Devil's Hand, page 12
“Sorry, Dad. I have got to take this. It shouldn’t be long.” She went into her office, shut the door, and picked up the phone. “Hey, Chris.”
“Jessica. What’s with the urgent message?”
“Your client isn’t playing by the agreed-upon rules.”
“In what way?”
Jessica told him about the events of the morning. “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation,” he said. “Let me call him, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Good. While you’re talking to him, let him know we have amended pleadings ready to go listing cruel treatment, and we’re ready to go public if he doesn’t start to behave right this second, starting with an apology to my client for embarrassing her in public.”
“Calm down,” Chris said, and Jessica wondered if the phrase calm down had ever done anything but rile someone up. “Like I said. He’s not responsible for what you think he is.”
Jessica’s ability to remain professional ended in that moment. “Right. Satan’s responsible. Ray isn’t so powerful that he can overcome a demon who rears his nasty head when poor little wifey doesn’t cook the meatloaf to his liking.”
Chris laughed. “Oh, Jessica Fischer. You’re almost as naive as your client.”
The heat of anger rushed up her neck. “You just see that Ray puts enough money in the account so his children get what they need.” She slammed the phone down and then stomped out of her office to find Diane and her father making what could only be called goo-goo eyes. “This stops now,” she commanded. “I’m paying Diane to work for me, not do whatever the hell she’s doing here.” She dipped back into her office to retrieve her keys, then tossed them at her father, who caught them. “Why don’t you take my car and go back to my house? Then you can come get me around five-ish for dinner.”
“Jumpkin, I …”
“I have work to do, Dad. It’s time for you to go back to my house.”
Michael turned and headed to the exit. “Okay. I know when I’m not wanted.”
Guilt added to the swirl of uncontrollable feelings in Jessica’s chest. She resented him that much more for adding to her burgeoning ulcer. “That’s not it. I have work to do,” she said, which was true but not the real reason she wanted her father gone.
Without turning back, Michael waved and said, “I’ll be back at five,” then left the office.
When the door shut, Jessica pointed an accusing finger at Diane. “I pay you to make my life easier, not harder.”
Using a measured tone, Diane said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jessica’s whole body vibrated as she tapped her foot. “Yes, you do. You can’t have fun with my dad the way you have fun with the rest of the male population of Ashton.”
Diane pointed a long acrylic nail at Jessica. “You watch yourself, girlie. You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do. Your father, either. We’re grown folks. Besides, he’s only here for another couple of days. There’s only time for flirtin’.”
Jessica found it difficult to be reassured by this. She knew she was glaring at Diane and tried not to, but the best she could do was look away.
Chris called back at three. “I told you there was an explanation,” he said.
“Which is?”
“Ray has been putting plenty of money in that account to pay for groceries, gas, and other necessities like co-pays. He puts $200 in every Friday like clockwork. He pays all the other bills directly. Susan knows that.”
Jessica did some mental math. “What makes him think $200 a week is enough? Hell, I spend about a hundred a week on groceries, and I don’t have teenagers living with me. Never mind gas and whatnot.”
“Jessica. Your girl kicked my guy out on false pretenses, and now she’s expecting him to pay every penny for two households? He’s not rich. Is there a reason she can’t go to the local Mickey D’s if she can’t get a better job and start flipping burgers?”
Red flashed across Jessica’s vision. “False pretenses, my ass! I sent you those photographs.”
“Sometimes there are other explanations. You can’t always believe what you see.”
“Tell that to a jury.”
“If I have to, I will. You might want to ask your girl again what happened.”
Jessica knew he was bluffing, knew it deep in her soul, but that didn’t stop her from worrying. There was nothing worse than being surprised in court. If Chris knew something she didn’t, it could be trouble. She needed to seize control of the conversation. “Is he going to add more money to the pot?”
“Is she going to add any money to the pot?”
