“Don’t underestimate Wallace. He’s a very smart man. He knows how to … stifle dissent.”
“Come on, this is almost as paranoid as—” Ben stopped himself. Almost as paranoid as Wallace Barrett talking about how the city council was out to get him. What was wrong with these people? “What was the second incident?”
“Barely a month ago,” Cynthia replied. “This time he was in a jealous rage because she’d had the audacity to talk to some man she met at a party he dragged her to. He went out of control, screamed about how she was having an affair, sleeping around. Called her a whore, a bitch. Then he socked her right in the eye. She had to wear sunglasses for weeks.”
“Were you present during this incident?”
“No. But I saw the black eye.”
“She could’ve gotten that any number of ways.”
“Bullshit. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no jury in the room, so spare me this crap.”
“You understand, I have to consider all possible explanations.”
“I know exactly what you’re trying to do.” She drew in her breath. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“If Caroline Barrett was being battered, as you claim, it’s difficult for me to believe she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“She did tell someone. She told me.”
“You know what I mean. The district attorney. The media.”
Cynthia fell back in her chair. “How much do you know about battered women, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Not that much,” he admitted.
“It’s a recognized syndrome. A disease, really. It stems from our inherent genetic fight-or-flight response. When a woman is frightened or in danger, she goes through a series of emotional reactions. Avoidance mechanisms. Unconsciously she finds ways of dealing with the threat, like denial, repression, minimization. It’s all been documented.”
“Excuse me,” Ben said. “Are you a psychologist?”
“I’m working on my degree at TU,” she answered.
Ben made a note.
“Some women go through a sort of seesaw effect—anxiety rises until avoidance and numbing set in. Other women experience both symptoms simultaneously, creating conflicting emotions that make it almost impossible to act.”
“Still, Caroline Barrett was rich, pretty, smart. She doesn’t fit the image of a battered woman.”
“That’s not an image you’re talking about. It’s a stereotype. And it’s wrong. Many battered women have successful careers and are perfectly capable of expressing anger when they don’t believe they’re in danger. Some are even aggressive, or are perceived by friends as domineering. Abuse occurs in every race, ethnic background, educational level, and socioeconomic group. And don’t believe that right-wing hogwash that domestic violence is exaggerated. If anything, it’s underexaggerated, because it’s underreported. And when it finally comes to the surface, the response is almost always the same. They avoid, they deny, they pretend it didn’t happen. And they don’t report the son of a bitch who beat them.”
“Yes, but getting back to this case—why didn’t Caroline just leave?”
“They don’t leave because leaving doesn’t stop the violence. Often it intensifies it. These creeps are terrified of separation; the woman walks out and they become stalkers, harassing her at every opportunity. Studies have shown that a woman’s life may actually be in more danger after she leaves. And if you have two small children in your care, that may be a risk you simply cannot take.”
“I gather this will be the gist of your testimony?”
“That’s up to the district attorney. I’ll answer whatever he asks.”
“Are you a member of any organizations, Ms. Taylor? Any women’s groups, perhaps?”
“I’m the president of the local chapter of DVIS—the Domestic Violence Intervention Services.”
Ben nodded. “DVIS would probably love to have a high-profile case that would dramatize its cause, wouldn’t it?”
Cynthia glared at him. “So that’ll be your pitch. You’re a great human being, Mr. Kincaid.”
“I was just asking a question. Look, my client tells me he didn’t beat his wife. He says the city council is out to get him. I have to believe him until the evidence proves otherwise.”
“The evidence is all around you. You’re just not seeing it.”
“That’s what everyone says. You’re all so anxious to convict you don’t consider the alternatives. I’m not going to fall into that trap.”
“My sister was the one in the trap!” There was a stuttering noise, a catch in her throat. “I—tried to talk to her. I tried to get her out of there, to get her somewhere safe. But she wouldn’t listen.” Her voice flattened, as if all the air went out of her. “And I didn’t insist. I thought there was still time. If only I had known …” Her steely eyes became soft and watery.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Taylor,” Ben said quietly.
Her chin rose. “Don’t be sorry. Give up the legal shenanigans and let them give Wallace Barrett the lethal injection he deserves.”
Ben folded his notepad. “You really want to see him convicted, don’t you?”
“Do I want the man who beat and killed my sister to pay for his crimes? You’re damn right I do.”
“You’d be willing to do almost anything to see him punished, wouldn’t you? Or say anything?”
Cynthia’s eyes burned across the desk to Ben’s. “Was there anything else, Mr. Kincaid? I have a class to teach.”
“No. Thank you for your time.” Ben led Christina outside to the weight-lifting area.
“Ben,” Christina whispered once they were outside, “I have some real problems—”
“We’ll work it out later.”
“But—”
“We’ll work it out, Christina. I promise. But later.”
I’ll work it out for you later, he thought to himself, because first I have to work it out for myself.
As soon as Ben and Christina left the office, Cynthia Taylor picked up the receiver to her, a large office desktop phone with a million buttons and an LED readout. After the line connected, she gave the receptionist an extension number. A few minutes later, she reached the party on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, it’s me. Cynthia.” Slight pause. “I don’t care what you told me, I need to talk to you now, and this is where you are.”
A loud and angry voice grated on the other end. “Yeah?” she answered. “Well, it is an emergency. Guess who was in my office? … Wrong. The creep who’s representing Wallace … Right. In my office.”
There was a burst of static. “Of course I didn’t invite him here. I didn’t even know who he was. He huffed and puffed his way through one of my classes, then came to my office during the counseling period and started asking questions.” Pause. “Yeah, well, I thought you’d want to know.”
She listened patiently while the voice on the other end of the line spewed forth for more than a minute.
“Well, whatever you’re planning to do, you’d better do it fast and do it well. I think he knows a lot more than you think he does.” She slammed the receiver down, grabbed her towel, and headed back to her class.
As soon as Cynthia Taylor was out of sight, Ben and Christina stepped out from behind a tall stack of plastic mats.
“And you accuse me of having wacky ideas,” Christina groused. “Why are we still here?”
“There’s something she wasn’t telling me,” Ben said. He led her toward the now-empty office.
“I thought the same thing,” Christina replied. “But it doesn’t explain why we were crouched behind the gym equipment.”
“It’s hard for me to believe she could be part of this purported conspiracy,” Ben explained, “especially if it culminated in the death of her sister. Still, there was something odd about the way she acted. If she is involved or feels guilty for any other reason, then our visit might’ve shaken her up. If we shook her up, she might report in to whoever she’s working with. And did you notice what she did the second she thought we were gone?”