Make Me Sin (20 page)

The third degree begins.

“How do you feel? How are they treating you? Is the doctor competent? I’ve called Dr. Mendelsohn; he’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

Dr. Mendelsohn is my family’s personal doctor, kept on retainer like an attorney for everything from annual checkups to emergency treatment. My mother is a career hypochondriac and my father can’t tolerate waiting for anything so mundane as an office appointment; hence the ridiculous luxury of a twenty-first-century house-call physician, who will travel to any location in the world to tend to his employers at the drop of a hat.

Sometimes my parents are mortifying. Right now, I’m so grateful for them I could die.

“They’re taking good care of me. I feel okay. My throat hurts. I think my face looks worse than it is.”

My father’s mouth tightens. Clearly he thinks my face looks pretty bad. “Have they fed you?”

“I got the regulation gruel half an hour ago. I’m expecting sepsis to set in any minute.”

My lame attempt at humor takes the edge off the killer ferocity in his eyes. Now he looks merely furious.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since about eleven last night.”

“And what tests have they done?”

I tell him about all the tests, and the results. He nods, grimly satisfied. “When do they expect to release you?”

“They haven’t said yet. There was some concern about my throat closing because of swelling, but so far that hasn’t happened . . .”

Murder has renewed in my father’s eyes. I squeeze his hand.

“I’m okay, Dad. It could’ve been a lot worse; I got away.” I try to be lighthearted. “Plus, I kneed Eric in the balls and got to use Mom’s pepper spray on his sorry ass, so it wasn’t a total loss.”

We fall quiet. Because I know my father so well, I see he’s struggling with guilt over our last meeting, the awful dinner when he asked when Eric and I were going to get married. “This fine young man,” he called him. I wonder now if he’ll ever forgive himself for that miscalculation. Usually he’s even better than Grace at pegging people.

This time it’s Grace who’s won that call.

“What did you tell Mom?” I only ask because I know he didn’t tell her the truth. At least not the whole truth. He makes his living defending criminals, after all; the truth can be a very inconvenient roadblock to keeping people out of prison.

“I told her I was needed at work.” The ghost of a smile lifts his lips. “And don’t give me that look. I
was
needed. By my baby girl.” He strokes a hand over my hair.

Looking at each other, we share a moment of profound silence.
I can see he’s carefully weighing what he’ll say next.

Finally, his voice quiet, he asks, “Who was the man who called me?”

“His name is A.J. He’s here; he just went to go get some food. He’s
been with me all night. He’s a friend of mine.” My face reddens. I drop my gaze to my hands, and pick at the heartbeat monitor attached to my forefinger. “He’s actually more than a friend. We’re . . . close.”

“I see.”

Oh God, the weight of that. The assumptions, which I know are right. My father has just figured out the whole sordid picture, without having to hear more than a few words. My embarrassment is excruciating.

But my wonderful father bypasses any awkward conversation about the identity of the man who usurped his hoped-for son-in-law’s position in his daughter’s bed, and switches into professional-lawyer mode. “All right. Chloe, I need you to tell me everything that happened. Start at the beginning.”

I do. I also tell him about my last few encounters with Eric, and his increasingly erratic behavior. When I’m finished, my father squeezes my hand so tightly I think he might be cutting off the circulation to my fingers. His eyes are bright and diamond hard.

“I’d like to kill that son of a bitch. I’d like to rip his heart from his chest with my bare goddamn hands. I’d like to burn him alive. Then I’d like to slice both his Achilles tendons, dump him in the lion cage at the zoo, and throw knives at his head while they tear out his barbequed guts.”

I’m shocked. I’ve never heard my father curse, or utter a speech so choked with hatred. I didn’t know he was capable of such violent emotion.

He sees the expression on my face, leans forward and takes my face in his cupped hands.

“I wasn’t always Thomas Carmichael, upstanding businessman, respectable, tax-paying citizen. Before I met your mother and turned my life around, I was Tommy Two-Time, repeat offender, biggest, baddest thug in Southie. All the other gang leaders in Boston would shit golden bricks when they heard my name. And if anyone was stupid enough to lay a finger on my family or friends, they’d lose that finger . . . and the rest of their arm.”

My lower jaw comes unhinged, and hangs uselessly on my chest. After a moment I compose myself enough to say, “Gang leader? You’re joking! Mom never would have married a thug!”

He kisses my cheek. “Of course not. I had to clean up my act before she’d even consider dating me.”

I sputter, “B-but you met at a country club! Playing golf!”

My father smiles. It’s a half smile, crooked and cunning. In it I see a flash of the old Tommy Two-Time, the thug from Southie who wouldn’t know Brioni from a bagel.

