Title: Confessions Lead to Strange Bedfellows
Author: Kimberly21570
Fandoms: Guiding Light / All My Children
Pairings: Olivia and Natalia / Lena and Bianca
Disclaimers and other Assorted Ramblings: The characters of Olivia and Emma Spencer, Natalia and Rafe Rivera, Josh and Shayne Lewis, Doris Wolfe, Buzz and Frank Cooper are owned by CBS/TeleNext and Proctor & Gamble. The character of Lena Kundera is owned by All My Children, ABC/Disney and Prospect Park.
No copyright infringement intended with regard to Guiding Light, CBS/TeleNext, Proctor & Gamble, AMC, ABC/Disney, or any other entity. The dialogue, settings, and story content in these scenes are original. Written for fun, not profit. All other standard disclaimers apply.
Thanks to my pal, MoniRod for the edit. You totally Rock, Woman! I appreciate you, and I owe you—BIG TIME!
Rating: Chapter 14 is rated NC-17 for some sexual situations and strong language; however, Section 10 is rated PG-13.
Confessions Lead to Strange Bedfellows
Copyright May 2009
"Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, 3 because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. 4 Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. 5 If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. 6 But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. 7 That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord. 8 Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do."
— James 1:2-8, the Bible, New International Version (NIV)
"God promises a safe landing, not a calm passage. If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it."
Unknown
Chapter 14.10 – Trials and Tribulations:
Wednesday, June 17, 2009… Judge Bennett Thomas's Chambers, Springfield Courthouse—10:30 a.m. Central Daylight Time
Distractedly, Bennett Thomas paced the thickly carpeted floor inside her chambers. Something about these charges against Tracy Jackson just didn't set right with her. The timing was suspect, of course, given how well the situation played into Preston Morgan's hand; but there was something else, something far less obvious, she was certain. She just couldn't quite put her finger on the essence of it.
She hadn't noticed the subtle buzzing of Morgan's cell phone, or the nearly imperceptible look that passed between him and his lead attorney, Mason Reynolds, just moments before the accusations had been made. But somehow, her gut told her that they were the key. Part of it, at least.
Protocol dictated that she shouldn't involve herself directly in this situation. And ordinarily, she wouldn't have given it a second thought. But the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach simply would not leave her alone. As a result, mere moments after returning to her chambers, she found herself personally calling to request copies of the police report and arrest warrant. And now she was impatiently awaiting receipt of them. Perhaps then, she could make some sense out of everything that had transpired in her courtroom that morning.
Glancing at her wristwatch, she muttered under her breath. How long could it possibly take to send a fucking fax?
Aggravated, and on the verge of a tantrum, she strode with purpose toward the huge mahogany desk that dominated the room. Centered on an authentic Oriental rug that she had picked up on a trip to Shanghai, it filled the area in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a panoramic view of the courtyard, and beyond. She had spent many an evening sitting in the overstuffed black leather chair behind that desk, staring out across that vast expanse of city lights, as she contemplated her life—how it had been, and how she wanted it to be. That subtle reminder of how she envisioned her future life set her in motion.
Snatching her cell phone from her top drawer, Bennett sank down into the cool, inviting leather, opened her text messaging app, and began typing. You up for dinner tonight? She could use a little help sorting through this, she reasoned.
Is it business... or personal?
Bennett grinned in response, as she tucked a wayward strand of raven hair behind her right ear. She could almost hear the flirty grin on Doris Wolfe's face. A little of both, perhaps. But far more pleasure than business, she answered honestly. It had been far too long, and an evening in bed with Doris was exactly what she needed to take the edge off. Good, God, just the thought of that woman's wide, avid mouth on her…
She was yanked from her fantasies by the light buzzing of her phone.
I've gotta warn you, I'm feeling quite ravenous, of late, Doris cautioned with a roguish grin.
That makes two of us, Bennett replied. Just the thought of being with Doris could set her body afire, and she could feel the anticipation already building deep within. See you at my place at seven. I'll make dinner. You bring… dessert.
Pleased with the double entendre in her message, she hit send, and checked her watch again. Ten forty. She was due back in the courtroom in just five minutes. With a deep sigh, she tucked her phone back into the desk drawer, and pushed it closed. Tracy Jackson's dilemma would have to wait. And so would that blossoming ache between her legs. But she was determined that neither would have to wait for long.
