-BRIDGER-
THE WEEKEND WAS a blur of phone calls, meetings with lawyers, and visits to Lucy. While the rest of the student body hunkered down in the libraries, Scarlet and I survived on coffee, and practically lived out of her car.
But it was all worth it. On Monday morning, the lawyer that Dean Darling hooked me up with secured an emergency court date for the next afternoon. That left Scarlet and I pacing around my room, frantically phoning everyone involved.
“Brian is going to come to the hearing,” Scarlet said after hanging up with him. She handed me my phone.
“Thank God it’s in the late afternoon,” I said. “So Lucy’s teacher can be there. I left two messages for the dean already. I’m almost ready to storm his office if he doesn’t call me back.”
“He will,” Scarlet said, kissing me on top of the head. “This is all going to work. Brian wanted to remind you to make sure you have something to wear that’s appropriate for court.”
“Oh, fuck.” I looked down at myself. Old jeans? Check. Faded Harkness t-shirt? Check.
My girlfriend laughed. “Do you own a suit? Or are we driving to the mall right now?”
“I have a good sport coat and pants. But my ties are all stained.”
“That’s easy. We don’t even have to leave town for a tie. How about a good shirt?”
“Define ‘good,’” I said.
Scarlet tugged me out of my desk chair. “Come on. Time to go shopping.”
“Right now?”
“Show me some hustle, McCaulley. There’s not much time before the buzzer.”
“You look great,” Scarlet promised me the next afternoon while straightening my tie.
But I was too busy trying not to sweat through my shirt to agree with her. “Let’s go,” I said.
“Brian is waiting for you on Elm Street,” she said, shrugging on her coat.
I held my room door open for Scarlet to pass. “Waiting for us, right?”
She paused on the landing, shaking her head. “I can’t go with you.”
“Why not?” She’d worked tirelessly with me these past few days. I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to see the outcome.
“Think about it,” she whispered. “I’m not vain enough to imagine the judge will recognize me. But if there’s even a tiny chance that some reporter hanging around at the courthouse knew who I was… you don’t need that. You don’t want the name Ellison associated with your custody case. Plus, my phone is going to show me sitting at the library while you’re in court.”
“Scarlet, can we please get rid of that crap on your phone now? Would you cut those assholes loose so I can stop worrying about you?”
“Soon,” she promised, her eyes flicking away from me.
I wanted to argue. But I was out of time. So I kissed her instead, and went off to find her uncle.
“Always refer to a judge as ‘your honor,’” Brian reminded me.
“Right.” I’d probably watched enough cop shows to keep that straight. It’s just that my head was buzzing with anxiety as we walked into the courtroom.
There were more people inside than I expected to see. Jesus. They were all there for me. Hartley and his mother sat together on a bench next to the men’s hockey coach, of all people. Lucy’s teacher nodded to me from the other side of the aisle, where she was seated with Dean Darling. Andy Baschnagel and his parents sat behind them. Holy fuck. At least I wouldn’t have to tell anyone the bad news after I got shot down.
My young lawyer beckoned me over to take a seat in front. “I’ll be speaking for you. But allow me to introduce you to the head of the litigation department at the law school, Judge Blackwell.”
I offered him my hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir…” I caught myself. “Judge.”
Christ. One minute into the courtroom and I’d already fucked it up.
The older man just chuckled. “As long as the guy sitting up there…” he nodded toward the dais, “is ‘your honor,’ then it’s all good.”
“Thank you for coming,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely sure why he was here.
“Dean Darling and I play squash together at this hour of the week, usually,” the older man said. “Since he had to cancel, I thought I’d come and watch one of my students at his first courtroom appearance.”
“Thank you,” I said again. God, I was nervous. Then I saw Lucy’s foster parents appear in the doorway. I looked behind them, but my sister did not appear. “Where’s Lucy?” I asked my lawyer.
“The child does not attend the hearing,” he said quickly. “It’s too traumatic when things don’t work out.”
I felt a stab right in the middle of my sternum. “That makes sense,” I said quickly. I yanked at my collar, which suddenly seemed too tight. If the judge said no, I was going to have to make her cry. Again.
“Deep breaths,” my lawyer said.
“All rise for the honorable Richard Cranmore!”
“It’s show time,” the retired judge muttered.
We turned our attention to the front of the room, where a gray-haired man climbed the dais and sat behind the bench.
