Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 04 - BOY ON TRIAL - A Legal Thriller (37 page)

My mom came back, looking brighter, her lipstick and mascara and blush newly applied. She said, “Thank you for your birthday card, Billy darling. So sweet of you.”

We all heard footsteps on the stairs. We all looked in that direction.

Amy appeared, wearing her white cotton blouse with all the flowers, her Peruvian beads, khaki shorts with the dozen pockets, nose and lip ring — the well-dressed runaway.

“Hello, Mrs. Braverman. Hello, Mr. Braverman.” She shook their hands with her little stubby fingers.

I was so glad that she’d changed her mind and joined us. She wanted to help me. And I needed help.

My mom said, “Amy, if you like, you can call us Diana and Jack. We want to be your friend.”

My mom’s eyes focused on Amy’s decorative new nose ring — she looked quickly at me, no doubt wondering if I had mutilated myself in a similar way and somehow in the excitement of the reunion she’d missed it. But she couldn’t spot anything.

She looked back at Amy. Her nearly-black eyes lost their usually wonderful luster; there was a certain tightening of the skin around her mouth.

Rebellious. Cheap. A horrible influence on my son.

Amy sat drinking a glass of fresh tangerine juice from Dean & Deluca. I knew she was as worn out as I was, but she was hanging in there.

My dad had phoned from the car and spoken to the maître d’, so we had a booth ready for us as soon as we walked into the Oyster Bar of the Plaza. The restaurant was noisy, full of tourists, some of them with kids. You could spot the tourists because most of the men wore golf shirts and the women had razor-cut short hair with streaks. A lot of them laughed loudly to show that they were having a great time. Their kids usually looked bored.

We all ordered oysters, except Amy, who finally had her Maine lobster with hot melted butter. My dad grabbed the nutcracker and showed her how to crack the lobster’s claws.

After she’d chewed and swallowed the first bite, Amy’s brow furrowed. She looked paler today than ever. She asked, “Is it true they scream when they hit the boiling water?”

My dad smiled. “Where did you hear that?”

“Billy told me.”

“Billy’s wrong. It’s a myth. Lobsters have a primitive nervous system, and no vocal cords. If you hear any noise at all, it’s air escaping from the shell.”

Amy looked at me for confirmation. It was easier to deal with anything if you knew the truth about it. The question always was: whose truth?

“I’ve never cooked a lobster,” I admitted. “I can only tell you what Inez says.” I stopped to translate in my mind from the Spanish; it’s a colorful language. “Inez didn’t tell me they screamed. What she says is, when you drop them in the boiling water they thrash around so much that you almost think you can hear them screaming in pain. So the other thing to do is split their face in half with a sharp knife, aim for the brain. The brain’s pretty small. You can miss. Whichever she does, Inez always asks God for forgiveness.”

Amy put the lobster aside and wound up eating a Greek salad.

After lunch we took a taxi to the Winter Garden Theatre where
Cats
was playing now and forever. My parents went inside to the box office to pick up the tickets, while Amy and I stayed on the sidewalk. She was staring through her wraparound blue sunglasses across Broadway.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, Billy.”

“Thanks for coming along,” I said. “How do you feel?”

“I’m one tired puppy.”

I felt myself blushing. I didn’t dare think about what had happened.

“I threw that other joint down the toilet.” She giggled, as if we had been naughty kids together. “Never again.”

My dad called from the theatre lobby. “Let’s go, guys.”

Halfway through the first act, with all those sleek, energized people bounding across the stage in their cat costumes, singing their hearts out in “The Rum Tum Tugger,” Amy and I both fell asleep. My dad nudged us. Amy woke up moaning. I blurted, “Oh! sorry…” and then, moment by moment, fraction by fraction, my eyes drifted shut, the singing receded into the distance, and I slept again.

Through unquiet sleep I heard my mom whisper to my dad: “The girl is snuffling. People are looking at us.”

At intermission they suggested we leave. We didn’t say no.