On the other side of the Springfield Civil Complex, Doris Wolfe laughed as she contemplated the brazenly sexual innuendo in Bennett's loaded text message. And then she sank back into the comfort of her own overstuffed leather chair, an insatiable grin plastered across her face. She hadn't seen Bennett for anything more than business in months, and though it scared her to admit it, she missed her terribly. She wondered if she should dare hope things might be different, now that Bennett was divorced. But she quickly shut that down. It was far too much of an emotional risk, given their history, and she couldn't bear the thought of being disappointed that way again.
Instead, she chose to focus on the night of insanely steamy sex that she knew was about to transpire. She knew, without a doubt, that dinner would turn into breakfast, with neither of them having slept a wink in between. Her body was already humming with excitement, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the thought of food.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009… The Farmhouse of Love—11:00 a.m. Central Daylight Time
Being familiar with the huge oak tree on the edge of the hillside overlooking the pond, Josh already had a few design ideas in mind for Emma's tree house before he even arrived that morning. But he walked Rafe through the thought-process, to give him a taste of what it was like to create something from the ground, up. He had found with Shayne that being involved from the beginning created a sense of investment in the project, and thus, a deeper awareness of responsibility in completing his portion of the work, and a true sense of pride in a job well done. He hoped that the same would be true of Rafe.
The consummate environmentalist after his level of consciousness had been raised during his years in the oil business, Josh had sent an arborist out to inspect the tree several days prior, and he had received the all-clear to begin building. Now, together, he and Rafe surveyed the tree. And then Rafe listened intently, as Josh taught him about the various forms of support—post, bolt, and suspension.
The post method involved sinking support beams into the ground close to the tree, rather than attaching it to the tree itself, he explained. This was the least invasive choice in terms of damage to the tree, and thus, the one Josh preferred to implement. But he didn't share that bit of information with Rafe. Instead, he continued to outline the options.
By stark contrast, the bolt method, which was the most traditional way of supporting a tree house, was the most invasive of the options. It involved angling support beams from the base of the platform, and bolting them directly to the tree; thus, making it the most damaging choice in terms of support. Josh liked this one the least, but again, he held that piece of information back.
And finally, the suspension method, Josh tutored, involved using cables, ropes, or chains to hang the tree house from sturdy upper branches of the tree. While the suspension mechanisms held the potential to scar the tree bark, it was far less invasive than actually bolting the supports to the trunk. And suspension was an acceptable option for the particular tree they had chosen, because its strong, sturdy base and plethora of well-developed upper branches. Still, the structure wouldn't be capable of supporting a great deal of weight, which could hinder the size of the structure they would build.
One by one, Josh laid out options for Rafe, leaving the details regarding the level of environmental invasiveness, strength, and safety out of the equation, rather than including them—a test of Rafe's intuitiveness. And then he listened intently to the boy's reasoning as he worked out what he thought to be the best decision for Emma's tree house. In the end, Rafe chose the post method, because it was the most ecologically and structurally sound, he had explained.
Josh readily agreed, congratulating Rafe on having made a wise choice. Rafe beamed at the praise. It raised his level of excitement about the project, and he was anxious to get started. They turned their attention to the planning phase then, working out structure size and placement, determining what types of materials they needed, and how much of each material would be required.
Pulling out an old sketchpad and drafting pencil, Josh's hand moved in quick, smooth strokes, as he effortlessly created a preliminary design for the structure. Together, they took the necessary measurements, and then returned to the sketch, time and again.
As they worked, Josh paused from time to time, asking Rafe's thoughts on where to place things such as windows and the door, and how to incorporate the large branches that interfered with the planned trajectory of the tree house.
Patiently, Josh walked Rafe through every step, teaching him how to plan and calculate along the way. And by the time they climbed into Josh's old pickup truck to make the trip into town to purchase the supplies, Rafe was brimming with excitement, and Josh couldn't have been more pleased.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009… Springfield Police Department—11:15 a.m. Central Daylight Time
Jen had been shaken by the news that she wouldn't be allowed to stay for discussions regarding the ridiculous allegations that had been leveled at her fiancée. Their attorney, Grayson McAlister, had explained that even if she and Tracy were legally married in another state, Illinois law would not recognize spousal privilege. Thus, Tracy's defense could be compromised if Jen were to be privy to any incriminating information. Both she and Tracy knew that was an absolute impossibility—there was no incriminating information, because Tracy had never even met this person who was accusing her, let alone committed the crime of which she had been accused. But somehow the truth didn't seem to hold much weight under the circumstances. And so she waited down the hall from the interrogation room where Tracy was meeting with Grayson, pacing frantically, as Olivia, Natalia, and Doris took turns attempting to calm her.
