"The prosecution calls Jason Scott to the stand."
The dark-haired teen looked at the empty seat beside him, glad his friend wasn't going to be here for this. Though he knew what Richard was going to ask, and what he was looking for, he was very worried about the cross-examination, after what he'd heard about Trini's experience from Zack. Billy was already stressed and worried enough, without having to watch his friends get grilled. But that relief didn't mean testifying was something he was looking forward to. He tried to hide his apprehension as he approached the bailiff to be sworn in.
Knowing the teen was nervous, Richard started with some background information, nothing very difficult. He asked Jason how he'd met Tommy, how their friendship had developed, how often he'd been to Tommy's home, his early impressions of Roland. Jason began to relax a little, and his natural charm was becoming evident, which was just what Richard had hoped for. However, they could not avoid the hard part forever.
"Jason, do you understand the oath you took before you sat down?"
"Yes, sir."
"So you understand you are required to tell the truth?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to tell the court, in your own words, what happened to you on the day in question."
Jason looked down at his clasped hands and tried to gather his thoughts. They'd rehearsed this a few times, never writing anything down, just practicing speaking to a courtroom. He realized now that nothing could have possibly prepared him for the actual experience of being on the witness stand, facing the judge and jury. His throat was dry, his mind gibbering.
Perkins realized what was happening and stepped to the side where a small table was set up with a pitcher of water and some cups. Getting a drink for Jason, he handed it to the teen, who accepted it gratefully.
"Take your time, Jason," he said gently.
"Mr. Oliver called me that afternoon, about one I think," Jason began, relieved to find once he started talking it got easier. "He said he'd bought a weights machine for Tommy, and needed help setting it up. He said he wanted to surprise Tommy with them, so if I could come over that afternoon, while Tommy was in Stone Canyon with his mom, that would be better. I thought it sounded like a cool idea, so I agreed to help him. When I got there he let me in the house, chatting about how excited Tommy was going to be. He seemed very ... normal. Nothing was out of the ordinary, it was like all the other times I'd visited Tommy's house. Mr: Oliver told me he was going to set things up in the basement, and indicated toward the door. I figured he was excited to get started, so I went ahead of him through the door and down the stairs."
Here he paused again, considering his next words. "It smelled bad. Kind of like the science lab at the high school, you know. A chemical kind of smell. I wondered about that, since their basement is set up as a rec room, it's not like they did repair work down there. Before I could even ask what the smell was, Mr. Oliver grabbed me and pressed a wet rag to my face. The chemical smell was coming from that rag. I thought I was going to throw up from the stench, but I lost consciousness almost immediately." The teen stared down at his hands, remembering.
"Where were you when you woke up?" Richard gently prompted him.
"Tied to the table. I was face down, my clothes were gone. My hands were tied to the sides of the table, my ankles to the legs, so I was kind of spread-eagle, but bent over the table at the same time. I ... I tried to get loose, but I couldn't. I couldn't. I looked around, and I caught a glimpse of Mr. Oliver behind me, by the couch, and I could see he wasn't wearing any clothes either. I asked him why he was doing this," Jason's voice had grown softer than ever, but he didn't back away from the microphone. He'd been warned to be sure he stayed within its range.
"Did he speak to you?" the attorney asked after Jason's pause had grown too long.
"Yes. He said I couldn't hurt Tommy. He wouldn't let me. He'd make sure I never laid my hands on him. I remember that especially because I associated it with Tommy and me sparring for some reason. He sounded ... weird. Not like himself anymore. Distant, I guess. I told him I wasn't going to hurt Tommy, that we were always careful when we sparred, but that seemed to make him even madder. He said 'I'm not talking about sparring, you idiot. I'm talking about what you're thinking of doing to my son'. I didn't know what he meant, I asked him but he just told me to shut up and take my medicine. He had walked up by the table by then, where I could see him," Jason's voice faltered again.
"Take your time, Son, and tell us what happened then."
"He ... he was aroused, and he was wearing a rubber, and I ... I knew what he was going to do then. I tried again to get free, but the ropes were way too strong. So ... so ... I relaxed. That's what I've heard my mom say, that a lot of people get hurt worse because they don't relax. I couldn't get free, I was tied down, so I tried to be ready. But it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt so much…" And in a broken manner he told all the atrocities Roland Oliver had done in that innocent seeming basement.
In the audience, Claire Scott was biting anxiously on her knuckles to keep from sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks, her other hand clenching her husband's hand in a grip of iron. Joe was also in tears, but he held his head high and watched his son intently, proud of the courage the teen was exhibiting. Behind him he could hear the sniffles from Jason's friends as they reacted to his testimony.
