Locust Lane(47)
They got back just before noon. Jack, looking upset, walked past without making eye contact and disappeared to his room. Oliver’s expression was even more somber than it had been this morning. The tastefully weathered skin and strong bone structure seemed to have undergone a temporary collapse, revealing the aging man beneath.
“So, Christopher has been making some pretty serious allegations,” he said once Jack was out of earshot. “He has a lawyer. A good one.”
“And?”
“He’s saying that Jack assaulted the girl.”
“What? He’s saying Jack did this?”
“Not the murder. Not specifically. He says that Jack assaulted her and then he and Hannah left. Christopher stayed behind to comfort her. Evidently the girl was very upset. But she was alive when he left her in the early hours.”
“What exactly does he mean by assault?”
“The allegations are sexual in nature.”
“But that’s insane. Hannah was there.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, what does Jack say?”
“Obviously that Christopher’s lying. There had been some tension between Christopher and her earlier in the evening, but our son’s behavior was aboveboard from start to finish.” He smiled ruefully. “Jack has a theory about it, of course. He says Christopher is projecting.”
“What do the police think?”
“They’re skeptical of Christopher, to say the least. Changing his story once he got representation—it’s a real red flag. And we got the distinct feeling that there’s forensic stuff they aren’t talking about yet.”
“And Elaine?”
“As far as she can see, there’s little risk that Jack faces any sort of legal jeopardy,” he said gloomily.
“Then why don’t you seem happier?”
“Because if this allegation gets any traction, it can do all sorts of damage. Especially if last year’s nonsense gets out as well.”
“What can we do?”
“Nip it in the bud.”
With that, he went to his study to make some calls. Celia collapsed into her chair in the alcove. She wanted to share Oliver’s certainty that Christopher was the only one lying, but she couldn’t help but think about that bound woman on her son’s computer screen; about the look on his face right after Lexi fled the house last year, how similar it had been to the one he’d had when he arrived home yesterday morning.
Whatever had happened, Oliver was right about one thing. An accusation of sexual assault was very bad news, no matter how nebulous. Proof wasn’t necessary. There wouldn’t have to be a trial. All it would take was a critical mass of radioactive whispers to drag their son—and the whole Parrish family—into a never-ending nightmare.
Oliver was particularly sensitive to this. He’d already lived through one devastating family scandal. Celia heard the story soon after she started dating him. He was in law school; she was at Wellesley. He wanted to make sure she knew about it before things went any further between them. Celia listened quietly and then told him it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. She could already see the type of man he was. Besides, she was the last person to judge someone for their father’s behavior after what her own had done to her in his Back Bay study.
Frederick Parrish was a successful attorney, specializing in criminal law. Mostly white-collar offenses. It was all so low-key and genteel that it was often difficult to remember that many of them were criminals. With their wireless spectacles and pillowy jowls, they looked like the sort of men you’d find in a business lounge at a regional airport, waiting to connect back to their suburban homes.
His last-ever client, Matilda Czerny, was one of the few women he defended. In her late thirties, she’d been senior assistant to the CFO of a big farm insurance company. It was a position she’d used, according to prosecutors, to siphon just over two million dollars from the firm to a location currently unknown.
It was a complicated case. Two things happened during the long meetings between lawyer and client. First, it became clear to Frederick that Matilda Czerny was guilty as charged. The second was that he fell in love with her. Mixed together, these two factors proved combustible, causing the well-respected lawyer to vanish with his client on the eve of the trial. Frederick was detained in Mexico City five days later after being discovered unconscious in a hotel elevator. He had no money or ID, and one of his shoes was missing. Matilda was never heard from again.
It made no sense. With her broad hips and small, squinting eyes, Matilda wasn’t exactly a femme fatale. But something that had been building up in Frederick for years suddenly percolated over as he passed those quiet hours with her in his plush Loop office. Boredom, fear of aging, proximity to all that easy money. Whatever it had been, it sent him south of more than one border.
He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to five years in a minimum-security prison in Missouri. Oliver, seventeen at the time, had driven to visit him only once. He was surprised to find his father largely unchanged. They spoke about Oliver mostly, particularly his enrollment at Dartmouth in the fall. Understanding that he wasn’t going to get an unsolicited explanation, Oliver had flat-out asked him why he’d done it. Frederick had removed his glasses and cleaned them with the tail of his coarse denim shirt.
“Life is messy,” he said eventually, and then he said nothing more.