"I just don't understand how they can charge her with a crime against someone she's never even met!" Jen frantically exclaimed, as she paced the dingy gray floor. She knew it was true, because Tracy would never lie to her. But something tugged deep inside her, and she couldn't shake the feeling that somehow she was supposed to know who this Antoinette person was, and how she was tied to this entire mess.
Soundlessly, Natalia moved to Jen's side, placing comforting hands on her shoulders. "I don't understand any of this either, Jen," she said in a soothing voice.
Jen turned to face her, tears flowing down her pallid cheeks. "How could anyone do this to her?" she cried. "Tracy would never hurt anyone." And then her thoughts shifted to their sons. "And oh, my God, what will I say to the boys? How will I ever explain…"
"I know, Sweetie," Natalia comforted. "I know." Gently, she guided Jen toward the dilapidated wooden table in the center of the room. "Come. Sit. We'll talk, okay?"
Numbly, Jen nodded, and did as Natalia suggested.
"None of this makes any sense," Jen sighed, after Natalia finally managed to settle her on one of a half dozen rickety wooden chairs. "Tracy has never been with anyone but me. I know she hasn't." She remembered briefly, asking Tracy if she was certain she had never done anything like that before, after the first time they made love. It had been incredible—beyond her wildest imagination. But her remark had been teasing, and she knew, even now, that Tracy had spoken the truth. "And I know she's never assaulted anyone, sexually or otherwise!"
"Well, let's try to think this through," Olivia said calmly. She was sitting across the table from Jen, a Styrofoam cup of the lukewarm sludge being passed off as decaf, nestled between her hands. "What do we know?"
"Right now?" Jen's tone lifted on the latter word, asking the question. "Nothing—except what we know of Tracy."
The wobbly chair creaked beneath the force of Olivia's movement as she shifted, leaning back and crossing her legs. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she contemplated their lack of facts. Jen was correct. The young woman's personal history was clean, her character, above reproach. Beyond that, they had nothing. "We need to think like a criminal," she commented.
"Well, I'm not a criminal, Olivia," Jen snapped, her nerves frayed beyond recognition. "I wouldn't know how to think like one."
Rather than taking offense, Olivia offered a devious grin. "No worries. I've got you covered," she said, only half joking. She almost wished that Phillip hadn't excused himself after they left court. For once, his devious mind might have been of some use for her.
Making her way toward the coffee pots, Doris smirked. "I'm an officer of the court, Olivia. Don't say anything self-incriminating," she teased.
Amused, Natalia just smiled and shook her head. Reaching across the table, she squeezed Olivia's hand. "Try not to show off too much, Honey. We don't need you getting arrested too."
Natalia's comment brought a slight smile to Jen's face. The first one they had seen from her in hours. And then she looked at Olivia ruefully. "Sorry I snapped at you."
Olivia's laughter toward Doris's and Natalia's comments turned into an empathic wave of the hand, as she pardoned her friend's behavior. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure I've deserved it somewhere along the way," she granted with a rueful smile. And then she fell silent again, the sounds of a busy squad room echoing down the concrete hallway as she contemplated the situation. "The timing on this is too convenient for Morgan, to be a coincidence," she said suspiciously. "He's involved somehow."
"I don't doubt that. But how?" Jen wondered aloud. "He doesn't know anything about Tracy beyond the fact that she exists."
"Private detective," Olivia supposed. "I can see him pulling out all the stops on this."
Jen released a sigh of frustration, and focused on the nicks and gouges that peppered the tabletop. There were initials, and symbols, and someone had even played a game of tic-tac-toe. "Yeah, me too."
"He had to have paid someone to fabricate the charges," Doris surmised, as she poured a cup of regular. It smelled about as appealing as the decaf, and looked easily twice as lethal. "Lord knows, he has the money for it."
"Well, for his sake, I hope he paid in full, because he won't have it for long."