Across the narrow isle, Tommy was fighting a losing battle with his own emotions. He knew Jason perhaps better than anyone, knew the inner strength the former Ranger leader had. That the events of a year ago could reduce him to public tears told Tommy a lot about just how serious it was. His world tilted badly that afternoon, and it was perhaps an instinctual move on his part to tighten his emotional hold on his faith in his father. His expression, one moment showing tormented sympathy, hardened to bitter resolve. There was no way his father could have done that to anyone, let alone someone like Jason. He could not allow himself to believe it.
Jason had finally calmed enough to try to speak again, and Richard laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Can you continue?" he queried quietly.
"Yeah. A-after that, he released me. All I wanted was to get out, get away from him. He'd left my clothes on the couch, so I started toward it, and Mr. Oliver grabbed me. He shoved me against the wall, and pushed his body up against me. He told me to get out and never come back. He said that if I told anyone he'd ... he'd hurt my parents. That he ... he'd k-kill them. And me."
"Did you believe him?"
"Yes, sir. I did."
"What did you do then?"
"I got dressed, and I left. I got home and took a shower, but I couldn't get the feel of him off of me. I kept taking showers, usually two to four a day. And I never went back to Tommy's house."
"You didn't tell anyone?"
"No. I was too ashamed." That admission was barely audible.
"Did you and Tommy stop being friends?"
"Not exactly. But I decided to apply to be a teen ambassador, and lobbied pretty hard to get chosen. That started just a few days after my encounter with Mr. Oliver; that way I managed to keep really busy so he wouldn't think anything was wrong."
"Do you think Tommy knew what his father did?"
"No. I can't believe he did."
Sitting there behind his father, Tommy was struggling with mixed feelings. He was furious at what Jason was claiming his father had done, but there was a slight twinge of satisfaction that Jason had expressed faith in his own innocence.
Perkins shifted the questions to events in Geneva, and his work with Janette to deal with what had happened. Jason was able to maintain his composure throughout that part of the testimony, though he was still obviously upset.
"Jason, why did you decide to return to Angel Grove?" Richard asked at last.
"I needed to talk to my parents. And to the police. Janette had said that I'd never be really healed until I'd done that. And I wanted to be sure Mr. Oliver didn't have a chance to harm anyone else, like he had me. But ... but I was too late for that," Jason concluded sadly.
"Jason, how old were you when this happened?"
"Seventeen."
"Jason, is what you've told us here today the truth?"
"Yes, sir."
"No further questions at this time."
After the break for a late lunch, Victor Manning began his cross-examination. Using a method that had served him well over the years, he questioned every detail of Jason's story, repeating it back, using different phrasing, sometimes abandoning a question halfway through. It was confusing for the jury, confusing for the witness, and usually very effective in exposing inconsistencies in a testimony.
It didn't work on Jason. Though Victor's methods and questions drove him to tears several times, he steadfastly stuck by his story. By the time Manning gave up, it was time to call it a night. Smiling wearily at Richard, Jason stepped down from the witness stand.
The attorney watched his client walk back to his seat and nearly collapse into it. **One down and one to go** he thought with mild satisfaction. But he knew tomorrow's ordeal was likely to be even harder.
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"The prosecution calls William Cranston to the stand."
The atmosphere in the courtroom was especially tense. Jason's testimony the previous day had been harrowing in a lot of ways, and most of those who'd been in the courtroom the whole week knew full well that Billy was far more emotionally fragile than Jason had been. Just looking at the two teens, an observant person could see Billy was more tense, more stressed, closer to some emotional precipice than his dark-haired friend.
After being sworn in and taking his seat, Richard began questioning Billy, much as he'd done with Jason the day before. General questions, gradually leading in to a recounting of the events at the Oliver house. It was a traumatic process, but Richard was patient, and Billy fought valiantly to contain his emotions, stopping often to wrestle down tears. By noon there was scarcely a dry eye in the place, and when the lunch break was finally called an hour late, after Billy finished his telling of what happened to him, everyone was more than ready for a respite.
The seven teens walked slowly to a small nearby café, then sat around a table picking at their lunches and quietly contemplating the morning's testimony.
"Well, I can honestly say I'm glad that's over," Kim said at last, pushing lettuce around on her plate.
"We still have the cross-examination," Trini noted, with a look of intense distaste. She was far from forgiving Victor Manning for what he'd put her through, what he'd put Jason through. She was very worried about how Billy would be able to handle his heavy-handed questioning.
