Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

Just as the fever broke, a new wave hit. Five more victims came forward. With their lawyers. Three different lawyers.

Two of the victims were in their thirties. One claimed to have reported the sexual abuse to the police twenty years ago. Even said she was interviewed by someone from the DA's Office. But nothing happened.

The other three victims weren't women. They were girls. One fifteen, one sixteen, the other just turning eighteen.

"The statute of limitations won't protect him from this ," Kite crowed on TV.

Michelle was watching with me when they made Brother Jacob take the Perp Walk for the assembled cameras. He kept his head down, a coat over his wrists to hide the handcuffs, but he turned his face up just before he bent forward to get into the back seat of the police cruiser.

"He's got the look," Michelle hissed. "You can smell it right through the TV set."

I knew what she meant. They didn't all look alike, that was their camouflage. But they all had the same look when captured—that icy predator's glare promising no cage will ever change them.

"Cop call," Mama said.

"How'd you know it was a cop?" I asked her.

"He say. Say, 'Tell Burke it's his friend on the force.' Okay?"

"Yeah. He leave a number?"

"No number. Say he call back. Tonight. Late. You wait here, okay?"

"Sure," I said, looking at my watch. It wasn't even nine.

When Max rolled in, he signed he wanted to play cards, but…

I understood what he was telling me. His taste for gin was gone forever—he could never recapture the magic of that last time, and he knew it. But we still had a few hours, so I figured it was a good time to teach him to play casino. Mama didn't know how to play either, but by the time Morales finally called, she was already giving Max bogus advice. And I was about a hundred bucks ahead.

"Look for a bitch on the stroll over on Lex in the twenties," Morales' harsh voice came over the phone. "She's wearing a long white coat, got a pair of black hot pants under it, you can't miss her. Name's Roselita. She got the key to a locker at Port Authority. Tell her your name's Mr. Jones, slip her a yard, the key's yours. Use it tonight—it's only good for twenty–four hours."

"You sure she'll be there? If she scores a trick—"

"She'll be out there walking, don't worry about it. Bitch owes me a favor."

"What if her pimp—?"

"She ain't got no motherfucking pimp. That's the favor."

She was where Morales said she'd be, a tall slender woman with a Gypsy's long black hair, and white plastic dangle earrings, slowly strolling the block but not calling out to any of the pussy–cruising cars that slithered by. When I tapped the horn, she swivel–hipped over to the Plymouth and leaned inside the passenger window, pulling the long white coat apart to show me her slim, flashy legs and small, high breasts bouncing free under a flimsy red tank top while shielding the display from everyone behind her—a real pro move. One look at her face and I could see she'd had plenty of time to learn, the harsh tracks of the Life showed right through the stage makeup. You didn't need the VACANCY sign in her eyes to know her body was for rent.

"Wha's yo' name, hombre?"

"They call me Mr. Jones," I said, holding the hundred–dollar bill splayed between the fingers of my right hand.

"Hokay," she said, not even the trace of a smile on her greasy red lips. She fished a locker key from the pocket of the white coat and we traded.

Later that night, Max took my back as I opened the locker at Port Authority. Inside was a chunky package wrapped in enough layers of plastic filament tape to take a strong man with a box cutter half an hour to open it.

Back at my office, I unwrapped it carefully, taking my time, half watching some old movie about gangsters with Pansy.

Once I saw what it was, I could see I'd need another kind of key to unlock it. I used the cellular to tap the Mole.

That was it then. There was a lot of media buzz about the cases, but it went the way it always does, especially when the first judge assigned refused to allow cameras in the court. Kite objected, saying the people had a right to know. The judge just shrugged that off—a veteran of twenty years on the bench, he knew the value of a lawyer's speech. And that it wasn't "the people" who got him his job.

Besides, a serial killer was tying up prostitutes in Times Square hotel rooms and then making sure they took a long time to die. Media triage. And none of Brother Jacob's victims were all that sexy–looking anyway.

Besides, the Governor was busy explaining why the newly passed death penalty hadn't stopped a freak from sodomizing a little girl to death in a housing project stairwell, covering her tiny face with his hand to stop her from screaming, doing it so tightly that she stopped breathing.

Even vultures prefer fresh corpses.

Then one cold, rainy Monday, Jennifer Dalton brought Brother Jacob back from the dead. The cellular buzzed. I picked it up, not saying anything. "You near a TV set?" the Prof's voice asked.

"Yeah," I said, watching Pansy watch me.

"Turn it on, bro. You not gonna believe this."

He cut the connection. I flicked on the set, rotating the channel knob until I found her.

"I lied," she told the freeze–faced reporter from one of those garbage–picking TV newsmagazine shows. The reporter kept nodding unctuously as Exclusive! Exclusive! Exclusive! trailed across the bottom of the picture.

"I made it all up," she said, crying into her cupped hands. "At least, I think I did. But I don't know . And now I know that's wrong. I can't go on with it any longer."

She kept talking as the screen cut to silent shots of newspaper headlines of the lawsuit. As the camera panned away, I could see a woman seated next to her, patting Jennifer's forearm. The other woman was dressed in a conservative business suit. The screen caption identified her as "Doreen Z. Landover, Feminist Lawyer."

Jennifer told the reporter the same story she told me. Except that, this time, Brother Jacob hadn't done anything to her. Oh, she'd had a schoolgirl crush on him, but he'd never taken advantage of it. She told the reporter about her broken engagement, about how she got so depressed she didn't want to live. Said she was drinking heavily, drifting. When she went into counseling, the therapist kept pressing her, she said. "He kept asking me about sexual abuse. In my family. He said that had to be the reason for all my troubles. It would explain everything, that's what he said. But I knew…my family had never…and that's when I told him about Brother Jacob."

"Do you mean about the alleged sexual abuse?" the reporter asked, smarmy–voiced.

"No. Not at first. I just told him…what had really happened. But he kept after me. And I was so…sad and depressed. After a while, it seemed to all make sense to me. And now I've ruined a man's life. I'm so ashamed…"

She broke down then. The camera stayed on her sobbing face while they split the screen and showed clips of Brother Jacob doing the Perp Walk. Her new lawyer explained how Jennifer had been programmed, how she'd come under the spell of a "sincere but misguided" therapist. No, they weren't going to sue for malpractice. Hadn't there been enough lawsuits?

The reporter did a three–minute rap about false allegations, his voice throbbing with self–importance. "Isn't it ironic," he concluded, "that in 1996, in these days of space travel and the Internet, the Salem witch hunts are still a fact of life. But this time, one of the so–called victims has found the courage to come forward and speak the truth. And just in time to stop society, to stop all of us, from burning a man at the stake. Jennifer Dalton, a tortured young woman, lost in a life of sadness, sought some answers. And, as we have seen, some of those answers raise much larger questions indeed."