Olivia's tone was so ominous that even Doris cringed. "We're a go?" she queried, as she stepped toward the table again. She took a sip of the lukewarm liquid, and her face immediately soured. "Shit, this is nasty!" she exclaimed, and promptly discarded the cup in the nearby trash can.
Everyone laughed in response to Doris's sidebar, and then Olivia responded to the previous comment. "Yup," she said confidently. "We're set for Friday at three." She and Lena had strategically orchestrated the timing to block Preston's immediate access to the stock markets, and thus, the monetary resources that he might otherwise tap in an emergency. The domestic stock exchanges closed at four o'clock Eastern time, and the foreign markets would have closed hours earlier. The fact that they would be headed into the weekend only sweetened the deal.
"It still doesn't make sense," Natalia interjected. Her mind had been on the details of Tracy's alleged crime, while Olivia and Doris took their little side trip. "What good would it do him to pay someone to fabricate charges, if there's no connection between Tracy and this other woman? How can they prove something happened, if Tracy doesn't even know her?"
"She wouldn't necessarily have to know the victim," Doris said, hesitantly. The thought that her statement might be construed as judgment against Tracy troubled her deeply. "I think their angle is that it was a random act."
"Then why would Reynolds ask Tracy if she knew the woman?" Jen wondered aloud.
"To throw her off, maybe?" Doris guessed.
"Or gauge her reaction?" Natalia offered.
Doris nodded, indicating that Natalia's suggestion held merit.
It was Olivia's turn to pace. "I don't know," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose again, as she moved back and forth in the small space, in rapid motion. "We need more information," she declared. "Something to go on."
"I was too stunned to actually register the details." Jen sounded as though she were at a loss.
"Yeah, me too," Olivia sighed. She turned toward the Mayor. "Can you get a copy of the police report or the arrest warrant, so we have details?"
"Officially?" Doris's tone posed the question. "No. But I'll see what I can turn up under the radar."
"Great," Olivia said with a definitive nod. "Thanks, Doris."
The distinct sounds of heels and boots emanated from somewhere down the cold, lifeless hallway, and before Doris could respond, Detective Sargent Langston Malloy entered the room. Impeccably dressed in charcoal gray linen trousers with a matching suit jacket, a crisp white button-down shirt, and stylish, yet sensible black leather boots, she didn't look like any cop Jen had ever seen. But Jen knew who she was from their previous encounter at Company the night Diane went ballistic on Tracy.
The detective carried herself with an air of authority as she moved into the room; though not in the threatening way of some cops. Rather than appearing intimidating, she seemed surprisingly approachable. "Mrs. Morgan?" she said in a tone that while indicating a search, commanded attention.
"Yes?" Jen rose quickly to her feet, as she appraised the detective. The woman stood about Olivia's height, and held a similar build. But what Jen noticed the most was the warmth in her deep blue eyes.
The detective moved across the room with purpose, her right hand extended in greeting. "I'm Detective Sargent Langston Malloy," she introduced. "This is Gwen Matthews, Director of DCFS," she added, pitching a thumb toward the shorter woman who had entered the room just a few steps behind her.
Gwen smiled and nodded. Dressed in a neatly pressed dark teal suit with a crème colored shell, and low black heels, she stood a few inches shorter than the dark-haired detective with the piercing blue eyes. Her own eyes were a soft, warm brown, and her hair was several shades lighter, with natural red highlights that shone even in the crude florescent lighting.
Graciously, Jen shook hands with both women, taking the opportunity to remind Langston that they had met previously.
Langston's eyes lit with recognition. "Ah, yes, I remember now. The incident at Company a few months ago, right? Some crazy lady attacked your girlfriend." It took only a moment for her to recall her initial impressions of the girlfriend. It made sense now that Chief Cooper insisted she handle the case.
"Yes, that was the incident," Jen said ruefully. She shook her head as if to dismiss the ordeal as nothing but a nuisance, and turned to introduce Olivia, Natalia, and Doris. The Mayor, of course, needed no introduction.
Greetings were exchanged all around, and then, with the practiced, yet casual motion of a hand, Langston indicated that they should all have a seat. Courteously, she pulled a chair out for Gwen, and the two of them took adjacent seats at the table, across from the other women.