“Where is she supposed to get it? You know what, forget it. You’ll get my amended pleadings shortly.” She hung up and rubbed her forehead with her palms.
When Jessica finally looked up, she saw Diane standing in her doorway. “I take it that didn’t go well?”
“No.” She turned to her computer, hit print, and pointed to the printer. “I want to file this before the end of the day. Make sure he knows we mean business.”
“Hold up, chickadee. That’s not your decision.”
“Like hell, it isn’t!”
“It isn’t. It’s Susan’s. At least do the courtesy of asking her if she’s ready to go to war.”
“Hmph.” As usual, Diane was right. Ugh, if Diane was right about everything else, was she right about Jessica making too much of this thing with her father?
To Jessica’s surprise, Susan wasn’t interested in amending the petition. “I don’t want to make waves,” she said. Jessica tried to decide how to say what she wanted to say without coming across as too harsh. “I think you made waves when you said you wanted a divorce. We had a deal with him. He broke the deal. If we don’t do what we promised we’d do, we lose all credibility from here on out.”
Although the conversation was over the telephone, Jessica could vividly picture Susan consulting with the committee of voices in her head during the following silence. Eventually, Susan spoke. “I suppose you’re right, but if there’s any way to limit it, please do. I can’t testify …”
“None of that. No matter what Ray’s been telling you these past few years, you’re a strong, independent woman capable of anything you want to do.” Capable, yes. Strong and independent? Probably not, but it didn’t hurt for Jessica to encourage her to be that way. “You can say your truth in court. You can look him in the eye if you want to—”
“No! I don’t think I can!”
Jessica shook her head and closed her eyes. “Or you can look at me and pretend he isn’t in the room. I don’t care which. But you can do this.”
“What if the judge is on Ray’s side? What if he doesn’t believe what I have to say?”
Jessica found it impossible to think that anyone would take Ray’s side after seeing this woman crumple just from the effort of speaking, but she took a page from Spencer’s book to explain. “Well, what if he does? Let’s say the absolute worst day possible in court happens. And believe me—the best day may not happen, but the absolute worst day never does either. Worst-case scenario is that the judge decides you’re full of it, Ray is as pure as the driven snow, and you created those bruises with—oh, I don’t know—makeup. This is just a temporary hearing.” Jessica sipped water from a bottle on her desk. “So the judge can’t legally say, ‘I think you’re lying. You can’t get divorced.’ If you want to be divorced, you’ll get divorced. The only question is the details. The judge isn’t going to force people who are going through a divorce to live together, and Ray isn’t asking for custody. That means you’ll get child support. My preliminary child support worksheet says he has to pay you $840 a month in child support. That’s about what he’s giving you now.”
“That’s not enough!”
Jessica took a deep breath. “I know. It’s not. But I also can’t imagine you wouldn’t get some form of alimony. You haven’t worked in fifteen years, and you don’t have access to any of your savings. Judges don’t generally want to uproot kids from their homes, so you’ll get to live in the house with the kids, and my argument is going to be that if he wants half the equity in the house, he needs to make sure it doesn’t get foreclosed upon.”
“I don’t know.”
Jessica shook her head, glad Susan couldn’t see her frustration. “I do know. The bottom line is that whether the judge believes you or believes him, you’re going to walk out of that courtroom with a temporary order that gives you no less than you have now.”
Susan made some inarticulate noises.
“That’s if the judge doesn’t believe you. If we can get him all riled up over Ray’s cruelty, you might get more.”
Susan sighed. “Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do! You’re in charge here. I’m just giving my advice. And my advice is that if we don’t do this after we said we would, he’s never going to believe either one of us again. Ray won’t, and Chris for sure won’t.”
“Fine.”
Jessica pumped her fist. One problem down. Now, the next. “Have you thought about your plans for the future?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, going back to work.”
Susan screeched into the phone. “I can’t! No! I can’t!”
