Corrupt practices, p.30
Corrupt Practices, page 30
“But—”
“Never mind that!”
I wanted to refuse, but I obeyed because I was afraid of what he’d do if I didn’t. I entered her carefully, just as I’d been taught.
“Do it hard,” Kelly ordered. “Hard and fast.”
Greta looked up at me with her half-open eyes and nodded. I began pistoning inside her. She matched my thrusts, and soon I felt as if we were nothing more than complementary machine parts. As always during these so-called celebrations, my mind became numb, incapable of feeling any emotion, much less transcendent love—unless crude physical pleasure counts as an emotion.
“Don’t stop until I tell you,” Kelly said.
It wasn’t difficult. One thing that we boys had learned from practicing Ascending Sodality with older women was self-control.
I felt something tickling the back of my neck, like the legs of a large insect. I flinched. It took a moment to register that I was feeling Kelly’s hand, and I heard him say, The time has come, and I looked back and saw that he was naked from the waist down, his penis erect, and I felt Greta hump back harder in excitement, and I started to pull out and let him take my place inside her, but when I felt him press his chest against my back and wrap his arms around my waist, I realized that it wasn’t her body he wanted, but mine. I screamed.
Even sodomy involving a male and female violated Assembly edict, and Kelly preached that homosexuality was a cardinal sin. In his public statements he made no apologies for his homophobia. He had this theory—AIDS was caused not by a virus, but by the mutation of T-cells resulting from the unclean act of anal intercourse itself.
“Relax, baby boy,” Greta whispered. “If you relax, it won’t hurt so much.”
I discovered then that I was no longer a child, that I could fight if I had to. I’d grown strong in the last year, and the sheer terror made me stronger. I flailed my limbs and elbowed Kelly in the sternum with all my might. Greta shrieked, as if I had struck God. Kelly backed away. I used the brief window of his surprise to roll off the bed and onto the floor. I got to my feet, but when I tried to run I tripped over the raised edge of the carpet and fell to one knee. Kelly reached for me, but I scrambled away from him, managed to stand, and ran out the door and down the corridor, stark naked. I made it back to my room, not knowing whether anyone saw me, not knowing whether Kelly was following me, certain that in short order he’d send his crew of Assembly goons after me. I’d not only disobeyed the wishes of the Assembly leader, I’d struck him. I would be punished for my heresy. I had to get out of there. But first I went into the bathroom and vomited.
Harriet and I stand face to face, glaring at each other. I point to one of the bookshelves. “Kelly used to keep the writings of John Humphrey Noyes right there for inspiration. Stirpiculture, complex marriage. Nineteenth-century cult euphemisms for eugenics and pedophilia. Is the book still on the shelf?”
“I get daily reports about your courtroom performance. Frantz demolished you yesterday. You have no credibility left after that pathologist’s testimony. The media won’t dare print a word you say because they’ll know it’s just a desperate attempt to salvage your lawsuit.”
“Oh, someone will believe me. You’ve given me the perfect platform—the lawsuit. Starting Monday, I intend to use the legal system as my own personal PR machine. We live in a new world, Harriet. All I have to do is convince one blogger. He or she can be anywhere—Sweden, Panama, Moscow. And once it’s out on the Internet, the story will go viral. They’ll want nothing more than to believe that Bradley Kelly was a pedophile and that his perversion infects the Assembly to this day. Your group still isn’t very popular with the general public, in case you haven’t noticed. And then more will come forward. Who knows how many children Kelly and the others abused? At the compound alone, there were, what, at least two dozen of us kids who went through it? It only takes one to speak out, and then others will. They can’t all still be Assembly devotees.”
She takes a step forward as if she’s going to slap me again. Then she backs away and crosses her arms.
“I’m sure you’ve followed the Catholic Church’s molestation scandal closely,” I continue. “The Vatican has paid billions in compensation and legal fees, not to mention suffered severe damage to its reputation. And the Catholic Church has existed for two thousand years. What do you think would happen to a so-called religion that’s only been around for twenty-five?”
“Brad has been dead seventeen years. The Assembly’s bigger than him.”