“
She
was playing golf. I was inches away from getting fired from my job as snack bar attendant for stealing beer and candy bars. When I first laid eyes on her, I thought I’d been struck by lightning. I’d never seen a woman so beautiful, so elegant. I jumped over the counter, walked right up to her, and asked her out. She put her nose in the air, looked me up and down, and said, ‘Get a haircut and a law degree, and I’ll consider it.’ So what do you think I did?”

Awed, I murmur, “You got a haircut and a law degree.”

He nods, releases my face and sits back, adjusting his cufflinks. “Nothing gets in the way of what I want. You’re like me that way. We’re both fighters. Single-minded when we set a goal. Though thank God you got your mother’s looks.”

I have to laugh. It hurts my throat, and I cough. My father pours me a glass of water from the plastic pitcher on the table beside my bed, and I drink it, my brain spinning with this new information.

“How come I never heard that story before?”

“Because one condition your grandmother had for allowing me to marry her daughter was that my sordid past be buried under a nice, thick layer of respectability. So it was.” He shrugs. “This was before the internet. People could still reinvent themselves back then.”

I can’t wait to grill my mother about this. All these years of judging my boyfriends and she married a gangster. Unbelievable.

My father turns brisk. “All right. Are you ready to give your statement to the police?”

Though I’m dreading rehashing it once again, it has to be done. I nod, paling a little.

“I’ll be right here with you. Just tell them what happened, exactly how you told me.” He pauses. A dark note creeps into his voice. “And don’t let their attitude affect you.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re LAPD, Chloe. They’re his coworkers.”

“So? Why should that make a difference?”

“There’s a code of loyalty among police. It’s a brotherhood, not unlike a gang, if truth be told. They have each other’s backs. In cases of domestic violence, many times the responding officers won’t report the attack if the perpetrator is another officer. They know he can be suspended, have his firearm taken away so he’s forced to be reassigned to a desk job, even lose his job altogether. It’s considered a relationship problem, a social worker problem, not real police work. I’ve heard policemen try to convince wives and girlfriends who’ve been beaten bloody that their man is just under a lot of stress at work.”

I feel sick. “That’s awful!”

He nods. “There are also cases, especially in custody battles, where women will falsely accuse their husbands of battery or child abuse in order to get the children taken away from them. Every officer has heard his share of those stories. So what I’m saying is don’t expect to be believed. On the plus side, I’m here, and they all know who I am, so while they might not believe your story, they also won’t be stupid enough to say it out loud. And I’ll make sure the report is filed with the chief, and followed up on.”

He rises from the bed, straightening his tie, squaring his shoulders. His voice gets low and rough. “And we’re getting a restraining order. That son of a bitch is going to stay far away from you, or go to jail.”

As I hide my shaking hands beneath the blanket, my father calls the officers into the room.

I
t’s not anywhere near as bad as my father has warned. For one thing,
one of the two officers is a woman, an attractive young Latina who listens to me seriously, nodding, taking copious notes. For another, the male officer looks like he’s been on the job all of two weeks.

I suppose he hasn’t had enough time to be properly indoctrinated into the “brotherhood.”

The entire interview takes about thirty minutes. At the end of it, the female officer, Garcia, her badge reads, casually mentions they weren’t able to get a statement from Eric yet, who, to my horror, is somewhere in the same hospital.

“Why not?” asks my father.

Officer Lawrence, the young male, says, “Because he just got out of surgery.”

My father raises his brows. “Surgery?”

“Yep. A dislocated kneecap and shattered tibia, a broken arm, a
ruptured spleen . . .” He consults his notepad. “Three broken ribs, some
pretty serious internal bleeding that took a long time to get under con
trol, and a fractured jaw.” He looks up. “Had to have it wired shut. He’ll be sucking all his meals through a straw for at least a month.”

A grim smile spreads over my father’s face.

Officer Garcia says, “We’d like to talk to your friend, Ms. Carmichael. The man who accompanied you to the hospital? We need to get his statement also.”

Fear slices through me like an arctic wind. If A.J. has done that much damage to Eric, will he be facing prosecution? Eric told me about A.J.’s prior record, I know all about the three-strikes law, and I’m pretty sure what he’s done will be considered aggravated assault. To a
police officer
, no less . . .

Desperate, I look at my father.

Without missing a beat, he says, “He’s my client. I’ll need to be present when his statement is taken.”

The two officers share a glance. Officer Lawrence says, “Of course. Is he here?”

From the doorway, a voice says, “He’s right here.”

Everyone turns. The officers share another look, but I’m staring at my father, holding my breath.

To anyone who hasn’t been in A.J.’s presence before, he can be overwhelming. His sheer size, combined with his crackling intensity, tends to frighten people. The way he glares at you from under his lowered brows doesn’t help.