"I suspect he will take it easy on Billy," Tanya noted drily.
"What makes you say that?" Adam wondered.
"Couldn't you guys feel it? Geez, I think if Mr. Manning goes after Billy with the same sort of intensity he went after Jason, or you, Trini, the people in there will lynch him," Tanya explained.
"Yeah, I felt it. And I agree. They aren't going to let Manning get away with being a butthead and haranguing him," Rocky concurred.
"Right. Billy came across as so vulnerable, it brings out the protective tendency in people. Probably not real great for his self-esteem, but for the case? It works well," Tanya observed.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. But I still can't help but think he has something unpleasant up his sleeve," Trini said as they rose to return to the courtroom. The waitress looked after them with ill-disguised disdain for what she figured must be the wasteful habits of privileged youth. They'd ordered nice lunches, and between them had eaten hardly anything.
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"Mr. Cranston, do you like Tommy Oliver?" Victor Manning asked as court resumed that afternoon.
"He's been a friend of mine for two years now," Billy replied.
"That wasn't my question. Do you like Tommy Oliver?" Victor insisted.
"Yes." A simple statement of fact.
"Why? You don't share any common interests. As near as I've been able to tell, you two don't have anything in common except the same friends. So why are you friends?"
"I don't know that that is something I can explain," Billy started, surprised by the question.
"Please try," Manning insisted, his tone commanding but not particularly harsh.
"Tommy really seemed to hit it off with Jason, who does have a lot of the same interests. Since I've been friends with Jason since we were little kids, it just sort of happened that Tommy and I ended up spending time together. And out of that time together we became friends in our own rights."
"Was it just Jason Tommy 'hit it off with'?"
"No, he seemed to be ... smitten ... I guess, with Kimberly," Billy admitted uneasily.
"How about you? Were you 'smitten' with Kimberly Hart?" Victor asked.
"Me? No. Kim's a friend, a good friend, but that's all."
"A good friend, huh? You sure you don't want to ... uh ... reconsider what you just said?" Victor asked, giving the teen a hard look.
"We're friends, that's all," Billy reiterated firmly.
"Well, we found some evidence to the contrary," the attorney said, returning to his table and taking a piece of notebook paper out of his briefcase. He approached Billy and handed him the paper, watching as Billy alternately paled and blushed.
"Is that your writing, Mr. Cranston?" he asked coolly.
"Yes," the young man muttered reluctantly.
"Did you in fact write that?"
"Yes." Billy's voice had dropped to a whisper and tears again sparkled in his eyes as Victor reached over and removed the piece of paper from his nerveless fingers.
"Let this be entered into evidence as Exhibit 8," Victor requested, handing the paper to the judge, who scanned it quickly. "This is a letter written from Mr. Cranston to Kimberly Hart. I will read this letter, ostensibly from one friend to another...
My Dearest Kimberly,
I have recently developed a condition where whenever you are in my proximity I find myself experiencing physical symptoms including an unusual shortness of breath and increased blood flow to my epidermis. This has led to the conclusion that I am exhibiting all the symptoms of an increased affection for you, which I hope you reciprocate. I mean I'm in love with you, and I hope you feel the same way. But I saw you talking to Bobby Rogers yesterday in the hall, and I guess he likely asked you to the dance. I wish I could ask you, but you'd just laugh, probably. I wouldn't like it if you ridiculed me, like the other girls do. They think I don't hear them, but I do. Maybe Bobby will break his leg or something, then I could ask you out instead. But things like that don't happen for me. If I actually give you this letter, will you promise not to laugh at me, at least where I can hear? Love, Billy.
I'd say those were the words of a person who thinks of Miss Hart as more than a friend," Victor concluded with a barely hidden smirk.
Billy had placed his right hand over his face, his eyes closed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in a manner familiar to his friends from the days he'd still worn glasses. A single tear meandered down one thin cheek, glittering obscenely in the fluorescent lights.
"I was thirteen when I wrote that," his muffled voice said wearily.
"Seems you've carried quite a torch for the young lady. No further questions." Manning walked away, leaving Billy staring at his back in utter, amazed defeat.
Kimberly, sitting behind Lawrence Cranston, was struggling with sobs, trying to remain silent and not draw any additional attention to herself. She had known that Billy had once had a crush on her, and had been honestly relieved when it seemed to change into simple friendship over the last few years. Her feelings were an anything but easy mixture of embarrassment, sorrow, and pity for the friend she'd valued for so many years. That Victor Manning had read that letter out loud in court was a cruelty she could scarcely credit.