“That’s like saying that the Christian church is bigger than Jesus. And it’s not just about Kelly, it’s about Ascending Sodality as a core tenet.” I pause. “And the child abuse is about you personally. You and everyone else who participated are criminals. Sex offenders.”
Her eyes bloat in horror. “I never did that and you know it. Never. I stopped it when I found out what he did to you.”
“That’s what you’ve always maintained. Whatever. You didn’t protect me or the other children from those predators. You’re still just as guilty as every adult who touched a child. So is the Assembly as a legal entity. The statute of limitations hasn’t expired, you know.”
“Don’t threaten us, Parker.”
“You’ve had plenty of opportunities to kill me. You’ll have plenty more. Why haven’t you done it?”
“Oh, Parky. How did you get so lost? My poor child.”
“I’m not your child.”
Although not one hair is out of place, she brushes an invisible strand off her forehead. “No. You aren’t, are you? You haven’t been my son since you left that night. So think about why you’ve kept silent all these years. Because Erica Hatfield or whatever she calls herself these days will be exposed, too, and she’s defective. She won’t survive it.”
Like my mother, Erica was a follower of Bradley Kelly. Unlike my mother, she did have sex with underage boys. But never with me.
“She saved me when you wouldn’t,” I say.
“You never gave me the chance.”
“You had hundreds of chances. When I was a kid, you lived your entire life through me, but when you joined the Assembly I became an afterthought. Did you really believe Ascending Sodality would teach me celestial love? Or did you just not think about it at all?”
“She’s the one who hurt children. Yet you forgave her and despise me.”
“She rescued me.”
“She stole you from me!”
After I ran from Kelly that night, I went to Erica’s room. When I told her what had happened, she spirited me outside and hid me in the trunk of her car. I heard her tell the security guard that she was late to a movie premier. But Kelly had ordered a lockdown, so he wouldn’t let her out. She pled and argued and cajoled, to no avail. Only when she promised to give him a blowjob when she got back did he open the gates.
Later, when we were free of the place for good, she begged me to go to the cops. I refused—she’d had sex with numerous boys between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. If I’d have pressed charges, she would have gone to prison along with the others. I hired a lawyer, whom I told about the Assembly’s theft of my savings but not about Ascending Sodality. The Assembly repaid the money in exchange for my silence. A court granted my petition for emancipation from Harriet. I moved out of Erica’s house after eight months, the only way either of us could start fresh. I got an apartment and used my real name and let my hair grow out to its natural color and went to a public high school in the Valley where no one suspected that I’d been an actor. The tabloids made some desultory efforts to find me, but I quickly became old news. Parky Gerald no longer existed.
Now, after so many years, I stare into my mother’s eyes and feel the one undeniable genetic bond between us—a stubborn combativeness so ingrained that we could both destroy ourselves just for the sake of not giving in.
“You know what I want,” I say. “Harmon’s notes, an explanation of the payment to Knolls, and peace for Monica Baxter and her son. You have twenty-four hours. Except on the Monica Baxter point. That begins as soon as I leave.”
“We won’t give in to your threats.” She turns around and storms out.
They leave me in that room for another half hour. At last, one of the men who drove me to the compound comes in, blindfolds me, and ushers me out to the car. This time, he takes the blindfold off as soon as we pass through the gates of the compound. I guess they wanted to make sure I didn’t see any of the elders walking around the grounds.
Unlike the bizarre trip to the Assembly compound earlier today, the ride home passes quickly. Now, I welcome the silence. I hold out scant hope that my mother will give in to my demands. In twenty-four hours, I’ll go to the media, starting with Brandon Placek at the Times. At least, I’ll get his attention. If he won’t write the story, I’ll contact the other major media outlets. If they don’t believe me, I’ll work my way down, until someone has the courage to publish the truth. I just need one person to publish the truth.
We arrive at the shopping center where I left my car. My handler parks in an isolated area of the lot, leaving the engine running. Before I can open the door, he reaches back and hands me an envelope. As soon as I exit the car, he speeds away.
