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Justice for One

Julie L. Brown

    I eyed my seventeen-year-old daughter’s short, black dress. “Guys like a mystery, you know.”
    She tilted her head as if she were willing me to join the 21^st century. “Momma...”
    “Don’t be too late,” I said.
    “I won’t. Thanks for letting me go out on a school night.” She smiled and kissed me on the cheek, her light-brown hair brushing my face. “Don’t wait up.”
    She gave me one last beautiful smile before skipping out the front door. My daughter radiated with energy and life.
    I envied her.
    A car’s engine roared, tires peeling out of the driveway. After a moment, I went to the kitchen and grabbed a Hefeweizen from the refrigerator. I returned to the living room and settled into my favorite chair for SportsCenter. The cold, fruity beer tasted good as I watched the highlights of the day on the sixty-inch, flat-panel television.
    Every night that she went out, I waited up and worried until her key entered the doorknob. By giving me a daughter, God had the last laugh on my teenage foolery.
    I must have fallen asleep, because Donna Summer’s Bad Girls ring tone woke me. I fumbled for my cell phone on the end table. “Hello.”
    Nothing. And, then, a sob. “Mom...come get me.”
    My heart stopped. I gripped the phone tighter. Awake now, I had many questions, but asked only one. “Where are you?”
    She told me.

#

    The GPS directed me to a warehouse turned club in a once abandoned part of the city, now gentrified. I don’t remember the drive or how many red lights I ran. I double-parked. A huge man dressed in black and wearing a security headset blocked the entrance. People stood flush against the front of the building, the line snaking around the corner.
    The bouncer raised his hand inches from my chest. “Twenty dollars, lady.”
    I glanced at his hand and then down to my old Berkley sweatshirt, the sleeves frayed at the edges, jeans, and Adidas tennis shoes and back at him. “Do I look like I’m going clubbing to you? I’m here to pick up my daughter.”
    He glared at me. I glared back. Something in my eyes must have told him all he needed to know. After a brief stalemate, he waved me in.
    The thump of the bass I heard outside was deafening within, the place dark. Strobe lights darted here and there in time with the music. I bumped my way through the dancing crowd and stopped to ask a young woman where the restroom was. She gestured to the right and I moved in that direction. The club reeked of alcohol, sweat, and marijuana.
    At the bathroom, I cut in front of the line, ignoring the howls of protests from the women and girls waiting. For such a large establishment, the restroom had only three stalls. Squeezed in front of the mirror, several women laughed and chatted while re-applying their makeup.
    “Sam,” I said.
    No response.
    Louder. “Samantha.”
    “Here.” Her voice sounded far away.
    I moved toward the last stall and tried the lever. It was locked. I put my hand on the door. “Let me in, baby. It’s me.”
    There was no movement at first and then I heard her body shift and a click. I tried to push the door open, but met some resistance. I looked down. My baby was lying on that dirty, sticky bathroom floor. Her black dress sported a six-inch rip that was not there when she left my house. She looked up at me with teary eyes. The makeup running down her face did not quite mask the slight bruise on her cheek. I stifled a cry and gathered her in my arms and lifted her. “Where are your friends?”
    A hesitation, then, “Dancing.”
    I tamped down my rage by clenching my jaw. My cheek lay against her hair, the calming jasmine smell of her shampoo contrasting with my emotions. I whispered, “Who did this to you?”
    Sam did not look at me. After a moment, she just shook her head.
    I half carried her out of the club and took her home. Sam would not let me take her to the hospital, from embarrassment or the possibility of a futile judicial proceeding, I did not know. She was strong-willed like her mother. Against my better judgment, I relented. I helped her take a long, hot bath and brought her a cup of hot chocolate. After she fell asleep, I went back to my bedroom. I shut the door, but did not make it to the bed. My strength left me. I collapsed to the carpeted floor and cried.

#

    After a sleepless night, I called in sick to work the next day and told Sam’s school she was not feeling well. Now, I climbed the stairs, shifted the tray to my other arm, and knocked on Sam’s bedroom door. No response. I knocked again. A faint, “Come in.”
    My daughter lay in the fetal position in her bed, her legs tucked in tight to her chest, her arms encircling them. I set the tray on her nightstand and sat on the bed’s edge.
    I brushed away a few stray hairs from her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
    “Okay.”
    “Are you hungry? I made my special Chicken Noodle soup.”
    My daughter offered a weak smile. “With Campbell’s special broth?”
    It was an old joke between us. I laughed; it sounded forced. “Sit up and eat.”
    Sam sat up, her motions slow. She placed the tray in her lap and began eating.
    I got up and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be downstairs in my office, if you need me.”

