staking out turf. I basically told her we would pull out all the stops-like we always do-and she basically told me we better do a hell of a lot better than that. All very polite.” He glanced over to where the reporters were looking increasingly impatient. “Maybe I’ll have better luck with them.”

He left me to watch Raffner and her colleagues knock on the door to Gail’s room and walk in. I hesitated a moment, groping for a reasonable excuse for what I was about to do-Gail had said she wasn’t up to seeing visitors, albeit a while ago; she obviously was receiving people now, and her door had been left open.

For the third time that night, fueled by flimsy logic and pent-up emotions, I walked down that corridor, unsure of my motivations-or of what I expected to see.

At first, loitering in the doorway, I didn’t see anything except the backs of the three women I’d followed, lined up in a tight semicircle around a chair in the far corner of the room. Then one of them bent forward to receive the hug I’d been longing to give, and over her shoulder I saw Gail’s face-pale, swollen, her eyes shut tight with longing, a dark bruise beginning to take hold of her left cheekbone. Her bare arms encircled the neck of her friend, and I clearly saw the red welts the rapist’s bonds had left around both her wrists. The sight left me rooted in place, without a word to say.

Her eyes opened then, and she took me in for a long couple of seconds before murmuring, “Joe.”

Gail’s visitors turned to face me, their expressions stern, even vaguely hostile, their usual professional demeanor transformed by the emotional toll of having to tend to one of their own.

I stayed put, thoroughly daunted by the anger I felt radiating toward me. Gail motioned to me to come nearer, and as I did, two of the women flanking her draped protective hands on her shoulders. It was not how I’d envisioned our encounter, and it triggered a small but resentful response deep inside me-toward the man who had done this to my best friend, toward the women around her who obviously lumped me with him, and toward Gail herself, for not allowing us this moment alone.

Fully revealed by the others who’d moved aside, Gail sat in an oversized, green hospital gown, her arms and legs pale and skinny by contrast, looking as frail as a lame child. Her swollen face, crowned by a tangle of disheveled dark hair, made her head look enormous atop a thin, almost shrunken body. The effect was so startling I instinctively crouched before her and reached to hold her hands in my own, my throat tight with emotion.

That twin gesture caught her by surprise and made her jump and grip the arms of her chair. I dropped my hands immediately, embarrassed that my own professional training had been so easily overridden.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, painfully aware of the others all around, looking down at me. “How are you doing?”

She smiled faintly. “I’ve been better.”

“I wish I’d been there,” I added without thinking. There was a predictable but silent stirring at this traditional male cliché, but Gail embraced its intent.

She nodded and said, “I do, too.”

I found myself groping for something to add, something other than what was crowding the front of my brain and which would do her no good at all-about how we would catch the guy and take him to the cleaners; that I wouldn’t sleep till we had; that I wished we could turn the clock back a few hours.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked instead.

“Catch the guy,” Susan Raffner answered immediately.

I didn’t take my eyes off Gail’s. “Would you like to stay at my place? I could bunk out on the couch, or at the office.”

Gail shook her head. “No, that’s okay.”

Susan Raffner’s voice was softer and she touched my shoulder. “I’ll put her up at my house for a while-lots of room. Lots of people, too, when she wants the company.”

I conceded the point and felt slightly foolish about my suggestion. “Thanks, Susan.”

I paused a moment, trying to find the right words, knowing I’d done poorly enough already. Gail was looking at her hands in her lap-an obvious sign I’d overstayed a welcome I’d never received in the first place. Fighting the desire to at least touch her hair, I rose and stepped back.

“Well, I’ll get out of here. Let me know if I can do anything to help.” I looked around. “Any of you-day or night.”

Raffner nodded her thanks. Gail didn’t move.

I took another step toward the door. “They’ll have to come back and ask you more questions-probably later today.”

Gail’s head shot up. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “You’re not going to be on this case?” Her voice was incredulous, rich with betrayal.

I opened my empty hands to her, burning with anger that I couldn’t immediately grant her one request. “I can’t say. They may not let me.”

Her eyes blazed at me. “I want you on it, Joe.”

I pursed my lips and nodded. “Okay. I’ll make it work somehow.”

She looked at me a moment longer, her expression softening, becoming distant again-mourning the loss of something precious and irreplaceable. She went back to studying her hands.

I moved to the door, at once eager and reluctant to leave. I paused there and glanced back at her, at her friends beginning to close around her once more.

“I love you, Gail.”

There was no response.

The lobby, as in some Alice-in-Wonderland dream, was totally empty again, aside from Elizabeth Pace, alone and behind her curvilinear counter, who was talking on the phone. She waved at me and smiled as I passed through the electronically triggered double doors that led to the ambulance loading dock outside.

The brittle air came as a relief, slightly stinging my cheeks and lungs as I drew in a deep breath. I stood there a moment, overlooking the parking lot, whose features were softly emerging as the harsh, unnatural sodium lights faded against the far gentler but more pervasive gray glow of the looming dawn.

I was so overwhelmed by the feelings inside me, I was having a difficult time making sense of them. Moreover, I felt an urgent need to do so-and get on with the job at hand.

Because that was the primary issue here-to do the job. I didn’t have the opportunity of escaping to the daylong demands of an accountant, or a backhoe operator, or a logger-of burying myself in something totally apart from what had happened to Gail and, through her, to me. My job was to eat, breathe, and live what she’d just been put through, not only because I was paid to do it, but because Gail had specifically requested it of me. That meant, despite Elizabeth Pace’s well-intentioned advice, that I was going to have to batten down some of the psychological hatches she’d urged me to throw open, and hope that the pressures behind them wouldn’t blow out at the wrong time or place.

There was, however, one nugget of solace in my awkward position. Of all the gremlins that conspire to torture the mind of a rape victim, the conviction that her attacker is still out there, waiting to attack her again, is one of the most terrifying. And my job was to bring that guy in.