With trembling hands, I open the envelope and pull out a stack of papers, which I recognize immediately: McCarthy’s itinerary for his May 2011 trip and a wire transfer receipt memorializing The Emery Group’s $500,000 payment to Delwyn Bennett. My mother has given me what Lou Frantz wouldn’t.
Jonathan and Kathleen arrive in the law school classroom together, followed by Lovely five minutes later. She’s dressed in a leopard-print sports bra and matching skintight shorts, exposing a bare midriff. Wisps of hair have escaped from the band around her ponytail. She’s been working out at the school gym, and her skin glistens with sweat. She looks terrific. I presume that the stories about her porn career have already hit the Internet. Her choice of wardrobe reflects her usual in-your-face attitude.
“Sorry to impose on your Saturday evening,” I say. “I hope you didn’t have plans.”
“A girl like me always has plans,” she says in a steamy voice.
Jonathan chortles. Kathleen slaps his arm. Lovely must be the talk of the law school. I wish I could protect her from all that. Thankfully, the semester will end in a couple of weeks and she can get away from here.
“We had a bad day in court yesterday,” I say. “But I have something important to show you that might turn that around.” I project a PowerPoint slide on the classroom monitor. “This is a document reflecting a five hundred thousand dollar wire transfer on May 2, 2011, from The Emery Group to a man named Delwyn Bennett. He happens to be Representative Lake Knolls’s chief of staff.”
Lovely’s jaw drops. This document confirms the information that Ed Diamond got from his underworld sources about the payment to Bennett. When Jonathan and Kathleen start peppering me with questions, Lovely and I act as if we only learned about this payment today.
“Where did you get this document?” Jonathan asks. “Did Frantz finally—?”
“I didn’t get this from Frantz. But let’s just see if we can figure out what this payment was for.” I project the next slide. “This is Christopher McCarthy’s itinerary for his vacation in May and June of last year. I think the trip is related to The Emery Group’s payment to Bennett.”
“How do you know that?” Kathleen asks.
“I just do,” I say, annoyed at her perfectly appropriate question. “Now, let’s focus on the merits.”
The slide reads: Sunday May 22, 2011—Bratislava; Wednesday May 25, 2011—Sofia; Friday May 27, 2011—Chisinau; Saturday May 28, 2011—Helsinki; Tuesday May 31, 2011—Paris; and then a flight back to Los Angeles on June 15.
“Any ideas about what to make of this?” I ask. “Because I don’t.”
“He likes Paris better than those other cities?” Jonathan says. “I know I would.”
I glare at him. I’m in no mood for class clowning.
There’s a long lull while we stare at the screen. Finally, Lovely says, “Aren’t they all the capitals of their respective countries?”
Jonathan does a Google search and after a minute says, “You’re right. They are all national capitals. I wasn’t sure about Chisinau, but yeah, it’s the capital of Moldova.”
“I’ve never heard of that country,” Kathleen says.
“It’s next to Romania on the Black Sea,” Jonathan says.
“McCarthy lied when he testified he was on vacation,” I say. “It was some kind of business trip.”
“Or politics,” Jonathan says. “Where there are capitals, there are politicians, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “More likely politics. Anything else?”
We fall silent again. I stare at the slide, but I’m so tired from the day’s drama that I can’t form a coherent thought. “This is frustrating,” I say. “We’re so close to nailing those motherfuckers.”
Kathleen’s face flushes scarlet. “Professor Stern—”
“Sorry about the language Ms. Williams, but I—”
“Let me finish. This stuff doesn’t prove that the Assembly did anything wrong. So what if McCarthy met with politicians. He’s a lobbyist, right? Isn’t it his job to meet with people in politics? And his trip doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with that payment to that Bennett guy.” Though she says all of this in a calm tone, her anger is palpable.
I strain to keep my own voice steady. “Ms. Williams, The Emery Group made the payment to Delwyn Bennett only a few weeks before McCarthy took this trip. McCarthy controlled The Emery Group’s account. He went to great lengths not to produce this itinerary in discovery. There has to be a connection between the trip and the payment.”
