Damaged (5 page)

Mary found herself wishing Patrick wasn't such a good artist. “You say his father left before he was born?”

“Yes.”

“Does Patrick ask about his father?”

“No, not anymore. He used to when he was little, but not anymore.”

“What did he ask?”

Edward shrugged. “Only a few questions, like what was his name and what did he do. And why did he leave. He asked his mother.”

“What did she answer, do you know?”

“She told him the truth.” Edward frowned. “Are you thinking that the man in the picture could be his father?”

“Possibly. We're going to have to get Patrick a psychological evaluation, not for the lawsuit, but for his own sake. If he's feeling angry, we need to know that, don't you agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Does Patrick take art in school?”

“Yes.”

“Is his art teacher male or female?”

“A female, I think. Yes, she is. Ms. Gilam.” Edward ran his hand over his bald head, and Mary could see his fingers were trembling slightly, so she wanted to wrap this up.

“And he never told you that he wanted to hurt anybody at school, or anyone at all?”

“No.” Edward shook his head. “It's just not like him. He never said anything like that to me. This drawing, it's completely out of character.”

“And you've never sent him to a psychiatrist or anything like that?”

“I never thought I had any reason to, before.”

“Okay, we can deal with this.” Mary tried to get back on an even keel. “If the pediatrician will take Patrick now, let's get going.”

“Are you coming with us?” Edward rose, slowly.

“No, I've got to get busy.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Mary drove north out of Center City, heading for the police station. The Hunting Park neighborhood was older, congested, and raggedy, owing to the mix of commercial traffic interspersed with the residential areas. Heavy-duty trucks and tractor-trailers muscled her car out of the way, and she passed auto body shops, empty lots mounded with crushed and abandoned vehicles, then a vast open lot topped by ugly concertina wire, with cyclone fencing that held a sign,
CITY OF PHILADELPHIA FLEET MANAGEMENT SHOP
. The streets widened the farther north she went, opening up to a blue sky that would've been pretty but for the heavy wires and cables strung across the streets, overhead.

Mary turned the corner that held the city's Highway Services Garage, a grim building of corrugated metal with a flat roof that emitted wiggly waves of heat in the sun. Up ahead she spotted the police station next to a massive lumberyard with more cyclone fencing and concertina wire, and because she knew she wouldn't be able to park in the police parking lot, she grabbed a parking space behind a pallet of building supplies, wrapped with dirty plastic. She parked, grabbed her bag, and climbed out of the car, stepping into air that felt even more humid than before, which she hadn't thought was possible. She flashed forward to her wedding day, when she would be married in pea soup and her hair would explode, especially since it looked like she might have to cancel her hair trial.

The police station was a grimy and utilitarian redbrick box flanked by two boxy smaller buildings, behind a set of broad concrete steps. Standing in front of it was an American flag, and tiny metal lettering over its door read,
25
TH
PRECINCT
. The parking lot encircled the building in a U-shape, full to the brim with white police cruisers with the city's distinctive blue-and-yellow striping.

She passed a pair of patrolmen in their summer uniforms, short-sleeve, cobalt blue shirts with dark pants. They carried their hats under their crooked arms and smiled at her, and she smiled back, though her gaze strayed to their waists, where thick black utility belts held a holstered revolver, a walkie-talkie with a stiff antenna, a collapsible nightstick of matte-black metal, and handcuffs, jangling like janitors' keys as they went by.

Mary pushed open the smudged-glass doors and entered the building, not completely surprised by how dirty it smelled inside. She had handled criminal cases and had been in her share of police stations, but she never failed to be dismayed at how filthy they were, especially compared with their sanitized depiction in the movies or television. Not only did fiction get the dirt-level wrong, but the fake police precincts were always atmospherically dark, when in fact the opposite was true. Every police station she'd been in, including this one, was lit by fluorescent lighting so bright it required sunglasses.