#

    Sam had not noticed that I swiped her cell phone off her nightstand when I put the tray down. Now, in my office, I started going through her phone. This was not something I would normally do. I had always allowed Sam her privacy; she had never given me cause to inspect her room or her things. Last night, after we got home, I had asked her again who raped her. She had provided a name. A first name: Eric.
    I scanned the text messages on her iPhone. When did this child find time to study, eat, or sleep? She texted 24/7. I spent a couple of hours reading “smh,” “idk,” “sup,” along with many boys’ names, but no Eric. I shook my head and took a break. I went to the kitchen for a Mountain Dew and returned. I started to go through the photos on her phone. The last photo, taken in the club, was of Sam and her three friends. The second to the last photo was of Sam with a guy I did not know. I e-mailed this photo to myself. A few more photos showed the four girls at the club in silly poses. I clicked off the cell phone and went back to Sam’s room, astonished she had not yet declared a national emergency that it was missing.
    I need not have worried. Sam was asleep. I placed the phone where I found it, kissed my baby, covered her with the blanket, grabbed the tray of half-eaten soup, and quietly closed the door. After washing the dishes, I went back to my office and printed out the photo of Sam with the unknown guy.

#

    That night, after Sam had fallen asleep, I drove back to the club. This time, I parked across the street. The same bouncer, dressed in black pants and a black mock turtleneck to ward off the chill, watched me approach.
    His eyes were dark, curious. “You, again?”
    I showed him the photo. “You know this guy?”
    He gave it a cursory glance. “Lady, you know how many people come in here every night?” A touch of an accent, maybe New York.
    Softly, I said, “That is not what I asked.”
    “Why do you need to know?”
    My gaze slid away from his intense stare. “He...my daughter...” I could not say it.
    The bouncer hesitated, and then his expression softened. He took the photo and stared at it. “Yeah, I know him. He comes here a lot. He hasn’t been in tonight, though.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Eric. I don’t know his last name.” The bouncer glanced at the queue of people and back at me. He lowered his voice. “Look, I gotta get back to work. Give me your number. If he shows up, I’ll call you.”
    I attempted a smile and failed. “No need, but thank you.” I scanned the people in line, but no Eric. I walked back to my car, got in, and sat there. And waited. He did not show up that night.

#

    One morning a few days later, my daughter emerged from her bedroom and came into the kitchen. I sat at the white, hardwood table drinking coffee and reading the Mercury News. She plopped down in the chair across from me.
    I shifted the newspaper to look at her. “Good morning, baby. Did you sleep okay?”
    “Yes, Momma.”
    “What do you want for breakfast?”
    “I don’t care.”
    “Of course, you don’t. Sit tight. I’ll make you some pancakes.” I moved toward a drawer stuffed with skillets and pans.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, baby.”
    “Where are you going every night? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re seeing someone.”
    “How do you know I’ve been going out?” I paused and turned from the stove. “And why couldn’t I be seeing someone?”
    She tilted her head, pursing her lips; she knew my history. Or, at least, she thought she did. Sam didn’t know that I, too, was raped as a teenager. I never told her the circumstances of her birth. She only knew that I had not dated a man in a long time.
    “All right...you’re right,” I said. “I have a deadline at work. Hey, what do you say we go to a movie tonight?”
    “That sounds good, Mom.”
    You realize your child is growing up when she says things to placate you instead of the other way around.

#

    He showed up the following Thursday. Sitting in the car, my head on the headrest, I sat up. I gripped the leather steering wheel tight to prevent myself from flying out of the car and beating him to death. I looked at my favorite bouncer, who took Eric’s money. After Eric passed by him and into the club, the bouncer glanced over at me and lifted his chin. I did not move. Two hours later, Eric came out with a few of his friends, laughing and talking.
    I started the car. Around the block, Eric and his friends piled into a black Acura and took off. I followed. They drove to an all-night diner. An hour later, they dropped Eric off at a high-rise apartment building. I noted the address and went home.
    The next day, I woke up early and dressed for work in my most expensive suit. I eschewed pumps—in case I needed to make a run for it—and wore flats. Instead of heading to work, I drove to Eric’s apartment. I parked down the street. I did not have to wait long.
    Eric came out wearing a starter business suit, walked six blocks, and entered a building in the financial district. I cruised by, but did not stop.
    At work, I nodded to my co-workers and headed straight to my office. I closed the door and booted up my computer. I entered the address of Eric’s office building in the search bar, pulled up its web page, and noted the businesses located there. For the next few hours, I went through the motions of my job as the IT director of a social media startup and then headed back to Eric’s office building. He came out at noon with a couple of co-workers. I followed him to a local deli and entered. The wonderful aroma made me realize I was hungry. A long glass-enclosed display counter showed an array of meats and cheeses. Tables were crammed together in the tiny space to seat as many customers as possible. I ordered pastrami on rye and sat at a table in the corner where I could observe Eric. He and his buddies laughed, talked with their mouths full, and accentuated their conversation with occasional punches to each other’s shoulders or fist bumps. Eric did not notice me.
    After lunch, I followed Eric back to his building. I signed in with an indecipherable name to visit one of the companies I had seen on the building’s website. I lost sight of Eric. I rushed to the elevator. Eric held the door for me as it was about to close. He smiled and gave me a discreet down-and-up appraisal. His hair stuck up in all the right places in conformance with the latest style.
    I forced myself to smile at his charming, handsome face.
    The elevator car was crowded. Eric’s arm grazed mine. I tried to breathe. He nodded to me before stepping out onto the 33rd floor. I caught a glimpse of the company’s logo on the large, gray, expensive signage on the opposite wall before the doors shut. The elevator rose.
    Back in my office, I pulled up the website for Trahon Investments and searched for Eric. I found him. I stared at his smiling, confident face. Eric Appel was a junior salesman who had graduated from Pepperdine University. He was studying for his MBA at Berkley. I spent the rest of the afternoon researching his—until now—uneventful life.