"First of all," Langston said in a warm, gentle tone, as she casually clasped her hands together on the table in front of her, "I'm sorry for the circumstances that bring us together here today."
"Thank you, Detective," Jen said appreciatively. "I know you have a job to do, so as difficult as this is, I won't get in your way. But for the record, I know you're not going to find anything. My fiancée has never done anything to our boys. I would stake my life on it."
Langston prayed that that was true. She prided herself on the work she did in Special Victims. Had even recently been promoted to Sargent as a result of her stellar work. But she hated the part of the job where she had to face survivors of such heinous acts, hear their stories, and probe into the intimate details of their experiences. "Believe me when I tell you, Mrs. Morgan, I want more than anything for that to be true."
Slate blue eyes held Jen's gaze as Langston spoke, the expression within them authenticating the sincerity in her words and tone. Jen felt some of the tension seep from her tight muscles, and she visibly relaxed. While incredibly frustrating, scary even, this didn't have to be a completely terrible interaction, she realized. The detective seemed like a nice woman, and she didn't appear to have any preconceived judgments regarding either Jen or Tracy.
"So what happens now?" Jen asked tentatively, once the initial wave of fear abated.
"We need to talk with your sons, Mrs. Morgan. Gwen and I will be handling that together, as we often do in cases involving the welfare of children," Langston informed.
Jen nodded. "Judge Thomas explained that," she acknowledged. "Does that have to happen here?" she asked, worry in her tone. "I think that would be terribly frightening for them, and…"
Reaching across the table, Gwen set a gentle hand on Jen's arm. "We understand that, Mrs. Morgan," she said comfortingly. "I think someplace neutral would be best under the circumstances."
"Someplace neutral?"
"Yes, somewhere other than your home or the police station," Gwen clarified. "Neither is a good option, in my opinion."
Olivia's mind was already at work. Glancing at Natalia, she received her silent agreement. "You can use our suite at the Beacon," she offered generously. "The boys are familiar with it, and they feel comfortable there."
The expression in Jen's grayish eyes once again spoke of gratitude in the midst of a storm, as she met Olivia's gaze. "Thank you," she said softly. And then she returned her attention to the women across the table. "Will I be allowed to talk with them first?" she asked. "To explain why you're asking them questions?"
Nodding, Langston said, "You're welcome to explain things, but either Gwen or I need to be in the room during the conversation. It's just a formality, but we need to be able to testify that they weren't coached into what to say."
"I understand," Jen said quietly. She hated this. She hated it with a passion. "Is there…" Hesitating, she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. It couldn't hurt to ask. "Is it possible for you to hold off on this, just for a little while?" she asked tentatively. "We don't even have any details regarding these charges against Tracy yet. We don't even know what… evidence they have against her."
The sound of Jen's voice catching with emotion sent Olivia into action. Reaching over, she took Jen's hand, squeezing gently. "Surely, you can give us some time to figure out where the hell these charges came from," she said, pleadingly. "We all know they're bogus. Hell, even Mayor Wolfe and Chief Cooper know it. We just need time to prove it. And I just don't see any reason to traumatize these boys if it's not absolutely necessary."
Reflexively, Gwen Matthews brushed back neat strands of auburn hair, her dark, scrutinizing eyes surveying each one of the four women across the table, in turn. And then she locked gazes with Detective Sargent Malloy. A silent conversation passed between them. Neither of them had details regarding the charges that had been lodged against Tracy Jackson. All of that had been kept under wraps by someone much farther up the chain of command than even Chief Cooper, and no one was certain as to why. All they knew was what they had been told: that Tracy Jackson had been arrested for a sexual assault against a minor, and that she was suspected of having engaged in sexual acts with her lover's two minor children.
Yet, no complaints had ever been filed by their mother; or by anyone else with close ties to the boys, for that matter. All they had at the moment were vague theories that something might have happened, based upon vaguely similar charges that had been lodged against their mother's fiancée. There were far too many unanswered questions, and both Gwen and Langston knew it.
Finally, Gwen turned back to Jen, her gaze softening. "Miss Jackson can't have any contact with the children until we're certain they're not in danger, Mrs. Morgan," she said, her voice gentle, yet firm. "That means she can't come home, or even visit with them, until either the charges are dropped, or she's been acquitted of them. Is she truly prepared to abide by that?"
