36

SEATTLE

THE NEAREST NEWSSTAND THAT carried the Washington Post was a half-mile from the hospital, so Vanessa took a walk on her lunch break each day to buy a paper. Zed Patterson’s molestation trial had started, and the Seattle papers didn’t cover it in the sort of detail she craved. Of course, there were no pictures of Patterson’s young accuser, but Vanessa had a clear image of the girl. She was slight and scrappy, her body still that of a child. Her legs and arms were long, her knees knobby and covered with scrapes from one adventure or another. Her nearly white-blond hair was cut boyishly short. Her nose was upturned, her eyelashes so pale as to be nearly undetectable. Where this image came from, Vanessa couldn’t have said. Yet from the moment she’d read the original article detailing the allegations against Patterson, the girl had appeared to her in this form.

Even when Friday’s paper stated that the girl and her mother had immigrated to the United States from El Salvador five years earlier, Vanessa couldn’t lose the image of her mischievous blond waif.

And the waif was not being believed. By the second week of the hearing, the girl’s own mother reluctantly testified to the trouble she’d had with her daughter. She’d been caught stealing, the mother admitted, and she lied frequently. The girl’s aunt went so far as to pronounce her niece “evil.” “She’s not like the other kids in the family,” the aunt said.

Vanessa read the testimony of the mother and the aunt and was convinced that this wasn’t the first time the girl had been abused. She didn’t believe for an instant that kids were born bad.

Women’s rights groups were conspicuously silent, and Vanessa guessed they felt as Terri Roos did—it would be a mistake to topple Zed Patterson from his throne of power. In the long run, women could only suffer from his downfall. The articles in the paper brimmed with his work on victims’ rights and with his compassion for his accuser.

“This is a young girl clearly in need of counseling and guidance,” Patterson was quoted as saying, “and our first priority must be to see that she receives the help she needs.”

Pictures of him in the paper showed him smiling with an easy self-confidence. “I have complete faith in this country’s system of justice,” he stated on at least three separate occasions. Vanessa could only glance at the photographs. Any lingering over that face made her head throb and her stomach churn.

Apparently she was not alone in having that reaction to the senator from Pennsylvania. On day ten of the hearing—the day she was to take the stand herself and face Zed Patterson across the courtroom—the girl had to be hospitalized with gastritis. A hospital spokesman said she was reacting to the stress of the hearing, but it was clear that those in Patterson’s camp read her sudden illness as backpedaling on the girl’s part. She hadn’t known what she was getting into when she made her accusation.

In other articles in the paper, Vanessa would see Patterson’s name bantered about on this bill or that as though he were simply another senator with nothing else going on in his life. Innocent until proven guilty. Vanessa wondered if she was the only person in the country who was taking this hearing seriously. Why did no one seem to be helping this kid? Why was everyone wishing she would simply go away?

The paper printed the article about the girl’s illness on a Tuesday. That Wednesday, Vanessa found herself sitting in one of the pay phone booths of the hospital lobby, dialing the number of the girl’s Washington, D.C., attorney, Jacqueline King. Her hands shook as she pressed the cool square keys on the phone. She was able to reach a partner of the attorney, who was in court that morning. Vanessa didn’t identify herself but got right to the point of her call.

“If I had information on an old case regarding Walter Patterson, would it help?”

The woman on the other end of the line didn’t respond right away. “What do you mean, ‘an old case’?” she asked finally.

“I mean, if someone who had once been molested by the senator were to come forward now, would it do any good?”

Again the hesitancy on the other end of the phone line. “Are you saying this happened to you?”

Vanessa closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“Jesus. Hold on.”

Vanessa felt perspiration break out on her forehead. She gripped the phone in a panic. “You’re not going to tape this, are you?”

“No. Just needed to get something to write with. Can I have your name?”

“No. I have to understand—”

“How long ago are we talking about?”

“Thirty years.”

She could feel the woman’s disappointment. “You’re kidding.” Her voice was flat.

“Are you saying it’s too long ago to be of any help?” Vanessa heard the hope in her own voice. Please tell me there is nothing I can do.

“Jesus. Thirty years? How old were you? What did he do to you?”

“Are you saying you can’t use the information?”