The blue sky over midtown Manhattan glared with a brassy tint. In the street Amy said, “Well, Jack, I guess I cost you a lot of money today and none of us got a lot out of it.”

That made my mom raise her eyebrows.

I said, “We were just catnapping, ha, ha.”

My mom’s lips moved up into a sort of smile. “It’s not even four o’clock. Any bright ideas?”

“Let’s go home,” I said.

Her eyes lit up with joy.

“To Rivington Street,” I said.

My dad turned to look for a taxi. Instead, a dark red Chevy van pulled up. The guy at the wheel, who I didn’t know, threw a stony look our way. There was the rasp of a sliding door, and another guy jumped out of the van and charged at us. His route took him between two parked cars, and he nearly knocked over two dreadlocked teenagers on their skateboards.

A second later I realized that the charging guy, wearing his ragged BONACKER PRIDE T-shirt, was none other than Carter Bedford. His pale eyes bulged, his face looked bloodless. He snatched Amy before any of us could stop him, even if we had dared to.

People had already backed away from us in fear. They hurried on their way, glancing over their shoulders, some not even bothering, giving us plenty of room on the sidewalk of Broadway in front of the Winter Garden Theater.

Carter was close enough for me to smell the beer on his breath. “You little shit,” he shrilled. “Come near her again, I’ll kill you.”

Quivering, he turned on my dad.

“Go ahead, lawyer motherfucker. Call the cops. Tell ‘em you tried to kidnap my daughter. Tell ‘em I’m her father. I won’t let you. Tell ‘em.” He punched a hand in the direction of the van. “My friend there got a digital camera. He took the four of you. You and that dickhead kid tried to drown me’ll be sorry you messed with me.”

My dad didn’t speak. He was too busy shielding my mom, who had dropped her beautiful straw hat. She looked terrified. Amy wasn’t struggling. Carter had her in a steel grip. We were helpless. He was the father. He had the power.

Chapter 33

I had written a birthday card to my mom, and they always taught you to print your return address legibly in the upper left hand corner. Carter was an expert in garbage. He had gone through our cans and found the envelope that my mom had thrown out. Carter bayed at the moon, but he was a cunning dog.

It took a while for me to work it all out. But I did. And of course I had help.

“Dad,” I said, “it wasn’t kidnaping. Whatever he says, she wanted to be with me.”

“I know that.”

“And you weren’t part of it, Dad.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

In his Mercedes, we cruised at seventy miles per hour in the direction of Amagansett. He was playing a CD of operatic arias. My mom slumped in the back seat, eyes closed, head supported by an inflated gray pillow that she always took on airplanes.

All my clothes, and Amy’s clothes and possessions, were in the trunk of the car in our duffel bags. Iphigenia, asleep, curled in her traveling bag at my feet. The front seat of the car smelled of ripe banana and monkey, but my dad didn’t complain. He had cut the air conditioning down to the bare minimum so that Iphigenia wouldn’t be chilled.

“So it’s not a crime,” I said.

“No, but it’s a tort.”

“What’s a tort?”

“A wrongful act. A misdeed. A transgression. Punishable under the civil code.”

“What’s this particular tort?”

“You might call it conspiracy to remove a child from her legal guardians against their will. Something of that order. It’s actionable. meaning that the Bedfords can sue.”

“Carter can sue
you
?”

“If I were in his shoes, that’s certainly what I’d do.”

“Do you think he’s telling the truth about his friend taking photographs?”

“I’m sure we’re going to find that out very quickly.”

“Could he win if he sued?”

My dad clenched his jaw. “Let’s discuss this another time, Billy.”

When we pulled into the driveway of our home, it was all so familiar, and yet seemed so long ago. Nothing had worked out the way I had wanted it to. Here I was, back where I had started. And God only knew what was happening to Amy. I didn’t want to think about that.