“No there does not,” she insists. “It doesn’t have to mean anything like that. You’re always so quick to condemn the Assembly. And you’ve been so majorly wrong. Look at the debacle yesterday with Rich Baxter’s broken . . . what’s it called, hyoid bone. Check out the Internet. The media is laughing at us.”
My anger wells up, the caustic kind that that’s all too easy to direct at gentle people like Kathleen. “Ms. Williams, are you familiar with these words from Bradley Kelly? ‘The Sanctified must turn their backs on profane temptations from whomever they come and abjure petty loyalties and banish those whose souls are defective and immerse themselves in the cleansing waters of the Fount.’”
“I’ve read that.”
“Abjure petty loyalties, Ms. Williams. Your loyalties obviously lie elsewhere. I want the truth. Did you tell the Assembly that I was looking for Grace Trimble? That Grace used the alias Sandra Casey?”
“Parker!” Lovely says.
Jonathan’s body goes rigid. “You got to be joking, dude.”
“You’re asking me if I . . . ?” Kathleen’s voice cracks. Her jaw keeps moving, but no words come out. She blinks a few times and gathers herself. “You’re seriously accusing me of giving confidential information to the opposition? Of being some kind of spy? I’ve been killing myself on your trial, and—”
“He didn’t mean it that way, Kathleen,” Lovely says. “He’s just—”
“That’s exactly what I meant.”
Kathleen slumps down in her seat and turns away so I can see only the side of her face. She fans her eyes with her hand in a futile attempt to stave off tears.
Jonathan stands. “Fuck this, man. You’ve lost it. Kathleen wouldn’t do anything like that.” He takes her hand. “Come on, Kath.”
“Mr. Borzo, I suggest you—”
“I don’t give a damn what you suggest. This isn’t a class, it’s a circus. And we’re done with your trial. Optional, right? You’ve fucked it up anyway. You aren’t qualified to teach us anything.”
I watch as he helps her gather up her things. All the while, Lovely has this disappointed yet detached look of a lab worker who’s just witnessed a botched experiment. Jonathan leads Kathleen out of the classroom, making sure to slam the door hard behind him. Shaken, I lean back against the wall.
Lovely rests her chin in her hands and closes her eyes as if I’ve exhausted her. “I absolutely don’t believe that Kathleen did what you accused her of. Do you know how hard she and Jonathan have been working? And she’s right, you know. This stuff about McCarthy is definitely intriguing, but it doesn’t prove anything.”
I bow my head and use my thumbs to rub my temples in what I know will be a futile attempt to stave off a raging headache. “OK. You’re right. Kathleen was right. All of you are a thousand percent right. I’m an asshole.” I look at her, really look at her, for the first time since I watched that video. With her hair pulled back in that high ponytail, she looks, not sexy or brazen, but young and fresh, like one of the ingénues in the G-rated movies I acted in as a kid. “Why didn’t you leave with Kathleen and Jonathan?”
She removes the scrunchie holding her ponytail and lets her hair down, which she pulls back to make a tighter ponytail. “You know, I probably should leave. But my father taught me never to abandon the people you love.”
Though Deanna’s dayshift manager, Romulo, is trying to keep the place open, I won’t set foot in there until Deanna’s memorial service. Her parents won’t schedule one until they get the final autopsy results, and that could take weeks. So I spend this Sunday morning sequestered in my condo, rereading the documents that Harriet gave me and trying to think of a way to use them in court. Kathleen’s right—McCarthy’s itinerary and the payment to Bennett don’t prove anything conclusive. I don’t even have admissible evidence that McCarthy was the signatory on the account from which the payment was made. Yet, the documents are all I have, so I’ll use them and see if I can blow enough smoke to raise doubt in the jury’s mind about Rich’s guilt.
I grope around for a fresh approach, something that might lead some of the jurors to question Frantz’s pat version of the case. My only chance is to convince at least four of them to hang the jury, which at this point would be a victory. I leave the condo and take a run down Venice beach, passing the skate park and the street vendors and the tattoo emporiums and the pot shops, dodging the rollerblading daredevils and the slow-moving cyclists. I find myself focusing, not on the trial, but on the loved ones I’ve lost. Soon, I’m running past a throng of people with tears streaming down my face.
