Freedom's Child (9 page)

Mattley answers from behind the steering wheel. “He says he will, but only if you promise to go to sleep as soon as we get you home, OK?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Everything around me is distorted. “Tell him I like it rough,” I slur.

“I will, Freedom.” Mattley starts the car. “Just try and get to sleep fast, then, OK?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” I begin to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

“Quick, turn around and grab her head,” Mattley yells to the newbie.

“What?” he responds. Is that all this guy knows how to say?
What?
Mattley skids the car to a stop on the soft shoulder. He turns from the front seat and grabs my head, right as I’m about to head-butt the window. Don’t ask me why I do the things I do when I am drunk, I just do. I hurt myself constantly, try to start fights so I get hurt, I feel I deserve to be raped, I’ll sleep with anyone with hopes that they’re sadistic just to feel the pain. This goes back to the glutton-for-punishment thing, I suppose.

After a small struggle, I give up on trying to break the window with my forehead. I think at one point I bite his hand. Probably. Mattley sighs with heaviness and turns to his partner.

“Next time I tell you to do something quick, do it quick and ask about it later.” He’s composed. See? That’s what I love about Mattley. The coolest and most collected man you’d ever meet. “When Freedom starts singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ she’s about to hurt herself.”

“So, now what?” The kid asks. “We put her in the drunk tank for the night?”

“No.” I scream bloody murder, as loud as I can, and throw myself around the backseat like a slug on a salt mine. I lie on my side to kick the shit out of the back of the front seat.

“No, Freedom, don’t worry. I promise we won’t take you to jail, got it?” Mattley has a way of calming me down, but it always takes a few attempts. He really should be canonized for his patience. Saint Mattley. “There’s no point. She’ll be like this the day after tomorrow too,” he explains to the newbie. We pull up to my house. What a fucking depressing sight. Mattley pushes me up the steps to my shoddy apartment.

“Have I ever told you about Layla and Ethan?” I ask him. “Only now they’re Rebekah and Mason, or some stupid shit like that. I mean, who names their kids Rebekah and Mason? Amiright?”

“Shush now, Freedom. No need for any of that. You just get some sleep,” Mattley hushes as we reach the second story.

“Quakers! Quakers name their kids names like that.” I begin to laugh. “Like that Quaker Oats man on the oatmeal cans with the white curly wig.” Suddenly, I do my best impression of a Quaker. “Ho, ho, ho, I’m a fucking Quaker, and my Quaker offspring shall be called Rebekah and Mason Quaker Walton,” as I mock in a Santa Claus voice. I actually don’t know anything about Quakers.

He directs the conversation to Newbie, who stands behind in case I fall. Even I’m surprised I haven’t yet. Mattley knows to never take me through the front entrance. I just can’t stand the sight of the meth-head super, hate him telling me to keep it down. Sometimes it turns ugly, if I’ve had enough to drink. “Never mind what she’s saying. Just grab her key from under that plant.” He motions to the fake plant on the wooden fire escape at my front door on the second story of the building. And what fucking good are wooden fire escapes, anyway? Mattley carries me to my bed, kicking the mess in the dark with his toes.

“Try and go to sleep, Freedom.” God, I love his plummy voice. It’s audio Valium. I look up at Officer Mattley in the dark. He’s a stern copper with most everyone else, but for whatever reason, gentle with me. He feels sorry for me and I hate it. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I’m no victim. Faint white light from the shades paints him into a recognizable being in the bedroom. I can smell his spearmint gum and see his bald head, but he’s sexy. Good Lord, he is a sexy man.

Mattley helps my head onto the pillow and grabs a few blankets from the floor to drape over me. I pretend I’m dead. I pretend he wraps me in a sheet to take me to the morgue. I shut my eyes. I will have no recollection of any of this in the morning. Mattley is a good soul. I truly love his soul. Too bad he’s a Goody Two-shoes, and too bad I’m the town drunk and too bad for a lot of things.

“Mattley, I need a huge favor.”

“What’s that, Freedom?”

“Those letters in the living room.” I point to piles by the hundred. “If anything were to happen.”

“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober, hon.”

“Third-Day Adventists. Mason and Rebekah Paul, Goshen, Kentucky.”

Mattley strokes my forehead for just a second. “Get some rest and forget all that.”

Glass flutes of gold ascend into the air with the cheers and salutations of the firm of Tyndall, Finn, and Moore, Esquire. Tight collars, crooked smiles, and ugly ties welcome Mason back to the office after this morning’s high-profile victory, when an all-star college football player was found not guilty by a jury of his peers of sexually assaulting his eighteen-year-old one-night stand. Guilty as sin, innocent thanks to a few motions submitted, sprinkled with a few objections against the assistant district attorney and a flood of press releases and exposure of the defendant, a would-be valedictorian and prospective NFL star. The photo of the victim giving him a lap dance moments before the alleged rape was the golden ticket, the smoking gun. Mason tries not to remember the look of horror on the victim’s face after the verdict was read out; he can’t afford to. He clenches his jaw and fights the thought from his head; he’s on a winning streak, so close to becoming a senior associate out of so many others clawing up for the position, the opportunity of a lifetime. Can’t let something as petty as compassion ruin a good thing.