Susan’s response was so disproportionately emotional Jessica decided to continue that conversation another day. “Okay. And I know the answer to this next question, but I have to ask. Chris Carmichael sounded pretty confident that your bruises weren’t Ray’s doing. I know we’ve talked about it before, but I have to ask again. Were the bruises Ray’s doing?”
There was a long moment before Susan answered. “I promise you, Jessica,” Susan said, finally, “every bruise on my body was Ray’s fault.”
What a strange woman Susan was. Nothing about her was normal, not even the way she phrased things. But that could come from living a sheltered, dependent life. Something about Susan’s oddness made Jessica feel good about being on the case, as if she was helping rescue a confined woman from an alternate universe and launching her into a world where she might come into her own.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jessica smelled her father’s cologne before she saw him. He’d arrived at five on the dot to retrieve her and Diane for dinner and had obviously showered and shaved and spruced himself up. Bobby, of course, had been fine with Diane coming over. Four had a better symmetry than three, he said, and Diane’s presence would take the conversational pressure off him. Lord knew Diane could have a dynamic chat with a stump. When they pulled into Bobby’s driveway, Diane waited until Michael opened her door for her. Jessica tried hard not to groan.
The smell of fresh garlic seeped out from the front door as Jessica let herself in. She led Diane and Michael to the source, where she found Bobby wearing a kiss-the-cook apron and stirring a great pot of something that smelled delicious. She pointed at the apron, said, “If I must,” and kissed him loudly on the mouth.
Bobby greeted Michael and Diane.
Diane said, “Do I get to kiss the cook, too?”
“Absolutely not,” said Jessica, at the same time Bobby said, “Sure.” He leaned over and kissed Diane on the cheek.
“I feel like the only one who hasn’t been kissed,” Michael said.
Jessica took a step toward her father to kiss his cheek, but Diane beat her to it. Diane was too short to reach Michael’s face, so she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down before kissing him full on the lips, a beat too long for it to be a joke.
With Diane’s hands still around his neck, Michael said, “Well then.” He was smiling and didn’t appear the least bit surprised, a fact that disturbed Jessica.
Jessica looked at Bobby, trying to silently communicate, Rescue me from this hell.
Bobby interrupted. “Can I get anyone a drink? I have a decent cabernet.” He picked up a wine bottle and a corkscrew.
“That would be lovely,” Diane said. “Can I help?”
“You’re too short to get the glasses,” Jessica said, reaching above her head to the cabinet. She lined them up on the counter, and Bobby filled them.
“I’m not too short to drink from the glasses,” Diane said, handing one to Michael with a wink and taking a sip of her own.
“What’s for dinner?” Jessica asked.
Bobby’s face opened wide with a grin. “In the oven,” he tapped the door of his fancy Viking oven, “we have shells stuffed with ricotta and Italian sausage, covered in my special-recipe sauce and mozzarella. In this pot”—he banged a wooden spoon on the pot he’d been stirring when they’d walked in—“is Aunt Wanda’s famous pasta e fagioli soup.” He took a sip of wine, then nearly dropped it, sloshing a few drops on the countertop. Letting out a nervous titter that seemed incongruous with his baritone voice, he wiped the mess with a paper towel and said, “Oh wait! Antipasto!” He opened the refrigerator and took out a plate covered in olives, slices of sausage, prosciutto, pickled vegetables, and cheeses and carried it to the kitchen table.
Michael plucked an olive from the tray and popped it in his mouth. “I have to say, Bobby, I’m impressed.”
“I like cooking. Especially for other people. I feel like I’m nourishing the world. I know that sounds corny, but—”
“That’s so sweet!” cooed Diane, and the tips of Bobby’s ears flamed red in response.
In the dining room, Bobby had gone all out. He’d set out brass candlesticks with long tapers in them and set the table using cloth napkins and a full complement of silverware. When they were finished eating, save for mopping up the remnants of sauce with pieces of fresh-baked bread, Michael said, “Bobby, that was amazing. No one in our family can cook, but I’m glad to see you’re able to pick up Jessica’s slack. Is it safe to assume that we’ll always be having Thanksgiving at your house?”