Richard was appalled at what had just transpired, and knew he'd have to do some major damage control, and fast. The five-year gap between the boy who'd written that love letter and the young man who was slumped on the witness stand notwithstanding, that letter was damaging and incriminating. But he was also dealing with a witness who was on the ragged edge of his emotional control.
"Billy, I know this has been hard, but I need to ask you a few more questions, okay?" he queried gently. His heart constricted painfully at the expression in those blue eyes that turned to him.
"Do you love Kim?"
"No. Yes. I mean, as a friend, yes. As a girlfriend? No," Billy replied softly.
"Were you jealous of her dating Tommy?"
"No. I guess I was a little envious of what they had together, I wanted something like that for myself, but I wasn't jealous that Tommy was dating Kimberly," he said after a moment's pause.
"Were you glad when they broke up?"
"No. Tommy was really hurt by that. I felt bad for him."
"Billy." The tone was a little stern, and the teen looked up at Richard, seeming to understand he was going to be asked something important.
"Billy, are you accusing Mr. Oliver of raping and beating you to get back at Tommy?"
"No." Just one word; calm, decisive, and sure.
"No further questions."
It was with a sense of relief that Judge Addison released the witness. He and most of the court felt like they'd been through an ordeal as they watched the frail-looking teenager walk slowly back to his seat by Jason. The former Ranger leader didn't care who or what was watching, he very gently laid his hand on Billy's trembling arm, offering discreet comfort to his upset friend.
Billy was the last of the prosecution's witnesses, and after some closing statements the prosecution rested their case. Court was adjourned for the day, and the defense would start their case in the morning, with it scheduled to run three to four days at most. Richard Perkins and Don Bradford exchanged a worried look as the room began to empty slowly. Manning had landed some significant blows to their case, and some doubt as to their ability to pull out a win was beginning to creep in.
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There was a short, bench-like ledge outside Billy's second-floor bedroom window, just wide enough for two adults to sit comfortably. When they were kids, Billy, Jason and Zack often sat out there at night and discussed matters of supreme importance to growing boys. Subjects like Spiderman's powers, karate, the substitute teacher they had in History, music, karate, whom the cutest girl in school should be dating, the nutritional value of Twinkies, and karate. Somehow no problem seemed too difficult when the stars were shining brightly and your best friends were sitting at your side.
Jason was not surprised to find Billy sitting out there in the wake of events at court that day. Old habits die hard, and that quiet place was still Billy's favorite place to go to 'lick his wounds', as it were.
"Room enough for me?" the former Red Ranger asked, poking his head out the window. He'd had a hard time that day in court maintaining his own composure as he listened to Billy's recounting of his ordeal at Roland's hands. In addition to reminding him yet again of his own experience, it added a new dimension to the guilt he was nurturing about his friend's attack. Billy as yet had not said one word of blame to him regarding his year-long silence, nor had he said one word of forgiveness. Jason wasn't sure how Billy felt about that aspect of the ordeal, and couldn't quite bring himself to ask.
In response to the question Jason did ask, the light-haired teen shifted to the side without comment, leaving enough room for his burly friend. Jason carefully eased himself out and sat down, releasing a sigh of relief at the peace and quiet of the location. They sat in companionable silence for a time, contemplating the stars and blameless moon while the soft sounds of the evening drifted by.
"Are you okay?" Jason asked at last, unable to truly relax until he knew how Billy was feeling.
His companion sighed and spoke without turning. "I guess so. I suppose it could have been worse."
"I'm not really sure how," Jason commented drily.
"That's not very reassuring, Jase," Billy observed. "It's not like we weren't warned. Yesterday we woke up to find that decoration on the garage. Did you see it?"
"Yeah." Jason thought it was pretty hard to miss the term 'faggut family' written in red spray paint on the garage door.
"You know, this afternoon, after Mr. Manning was through questioning me, and he was walking away, I couldn't help but think 'I just had a letter I wrote five years ago in a fit of teenage hormones read to a court room full of people, which includes my family, my friends, and complete strangers, who had earlier heard me tell how Roland Oliver raped me, and I'm being targeted for abuse by someone who can't even spell faggot correctly' and it hit me how absurd this whole situation is. I almost started laughing, Jase. Right there in court I almost started laughing hysterically. And I knew if I ever started, I'd never be able to stop. So, I have to figure I'm probably not doing that well at the moment. How're you?"