“Way to go, Mason.”

“Mason the Caisson, full of ammunition and out on a mission.”

“Thatta kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” as Mason tolerates the discomfort of his
shoulders being squeezed. “Piece of cake.” Sylvester Moore, known as Sly, hands him a glass of champagne, but Mason takes it with disdain. He sees the way Sly looks at Violet every time she walks by, the way he touches her shoulder, her back at every opportunity. But Mason lets it slide and pretends not to notice. He raises his glass along with the others, “Here’s to truth, justice, the American way. Oh, and standing next to your ugly mugs along the way.” The men beam into the glasses, feet in the air. “I need this vacation.” The words echo back from the glass. But Mason feels the weight on his shoulders, the burden that he’s responsible for helping a rapist get away with it.

“You’ve earned it, kid,” says Sly. Rhonda, the world’s most dependable secretary, pulls Sly to the side.

Geoffrey Tyndall, the prehistoric attorney who started the firm back in the ’60s, puts his arm around Mason. “You already know that you’re only one of about ten of the fresh faces here just out of law school. Each one of you, all ambitious kids, all full of dreams. But the truth is, there’s only one position available. The rest will go on and work on climbing the ladder elsewhere.” Mason slows down so Tyndall’s seasoned limbs can keep up while the others take the champagne back to their offices. Tyndall leans in, “Mason, are you ready to become the next senior associate attorney here at the firm?”

Mason swallows down the wrong pipe. “Really?”

“I’ve no doubt, if you keep up with how you’re doing things around here that you’ll become partner down the road.” Geoffrey grins. “Go on and enjoy your trip, I’m tired of hearing about it. The offer will be here when you return.” Mason shakes his hand for a long moment, clasping just enough so as not to dislocate the gnarled, arthritic bones. A part of him wants to scream. A part of him wants to cry. A part of him wants to curse with every profanity known to man.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Tyndall.” Mason inhales the last sip.

Mason all but skips into his office, to where Violet sits, legs long, made longer by three-inch heels on top of his desk. “Is this a private party?” He smirks.

Her lips curl as she leans back in his chair. “If you’d like.”

Mason rests his palms on the arms of the chair, leaning her seat farther back so her body arches under him. He puts his hand up her skirt and follows the warmth until he feels wet flesh, no underwear. Between tasting her lips he whispers, “I love you more than life, you dirty bitch.”

A quick knock on the door before Sly walks in. “Listen, I’m sorry to interrupt—” Mason and Violet stumble to compose themselves behind the desk with an attempt to subdue their laughter. Sly turns his back but stands in the doorway with a fake cough. “There’s a man who was assaulted, just waking from a coma. Asked for you.”

“I’m on vacation,” says Mason as he holds his hand up, still staring into Violet’s eyes.

“I think you’ll want to take this one.”

“Damn it, Sly,” Mason starts to reject him in the politest of ways. “Give the case to one of the ambulance chasers, it’s not for me.”

“This one is.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mason continues to undress Violet with his eyes. “Why’s that?”

“It’s about your sister.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sly walks to Mason’s laptop behind his desk and Googles the name
Rebekah Paul
. After a few clicks, the screen goes to WKLY news, a press conference from Goshen, Kentucky. Mason recognizes his father right away and cringes as he sees him for the first time in six years. Beside him is his mother, Carol, as they hold each other in front of the cameras at the family’s old church, the Third-Day Adventists, teary-eyed and looking twenty years older than what they used to. Behind them, Mason recognizes Sheriff Don Mannix, a deacon at the church for as long as he could remember. Mason sees the flashes from the cameras flickering on their faces, the microphones lining up in front of the desperate couple.

“We ask that anyone with information about the whereabouts
of our daughter please come forward.” Virgil speaks like he’s giving a sermon, a worn Bible held fast to his chest. Mason sees them squeeze each other’s hands. “I will personally pay any price for Rebekah’s safe return.”

A female newscaster comes on the screen. “That was Virgil and Carol Paul, parents of Rebekah Paul, who was last seen on Sunday when leaving Mass at her family church, the Third-Day Adventists.” A photo of Rebekah comes up on the screen. “She was last seen wearing a long, pale pink button-down shirt, a long khaki skirt, and white Keds sneakers. As you heard there, she is five feet, three inches tall and has a large birthmark on her right elbow. As of yet, no foul play has been suspected, but the family says that this is extremely out of character for their daughter not to return home. Anyone with information about Rebekah Paul can call 1-800-555-LOST. All calls will remain anonymous.”

“Well, let’s just hope she gets home safe,” says the other broadcaster back at the studio.

Mason closes the laptop and draws a long sigh.

“I know the timing is bad,” offers Sly, with his eyes looking through Mason at the doorway. “This doctor who called has this kid…Well, it’s touch and go. His brain’s bleeding out his ears and there isn’t much time if he takes a turn for the worse.”

“What about Turks and Caicos?” asks Violet.

“We can still go,” Mason reassures her. “I’ll just go and check it out real fast; we’ll have plenty of time.”

