John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“Yes,” Hope replied, slowly removing her jacket and setting down her backpack. “I would say so.”

“More than one.”

“Yes. More than one. Maybe I should get a drink, too.” Hope went into the kitchen.

While Hope poured herself a large glass of white wine, Sally tried to sort through precisely where she was going to begin, and which of the multitude of troubles she would bring forth first. Some odd conflation was in her mind, joining the assault on her client account and the threat to her career with the unsettled coolness she felt toward Hope. Who am I? Sally asked herself.

She felt as she did in the days before she and Scott had separated. A sort of black, gray gloom coloring her thoughts. It took an immense force of will for her to remain seated. She wanted to rise up and run away. For a lawyer, accustomed to the world of solving sticky issues, she felt abruptly incompetent.

When she looked up, Hope was standing in the entrance.

“I need to tell you what has happened,” Sally said.

“You’ve fallen in love with someone else?”

“No, no…”

“A man?”

“No.”

“Then another woman?”

“No.”

“You just don’t love me anymore?” Hope continued.

“I don’t know what I love. I feel as if I’m, I don’t know, but fading, like an old photo.”

Hope thought this an indulgent and overromantic statement. It made her angry, and it was all she could do, given all the tension she’d been under, to keep from bursting forth. “You know, Sally,” she said with a coldness that surprised her, “I don’t really want to discuss all the ins and outs of your emotional state. So things aren’t perfect. What is it you want to do? I hate living in this minefield of a household. It seems to me that either we split up, or, I don’t know, what? What would you suggest? But I sure as hell hate this psychological roller coaster.”

Sally shook her head. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Like hell you haven’t.” Hope felt a little guilty about how good it felt to be angry.

Sally started to say something, then stopped. “There’s another problem,” she said. “One that impacts both of us, and how we live.”

Sally quickly filled Hope in on the complaint from the state bar association and with the harsh financial reality that a good chunk of their savings had-at least for the time being-been wiped out, and that it would likely take some time for her to track down the money and file the necessary documents to get it returned.

Hope listened, aghast. “You are kidding, right?”

“I wish.”

“But that wasn’t your money, it was our money. You should have consulted me beforehand.”

“I had to move with speed to avoid a real inquiry by the bar association.”

“That’s an excuse. But not one that explains why you didn’t pick up the goddamn phone and tell me what was going on.”

Sally did not reply.

“So, we’re not only on the verge of divorce, but we’re suddenly broke?”

Sally nodded. “Well, not completely, but until we get things sorted out…”

“Well, that’s great. Just dandy. Just fucking terrific. What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Hope stood up and paced back and forth across the room. She was so angry with her partner that it seemed as if the room lights had dimmed and then brightened, like a power surge in the electricity.

Before Sally could reply, I don’t know, the telephone rang.

Hope pivoted about, stared at the phone as if it were somehow to blame for misfortune, and stomped across the room to answer it. She was muttering obscenities to herself with every step, and the words managed to mark her pace.

“Yes?” she said rudely. “Who is it?”

From her spot in the armchair, and more or less miserable from the mess her life seemed to be in, Sally saw Hope’s face abruptly freeze. “What is it?” Sally asked. “Is something wrong?”

Hope hesitated, obviously listening to the person on the other end of the line. After a moment, she nodded and said, “Jesus effing Christ. Hang on, I’ll get her for you.”

Then she turned to Sally.

“Yes. No. Here. You take it. It’s Scott. The creep is back in Ashley’s life. Big-time.”

Scott arrived at their house about an hour later. He rang the doorbell, heard Nameless bark, and looked up to see Hope opening the door. They had their usual second or two of awkward silence, then she gestured for him to enter. “Hey, Scott,” she said. “Come on in.” He was surprised that Hope looked as if she’d been crying, because he had always assumed she was the tough one in the relationship with Sally. One thing he did know for certain: his ex-wife was the moody half of any relationship.

He dispensed with any greetings when he reached the living room. “Did you speak with Ashley?”

Sally nodded. “While you were driving over. She filled me in on what she told you. Now she’s stuck with no job and a mess at school.” Sally sighed. “I guess we underestimated just how persistent Michael O’Connell might be.”

Scott lifted his eyebrows. “That would seem to be an understatement. It was a mistake we probably couldn’t have avoided. But now we’ve got to help Ashley extricate herself.”

“I thought that was what you went to Boston to do,” Sally said coldly, looking at her ex-husband with arched eyebrows. “Along with five thousand reasons in cash.”

“Yes,” Scott replied equally coolly, “I guess our bribe offer didn’t work. So, what’s the next step?”

They were all quiet for a moment, until Hope blurted, “Ashley’s in a bad situation. She clearly needs assistance, but how? And what? What is it we can do?”

“There must be laws,” Scott said.

“There are, but how do we apply them?” Hope continued. “And, so far, what law do we think this guy has broken? He hasn’t assaulted her. Hasn’t hit her. Hasn’t threatened her. He’s told her he loves her. And he’s followed her. And then what he’s done is screwed up her life with the computer. Mischief, mostly.”

“There are laws against that,” Sally said, then stopped.

“Computer mischief,” he said. “That hardly describes it.”

“Anonymous,” Sally said.

All three were thinking hard about what to say next. Then Scott leaned back and said, “I had a really sticky problem of my own the last week or so, generated anonymously by computer. I think it’s solved, but…”

Nobody spoke for a second, before Hope added, “So have I.”

Sally looked up, surprised at what she’d heard.

But before she could say anything, Hope pointed directly at her. “And so has she.”

Hope stood up. “I think everyone is going to need a drink.” She headed off in search of another bottle of wine. “Maybe more than one drink,” she threw back over her shoulder to where Scott and Sally were staring at each other in doubt.

The Massachusetts State Police detective seated across from me seemed at first like an oddly pleasant fellow, with little of the hard-bitten, world-weary appearance of a character in a police novel. He was of modest height and build, wore a blue blazer and inexpensive khaki pants, and had close-cropped sandy-colored hair with a disarming bushy mustache on his upper lip. If it weren’t for the ice-black, nine-millimeter Glock pistol riding under his arm in a shoulder holster, he would have seemed more like an insurance salesman, or a high school teacher.

He rocked back in his chair, ignored a ringing telephone, and said, “So, you want to know a little bit about stalking, right?”

“Yes. Research,” I replied.

“For a book? Or an article? Not because of some personal interest in the subject?”

“I’m not sure that I follow.”