Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

Ididn't move from the set for hours. They finally located Kite. He spoke at a podium so loaded with microphones that only the top of his head was visible. He sounded lost. Distraught. "I assure everyone, and especially Brother Jacob and his counsel, that I personally investigated this matter thoroughly before the lawsuit was brought. I assure you that it was brought in good faith, and only after I was personally satisfied as to its validity. I am…shocked. I don't know another word for it. This makes me question…everything. Not just this case, but myself. And my profession. I apologize to Brother Jacob and his family, personally and professionally."

"Are you dropping the case?" one reporter shouted out.

"There is no case," Kite replied. "I'm sorry…I have nothing more to say."

A phalanx of bodyguards muscled Kite through the crowd of thrusting microphones. I couldn't see Heather anywhere in the crowd.

Every talk show in town vultured in, but Jennifer Dalton wasn't talking. Rumors flew that the tabloid TV magazine had paid her a hundred thousand dollars for the exclusive interview.

"This has nothing whatever to do with our case," the lawyer for two of the young girls told a newspaper reporter. "We are still suing Brother Jacob." When they printed that news, hostile letters to the editor flew like raindrops in a hurricane.

Brother Jacob was released from jail on his own recognizance.

Doreen Z. Landover announced her client was giving a deposition to Brother Jacob's counsel in the other lawsuits. She said Jennifer Dalton was sorry…and she was going to do everything in her power to make things right.

"She's out."

"Stay with her."

"White on rice," the Prof promised.

I used my key to let myself into Jennifer Dalton's apartment, moving as carefully as a minesweeper. I wasn't there to thieve—I wanted to leave something for her.

The back bedroom was the same filthy mess the Prof had described. I popped the portable video player out of the duffel bag I had carried over my shoulder. I was looking for an electrical outlet when the cellular buzzed in my pocket.

"She doubled back. Almost there. Just going into the lobby. Step quick!"

I moved over to the window. It was barred from the inside. No fire escape. I heard a key turn in the front door, snatched the video player and moved behind the bedroom door.

I heard her come in. She turned on the TV set, then the sound suddenly disappeared, like she hit the Mute. I heard the refrigerator open, the sound of some liquid being poured. The springs on the couch made a faint protest. The TV sound came on again, some talk show. She was flicking the remote, changing channels so fast it was a sound–blur when a sharp series of raps sounded on the front door. She hit the Mute again. I heard her walking toward the door. Sound of the peephole cover being slid off. Harsh intake of breath.

Heard the door open. "What do you want?" Jennifer asked.

"I want to talk to you." Heather's voice, rage in it like a bubble ready to burst. Sound of a grunt, door closing.

"Sit down!" Heather said. "Right there."

Sound of someone hitting the chair. Springs sagging heavy—must be Heather on the couch.

"Why did you do it?" Heather asked, her voice thick. "How could you do that to him?"

"He was the one who did it to me," Jennifer whined. "It wasn't my fault."

"He never did…Wait—who do you mean?"

"The therapist. He was the one who—"

" Kite ," Heather said. "How could you do it to him ?. He believed in you. You know he did. How could you let him sacrifice his whole career, his whole life, for you when you knew it was all a lie?"

The room went so quiet I could hear Heather's harsh breathing.

"It wasn't a lie, Heather," I said, stepping into the silent living room.

Jennifer gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Heather whirled to face me. "You!"

I tossed the videotape cartridge at Heather. She didn't make a move to grab it out of the air—it landed against her chest. She didn't flinch, eyes only on Jennifer.

"It's all there," I said quietly. "Isn't it, Jennifer? Brother Jacob must have edited hours and hours of tape to make this one production, huh?"

"I don't know…"she said softly.

" Had to be," I told her. "There's years of you on this. Everything you said. Lifting your skirt for the ruler. Playing with yourself while he watched. Getting on your knees and—"

"Stop it!" Jennifer screamed. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't want—"

"No, it wasn't your fault," I said, moving close to her. "It was never your fault. It was all the truth, so why did you…?"

"I wasn't going to get any money," she said, face tightening into rigid lines. "The statute of limitations. I was too late. This way, I get paid. I have to think of myself, don't I? I can get fixed now. Anything I want. Plastic surgery even. It's only fair."

"You're dead, bitch!" Heather snarled, coming off the couch, the brass knuckles already fitted over her right fist.

I was ready for it this time. I swept the knife–edge of my hand down against Heather's wrist, spinning so my back was to her as I fired an elbow into her gut.

She gasped and went down.

"Just stay there!" I snapped at her, my foot right next to her face. I turned to Jennifer, holding out my hands like a traffic cop to keep her in the chair. "This is gonna be all right," I told her. "Just relax—I'll have her out of here in a minute."

I dropped to one knee next to Heather, put my lips close to her ear. "You owe me," I whispered. "It's you and me now. It's not about that sorry bitch over there. Come on."

She staggered to her feet holding my arm, leaning heavily against me, tears blotching her face. "He—"

"Shut up now," I said. "There's plenty of time for that." I pushed her gently back onto the couch, keeping hold of her until she was seated.

I stepped away quickly, grabbed my duffel bag out of the back bedroom, slung it over my shoulder.

"You can keep that tape," I told Jennifer. "A little souvenir. I got copies. I'll give you three days. Seventy–two hours. That's enough for you to get paid. Then you better get in the wind."

She sat there with her mouth open, like I'd slugged her in the gut too. I held my hand out to Heather. She took it. I hauled her to her feet, thumbed the cellular into life, hit the memory button.

"Go," the Prof's voice came back.

"All clear?"

"Quiet as the crypt."

I held Heather's pudgy hand tight all the way down the back stairs.

It took two complete loops of the FDR before she stopped crying. I finally found a place to pull in near the heliport on Thirty–fourth. I held her against me in the darkness. Her whole body trembled with what she knew.

"I don't believe it," she said finally. "The truth…"

"The truth is just a toy they played with, Heather. It's up to you now. It's your call."

"What are you going to…?"

"Me? Nothing."

She was quiet for a long time after that. Finally, she turned in her seat. "I have to know. I have the key. Will you come with me?"

"It's not mine," I said. "I'm done."

She shifted her body against me, pulling at my jacket until I looked in her face.

"I love you," she said. "You found the truth."

I didn't say anything.

"Please…"

The concierge wasn't at his desk, the lobby deserted at that hour. We stood close together in the small elevator. "Breathe through your nose," I told her. "Stay inside yourself. Calm. You wanted the truth, Heather. You know where it is."

She opened the grille. I followed her down the hall. He was in the fan–shaped chair, like he'd been waiting for us.