And there’s the matter of the tattoos.

But my father merely gazes at him with a look of intense scrutiny. There’s no judgment, just a narrow-eyed, fierce assessment, a collecting of all the visual facts. He and A.J. stare at each other for what feels like a very long time.

Then my father relaxes slightly and does this thing with his head, a jerky upward tilt of his chin I’ve never seen him make before. It looks suspiciously like a gangster greeting and a wordless acceptance, all in one.

Or maybe I’m making it up. I probably have a head injury in addition to everything else.

Officer Garcia asks, “Mister . . . ?”

“Edwards.” A.J. steps into the room. When the male officer takes an involuntary step back, I try not to smile.

“Mr. Edwards. We’d like to speak to you about the incident last night. Your attorney has requested he be present.”

A.J. looks at my father, then at me, then at the officers. He nods.

“Why don’t we go to the commissary and let Ms. Carmichael rest—”

“That won’t be necessary.” My father interrupts Officer Lawrence with a p
ointed look. I’m not sure what’s going on, until he adds, “I’m sure Mr. Edwards is comfortable giving his statement right here.”

Then I get it. The police are trying to separate us, to see if our
state
ments match. Or at least my father thinks that’s what’s happen
ing.
If it’s true, the officers make no indication one way or another.
They motion for A.J. to take a seat in one of the uncomfortable-looking
plastic chairs by the window, but he opts to stand, announcing
this fact
by staying put and crossing his massive arms over his chest.

It’s clear from his stance and his glower that he’s not a big fan of the police.

After ten minutes of questioning, during which I sink farther and farther into the bed, soreness and a bone-deep fatigue setting in to every crevice of my body, Officer Lawrence asks A.J., “And after you left Ms. Carmichael with the neighbor and instructed him to notify 911, what happened?”

My eyelids, which had been drifting shut, snap wide open. My heart begins to pound.

This is the part where they arrest A.J. for aggravated assault on a police officer.

Without taking his unflinching gaze from Officer Lawrence, A.J. says, “Then I readjusted his expectations of living a long, pain-free life.”

Officer Lawrence, clearly not the brightest bulb, asks, “The neighbor?”

“No. The piece of scum who beat my girl.”

Officer Garcia sends me a sympathetic, over-the-shoulder glance. I breathe a tiny bit easier, seeing that look, but then rewind to the part where A.J. called me his girl, and suffer a minor heart attack.

Meanwhile, my father watches A.J. like a hawk tracking a meal. He looks more than a little scary.

“So just to be clear, you’re saying you beat him up. You’re the person who inflicted the physical damage to Officer Cox that necessitated his emergency surgery.”

Before A.J. can answer the question my father interjects, “No one said anything of the sort. Additionally, not only was Officer Cox off duty at the time of the incident, and in plain clothes, there’s no evidence my client knew he was a police officer.”

Officer Garcia consults her notes. “According to Ms. Carmichael, Officer Cox was incapacitated when she left the apartment, due to her copious application of pepper spray to his face.” She looks at A.J. “Is that correct?”

“Incapacitated? No. He was still able to form a sentence. He told me to go fuck myself. After
that
, he was incapacitated.”

My father sighs. “All right. We’re done here. Officers, thank you very much. If you have any further questions, here’s my card.” He produces two business cards from his breast pocket, hands them over, and opens his palm toward the door, a clear indication of the direction they should head.

Officer Lawrence turns and walks out like an obedient child. Officer Garcia, however, lingers behind. Her sharp brown eyes assess the three of us, not unkindly, but not in a friendly way, either. I get the sense she’s trying to decide whether or not to say something she might regret.

“When he wakes, Officer Cox may very well want to press charges.”

My father calmly says, “That stupid fuck is going to be facing so many charges of his own, he won’t have time to think about anything else.”

Garcia slowly nods, not rankled in the least by hearing my father’s unflattering description of her coworker. She looks at A.J. “Mr. Edwards, I’d like a word with your attorney.”

A.J. shoots a glance to my father, whose face reflects nothing, not a hint of surprise or worry.

The former Tommy Two-Time says with perfect composure and civilized sincerity, “Of course, Officer Garcia. Anything to assist our fine police department.”

A muscle in A.J.’s jaw flexes. For a terrifying moment, I think he’s going to snap, but then I see the fleeting depression in his cheek, a stray smile immediately suppressed, and I realize my father is being sarcastic, A.J. knows it, and Officer Garcia doesn’t.

Two peas in a pod
, I think, too exhausted and emotionally overwrought to decide how that makes me feel.

With a final, piercing glance at me, A.J. leaves the room.