“You may be seated,” the clerk said.
The judge opened a file folder in front of him, and then looked out into the courtroom. “Good gracious,” he said, fiddling with the reading glasses hanging around his neck. “I’ve got a dean and half the law school faculty in my courtroom today. Who is minding the college?”
A low chuckle traveled the room, but I was too busy sweating to find the comment funny.
Judge Cranmore scanned the paperwork in front of him. “Emergency petition for guardianship,” he read. “Will Mr. Bridger McCaulley please approach the bench?”
I got up, and my two lawyers followed me.
The judge looked up from the file when I came to stand before him. “Petition for guardianship of Lucy J. McCaulley, made by Bridger McCaulley. Petitioner’s relationship to the minor child is sibling. Is that a full sibling?”
“Yes, your honor,” my lawyer said. “Their birth certificates are included in the file.”
“Sorry, yes,” the judge said, flipping pages. “Supporting documents include statements from the child’s school teacher, foster parents, friends of the family… quite the file you’ve assembled here.”
“They are all here today,” the lawyer said. “The teacher would be happy to speak to you. Her statement describes Lucy’s exemplary attendance and participation at school during the months she lived with her brother in his dorm room.”
I tried not to flinch. But seriously. How did I not foresee that we would end up here?
The judge flipped through the statements in the file and then looked down at me. “You’re a full-time student. Will you be able to continue your studies with custody of the child?”
The lawyer spoke up again. “Your honor, legal guardianship will actually make things easier for Mr. McCaulley, as he has been providing full support under strained circumstances. His custodial plan is in the file.”
The judge waved a hand. “I’ve reviewed it. I just want to hear it from him.”
I swallowed hard. “There are only two things I want to do. The first is to make a home for Lucy, and the second is finish my degree. I might have, uh, arranged things better. But I know I can do both. I’ve always taken care of her.” From my back pocket, I pulled one of the photographs that I’d removed from our house in the fall. It showed Lucy in a baby carrier on my chest while I read a geometry textbook.
I’d been fourteen when the picture was taken.
The judge looked at the picture for a long moment. Then he beckoned a social worker toward the bench. “Does the state have any concerns about this potential arrangement?”
“Housing, your honor,” the social worker assigned to the case said. “But I’ve been told that the College will provide suitable housing if guardianship is approved.”
The judge lifted his eyes to the crowd in front of him. “Who would like to speak to that?”
Dean Darling stood up. “The McCaulley family will be afforded a small two-bedroom apartment in one of our graduate student buildings. Since Mr. McCaulley is part-way through a masters degree in cell biology, I did not even have to apply much force to the graduate dean’s arm to get him to free up a unit. Mr. McCaulley’s financial aid will cover about two thirds of the cost, and I’m told that the child’s survivor’s benefits will cover the balance. In addition, a hockey alumnus has generously stepped forward to supply both Mr. McCaulley and his ward with a dining hall meal plan for the second semester. Their new apartment has a kitchen, of course, but they will not need to use it until summertime, if they so wish.”
“That is generous indeed,” the judge said, and I had to agree. What’s more, it was shocking. I didn’t know any hockey alumni.
Dean Darling cleared his throat. “There are many people here who wish to see our student succeed. He has never asked for our help, but we want him to know that he is welcome to it.”
“Well then,” the judge said with a nod. “Then we shall free up another place in our straining foster care system.”
My gut stumbled when he said foster care, and so I didn’t process the whole sentence. But then his next words sunk in. “Emergency motion for temporary guardianship approved.” Just like on TV, he tapped a gavel against its base. “We’ll revisit in three months to make sure that all conditions of the custody plan have been met.”
I stood there a moment longer, replaying his words in my head, hoping that I’d just heard what I thought I heard.
Behind me, Theresa and Hartley let out a cheer.
-SCARLET-
“Tomorrow?” I squealed into the phone at Bridger, who was breathless with relief. “Why can’t you have her back tonight?”
“Paperwork,” he scoffed. “But I got to give her the good news myself, over the phone. And Amy and Rich offered to take her to Chuck E. Cheese’s to celebrate. And there’s nothing like a little bribe to get you over the hump.”
I laughed. “Where are you guys? I’m just walking back to Vanderberg.” I’d been in the library, studying for my stats exam.