It was an innocent joke wrapped in a compliment, but Michael’s last sentence was so fraught with layers of meaning it paralyzed Jessica. Always implied years to come. We implied her father would always be included in the family gatherings, which hadn’t happened in over fifteen years.
Thankfully, Bobby laughed lightly and said, “My parents always host Thanksgiving for my family. My mom is a fantastic cook, and my dad fries a turkey like nobody’s business.”
This led to a brief and welcome subject-changing debate about the virtues of fried turkey versus roasted turkey until Michael patted his stomach and replied, “I don’t think we’re going to resolve that tonight. Might I use your restroom?”
“Of course,” Bobby said, pointing toward the hallway. “First door on the right.”
Michael disappeared down the hall and, within minutes, a bang and a guttural cry came from the direction of the bathroom.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
Michael cried out again, and the three of them pushed back their chairs and raced to the bathroom. The door was still shut, and Bobby knocked on it. “Michael?”
“Help.” Michael’s voice was weak.
Jessica’s heart raced.
“I’m coming in,” Bobby said, and pushed the door open slowly. Michael was on the floor, his pants halfway down and his head blocking the door from opening all the way. His underwear, thank God, was where it should be, though a pitiful showing of undergarments it was. The elastic had started to separate from the fabric, and it was an inconsistent gray color. Bobby squeezed into the opening. “What happened?”
“I was pulling up my pants, and somehow my shoe got caught on the rug, and I … I honestly don’t know, but down I went.”
“Can you get up?” Bobby asked.
Jessica was so grateful for his take-charge attitude. Her insides swirled with multiple feelings: love for Bobby and his ability to deal with a crisis with such a level head, concern for her father, and helplessness because she had zero medical knowledge.
Jessica saw Michael’s legs shuffle, then heard her father roar again.
“I guess that’s a no,” Bobby said. “What exactly hurts?”
“My knee. My left knee.”
Bobby reached out and touched Michael’s knee. “Does it hurt when I touch it?” At the same time, Michael shouted, “Ow! Dammit!”
A few breaths of silence passed, and then Michael said, “I think I need to go to the emergency room.”
A string of expletives passed through Jessica’s mind. A medical emergency was not how she wanted this evening to end.
Bobby stood up. “We need to call an ambulance. We can’t get him in the car without doing more damage.”
“I’ll call 911,” said Diane, dashing down the hallway. “What’s your address, Bobby?”
“529 Olive Street,” Bobby called back.
Jessica felt like she should be doing something—boiling water? Getting clean towels?—but had no idea what it should be. “Can we at least get him out of the bathroom?” she asked.
Bobby said, “That’s what I’m trying to figure. I’m not even sure we can open the door wide enough. Michael, can you move at all?”
“No.”
“Do you think you could tolerate me sliding you a few inches in this direction so we can get the door open?”
Jessica didn’t hear a response, but Michael must have nodded because Bobby crouched down and grabbed Michael’s hip. He tried to push him towards the far wall, but Michael didn’t budge. Bobby stood up, bent over at the waist, and tried again, this time managing to slide Michael across the floor about six inches. Jessica could see her father’s torso come into view, and she opened the door slowly in case his head was still in the way. A soft bonk and a loud “Ow!” told her it was.
Bobby stood up again, examining Michael. “I don’t know if I can get you closer to the wall, but I might be able to pivot you some. Hang on.” He leaned over, placed his hands on the side of Michael’s ribs, and turned him. Michael roared as his legs skidded across the tile, and one hit the toilet. “That should do it.”
Jessica pushed the door, which opened all the way. She breathed an audible sigh, then looked down. Her father’s face was sweaty and pale, so she reached over him to the towel rack, pulled off a hand towel, and ran cold water over it. Squatting down, she mopped her father’s face with the cool cloth.