As soon as he clears the threshold, Officer Garcia says quietly to my father, “When you present the charges to the chief, make sure to ask about any recent disciplinary action Officer Cox has been subject to.”

“Meaning?”

My father is very, very interested in what she’s saying, but he’s playing it cool.

“Meaning the chief might find it extremely embarrassing if it were to be made public that he didn’t act sooner on an officer who’s had multiple Code of Ethics violations, along with failing a recent alcohol test.” Her mouth pinches. “That last one alone should have gotten him fired on the spot.”

Almost indifferently, my father asks, “Why didn’t it?”

Officer Garcia’s pinched mouth twists with a wry, knowing smile. “Because the chief is third-generation U of A, Officer Cox was one of the best running backs the university ever had, and, unlike any of the female officers on the force, they both share a small, brainless organ responsible for most of their decision-making. At least, that’s my humble,
unofficial
opinion.”

My father looks at her in a whole new light. Respect creeps into his eyes. “Not that you ever shared it, of course.”

Her look is blistering. “Of course. And if anyone suggests otherwise, he might get a traffic ticket every week for the rest of his life.”

My father holds up his hands. “Believe me, Officer Garcia, I long ago abandoned thinking with my small, brainless organ.”

Her smile returns. “I’ve heard that about you.” She glances at me, and her face softens. “Good luck. And try a little Arnica ointment for the bruising on your face and neck. In my experience, it helps.”

In my experience
. Those words tell me all I need to know about why Officer Garcia felt compelled to share the information about Eric. God only knows what caused that small, irregular scar on her chin.

I say, “Thank you.”

She nods, then she’s gone.

My father stares after her in unabashed admiration. “Jesus. If we had ten more of her on the force, crime would be eradicated in weeks.”

A.J. comes back the moment she’s left. He walks straight to my bedside and takes my hand, gently threading his fingers through mine. We look at each other for a moment, then he turns to my father, who’s watching us from the other side of the room. In a low voice, A.J. says, “The only reason I didn’t kill him is because I knew
Chloe wouldn’t want me to.”

My father seems to take great satisfaction in that statement, because his grim, throw-the-bastard-to-the-lions smile returns. “We haven’t had
the pleasure of being formally introduced.” He crosses the room slowly,
holding out his hand. “I’m Chloe’s father, Thomas. Call me Tom.”

They shake han
ds. A.J. says solemnly, “Nice to meet you, Tom. Normally I can’t stand lawyers because they’re such money-grubbing fucks, but your daughter loves and admires you, so you must be all right.”

I close my eyes. If anyone had tried to tell me this would be the first conversation between A.J. and my father—and under these particular circumstances—I would have laughed until I fell over.

Or maybe I would have cried.

Either way, it’s completely out of the realm of what my brain can presently handle, so I simply lie there like a bruised zucchini, waiting for whatever comes next.

It turns out to be an amused snort from my father. “I
am
a money-grubbing fuck, but only because I want the best for my family.” He pauses. When he speaks again, his tone is as lethal and cold as the sharpened edge of a knife. “There’s nothing more important to me than them.”

I open my eyes to see A.J. slowly nodding. As if something has been agreed upon, my father nods back. An unspoken understanding has just occurred between these two men, and I faintly grasp that my father may have just accepted A.J. as a new fixture in our family, while simultaneously threatening his life.

I feel like I’m in some kind of Tarantino remake of
The Godfather
.

My father releases A.J.’s hand and turns his attention to me. “You shouldn’t go back to your apartment.”

“Agreed.”

My father continues as if A.J. hasn’t just spoken. “You’ll come home with me—”

“No.” My voice is firm enough to give my father pause.

“All right. I’ll book you a suite at the Four Seasons—”

“No.”

My father chews on the inside of his cheek like he does when he’s frustrated, but trying not to show it. “Fine, the L’Ermitage, then. It’s small and very private—”

“I’m not staying at a hotel, Dad.”

He bristles. “You’re not going back to your apartment!”

“I can stay with Grace for a few days—”

“It might take more than a few days to get the restraining order, Chloe Anne, and I’m not taking any chances with your safety! You’ll stay with your mother and me, or at a hotel. Those are your choices.”

“There’s another alternative.”

Startled by the interruption, my father and I look at A.J. He’s talking to both of us, but he’s only looking at me. And his eyes . . . lord, his eyes are so deep and dark there’s no end to them.

“Which is?” my father prompts.

“Chloe can stay with me.”

The room fades to black. My father disappears. There’s only me and A.J., our locked eyes, my heart drumming a crazy, improv beat. I whisper, “Yes, please.”

My father’s looking back and forth between us, but I can’t tear my gaze from A.J.’s. Even if I wanted to, I can’t.