Jason looked at Billy with some concern. It was very unlike the former Blue Ranger to use such crude language, and it told him a lot about his friend's emotional state.
"Well, I haven't had a recent urge to laugh, so I suppose I'm doing okay. Ah, who am I kidding? I can't believe we are going through this, and that smug bastard sits across the aisle finding new and improved ways to humiliate us. How the hell did they find that letter anyway? I'm quite certain you never sent it to Kimberly," Jason wondered.
"It would have been better if I had, then I'd be sure only she'd seen it. I remember writing it, but no, I never sent it. Perhaps I lost it and someone found it, keeping it for a special occasion like this one? I guess it doesn't matter, and I'd prefer to not have it confirmed that my youthful enthusiasm for Kimberly was fodder for some cheerleader's amusement. But I suspect that's exactly what it was. I wouldn't be surprised to find out over half our class knew of it." His face looked oddly old and haggard in the imperfect moonlight. "I've got to be honest - I'm very relieved I graduated already. School would not be something I could face after this."
"Amen to that," Jason agreed fervently. He looked up at the stars again before speaking. "And here I wanted to be a cop here in Angel Grove. Guess if I want a law enforcement career I'm going to have to go somewhere else."
"Yeah, I think it's safe to say our local reputations are not very good these days."
"Room for me out there?" a soft feminine voice asked quietly from behind them just then.
Jason turned to look at Billy and saw the sudden wince of pain that voice caused, making him hurt yet again for all the things Roland's crime had cost them.
"Not really, Kimberly, but tell you what, I'll go on home before my folks call out the rescue squad to find me, okay? I'll see you tomorrow, Bro," he added as he maneuvered back inside through the window. He laid a comforting hand on Kimberly's shoulder for a moment, then strode toward the door without a word.
Kim poked her head out and looked over at Billy. "May I join you?"
He nodded wordlessly, unable to even look at her as she gracefully moved to the seat beside him. Once she was settled, and keeping his gaze averted, he started to speak.
"Kimberly, I'm sor ..." he stopped abruptly as she reached over, placing a hand over his mouth. He jerked back in instinctive fear and turned his hurt, questioning gaze on her.
"I'm sorry, Billy, I didn't mean to startle you, but don't you EVER apologize for that!" she said forcefully. "You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. Victor Manning does. Roland Oliver does, most definitely. Whoever it was who provided that letter to them does. But you do not. Do you understand me, William Cranston?"
His expression was so befuddled she had to smile. "Billy, what you said in that letter was sweet. Well, once I finished looking up the big words and translating it, it was sweet." That garnered an embarrassed chuckle from her companion. "I ... I thought you were maybe a little fond of me at one time, but I really never knew you felt so strongly. I wish you'd let me know, said something."
Billy contemplated his feet for a few moments then spoke softly. "You were always so nice to me. Didn't make fun of me, or treat me like I was the 'Geek of the Century', and I guess I was afraid that, if you knew, it would somehow change that. I couldn't help feeling that way, you were the first truly beautiful, kind girl I'd ever encountered, and I didn't want to blow it. Even then I knew life wasn't a happy, Disney movie that could be titled something like 'The Nerd and the Cheerleader'."
Kimberly considered her friend carefully. What he'd said bothered her more than she was willing to admit. That her kindness was something he'd been attracted to, and that the fear of losing that kindness had kept him silent, told her a lot about how bad his self-esteem had been. She had a sinking fear that Roland's attack had taken him back to that point, destroying all the progress he'd made in the intervening years.
"Billy," she said softly, laying her hand on his forearm. "I do love you, but, as I think you already know, not in the same manner I loved Tommy. Whatever it is that causes romantic love is missing between you and I. But we have a different kind of love, and nothing can change that. You can tell me anything, anything at all, and I will still love you just the same."
He looked down at her warm eyes, tears shining bright in his. "Thank you," he whispered, reaching across her small shoulders to pull her into a hug. He didn't realize it, but for the first time since his ordeal in Roland Oliver's basement, Billy initiated physical contact with someone. It was a small gesture, and a huge step.
She wrapped her arms around the young man and hugged him fiercely. "We'll all get through this somehow, Billy. As long as we all have each other, we will get through."
