Matson glared at her. “As you know, I’m a lawyer, Madam — and a good one. Tape recordings of innocent victims are not acceptable in a court of law unless the victim has given his permission to be recorded. You are doing something illegal.”
“Just keep quiet and listen to your innocent son.”
An expression of fear covered young Matson’s sallow face. “Dad! She’s a liar! I never made any phone calls.”
“Don’t worry, Son,” Matson said. “She’s just an old lady with an over active imagination.” He eyed Grimes. “Grimes, I object to this.”
Grimes shook his head. “I’d like to hear it. There’s no law against playing the tape in here.” He smiled suddenly at Vivian. “Go ahead.”
She set up the recorder to play and pushed the button. The Matsons and Grimes listened in shocked silence as the sneering voice repeated the filthy, obscene wordage. The final recording was her dialogue with Grimes.
He reddened and his face tightened. “If you prefer charges against my son, I’ll sue you. The poor boy is having a tough time finding himself.”
Vivian was smart enough to see that Matson, with the weight of City Hall behind him, could wipe her out with legal proceedings — and all for five dollars arid fifty-six cents.
“I’ll let it go this time.”
Matson did an about face and put on his best vote-getting smile. “I’m glad you see your mistake, Mrs. Van Leer. Now, I don’t like to see you elderly people living alone. I know of a nice retirement home in the Bay area where—”
She stood up. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”
Grimes smiled at her. “If you need help sometime, you be sure and call me.”
“Yes,” chimed in Matson. “We are here to serve the public.”
She eyed them for an instant. “Coming in here to complain about something is similar to a German Jewish citizen in the thirties complaining to Goering about something that Hitler did.”
She walked out.
For the next two days, Vivian led a trouble-free life — a movie, art show, and a baseball game. One night when she was feeding George, the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“I’m gonna get you, ole lady,” snarled a voice into her ear. Young Matson. “Call in the cops, did you. Next time I’m gonna drag you into an alley and—”
“Matson, I’m calling them again.” She hung up and immediately dialed a number Grimes had left.
Grimes arrived at the apartment a half hour later.
“Ma’am,” he said sadly. “Young Matson said he didn’t make any phone call to you. And his father’s pretty mad.”
“It was young Matson,” she said. “I recognized that voice.” She sipped the drink in her hand. “He even mentioned my calling in the police.”
Grimes sighed. “You drinking liquor?”
“A martini. I have one every night. Been doing it all my life.” She paused and looked at the drink thoughtfully. “My husband and I used to have delightful little conversations over a martini.”
Grimes took a deep breath. “I can’t arrest him on such flimsy evidence. His father would tear it apart.”
She nodded. “I suppose he would. You’re afraid of Matson, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
He frowned. “No, I’m not. It’s just that our legal system is so complicated and—”
“Full of loopholes,” she continued, “that it’s difficult to make a charge stick, especially when the accused has a father in the DA’s office. All right. Forget it.”
“Well, now, for example, he could make something big out of you drinking a martini, like you’re imagining things—”
“Do you think I’m imagining things?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Good night, Sergeant. Sorry I wasted your time.”
“It’s my job to look into these—” He sighed and shrugged. “Goodnight, Mrs. Van Leer.”
After he had gone, Vivian pulled the cover off George’s tank and smiled sadly at the furry creature. “What can I do, George?”
Then, an idea dropped into her agile mind. A tape recorder. Of course. She’d buy one tomorrow.
The next morning she went to an electronics store and bought a small tape recorder and a microphone that could be attached to the base of the telephone. After buying several tape cassettes, she went home and quickly attached the microphone to the telephone, plugged in the recorder and grinned at George.
Young Matson’s face was a blend of anger and fear. “It’s a fake! She faked it! That ain’t me!”
Lawyer Matson seemed to have turned a shade of gray. “Of course it’s a fake. What are you trying to do to my son, Madam?”
Grimes, also visibly affected, shrugged. “That sure sounds like me in that last recording.”
Vivian removed the cassette from the recorder and dropped it into her purse. “I suggest you put a voice analyzer on it. I think you’ll find that young Matson’s voice and the voice on the recorder are the same.”
Grimes looked at Matson. “Are you willing to have it checked?”
Matson hesitated a few seconds, then nodded. “All right.”
Grimes held out his hand. “I’ll take care of it. May I have the cassette, Mrs. Van Leer?”
She studied him for an instant. “The telephone company has a voice analyzer. I’d rather they did it.”
“Oh no!” exploded the older Matson. “We have all the facilities for voice analysis and that’s where I want it done. I’m afraid that the telephone company would be biased.”
“No more biased than you!” shot back Vivian.
“I am confident,” he said, “that the voice on the tape is not my son’s, therefore, I’m willing to have it checked — but only in our laboratory. I think you are a sick woman who for some reason wants to destroy my son and I suggest that you consult with a psychologist as soon as possible.”
Vivian’s face reddened. He probably had enough power down at City Hall to put her in some home or something. Was there no way to fight back? Oh God, if she were only fifty, or even sixty instead of seventy-eight! She handed the tape to Grimes. “Will you take good care of it, Sergeant?”
He took the cassette. “I will.” He turned to the older Matson. “I’ll have to hold your son until we can check this out. My voice on the tape is quite real.”
Greg Matson backed off. “I don’t wanta go to jail, Dad, don’t let them—!”
Vivian watched, unmoved by tears. She’d seen that act many times during her working life — phoney as an eleven-dollar bill. “Sergeant, let me know the results of the test.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
She left amid an elder Matson tirade against crazy old ladies.
But she had an odd feeling that she had failed again.
That afternoon Vivian had a visitor from the City Welfare Department, a Miss Caroline Eckel, a tall, thin, sober-faced woman with straight black hair, who looked as though she should be working in the public library. She wore a knee-length brown skirt, chilly white blouse and a plain brown coat.
Vivian, after a glance at George’s tank which was covered, motioned the woman to a chair. “I suppose this has to do with the Matson boy,” she remarked, sitting down in an easy chair. “Are you a psychologist?”
“Why, yes,” was the brittle reply. The woman was nervous. “My superior suggested that I pay you a visit.”
“Why? I’m not on welfare.”
“True, but you seem to be having a problem.” She leaned forward and cast what was meant to be a steady gaze on Vivian’s placid face. “Do you have dreams?”
Vivian smiled. The woman was obviously right out of college. “Yes, one recurring dream — that young Matson will stop bugging me. How long have you been out of college?”