"I know Tracy better than anyone," Jen said, confidently, her ice blue eyes locked on Gwen's deep brown ones. "She would rather stay with her folks until this mess is cleared up, than have our boys traumatized unnecessarily." She didn't even need to ask her.
Gwen sighed. She understood their point about unnecessary trauma, but she also knew that nine times out of ten, so-called "bogus" charges weren't really bogus at all. No pedophile was ever guilty—not if you asked them, anyway. And yet, they were almost always guilty as sin—and innocent children were left to pay the price.
She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, especially given that Judge Thomas had demanded her presence on this case. That, in and of itself, spoke volumes. And yet, she wasn't quite certain whether it was to protect the children from unnecessary investigation, or… protect them from a predator. With that question in mind, she proceeded judiciously. "I tell you what," she said, setting the stage for a bargain, "we'll hold off on talking with them… for now. Give you a little time to figure out what this is all about, okay? But I need your word that you won't interfere with any potential testimony by coaching…"
"You absolutely have my word," Jen solemnly vowed, before Gwen even finished speaking. The sense of relief she felt was almost overwhelming. "I don't even want this subject brought up to our boys, if we can avoid it."
"I understand," Gwen said, with genuineness in her tone.
"I can agree with this," Langston said, tentatively. Protecting these children was her first priority, and that meant protecting them from potentially unnecessary questioning, as well. And there was obviously a reason why this situation was unfolding so rapidly—DCFS usually took weeks, if not months, to respond to such allegations. But Gwen had appeared in her office within hours of the initial report hitting her desk. What was so different about this case? Why had the judge demanded Gwen? And why was everything moving with such urgency? So many questions…
"But if I don't see some compelling evidence of Miss Jackson's alleged innocence in this other crime within forty-eight hours, we need to move forward on our end," she said, decidedly. Forty-eight hours would give them all an opportunity to gather more information—and that was exactly what she and Gwen both needed at the moment.
"Forty-eight hours."
Olivia's voice was wound tight with frustration, and Natalia sensed she was about to blow. Reaching over, she placed a gentle hand on her partner's arm, steadying her, as she spoke. "Thank you, Ms. Matthews, Detective Malloy," she said, courteously.
A thankful expression filled Jen's teary eyes. "Yes. Thank you. We're grateful for your willingness to work with us," she said quietly.
"My first priority is the safety and well-being of your sons, Mrs. Morgan," Gwen assured. "It makes sense to hold off for the time being."
Langston met Jen's gaze again. "Can we agree to meet back here," she glanced at the simple yet elegant silver wristwatch that adorned her left wrist, "at noon tomorrow?"
Wiping tears from her cheeks, Jen nodded. "Yes, Detective," she readily agreed. "And thank you again."
Nodding cordially, Langston rose from her seat. Gwen followed suit. Extending their hands across the table, they bid the women goodbye. And then, turning on their heels, the exited the room as effortlessly as they had entered, leaving the foursome to ponder where they were to go from there.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009… The Farmhouse of Love—1:30 p.m. Central Daylight Time
"Thanks again for lunch, man," Rafe was saying, as they worked together to erect a tent near the old oak tree. Their building materials would be stored there for protection during the building process. Obviously, it wasn't that the materials couldn't withstand the elements. It was simply easier to work with them when they weren't sopping wet, Josh had explained. And weather forecasters were indicating a rainy June into early July for the Midwest.
"You're welcome," Josh said warmly. "Your mom told me Company was your favorite." They had stopped in at the familiar eatery for some lunch before heading to the locally-owned sawmill where Josh always purchased his lumber.
"Yeah, gotta love those Buzz Burgers, huh?" Rafe grinned. It wasn't really a question.
Pulling a mallet from the tool belt he sported around his hips, Josh pounded the final stake into the ground. "That should do it," he announced, rising to his full height with a slight groan. "It's hell getting old," he muttered.
Rafe laughed. "I'll have to take your word for it," he teased.
Josh's warm blue eyes sparkled as he grinned at the boy. "Yeah, you do that, sonny." He turned his attention toward the stacks of lumber and tools in the back of his daddy's old pickup truck. "Let's get this stuff inside the tent, and then we'll start digging the post holes for the supports."
"Sounds good," Rafe easily agreed.