PRPRPRPR
After four days of steadily building drama, Friday was anti-climatic to say the least. During a short day of testifying, twelve character witnesses took the stand on behalf of Roland Oliver. They included a retired judge, two professors from the law school he'd attended, and four directors of different child support services who spoke at length of Roland's involvement in their programs - both monetarily and donating his time and labor. They portrayed Roland Oliver as being just this side of sainthood, and waxed lyrical on the incredible positive influence he had on so many youths. More than one of these witnesses flashed Jason and Billy dirty looks, as if to say 'how can you possibly even think of accusing this fine man of such a thing?'. The two teens sat quietly, ignoring the looks and the whispers they fancied they could hear, and concentrated on what the parade of character witnesses had to say.
Claire Scott once more sat behind her son and his friend, only halfway listening to the litany of good deeds attributed to the man who had brutally raped the two teens. She contemplated the two heads in front of her ... one dark, one fair ... and remembered. She thought about when the two boys had first met, at Angel Grove Park. Sturdy, outgoing, friendly Jason had been running around, throwing, and then chasing, his ball. His dad had tried to entice the boy into a game of catch, but Jason, all of age four and thoroughly caught up in the I-can-do-it-myself stage, didn't want to. He could play catch all by himself, he insisted, so Joe and Claire had sat down in the shade of a nearby tree and watched their son amuse himself. One, well actually all, of his throws went off target, and it was simply a matter of time before he hit someone with the soft ball he was slinging around so joyously. The 'someone' turned out to be another four-year-old boy; smaller, more delicately built, with fair hair and light eyes. The smaller boy picked up the ball and regarded it with solemn curiosity as Jason hurried up. But instead of asking for the ball back, as was his usual reaction, the larger boy simply stood there, watching the newcomer until the blond boy handed back the ball with an oddly serious expression. Jason took it and started to turn away when his parents' training caught up with him.
"Thank you," he piped up.
"Welcome."
Jason threw his ball again, but before he went to retrieve it, he turned again to the other boy. "You like to play ball?" he asked.
"I don't know how."
"Come on, I show you," Jason invited, and soon both boys were throwing the ball all over the place. While the boys played, Claire and Joe introduced themselves to the boy's quiet father, who'd been standing alone watching the kids' interaction.
From that encounter had sprung a friendship that perhaps seemed to be a bit unusual on the surface; the muscular jock and the nerdy genius. But Jason was far more intelligent than most gave him credit for, and under the more concealing clothing he favored, Billy had developed a leanly muscular physique. And most important of all, they had very similar values and mores; they wanted many of the same things from their lives.
Thinking of Jason's childhood just stirred Claire's anger more. He'd been such a trusting child, who'd grown into a trusting young man. He knew, intellectually, that people could, and often would, do horrible things, but he'd never truly experienced it. At least not until Roland Oliver played him for a fool and hurt him in a way that the teen would never have expected. Claire had spent her life in a career dedicated to helping others, and hatred was something she'd had no real experience with before. But now she did hate Roland Oliver, not only for the physical and emotional damage the man did. No, to Claire the worst thing of all was that Roland had destroyed her son's trust and faith in people. Jason would recover in time, at least mostly. But forever more he'd know for a fact that even someone he knew and had trusted could turn on him and hurt him terribly. That was one lesson Claire had hoped her son would be spared.
She felt horribly betrayed by what Roland had done, herself. She'd known the man, for God's sake, had invited him into her home. And the thanks she got for extending friendship to him was to have him rape her son? Seemed like Jason wasn't the only one played for a fool by the attorney.
Claire's attention was again drawn to yet another witness, the last one of the day. The rotund director of "Angel Grove's Littlest Angels Home", was finished, wiping away a stray tear after she'd broken down when discussing the charges against Roland. After excusing the lady, the judge dismissed court until nine o'clock Monday morning.
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"So, what's your feeling this far?" Don Bradford asked as he and Richard Perkins prepared to head for their homes on Friday.
"My feeling is that damnable letter was a surprise I could have done without." Richard sighed, still fuming over Thursday's bombshell.
"Come on, the jury is smart enough to realize it was something written by a love-struck thirteen-year-old," Don said in an attempt to encourage the attorney.
"I know that, Don, but it still portrayed Billy as the sort of boy who wishes revenge on romantic rivals. Which quite frankly is an idea I'd just as soon they never got. And you can't tell me you don't want to get even for that stunt. He pulled a fast one on us by claiming it had just been received that day, not allowing us a chance to prepare our witness or find refuting evidence," Richard groused. He noticed an unusual expression on Don's face. "What do you have up your sleeve?" he asked.
"Nothing, really, but I thought I'd take another trip to Glendale this weekend," the investigator confessed. Being unmarried, Don had the freedom to indulge his passion for his work. And he'd grown fond of Billy and Jason, he wanted to be sure he'd made every effort to ensure all potential information and evidence was obtained.