#

    A few days later, I made an appointment with Eric. When I walked into his office that same day, a brief shadow of recognition crossed his face, but he could not place me. We shook hands.
    “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
    “No problem,” he said. He motioned with his hand toward the guest chair and then walked around to sit behind his sleek, gray desk. “You told me over the phone you’re looking for a new investment advisor?”
    “Yes, I am. I don’t believe my current broker is aggressive enough.”
    Eric’s eyes lit up. He recovered and leaned forward. “How much are we talking about here? I mean...how much are you looking to invest?”
    “I exercised some options recently, so probably a million to start.” I paused. “Depending on your results, there could be more.”
    He tried to suppress a smile, as his brain calculated what he would buy with his future commissions.
    I started to cough. He came around his desk and touched my back. His touch was gentle. I tried not to flinch.
    “Are you okay, Ms. Hall?”
    Coughing, I said, “Maybe some water.”
    “Of course.” He rushed out of the room.
    I moved around to his computer. I glanced up at the door and then took a thumb drive out of my pocket that contained a program I had created the night before. My index finger hovered over the mouse. But only for a second.
    I clicked “Run” to upload the program.
    I looked from the door to the hourglass on the computer and back again. Anxious, my hand played a silent piano tune on the desk.
    When the program finished, I snatched the thumb drive and put it into my pocket. Eric walked into the room surprised to see me standing behind his desk.
    “I was looking for Kleenex.” I walked up to him and collected the glass. I coughed again and took a gulp of water.
    We finished discussing the details of my account transfer and I left.
    When I returned to work, I booted up a program. I could now access Eric’s computer from my office. I spent the rest of the afternoon figuring out how his investment software worked.

#

    A few weeks later, during breakfast, I opened the business section of the newspaper to Eric’s face. He was not smiling now. He had been arrested the previous day at his office for embezzling from his clients’ accounts. The paper reported that he had not covered his tracks well; investigators recovered most of the money. The police also found massive amounts of pornography on his computer. The pornography part caught me by surprise. The self-deleting program I had developed only transferred the clients’ funds. Disgusted, I threw the paper away before Sam could see it. I still shielded her from all reminders of that night.
    I went to the arraignment and sat through the proceedings. Before an officer led Eric away, I walked up to him. The confidence was gone. His normally gelled hair was dry, disheveled, and unwashed. His eyes blinked at me with confusion and then gratitude.
    “Ms. Hall, thanks for coming.”
    “That was for my daughter.”
    He looked at me, uncomprehending. His lips parted.
    “Samantha,” I said. “The girl you raped.”
    He did not recognize her name. I took one last look at him, shook my head, and walked away.
    I suspected Eric would not do well in prison.

#

    That night, I parked myself in front of the television with a Hefe. I tuned into SportsCenter to catch up on the scores of the second round of the NBA playoffs. Sam appeared in the doorway between the living room and the foyer in a long t-shirt, her pajamas.
    I tore my eyes away from the TV. “You’re not going out with your friends?”
    A shadow crossed her face. She walked toward the sofa. “No, I think I’ll stay here with you.”
    “Wow. Lucky me.”
    She half-smiled.
    I picked up the remote and sat next to her. I placed the beer on the end table.
    “We don’t have to watch this,” I said.
    I flipped through the stations and stopped when I came to Sleepless in Seattle, our favorite movie. I put an arm around Sam and she laid her head on my shoulder. “You, okay?”
    She nodded. On the television, Meg Ryan cried as she drove, listening to Tom Hanks on the car radio. I stroked Sam’s hair.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, baby.”
    “My period’s late.”
    My hand stilled.

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