Surprised at how excited he was to get started, Rafe quickly made his way toward the truck. "So how long do you think it will take?" he asked, as he offloaded a set of sawhorses they had picked up at one of the Lewis construction sites. His hands were protected by a pair of worn work gloves that Josh had given him, but that was the only thing about his appearance that made him look like a laborer. The rest looked like a typical teenaged boy. "Start to finish?"
"Oh, I'd say about three weeks, painting included," Josh answered.
"And then we can get started on my apartment?" Rafe sounded almost hopeful, as he pulled a bundle of two-by-fours from the bed of the truck, hefting them over his right shoulder.
Wow, what a difference a few hours could make, Josh thought; but he didn't dare voice it. "Yeah," he said, sounding purposefully casual. "Any ideas as to what you might want?"
"A few," Rafe replied, his tone equally as casual. He surprised even himself with the realization that he was looking forward to it. When had that happened? "I don't know, I guess planning Emma's tree house made me excited about a place of my own."
"I think a little independence will do you good, Rafe," Josh said thoughtfully.
"Yeah," Rafe sighed. "That'd be nice." Setting another bundle of lumber on the pallet inside the tent, he swiped sweat from his brow with the back of his work glove, as he stood to his full height. "I still hate that Olivia's paying for it, though," he mumbled, wondering why that was still such a sticking-point for him.
Lowering a bucket of construction-grade nails and a boxful of brackets and other assorted hardware onto the ground, Josh met Rafe's gaze. The air stilled between them, as they stood across the tent from one another. Instantly, Rafe's heart rate skyrocketed. He was certain this was the moment Josh would unleash on him.
Instead, Josh simply nodded as he considered the boy. "I guess I can see your point. When I was your age, it was tough for me to take things from older adults too," he related. "I wanted to be my own man, you know. Not rely on others, even family."
Thankful that Josh hadn't torn into him, Rafe drew in a deep breath, releasing slowly, as his heart settled. He nodded too, then. "Yeah… that's it. I wanna be my own man, too," he said, feeling empowered by his mentor's self-disclosure. He wanted to find his own job. And he wanted to get into college without anyone pulling strings—Olivia had offered. He wanted to make it on his own. But he didn't have a clue how to make that happen.
He sidestepped Josh, moving through the open tent door, and then turned on the heel of his sneaker, meeting Josh's clear gaze again. "Hey, man, thanks for not busting my chops over Olivia. I thought you'd… Well, I'm not really sure what I thought you'd do. But it wasn't this. So… thanks."
A slow, steady hand would win Rafe over. Josh was certain of it. He offered a nod and a warm smile in response. "Sure thing, Rafe," he said kindly. And then they continued their work, mostly in silence. But Josh was pleased to note that more often than not, when the silences were interrupted, it was Rafe's voice breaking through them, rather than his own. Progress.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009… Interrogation Room, Springfield Police Department—6:30 p.m. Central Daylight Time
If the wheels of justice turned slowly, then the axles of due process turned like broken propellers through mud. Eight hours after Tracy's arrest, she had only been allowed to speak briefly with Grayson on two occasions, and she still hadn't a clue as to who it was that was accusing her of such a vile act. She didn't know anyone named Antoinette. She was positive of that. And even if she did, she hadn't had any sexual contact with her. Of that, she was absolutely certain. And so she sat, alone, in the interrogation room, the institution-gray walls closing in on her, as she waited for someone to tell her what the hell was going on.
At least the booking process hadn't been too demeaning. Frank had taken care of that himself, so that no further emotional harm would come to her. "I know you didn't do this, Tracy, and I'm sorry I have to put you through all of this," he had said, as he methodically took her fingerprints.
"You don't owe me an apology, Frankie," she replied. She understood that he was only doing his job, and she appreciated that he had taken her booking on personally. It was certainly not within the scope of his position as the Chief of Detectives. "I don't even know who that woman is," she said quietly. "I've never…"
"Don't, okay?" Frank interrupted, in a tone that was harsher than he had intended.
Her face held an amalgam of surprise and confusion, and he quickly followed his directive with an explanation. "It's better for you if you don't say anything to me about the case. I'm doing this as a favor, because I've known you all your life. But I'm still a cop, and anything you say to me can be used against you—even if it doesn't seem incriminating at the moment. So don't give them anything that they can misconstrue, okay?"