"Why? I thought you and Joe were totally stonewalled last weekend." After spending a day and a half seeking out former classmates of Roland's, hoping to be able to shed some light on why he had acted the way he had, they'd come away empty-handed and discouraged.
"ALMOST totally stonewalled. There was one guy, a priest who used to be a classmate of Oliver's, who I think knows more than he's telling. Just something about him tweaked my antenna, you know? I want to see if having a week to think about it has improved his memory. Maybe take along pictures of the boys to prompt him a little."
"Pull our own little eleventh-hour miracle, huh? I appreciate that you'd do that, Don. This case getting to you a little, perhaps?" Perkins teased gently.
"In a way, yes. I guess so. I like Joe Scott, he's a good man. The boys seem to be the kind of kids any parent would be proud of. And, I have to make a confession. I wrote a love letter when I was about thirteen, too. Cecelia Jorgenson was her name. She had the most amazing auburn hair, and freckles splashed across her upturned little nose, and I was in love in the worst way you ever saw. I poured my entire hormone-driven heart and soul into that letter, and if I recall, I would have committed murder and mayhem for her had she asked. And thirty years later I can tell you quite honestly I would want to curl up and die if someone found that letter and read it to a roomful of people. So I can understand how our client must be feeling. That was a pretty dirty trick, and I'm not so noble that the thought of revenge doesn't appeal to me. So I'm gonna mosey on down to visit a priest on Saturday, and see if his confession will be good for my soul."
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Lawrence Cranston opened the envelope, knowing what it contained. He removed his paycheck, and the pink slip notifying him that returning to work after the trial was over was no longer an option. He wasn't surprised, at least. Two days before, the regional manager had called him to discuss what was going on, gently and regretfully informing Lawrence that he would be fired unless he returned to work on Monday. Lawrence told the man point blank he would not be able to come back while his son needed him, and that he understood the company had to do what it had to do. What was not mentioned was the fact there had been a couple of incidents of people complaining that the store was managed by a man whose son was involved in a 'sex crime'. Though the upper-level management knew what the case was about, they still were wary about having associations with such a sordid situation, and hence jumped on the chance to let Lawrence Cranston go for an unrelated, valid reason.
Looking at the check, Lawrence felt a slight stab of sorrow. He'd worked for that line of stores for nearly twenty years. When he first got married, he took a job there while his young wife finished her last two years of college, getting her degree in financial planning. The plan was for her to get a good job, and Lawrence could then quit and enroll back in school to finish out his last two years. But that plan was foiled when Charlene caught pregnant seven months before her graduation. Motherhood delayed her entry into the workforce, and Lawrence ended up being trained as an assistant manager. By the time Billy was two his father was offered the position of manager at the new Angel Grove store, which he gladly accepted. The young family moved to Angel Grove, but Charlene seemed to grow more discontent there. Their marriage began to falter, and when Billy was just past his third birthday, Charlene left them. Within a year the final divorce decree was signed, sole custody of Billy was granted to Lawrence, and neither father nor son had ever seen Charlene again.
Finding himself a single father with a young son, Lawrence had struggled to make ends meet. The only reason they had been able to afford the house was because Lawrence's widowed mother had died shortly before they moved to Angel Grove. Lawrence had taken his inheritance and put it all up as a down payment on the house, figuring it would be a good investment. But there were times, especially in the first few years, when things were very lean for them, and Lawrence had to work long hours to enable them to simply get by. Due to that, Billy had grown into an independent child, used to doing for himself when no one else was available. Lawrence often gave thanks that Billy was so healthy for all his small size, since taking time off to care for his child was usually frowned upon. And it helped that Claire Scott was often willing to fill in and help on those rare occasions Billy did need extra care and Lawrence couldn't do it himself.
Looking at the pink slip that signified the end of twenty years of unstinting service to the company, Lawrence couldn't help but be a little bitter about how things had worked out. He understood that the company had to do what was in its best interest, but there was still a part of him that was pathetically hurt by this action. Seemed loyalty was a one-sided street.
Folding the check and tucking it in his checkbook to be deposited next week, he tore up the pink slip, shoving it in the kitchen trash. He'd worry about his next source of employment after the conclusion of the trial, wanting more than ever to see justice brought to the man who'd ultimately caused so many problems.
His thoughts were interrupted by Billy's arrival in the kitchen in search of food. The teen opened the refrigerator, staring at the contents without interest before closing the door empty-handed.