Violet sighs. “I’ll be downstairs in the car.”

When she leaves, Sly clears his throat. “Kid won’t talk to the cops. Won’t talk to anyone but you.”

“He asked for me?” Mason rips his tie off and unbuttons the top of his shirt on his way to the desk.

Mason visibly breathes a little easier when Violet isn’t there. Sly stands across the office, not sure what to say, watching Mason’s face change to something serious. Mason picks up the phone and calls
out. What person on the planet doesn’t remember their childhood phone number?

“Thank you for calling Church of the Third-Day Adventists. This is Naomi. How may I direct your call?”

He wonders when the house number became the church’s line. “Virgil or Carol Paul, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Samuel,” Mason lies. “Tell them this is Samuel.” While on hold, the “God Bless the Little Children” tune, cracking like it’s from an old record, borderline eerie. It’s enough to make the hairs on the back of Mason’s neck stand up.

It took Mason just as much effort to get through law school as it did to shed that image: a reverend’s son, a son from Goshen. There were the rumors that surrounded Goshen, and many from the big city expected most from the place to have incomplete smiles, straw in the teeth.

“This is Carol Paul.” It’s the first time Mason hears his mother’s voice in six years. She’s crying.

“Mom, it’s me. It’s Mason. Don’t hang up.” There’s no response. “Mom.”

But then he hears his father’s voice on the line. “We don’t know no Masons. Never have.” The phone clicks.

Mason sighs and pulls a pack of cigarettes from the drawer as he hangs up. A part of him wants to scream. A part of him wants to cry. A part of him wants to curse with every profanity known to man.

“Well, that was uneventful,” he says, low enough so Sly doesn’t hear. He looks for his lighter. “What’s this kid’s name?”

“Gabriel.”

Like the archangel
, he thinks to himself.

“I’ll wait out here,”
says Violet, as Mason goes to talk with the doctor in charge of Gabriel’s case.

“Mr. Paul, I recognize you from TV, with the case,” says the doctor, who uses his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “He asked for you by name, and when I just heard about Rebekah Paul, I thought it’d be related.”

“Were the police called?”

“They were and they took a statement as best they could.” He hands Mason a card. “Told me to call them back when he’s responsive. Left their card, if you want it.”

“Has this guy said anything?”

“No, but not for lack of trying.” The doctor removes his hospital cap and gloves as he leads Mason down the hall and into an empty room in triage. “I’ve stomached a lot of things in my day, but this one takes the cake.” He takes his scrubs off and throws them in a soiled-linens bin in the corner. “Sounds cliché, doesn’t it?”

“Is this kid going to make it?”

“Probably not.” The doctor leans on the sink and crosses his arms, focusing on a fly buzzing around. “For his sake, I hope he doesn’t. For your sake, I hope he does.”

“But he’s talking?”

“No, he can’t. His jaw’s wired tighter than Alcatraz.” The doctor washes his hands. “Besides, somewhere along the line, he chewed half his tongue off before the paramedics brought him in. Perhaps from a seizure, I’m not sure.” He splashes his face with water. “He can’t write because he’s had a stroke while here, but he can point to letters. He pointed the words
Maton Paul
. When I asked if he meant Mason Paul, he grunted. And then he went into cardiac arrest. We were able to stabilize him, and we’re making him as comfortable as we can, but we can’t get in touch with any of his family.” He sighs and fetches new garbs from one of the cabinets. “I can bring you in, but I’m warning you, it’s ugly. Real ugly. He’s under as heavy sedation as we can get without inducing him back into a coma. If by some miracle he makes it, he’s not leaving much smarter than a third-grader.”

He walks Mason back to Gabriel’s room, close to where Violet
waits. The doctor seems to slide the white curtain that surrounds Gabriel in slow motion. Gabriel’s face hardly looks human. One side looks like raw ground beef, an eye missing. His neck and torso are stitched like a Raggedy Andy doll. His heart rate croons slow on the monitors; the sounds of his trying breaths echo through the tubes.

It takes all that Mason has not to gag and turn away. “Any idea who or what did this to him?”

“No idea who,” the doctor replies. “But my guess would be a tire iron or a Louisville Slugger or something of the like.”

“A tire iron or a baseball bat could make tears like those?”

“A rolled newspaper can rip the flesh, if hit hard enough. Just makes the skin burst.” A nurse enters with a board full of alphabet stickers. The doctor cuts off the liquids of an IV to Gabriel’s arm and uses a syringe to inject the catheter with something else. “I’m waking him up. Make it quick. This is painful for him.”

Gabriel wakes up, his eye squints at the lights. The nurse turns them off. Panic rises, the heart monitor goes berserk. He tries to scream, baring the razor-sharp shards of broken glass that are his teeth, unable to open his mouth from the silver wires that are stitched in and out of both sets of gums to hold his face together. The doctor and two nurses collectively try to calm him down. They breathe loud and slow so he can mimic. When he calms down enough, the doctor nods for Mason to speak.

“I’m Mason Paul.” He leans in close, feeling like he’s already paying his respects at a funeral to somebody he doesn’t know.