I thought at first that she was entirely nude.
And then I realized that the triangular black patch below her waist was not a pubic echo of the long black hair that trailed to her shoulders but was instead the minuscule bottom half of a string bikini. She could not have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, easily as tall as Dale, and so voluptuously curvaceous that by comparison Dale (a beautifully proportioned woman in her own right) seemed almost angular. On a beach populated with women displaying bodies tanned to various degrees of bronzed perfection, the woman who approached us appeared carved of alabaster, pale-white exquisite face framed by ebony cascades of hair, the flesh of her naked breasts almost translucent, lustrous in the hot rays of the sun, wide hips flaring above the restraining strings of the bikini patch, a shimmering mirage in black-and-white that came closer and closer, pale-gray eyes in that incredibly lovely face, the scent of mimosa as she passed and was gone.
“There oughta be a law,” Dale said.
The woman we’d seen on the beach came to my office on Monday morning at a quarter past ten. She was wearing tight-fitting blue jeans, a white T-shirt, sandals, and sunglasses. Her arms, where they showed below the short sleeves of the shirt, were covered with black-and-blue marks. The bridge of her delicate nose was plastered with adhesive tape. When she took off the glasses, I saw that both her eyes were discolored, one of them puffed almost entirely shut. Her lips were swollen and bruised. As she parted them to speak, I saw empty gaps where once there had been teeth.
“My name is Michelle Harper,” she said. “You must forgive me, please, my English.”
Her English was unmistakably tinged with a French accent, her voice low, rather huskier than one might have expected from a woman so young.
“You were recommend,” she said, “by Sally Owen.”
I nodded.
“You made for her a divorce,” she said.
“Yes, I remember.”
“She says to me you will know what to do.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“I want to have arrest my husband.”
I pulled a lined yellow pad in front of me. I picked up a pencil.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“George Harper.”
“H-a-r-p-e-r?”
“Oui. Mais le ‘George,’ il est sans... pardon. The ‘George,’ it is without an s, he is américain.”
“George Harper.”
“Oui, exactement.”
“Why do you want him arrested?”
“For what he has do to me. Il a... he has broke my nose, he has knock from my mouth three teeth... dents? Teeth?”
“Yes, teeth. When did this happen, Mrs. Harper?”
“Last night. Regardez,” she said, and suddenly pulled her T-shirt up over her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The breasts I’d seen naked and unblemished on the beach Saturday were covered now with brutal black-and-blue marks. “He do this to me,” she said, and lowered the shirt.
“Did you call the police?”
“When he is leave, do you mean?”
“What time was that?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Two o’clock in the morning?”
“Oui. I did not call the police, I was afraid he would come back, I did not know what to do. So after I have my breakfast, I go to see Sally.”
“What time was that?”
“Nine o’clock. I don’t know what to do, vous comprenez? She says to me I must have a lawyer. She says George is gone, you know, so I do not have the proof... proof?”
“Yes, proof.”
“Oui, that he is the one who does this to me. She says I must first see a lawyer.”
“Well,” I said, “Sally may be a good beautician, but she’s not a very good lawyer. You should have called the police at once. But it’s not too late, don’t worry. I’m not a criminal lawyer, you understand...”
“Oui, but Sally says to me—”
“And in any event, this isn’t something that requires one, not for you, anyway. If what you tell me is true, your husband’s the one who’s going to need—”
“Oh, it is true, bien sûr.”
“I have no reason to doubt you.”
I was reaching to the bookcase behind me for the index to the four-volume Florida Statutes, known familiarly down here as the F.S. As Michelle watched, I thumbed through the pages, searching out first Assault and then Battery and then Spouse Abuse, jotting onto the lined yellow pad the related volumes and chapter numbers. I read to her first from Section 901.15.
“ ‘A peace officer may arrest a person without a warrant,’ ” I said, “ ‘when the officer has probable cause to believe that the person has committed a battery upon the person’s spouse and the officer finds evidence of bodily harm...’ ” I looked up. “We certainly have evidence of that. And at least a hundred witnesses can testify you didn’t look this way Saturday.”
“Pardon?” she said.
“On North Sabal.”
“Ah, oui,” she said.
“So we’ve got cause for arrest without warrant, and we’ll go to the police as soon as I see what...” I was thumbing back to Section 784.03, which defined Battery. I read the brief description silently, and then looked up and quoted it to her. “ ‘A person commits battery if he (a) Actually and intentionally touches or strikes another person against the will of the other...’ ”
“Yes, he has do this.”
“ ‘Or (b) Intentionally causes bodily harm to an individual.’ ” I looked up again. “Battery’s a misdemeanor, let me see what he can get for that.”
“Get for that?”
“The punishment.”
“Ah, oui.”
I flipped the pages back to Section 775.082, which defined the punishment for a misdemeanor of the first degree. “Here it is,” I said. “Definite term of imprisonment not exceeding one year.”
“Only one year? For what he does to me?”
“Let’s see what we’ve got under Assault,” I said, and thumbed forward again to Section 784.011. I read it silently, and then quoted it to her. “ ‘An assault is an intentional, unlawful threat by word or act to do violence to the person of another—’ ”
“Yes, he has made this threaten.”
“ ‘Coupled with an apparent ability to do so—’ ”
“He is very strong, George.”
“ ‘And doing some act which creates a well-founded fear in such other person that such violence is imminent.’ ”
“He is a monstre,” she said. “Un monstre véritable.”
“In any case,” I said, “it’s only a second-degree misdemeanor. If he’s convicted on both charges, the assault would add only sixty days to his sentence.”
“And when he is out from the jail? When the year goes by? And the sixty days? He will kill me then, no?”
“Well... let’s get him arrested first, okay? And let’s make sure he can’t hurt you again after they set bail for him.”
“What is this, this bail?”
“After he’s charged, the judge can set him free until trial—”
“Free?”
“Yes, if he puts up the amount of money the court in its own discretion decides upon. As assurance that he’ll appear for trial. It’s called ‘bail.’ I’m sure you have this in France.”