"Billy, why don't you heat up some of the leftover casserole?" Lawrence suggested, sighing when Billy made an expression of distaste. "There's some roast in the cheese drawer in there, you could make a sandwich."
"No thanks," the teen replied, taking a bag of chips down from the cupboard and pouring some out on a paper towel. "This is fine, I'm not that hungry."
Lawrence came over beside his son, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Son, you need to eat more, and this isn't very healthy."
"I'm really not very hungry, Dad. And you know what happens if I force myself to eat."
The man sighed sadly. He did know, unfortunately well. He'd tried from time to time to insist Billy eat more, only to find every time the teen forced food down it came back up. Watching the slight youth wander back toward the stairs and his bedroom, Lawrence felt a stab of sorrow and despair. Billy was so thin now, and every night he heard his son wake up with a cry of fear and pain from dreams where Roland hurt him over and over again, and the father knew there were far too many nights when fear kept the boy from daring to sleep again. At first he'd gone in to comfort Billy, wanting to reassure him he was safe and loved. But there a came a point when it seemed the teen became more upset and embarrassed with his father's presence, so Lawrence backed off.
He supposed it was a fitting legacy for a childhood spent mostly fending for himself, while his father worked long hours to ensure financial security. When his son really needed him, he was not comfortable taking succor from his father. So now Lawrence felt the misery of no longer having his child's trust nor the job he sacrificed it for.
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Father Mickey Turner was enjoying a quiet Saturday, relaxing in his backyard and putting the final touches on the service he had planned for the following day. However, there was one thing disturbing his usual serene Saturday mindset, and that was the visit he'd had the previous weekend from a couple of detectives from Angel Grove. They'd asked questions, reawakened memories he really didn't want to contemplate too closely. He'd almost successfully blocked the encounter from his mind when he heard his front doorbell chime. He nearly elected to ignore it, but as a priest it was his duty to be available to his flock if needed. The soul on the other side of the door might be a person in need of help from the Lord's humble servant.
It was, and it wasn't.
"Father? I was wondering if I could trouble you for just another couple of minutes?" Don Bradford asked.
"Detective. You know, I was almost expecting you. Come on in; let's talk in the backyard. It's far too lovely a day to be inside," Turner replied, leading the way through the modest home.
Sitting back down on his chair, he indicated a seat for the detective, then spoke calmly. "I don't know what you expect from this, detective. I told you and your friend everything I know, which is nothing, last week."
"I guess I was hoping a week of thinking about it might stir up some memories. You know, the man who was with me last weekend ... his son is one of the boys Roland Oliver attacked. I thought you might like to see the face of one of his victims," Don commented, handing Mickey Jason's high school photo.
"A good-looking young man, looks a lot like his father," Mickey said faintly.
"Here's the other one," Don continued, handing him Billy's last yearbook picture.
"So they are both good-looking boys," Mickey shrugged, trying to appear unaffected.
Don sensed the other man's unease, and decided to press his point, graphically. "And here are a couple of pictures of Billy, taken at the hospital after Roland finished with him. His father found the boy's bloodstained clothing and got him medical care. He might not have made it otherwise." He handed Mickey the pictures and watched the priest's face go pale. "These boys didn't do anything wrong, but still they got taken on a trip through hell. I want to make sure no others get treated the same way. As I told you last weekend, both Jason and Billy indicated Oliver said things along the line of 'I'm doing this to protect my son.' I'm wondering why Roland would think either of these boys, both of whom are, or at least were, friends of Tommy's, would do something to hurt their friend. I'm hoping you can provide me with that answer."
The priest couldn't drag his eyes away from the picture he still held in his now trembling hand. One of the photos showed Billy from the back, leaving no doubt at all as to what had happened to him. But it was the other one that held the man's attention. It was a headshot, showing the vivid bruising left after Roland had shoved the teen's head into a door. But the bruises were not what the priest saw most vividly, either. It was the expression in the light eyes that held him riveted. The look of blank despair; the shock, pain, and humiliation all visible in the dull gaze reflected in the photo.
He found himself in a bit of a quandary. As a priest he had a duty to maintain confidentiality, but what had happened with Roland Oliver had occurred long before he took his vows. Another look at the photo decided it for him. No one should ever look like that boy did, and if he had a chance to prevent it, he would do so.
Father Mickey Turner finally looked up into the intense face of the detective, and started to talk. He talked for nearly four hours while Don Bradford took page after page of notes. When he finally left the priest's home, he called Richard Perkins and told the attorney that he'd be staying in Glendale for another day or two. Things were finally coming together.
To be continued