At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(39)
Maclean turned toward the waiter and signaled to him to bring the check.
“Hey,” said Verraday. “You can’t bail on me now.”
By now the waiter was busy getting pints of Guinness for two happy-looking couples who had just come in together. Verraday marveled at how, with nothing but a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, and an eye movement, the waiter managed to convey that he’d be right with Maclean as soon as he’d finished.
Maclean turned back toward Verraday. “Seriously. I doubt if you really want to hear this story.”
“Well seriously, yes. I do want to know,” said Verraday.
Maclean took a sip of her vodka and soda. “Okay, here’s the straight-up version. I used to be married. Fowler is the reason I’m divorced. He sexually assaulted me.”
Verraday sat in silence, not knowing how to respond. His impulse was to offer some comforting words, but he knew from training and experience that he’d be more help to Maclean if he just invited her to talk, then let her.
“How did it happen?”
“I had been married nearly four years. My ex is in the Coast Guard. He was away for a couple of days on patrol duty. I was working robberies at the time. It was a Friday evening at the end of a busy week. I went out with the people from my squad to have some drinks and let off a little steam. We all got a bit tipsy but not out of control. A couple of hours later, Fowler and a few of his crew showed up. Fowler went to the bar and bought a round for everyone. About half an hour later, I started to feel tired, and I decided to head home. I was too drunk to drive, so I left my car in the lot. I said I was going to get a cab. Fowler played the chivalry card. He told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to be out alone that late at night and that he was going to wait ’til I got a cab. It was raining like hell, so there was nobody on the street and no taxis anywhere. Fowler told me that since he’d only had two drinks, he’d give me a ride home. When we got to my place, he insisted on walking me to the door to make sure I got in safely. I tripped going up the steps and fell. I thought I’d broken my kneecap, it hurt so bad. I was surprised and a little embarrassed. I mean, I’d definitely had more than just a few, but I didn’t think I was that sloppy and out of control. Fowler put his arm around me to help me up. I took my front door keys out of my purse, but I dropped them. I bent over to pick them up and started to get the spins. He laughed and reached for the keys, got them and opened the door to let me in. He told me I should go straight to bed. I said I could handle it from there.
“And that’s the last thing I remember clearly until the next day. I blacked out. I didn’t wake up until the next afternoon, when my husband came home and found me in bed. I had the worst hangover I’ve ever had in my life and the bedsheets were everywhere. I had this vague memory of Fowler on top of me and me trying to fight him off. But I couldn’t remember the specifics.”
“It’s called anterograde amnesia,” said Verraday. “Fowler probably roofied your drink and had it all planned out.”
“And I was too stupid to see it.”
“It’s not your fault. We all have this social contract. That’s what people like Gary Ridgway and Ted Bundy play on.”
“Yes, but I’m supposed to be smart enough to see through that kind of bullshit.”
“Fowler’s a colleague, a fellow cop,” said Verraday. “He’s expected to uphold the law, not break it. There’s no reason you would have anticipated him doing what he did.”
“But everything about it played into my own carelessness. That’s what bothers me the most. I charged him with sexual assault. I had bruises on my arms from where he pinned me down. But because I also had bruises on my knees and legs from when I tripped, Fowler’s attorney argued that it all happened when I landed on the steps. And the judge believed him. I felt like an idiot.”
“What about semen?”
“Fowler used a condom. And get this: the judge interpreted that as further evidence that it was consensual sex since Fowler ‘cared enough to use a condom.’ In the end, the sexual assault charge didn’t make it past the probable cause hearing. Fowler’s lawyer argued that I was just trying to cover up my infidelity because I got caught cheating on my husband. That asshole Fowler actually went up to my ex outside the courtroom and told him he was sorry, that he really thought I’d wanted it. Can you fucking believe it?”
“With Fowler? Yeah, I can believe it. So what about your husband? What happened there?”
“I don’t think he knew what to believe. But I’ve seen enough of this as an investigator to know that a lot of marriages don’t survive a sexual assault, particularly if there’s any doubt about the victim and her relationship to the accused. My ex stuck around for a few weeks, but it started eating away at him. Then one day I came home from work and he wasn’t there. But there was a letter from a lawyer initiating divorce proceedings.”
“I’m sorry,” said Verraday. “But you’ll get through this. You’ve got survivor instincts.”
The waiter had finished up with the other customers and brought the check. “There you go, folks,” he said, again with that genuine smile.
Verraday pulled out his wallet but Maclean waved it away.
“Your money’s no good here, Professor. I’m getting paid for all this. I mean, not overtime. Those days are long gone. But I do get paid my regular hours, and I appreciate what a time suck this is for you.”