Laura Lippman: The Last Place

During the weeks it had taken to reach this moment, Tess had been uncharacteristically well behaved. She had not contacted Pechter and told him what a worm he was for filing charges against someone he had planned to rape. She had not used her friends at the Beacon-Light to spin her own version of events, lest the publicity disrupt her plea bargain. She had sat still and nodded at the judge’s ponderous exegesis on the violence between men and women. That was his phrase, always: “the violence between men and women.” Halsey might be progressive as a judge, but he liked the sound of his voice as much as any man Tess had ever known. Still, she had listened, never contradicting and never daring to suggest that she knew a little bit more about such violence than this sheltered jurist.

Today, inches from the finish line, she snapped.

“He’s not a victim,” she said. “That’s the harm in letting him enter an impact statement. It just punctuates this stupid, politically correct charade.” Although she spoke in the raspy tone of a whisper, her voice carried to where Mickey Pechter sat, and he flinched at the very sound.

The judge’s expression was inscrutable. He looked at Tess, then at Tyner, who shrugged apologetically, and then over at Mickey Pechter, who was so focused on appearing angelic that Tess was surprised a cartoon halo didn’t appear above his head.

“I think I’ll allow Mr. Pechter to read his letter,” he said. “It would not hurt you, Miss Monaghan, to be reminded that you did harm someone: You took the law into your own hands and put a man in the hospital.”

Mickey unfolded a single sheet of lined notebook paper with sweaty, shaky hands and began to read.

“Since the vicious assault I received on the night of April first-”

Tess jerked her chin up at the word vicious but said nothing.

“-I have had trouble sleeping because of the injuries done to my skin. When I do sleep, I often have nightmares. My work has been affected as well. I estimate that I have lost money because I cannot work as much overtime as I used to. Respectfully submitted, Mickey R. Pechter.”

He looked up expectantly.

“Is that all?” Judge Halsey asked.

“Do you want to know how much money?”

“How much overtime you’ve lost? No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Not just overtime,” Mickey said, “but pain and suffering, too.”

“It’s part of the plea agreement that Miss Monaghan or her insurer will pay your medical expenses.”

“Oh, she’s arranged that already. But, you know, I figure this is where I get my pain and suffering.”

The judge was mystified. Tess wasn’t. Mickey Pechter thought a victim impact statement was akin to filing a civil suit. He wanted to be paid for being depilated. Even as she smiled at his clueless greed, she tried to remember if her umbrella insurance policy would cover such a nuisance claim. Or did it cover her only when she was working? Could she claim Mercy Talbot was a client? No, that would mean invoking the girl’s name, the one thing the Talbot family didn’t want.

Mickey said, “I talked it over with some friends, and we thought five hundred thousand-if it’s not taxed as income-seven hundred and fifty thousand if it is. In other words, I think I should net five hundred thousand dollars.”

“You are such a pathetic prick,” Tess said softly. His head turned quickly at the sound of her voice, and she realized he was still scared of her. It was an interesting feeling. She liked it. “Instead of worrying so much about money, why don’t you get treatment so you’ll stay away from underage girls?”

“I never thought you were seventeen,” he said. “Not once I saw you. A man would have to be pretty damn nearsighted to think that.”

“Whether they’re seventeen or seventy-one, you can’t get them into bed unless they’re unconscious. Loser.”

“Bitch.”

“Asshole.”

“Ball-buster.”

“Like you have any to bust.”

“Whore.”

“Eunuch.”

The bailiff was scrambling to his feet, as if he expected a fight to break out, but the judge simply raised his palm and the courtroom was still.

“I am ready to pronounce sentence. As for pain and suffering-if you think you have a case, Mr. Pechter, then hire a lawyer and file one in the proper court. However, I will remind you that your lifestyle, your character, will be open for full and complete examination in a civil trial.”

Mickey looked crestfallen. “Okay, so I’m not going to get any money. But why is she getting off without a real sentence? I know what probation before judgment is. In six months, it will be as if this never happened. That’s not right.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Pechter, that in six months Ms. Monaghan will be a changed person. She will be rehabilitated-which is, in case anyone has forgotten, one aim of the criminal justice system. Not just to punish but to change.”

Tess tried not to smirk. If Halsey thought she would be a changed person after paying out fines, medical bills, and donating time to a program for abused children, the agreed-upon community service, so be it. Given the chance, she knew she would do it again. Maybe not the kick, but the kick had never been the issue. But the Nair, the roofies- she figured she had taught Mickey Pechter an important lesson in empathy. Perhaps she should have insisted on a trial, just to see if he had any other victims who wanted to come forward.

Mickey returned to his seat and Tess stood to receive her sentence, her eyes downcast, her smile barely hidden. She had not let Crow come to court with her-as much as she craved his company, she didn’t want him anywhere near this sordid episode-but they had made plans to go to lunch, to treat the day as a celebration. They were going to drive into the country, with their dogs in the back of the car, and find a place to let them run. Then they planned to find a tavern or restaurant with outdoor seating, where the dogs could accompany them to lunch. One of the lovely perks of self-employment was that you didn’t have to squander the beautiful weekdays that had a habit of cropping up after weekends where it did nothing but rain.

Tess was so far into the future that the judge’s voice was washing over her, his words stuck together like so much melted chocolate. Then an unexpected phrase popped out, forcing her to focus. “And of course Ms. Monaghan also will be asked to complete a six-month counseling session in anger management, either in one-on-one treatment or a group therapy setting.”

She knew better than to speak but she looked at Tyner, who shrugged, surprised as she was. The words meant nothing to Mickey Pechter, who looked distracted, as if he were mentally returning all the things he had planned to buy with his phantom $500,000. The harried assistant state’s attorney already had another file open in front of him. Justice ground on.

“Miss Monaghan will meet monthly with a parole officer and present evidence that she has attended weekly sessions with a psychiatrist, psychologist, or clinical social worker. She may choose the professional of her choice, but the court stipulates that the sessions must be focused on anger management and the issues that arise from this condition.”

Tess was excused, and the next case was called. Dazed, she left the courtroom with Tyner.

“Can he do that? Drop the community-service provision and make me go to therapy?”

“He just did. I guess he assumes it’s no different from ordering a drunk driver to go to AA meetings. It’s funny, though. He never once mentioned anything about counseling in all our meetings. I bet it occurred to him just now. I suppose I could have objected, but it will actually take up less of your time than volunteering. That was going to be three hours a week for a year.”