Tracy had merely nodded, and thanked him. And they finished the remainder of the booking process in blaring silence.
When Grayson returned to the interrogation room the second time, he had come with a promise of representation by the best criminal attorney in his firm. It would be easier to claim attorney-client privilege regarding any information he might have, if her attorney in this case worked for his firm, he had explained. That was nearly four hours ago, she noted, the incessant ticking of the clock, absolutely maddening as it whittled the time away. And Tracy, who was usually calm and cool even under extreme pressure, was beginning to feel agitated.
At a quarter of seven that evening, Grayson finally made his third appearance. This time with another person in tow. Presumably, her new attorney. Releasing a sigh of relief, Tracy stood to her feet as they entered.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Tracy," he said, sounding uncharacteristically haggard. Dropping his briefcase onto the worn metal table with a loud thud, he motioned toward the woman who accompanied him. "This is Danika Kováč, the lead attorney in our criminal division," he introduced. "Danika, Tracy Jackson."
The tall, slender woman reached across the table, extending a hand. "Tracy," she said, by way of greeting.
Curiously, Tracy surveyed the woman. She was exotic, to say the very least, with her bronzed skin and flawless complexion, hair that fell in long, dark waves around muscular shoulders, and eyes as dark as onyx. She glanced at her left hand, the way she had Reynolds' in the courtroom. No ring. With a warm smile, she accepted the woman's hand. "It's a pleasure, Ms. Kováč," she replied courteously.
"Please, call me Dani," Danika directed informally. Her voice was a husky caress, with just the slightest hint of an accent. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. The drive down from Chicago took a bit longer than anticipated."
Tracy's casual gaze perused the unblemished linen suit the woman wore. A drive in from Chicago, and not a single wrinkle in sight, she thought. Impressive. "I'm just glad you're here," she said. "Thank you for making the trip."
Pulling a chair out from the table across from Tracy, Dani swiftly unbuttoned her navy suit jacket, before taking a seat. Taking a cue from her, Tracy sat as well. And once both women were seated, Grayson joined them.
"First order of business," Dani said assertively, as she popped the latches on her designer briefcase, "is to get you out of here."
"Oh, thank God," Tracy sighed. The place was driving her crazy!
Dani pulled a file folder, notepad, and pen from her briefcase, then closed it, and set it aside. "I understand you have people willing to post bail," she noted.
"I do, yes," Tracy confirmed. "My boss, Olivia Spencer, and a friend of my fiancée's late husband."
"Excellent," Dani said without batting an eyelash. She glanced toward Grayson. "You've tracked down a judge who's willing to hold a bail hearing tonight?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "I'll go get the ball rolling now, and text you when they're ready."
"Wonderful. Thank you, Grayson," she said courteously.
Grayson nodded, and gathered his things. His gaze fell on Tracy for a brief moment. "You're in good hands here," he assured.
"Thank you, Grayson," Tracy said sincerely.
A simple nod marked Grayson's response. "I'll see you both in the courtroom in a bit," he commented, before quietly exiting the room.
Turning her attention back toward Tracy, Dani rifled through the file in her hands, extracting a photo. "So let's get started. Tell me what you know about this woman…"
She set the photo down on the table, and slid it toward Tracy, watching carefully for her initial reaction.
Tracy's eyes flickered in recognition. "Toni?" she murmured questioningly. And then her gaze met Dani's again. "What about her?"
Dani's tone held the slightest edge when she spoke again. "So you do know her," she said, more statement than question.
"Yeah, I, uh… she joined a few basketball games with us my freshman year of college," Tracy shrugged. Her answer was straightforward, but her tone was marked with confusion. "Why?"
"Because she's your accuser, Tracy," Dani reported matter-of-factly. Again, she watched for the woman's reaction.
The expression on Tracy's face said she was absolutely stunned by the revelation, and instantly, Dani knew that her client was innocent of the charges lodged against her. Either that or she's a damned good actress, she thought. Willfully, she brushed aside cynicism borne of years of defending criminals who, of course never did it. Her gut told her this woman was genuine, and her first instincts were rarely wrong about people. She breathed a sigh of relief—defending innocent people always made the job easier, not only legally, but also on her conscience. She found herself grateful for the case, and absolutely driven to obtain a just ending for this client.
TBC in Chapter 14.11…