I finally understood now how ruthless Carter was, and how determined. You thought you had him licked but he knew ways of coming back at you. And I knew he was evil. Maybe he read good books and tried to get Amy to read them, but you can do all that and still be evil.

It was war. I had to fight him, and beat him, and get Amy away from him. I could do it, because I believed that if the good guys kept battling and didn’t back down, they would win in the end. All Americans believe that.

When we reached the house in Amagansett my dad took a closer look at me. “Are you all right, Billy?”

“I’m okay.”

I didn’t have the words. Even if I found the words, I didn’t think I could find the courage to speak them. If I spoke them, I knew that I would have to tell them what had happened between me and Amy and what I’d found out about her and Carter.

They would have sympathy for Amy, but also a secret distaste. They would never say it, but in their minds they would see her as Ginette did, as a freak. Someone who needed help, but not someone you could cherish and respect. Put her in therapy and keep her away from our son.

I biked along Pantigo Road to the town police station on Monday morning, arrived at eight o’clock sharp, and asked for the social services department.

“What’s the problem, son?”

“I want to report a case of abuse.”

The cop looked at me sympathetically. “Upstairs,” he said. “Room two-oh-five. Mrs. Dury.”

Mrs. Susan Dury was a plump woman in her thirties, with a lot of bushy brown hair and wet eyes. She was a hay fever sufferer and she sneezed a lot during the interview. I remembered that she had seen Amy after the stabbing, and she’d told Amy to call her day or night. Her small office had photographs of Governor Pataki and President Clinton, a cluttered desk, file cabinets, and a computer. After I introduced myself, and mentioned Amy’s name, Mrs. Dury began clicking on the keyboard of the computer. She scrolled down the screen, which of course I couldn’t see.

“Do you mind if I record this discussion, Billy?”

“Should I mind?”

“Not if you’re going to tell the truth.”

“I don’t mind.”

She must have pushed a button on a recording device of some sort, because she smiled and announced the time, the date, the place, her name and my name. She asked for my address, which I gave her, and then she said that she had my permission to record the conversation.

“Is all that correct, Billy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please tell me why you’re here.”

I told her the story. I told her everything that Amy had told me. She took a few notes, but for the most part she let the recording device do the job.

“How old did you say you were, Billy?”

“I’m twelve.”

“I appreciate your coming in to see me, and being so open with me. I know it’s not easy.” She sneezed a few times, blew her nose in a tissue, used an inhaler, and glanced at the screen again. “Do you know a Mr. Thomas B. Egan of Amarillo, Texas?”

“Sure. My friend Tom, with the Rockies. He called in, right?”

“And have you been interviewed last week by a Mr. Jerome Siegel of our office in Manhattan?”

“Let’s just say we met.”

“Did you tell Mr. Siegel any of this story about Amy and her father?”

“I didn’t have time. And I didn’t know the whole of it then.”

“Is it a fact that you and Amy Bedford ran away from Mr. Siegel when he had you in custody in…” She looked away for a moment. “… Room 511 of the Mayflower Hotel in Manhattan?”

“That’s true,” I said.

“Why did you do that, Billy?”

“Well, we didn’t want to be, the way you said it, in custody.”

“You and Amy had run away from home, is that fair to say?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you were staying with Amy in that hotel room?”

“Hotel suite. We had separate bedrooms.”

“But you and Amy shared it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Billy, aside from what you say Amy said, do you have anything that could be considered pertinent evidence about this matter?”

“Evidence?”

“Do you understand what evidence means?”

“Of course I do. No, I don’t. I mean, I understand what evidence is and I don’t have any of it. I’m not a detective. I’m a kid.”

She smiled at me, but not in too friendly a way. “Can you tell me what, exactly, is your relationship with Amy Bedford?”

“She’s my best friend.”

Mrs. Dury, in her thoughtful, twitchy-nosed manner, was studying my face. I must have blushed.

“And is that all, Billy?”

“I — well —” I didn’t know what to say.

“Is it a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, Billy? If it is, you don’t have to be afraid to admit it.”