The entrance hall was small and covered with grimy gray tile and peeling signs—
INTERPRETERS AVAILABLE IN THE FOLLOWING LANGUAGES, PLEASE KEEP FEET OFF WALLS
, and
PHILADELPHIA POLICE SOCIAL MEDIA
, announcing the department's Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube sites. The left wall was dominated by a bulletproof window that looked into an office lined with tan file cabinets, black plastic in-and-out boxes stacked one on top of the other, and a warren of gray cubicles bearing laptops with official screensavers. At the bottom of the window was a black counter with the metal tray and a little sign that read, touchingly, PEACE in blue capital letters.

Mary went to the window, where a female uniformed officer was just hanging up the phone. “Excuse me,” she said.

“Yes, how may I help you?” the officer asked, her black nametag read
CRUZAN
.

Mary introduced herself, then said, “I'm here representing a ten-year-old boy who goes to Grayson Elementary and he was assaulted by a teacher's aide, three weeks ago. I'd like to file a complaint on his behalf.”

“He was assaulted by a staff member?” Officer Cruzan's brown eyes flared.

“Yes.”

“Did this take place on school grounds?”

“Yes.”

“The procedure is for Grayson to call us. That's the way it works.”

“I'm sure, but they weren't told about it, which is the only reason they didn't call you.” Mary hadn't expected this to be easy, but she wanted to get the ball rolling. “I'm the child's lawyer and I'm here to tell you what happened, so that you can open a file and begin investigating.”

Officer Cruzan frowned. “Is the complainant here?”

“My client? No, he's a ten-year-old boy, and he has anxiety. I think I can do that on his behalf.”

Officer Cruzan thought a moment. “I hear you. You say this happened when?”

“Wednesday, September 16, but I just found out today. I'm assuming that I can file the papers to get a complaint started on his behalf.”

“You mean,
in loco parentis
?”

“Yes, I'm his lawyer. Otherwise, I'd be happy to take the forms and have him fill them out at home. I'd like to avoid having to bring him in. Coming here would scare him.”

“I don't know if this is procedure. Hold on, let me go ask my supervisor, please.” Officer Cruzan frowned again.

“Great, please take my card and ID.” Mary dug in her purse, extracted her wallet, and slid out her driver's license and a business card, passing them under the window.

“Fine, thank you.” Officer Cruzan glanced at Mary's ID. “Be right back.”

“Thanks.” Mary watched the officer disappear into the office-like warren of cubicles behind the Plexiglas window, then turn right out of the room and disappear. It wasn't long until Officer Cruzan returned with an African-American officer wearing a white shirt instead of blue, which Mary knew meant he was a higher-up, though she never understood police rankings. His nametag read
DIAMOND
, and he had gold aviator glasses, a scar on his nose, and a head of salt-and-pepper hair, and he was smiling as he walked to the Plexiglas window.

“The famous Ms. DiNunzio!” he said, resting his hands on the desk on the other side of the window, and Mary tried not to act surprised, but she couldn't help herself.

“I didn't know I was famous. Wait, is your mom Rita Diamond?” Mary asked, pulling the name out of nowhere.

“Sure is!” Officer Diamond beamed. “She bought that new stove but the gas line was defective. She never stops singing your praises. You got her a replacement, for nothing!”

“I remember, she was afraid she was going to blow up the block.” Mary smiled, cheered. It was about time some of her good karma followed her around, and she hoped it would work in Patrick's favor.

“That's her!” Officer Diamond chuckled. “She always imagines the worst thing that could happen. She goes right to disaster zone, zero to sixty. It was like, five, six years ago, wasn't it, that you fixed her up? I can't believe you remember that.”

“She was unforgettable. All mothers are unforgettable.” Mary thought instantly of Patrick, motherless.

“She sees your name in the paper and she says, ‘I knew her when.' You're off the reservation today, aren't you?”

“Ha! Only in Philadelphia does three miles out of Center City qualify as off the reservation.”

“Right!” Officer Diamond laughed, and Mary could see Officer Cruzan edge away with a relieved smile, letting him handle the situation.

“So Officer, as I'm sure Officer Cruzan told you, I'd like to file a complaint on behalf of a little boy without bringing him here and scaring him half to death. How do I accomplish that?”