“Look, I have to talk to Jackie,” the woman said. “We’ll use it somehow. The truth is, we need something to save this case. No one believes this kid except Jackie and me. And you just made me a whole lot more certain. Please give me a number where I can reach you once we figure out how to use this.”

“No. I’ll have to call you back.”

“Jackie’s working late tonight, but she’s going to be tied up with a client till about nine. Could you call back at nine-thirty, our time? I’ll be sure she picks up then.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Good. We’ll talk to you later then.”

“Wait!” Vanessa was not finished. “How’s the girl doing?”

“She’s terrified. You wouldn’t believe how tough this kid is, ordinarily. Not afraid to walk by herself through the streets of D.C. at night. But every time she thinks about having to look Patterson in the eye and talk about what he did to her, she throws up. Every time. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to get her on the stand.”

“What does she look like?”

If the woman was surprised by the question, she didn’t let on. “Not like a kid who’s going to win the hearts of the jurors, that’s for sure. She’s grossly overweight for her age. Never smiles. One eye doesn’t track properly, and you can never be sure if she’s looking at you or not.”

Tears welled up in Vanessa’s eyes. She wanted to hold this child. Probably no one ever held her.

“You might be her only hope,” the attorney said. “You’ll call at nine-thirty?”

“Yes.”

BRIAN WAS OFF FROM work for two days, and by the time Vanessa got home that evening, he’d built an enormous fire in the fireplace and a pot of stew was simmering on the stove. It was 5:30. 8:30, east coast time. She’d called him earlier to tell him about her conversation with the lawyer. He knew what was on her mind when she walked in the door.

She dropped her briefcase on one of the kitchen chairs, checked her watch—although she’d checked it only seconds earlier—and grimaced at her husband.

“What should I do?” she asked.

“No one can answer that question for you.”

“You could try.” She smiled wryly.

He rested the mixing spoon on the stove and wrapped Vanessa in a hug. “I think you’re a gutsy, compassionate woman. You’ll do what feels right to you.”

She glanced without interest at the stew. “Can dinner wait a bit? I have some work to do at my desk first.”

He looked at her, an unasked question in his eyes. “Sure,” he said.

She sat down at her desk in the corner of the family room, sorting through a stack of bills and writing checks until 6:35. Brian sat on the sofa reading the paper. He kept the fire going, rising wordlessly once or twice to add a log, and the heat of the flames warmed her. At 6:40, she tried to balance her checkbook, hunting for an elusive thirty-seven cents the bank said she had but that didn’t appear in her check register. Her chair faced the window, and she could see Brian’s reflection in the glass. Occasionally, he looked up at her, but neither of them spoke. They had forgotten to turn on the stereo tonight; the crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, and Vanessa could feel the slow passage of minutes.

The rich, tomato-heavy scent of the stew drifted into the room. A wave of nausea passed through her, and only then did she let herself think of the girl no one would believe. She looked at her watch again. Seven-ten.

Setting down her pen, she turned to face Brian.

“What could they possibly do with my thirty-year-old allegations?”

He folded the paper slowly and rested it on the coffee table. “I don’t know, Van.”

“Are you disappointed in me?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“It’s behind me. I have to leave it behind me.”

He said nothing, and she was relieved when he patted the sofa cushion next to him, inviting her to join him. She walked over to the couch. He slipped his arm around her shoulders as she sat down, and she got another whiff of the stew.

“I don’t think I can eat tonight. I’m sorry. It looked delicious. Can we save it for tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Again the silence. She wished she had turned on the stereo on her way to the sofa.

Brian softly ran his thumb back and forth over her shoulder. After several minutes, he took in a long breath.

“It’s only a little after ten now, their time,” he said. “I bet that lawyer’s still waiting there in the hope you’ll muster up your courage and—”

“Brian, don’t!” She pulled away from him. “I’m through with it, okay? I shouldn’t have called in the first place. Please let it go.”

He drew her back again by the shoulder. “Sorry,” he said.

She felt restless and wired. She could go for a run. Or read. Rent a movie. She couldn’t get a firm grasp on what she wanted to do tonight. The only thing she knew for certain was that she wouldn’t allow herself to sleep. Sleep would only invite a ride on the carousel. And next to her would be an unsmiling girl, so plump she would have to grip the pole to stay upright on the horse. Her one good eye would be focused hard on Vanessa as their horses galloped around and around, far too fast, in a circle that had no end.