“It took me awhile to get out of there,” he said. “I had to thank a whole lot of people who came to show their support, even though the judge didn’t call on anyone except the dean. Now we’re parking Brian’s car about one minute away from you. Wait for us outside?”
“Sure.” I hung up the phone and tried not to feel creeped out by the fact that Bridger’s number would pop up on Azzan’s spy report. Shoving the phone into my purse, I decided that it was time to let Luke take the spywear off. I’d left it on long enough that my father’s handlers wouldn’t assume that I’d noticed their spying. And it had occurred to me that if I traded up for a newer phone, the transition would look accidental.
I was so distracted by my own scheming that I didn’t notice who was waiting for me outside of Vanderberg.
“Hi Scarlet.”
I lifted my chin to find the district attorney Madeline Teeter standing outside my entryway door. “I told you I couldn’t talk to you,” I said immediately.
“I know you did,” she said evenly. “But if you’ll give me thirty seconds, I can explain why I came all the way down here to ask you a single question about the layout of your family home.”
The layout of our house? That piqued my interest, although it didn’t make much sense. The police had combed through the place with their search warrants several times after the arrest.
“Scarlet?” Bridger arrived, his arm coming around my shoulders. Brian joined us, too, flanking my other side. “Who is this?”
“The prosecutor,” Brian supplied. “She interviewed me two months ago, after which J.P.’s security team followed me around Massachusetts for three days.”
“I can’t talk to you,” I repeated. If I did, Azzan would find out, and then he’d threaten Bridger again. And I would do anything to spare him that heartache.
“Your father won’t find out,” Ms. Teeter said, reading my mind. “We’re never putting you on our witness list.”
“You can’t promise me that,” I protested. “Besides, I’m already on the list.”
She shook her head. “That’s just a front the defense is putting up. They’ll never call you to the stand.”
“Why not?” I asked.
The prosecutor rubbed her hands together. “I’d prefer to explain it to you in the office I’m borrowing downtown.”
“Explain it to her here,” my Uncle Brian said.
“Fine.” She trained her serious blue eyes on me. “I’m not putting you on the stand, because asking a daughter to testify against her father looks desperate. Unless the daughter has something crucial to say.”
“Which I don’t,” I put in.
“I’m sure that’s true,” she said kindly. “If you did, your father’s legal team wouldn’t dare make you available. But they’re not going to call you either, and I can prove it.”
“Go ahead,” Brian said.
The prosecutor pulled a file out of the elegant leather satchel she carried over her arm. Under the other arm was a paper tube, as if she were toting a poster around. “If your father puts you on the stand as a ploy to defend himself, I’m going to call a witness by the name of David Clancy.”
That made no sense. “My hockey teammate’s father? Why?”
“Because he — and several others, too — gave a deposition about your father’s behavior toward you during hockey games. And it is not the kind of thing your father wants a jury to hear. Your father filled in as your team coach for a couple of games two years ago. Do you remember that?”
I nodded, steeling myself. Our regular coach had been out of town for a funeral. And with Dad in charge, I’d been a wreck. Those games did not go well for me, and now both my boyfriend and my uncle were going to hear the gory details.
“The witness said that you gave up two goals within three minutes, and your father was heard to shout…”
This next part was going to be even more humiliating than my hockey errors.
“…You stupid little bitch. Only a whore could get herself fucked so hard as you just did.”
Beside me, Bridger’s body went absolutely solid, and Uncle Brian cursed under his breath.
“That sounds really bad out of context,” I said, my face getting hot.
“Out of context?” Bridger’s voice was tight. “There is no context in which that is an acceptable thing to say to your child.”
“I was sixteen,” I said, pointlessly. I don’t know why I gave even a half-hearted defense of my father. Maybe because I felt like an idiot for living with a man who would say those things to me without realizing that he was capable of far worse.
Beside me, Uncle Brian bent down to put his hands on his knees, dropping his head.
“Are you okay?” Bridger asked, looking down at him.
“Give me a minute,” he muttered.
“Please, Scarlet,” the prosecutor said. “I will only ask you questions about the layout of your home. And your uncle can sit in on the interview. If you don’t like the questions, you can just get up and leave. But I need this. And the boys who were victims need this.”
My father had called me a whore in front of a few hundred people. But those boys got much worse.
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
“The office is on South Street,” she said.
“We just came from there,” Bridger said.