“You're
in loco parentis
, so here's what we're going to do, to start out.” Officer Diamond rummaged under the ledge and produced a complaint form, which he slid under the window along with her ID and business card. “You're going to fill out this 75-48, a general complaint. You know the relevant information, don't you? Date and time of incident, name of perpetrator, witnesses, if any.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Mary put away her card and ID, then looked over the form, which was straightforward.

“This can get us started investigating, but we're going to have to interview the boy, as soon as possible. We get the nuts and bolts, then you have to take him to PCA, the Philadelphia Children's Alliance, on Front Street.” Officer Diamond gestured to his right, but Mary had a more immediate concern.

“Yes, but can you do your interview at the boy's house? He's—”

“I know, I heard the story. The answer is yes, considering he's a minor. Matter of fact, we might be able to squeeze him in this afternoon. We don't have that many jobs yet.”

“That would be great, thanks.” Mary smiled, and Officer Diamond smiled back, then it faded.

“Was the boy seriously injured?”

“I don't know, but I don't think so. He lives with his grandfather, and the grandfather said his face was swollen and bruised. They're getting him checked at St. Chris, as we speak.”

“Good. That's just what we would have done.” Officer Diamond nodded. “Did the grandfather seek medical attention for the boy at the time of the incident?”

“No, the boy didn't tell anyone about it, so he didn't. He said it was an accident.”

“What about the school nurse? Did the boy see her?”

“Not her either,” Mary assumed, though she had forgotten to ask Edward that question.

“Usually if there's any violence at Grayson, it's student-on-student and they call us. Is that why they didn't call us when it happened, do you know?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“But you have since notified Grayson, haven't you?”

“The boy's grandfather has, and they're investigating the matter.” Mary didn't want to hide the ball about the lawsuit, and he'd find out anyway, when he went to the school and started asking questions. “I got involved today because the grandfather came to me. They're being sued. Believe it or not, this teacher's aide is now claiming that the kid came after him with the scissors.”

“Really.” Officer Diamond lifted an eyebrow.

“I don't believe that for a minute, but I wanted you to know the facts, going in. After all, if that was what happened, why didn't the teacher's aide tell the school or call you? The first time anybody heard of it was yesterday, when he filed the lawsuit against my client and the school district, for half a million dollars.”

“Hmph. I hear that.” Officer Diamond nodded, noncommittally, gesturing at the form. “Okay, you fill this out, and we'll get started. Let me get your contact info about what time I can get a uniform over to the house. Hopefully, in a couple hours or so.” Officer Diamond winked. “My mom would kill me if I didn't take good care of you.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, grateful.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Mary cruised down Moretone Street, eyeing the houses for number 637, the O'Briens. Edward had called her after he'd taken Patrick to the pediatrician, but hadn't wanted to speak in front of Patrick about what the pediatrician had said. They'd set a time to meet at the house, with the police due whenever they got there, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Mary scanned the street, which seemed to be typical for Juniata, the neighborhood where the O'Briens lived, adjacent to Hunting Park. It was almost all residential, with long blocks of rowhouses, different from the rowhouses in South Philly. Typical South Philly rowhouses had varied façades but the rowhouses on Moretone Street were one long connected building of rowhouses, all the same red brick. Each house had a door on one side with a double-set of windows, with another double-set of windows on the second floor and a flat roof. The only variations were small elevated patios in front, paved with flagstone, brick, or concrete; some had railings, others not. Circling the block, Mary realized that Juniata did have one thing in common with South Philly—it took forever to find a parking space.

She finally spotted a space up the street, parked, got her stuff, and walked back to the O'Briens' past the houses. Air conditioners rumbled in the windows, dripping water, and a woman smoking a cigarette swept her front patio, which held a row of children's bicycles locked with a heavy chain. Other patios contained rusting barbecue grills, plastic sliding boards, and picnic tables. Tall oak trees lined the block, their limbs giving some relief from the sun, but none from the humidity, which was too much to ask of a tree.