Brian straightened up, his face red and strained. “I guess we’re going back.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself sitting in a little government conference room, which the prosecutor had borrowed from her colleagues in the Harkness County prosecutor’s office. The tube she’d been carrying under her arm proved to be a detailed architectural floor plan of my New Hampshire home. She and her assistant spread it out on the table.
“I need to ask you about your basement,” Ms. Teeter said. “It doesn’t seem very basement-like.”
“Well, it’s a walk-out,” I supplied, pointing at the drawing. “These sliding glass doors open into the back yard. The house is on a slope, so only one side of the basement is really underground.”
“And there aren’t any walls or partitions down there?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The drawing is accurate.”
She nodded. “Tell us about this utility space.” She pointed at the little mechanical room under the stairs. “Is it roomy?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You can barely get in there. My mother has always kept her Christmas wrapping paper in there, but I discovered it when I was in the second grade.”
Brian let out a strangled chuckle and pinched the sides of his nose.
“Is it insulated?” the prosecutor pressed. “If someone was in there, could you hear it?”
“There’s no way it’s insulated,” I said. “Why are you asking me this?”
She sighed. “There are some old stories about a basement. Or a dungeon. But there’s nothing dungeon-like in your house. In fact, there isn’t even a door on your basement.”
That was true. It was all very airy and open.
“This has bothered me,” the prosecutor confessed, “because I want rock-solid details in court. And — no matter what people say about lawyers — I want my complaint to be completely truthful. I don’t have time for exaggeration. And this dungeon bit doesn’t ring true to me. Has the basement changed at all in the last ten years? Did your parents have any work done down there?”
I shook my head. “The only renovations in the house that I can remember were the kitchens and bathrooms.”
“The basement wasn’t touched?”
“No. It was finished and modern when we moved into the place. That’s why they chose to knock down the other house when they bought that second property. That one was really old…” I broke off that sentence. Something bothered me about that idea, and I couldn’t figure out what.
“A second house?” the prosecutor asked, her voice hushed.
“Yes…” Again, my brain snagged on something. “My father wanted a big yard, so he could have an ice rink…” I pictured the rink and the yard. And the dark, shadowed corner of the property where I did not like to walk, ever since our yard had doubled in size.
“There are doors,” I croaked, surprised at myself.
“What doors?” the prosecutor asked.
“There are…” I swallowed hard, and my throat was like sandpaper. “…Those doors in the ground. Like in The Wizard of Oz.” I slapped my hand down at the edge of the floor plan. “Over there. Off the edge of your map. They were part of the old house.”
The prosecutor locked eyes with her assistant. “Call the investigator. Check the search warrant to make sure that outbuildings are covered.”
The assistant bolted out of the room, and a terrible shiver ripped down my spine. Those doors had always scared me. I never wanted to go near them. When I was eight or nine, I thought that monsters lived down there.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, shoving my hands in front of my mouth.
“Whoa,” Brian asked, standing up from his chair so fast that it fell over. “This interview is over. We’re done here.”
The prosecutor held up two hands in a defensive position. “Okay. No more questions. And I’m going to step out. The room is yours. Scarlet, you’ve been very helpful.”
I didn’t answer her. Because there were tears stinging my eyes. I’d heard something in that abandoned old cellar. I was in grade school, and I was dawdling outside when I was supposed to be doing my homework. And I’d heard muffled shouting from that corner of my yard. “Oh my God,” I said again. “Oh my God.”
“Shh, shh,” Brian said, righting his chair and pulling it close. He sat, wrapping his arms around me. “Shh. I’m so sorry.”
“I think there was somebody down there once,” I squeaked.
Brian swiped at my tears. “Sweetie, were you ever down there?”
Violently, I shook my head. “Never. I didn’t really know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
He pulled my head into his shoulder. “You didn’t know,” he whispered, rocking me. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not!”
“You didn’t hurt anyone, Sweetie. You were a child. Just breathe for me. Deep breaths.”
Slowly, I forced myself to calm down. “Can we leave, now? I really want to go.” Maybe if I just got out of this room, the world would stop tilting.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Brian said. “Let’s go and eat somewhere. We need to decompress.”
“Decompress,” I repeated, stupidly. When I looked up, I saw Bridger standing very still across the table from us. His head was cocked to the side, as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Bridge?”
He stared for another long moment. “Sure, Scarlet,” he said eventually. “Let’s go.”
