Unveiled
Christine Davis
Copyright@2009
Unveiled
Prologue
A mind full of mid-night’s sleep and possibility, would have thought it the Fourth of July, accept for the foot of snow and blinding winter air. Red, blue and white flashing lights slashed through the blizzard filled night transforming multi-shaped snowflakes into a dancing patriotic prism. Two Philadelphia patrol cars, parked sideways so not to get stuck on the tiny street that help to make up the residential puzzle of North Philly, sat running as their occupants hesitated to leave the warm blast of their heaters. Weather conditions called for all residents of the City of Brotherly Love to stay indoors unless it was “a matter of life or death” to venture out. But every cop on duty was sure some knuckle head try out his new SUV and possible lock them into a situation they seriously wanted to avoid.
Officers Collins and Shultz had just recovered from an icy slide on Broad Street when the call came in at 10:53 p.m. - 2056 Ringo Street, possible domestic dispute, immediate response requested. “Ain’t this a kick in the balls,” Schultz yelled as they poured out the hot cups of Joe just purchased at the local WAWA and drove as quickly as possible to the scene. The roads were treacherous and the chains wrapped around the wheels of their cruiser clinked loudly against the frozen snow. “If she don’t press charges I’m gonna beat her myself,” Collins added.
Upon their arrival another patrol car entered from the opposite end of the block and the four officers commiserated with each other before heading for the front door. It was only upon approach that they noticed the splintered front door and bloody footprints that stopped at the edge of the doorframe. The blizzard had wiped away any further tracks. Schultz and Collins signaled the other two cops to take the back, withdrew their weapons, and slowly entered the eerily quiet residence. They announced themselves “police”, but received no response. “Police,” they said again. Their feet sloshing on echoing hardwood flooring, they entered the dimly lit living room to discover the bloody body of a male, face down on a rug. He was quite obviously dead.
“Damn, this shit is gonna be an all nighter,” Collins complained.
“Better than being out in that mechanical dump all night,” Schultz added. Gonna be at least three hours before homicide get here.”
“Should we check ‘em out,” Collins asked carefully walking towards the body.
“Nah, he’s dead.” Schultz shook his head with a slight grin. “Somebody wanted him gone from this world for good. I’ don’t think I’ve ever seen that much blood running out of body. Can’t even tell if he was shot or stabbed.”
“Knife wounds I think,” mused Collins. “I’ll go call it in.” He stepped backward carefully trying not to disturb the scene.
Squeaking boots announced the arrival of the other two officers as they entered from the kitchen. They were both breathing heavily from their excursion through the storm.
“Hey, hey watch them big clumping feet fellows,” Schultz called out. “We got a murder here looks like.”
“Murder,” repeated the youngest officer in a whispery voice.
“Yeah, murder, kid,” Schultz laughed. “This your cherry kid?”
“Yeah it’s his first.” His partner joined in with Schultz’s laughter but seemed uncomfortable with the dead body at his feet.
“Don’t worry about it kid, a lot more coming.” Schultz took out a cigarette and lit it. “Guess he won’t mind. Why don’t you two go check out the basement, I’ll take the upstairs tho’ I’m sure who ever cut this guy to pieces is long gone - footprints stopped at the front door.”
“I called it in…said it would be awhile,” Collins called out on his way back in. “Might as well watch over him” Schultz replied as he started up the stairs. “Doubt he’s going anywhere though.”
Collins nodded and looked around for a place to relax without disturbing the scene any further. Wasn’t much of choice, the room was a wreck. Overturned furniture, broken glass table, smashed lamps – homicide would have field day. He suddenly felt like waiting in the car, had just taken a seat on the steps leading to the second floor when he heard him.
The rookie emerged from the basement, his face stark white, eyes wide with shock. He rushed toward the kitchen. Collins followed.
“What is it rookie.” Collins grabbed his arm to stop him from running out the backdoor. “What is it kid?”
“Blood, blood everywhere. In the….the…dryerrr. In the dryer man, in the dryer!”
“What, what are you talking about,” Collins yelled, spit flying out his mouth, as he shook the crying man.
“What the hell is going on,” Schultz yelled clopping down the steps two at a time.
“The kid is shook up.” The rookie rushed past both of them and headed back out in the snowy night. His partner came up the steps slowly but also speechless from shock. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably. They would get no answers from him. "Guess we better go," Schultz said to his partner. Collins and Schultz descended into the weakly lit basement with apprehension and caution, each silently wishing homicide would arrive and keep them from plummeting into something they knew they were going to regret.
The basement looked like a thousand others - unfinished, peeling walls, exposed spider web covered pipes in the ceiling, damp dirt like floor - they would have hardly noticed the dryer in the shadows if not for the telltale multiple set of footsteps which led them straight to it. At first glance they thought it curiously painted red. Collins switched on his flashlight and shined it on the machine. It was not paint. In disbelief they approached the open door, each pretending more bravery than what they felt at the moment. Collins hand began to shake and the white beam of his flashlight jumped up and down.
“Hold it still dammit,” Schultz whispered.
“I’m trying, - got a bad feeling about this one.” The metallic smell of blood filled the stifling air in the basement.
“You gonna punk out like the kid?”
“Just go ahead, and shut up,” yelled Collins, who thought Schultz a bully, but normally kept quiet about it. Schultz gave him a funny look but bit his lip.
“Just give me the darn thing,” Schultz said, grabbing for the flashlight.
Collins, relieved, slapped it into his waiting palm. Schultz, more to prove to Collins that he wasn’t a punk than investigate the inside, shined the light into the dripping cavity of the dryer. Even from his position behind Schultz, Collins could see the blood - a hundred smooth steel holes, still dripping. In the bottom of the dryer he could make out a small piece of clothing. It appeared to be a baby’s sleeper, but his mind couldn’t comprehend that thought. He stared in disbelief, his eyes scanning the outline of the cloth. It had once been another color, but now he could only see red. At the end of the cloth where there should have been nothing, a small curly head lay flatten and twisted, the neck distorted as if someone had taken their hands and wrung it out. A dead eye stared up at him blankly. He turned away, unable to look any longer.
Chapter One
Melony parked her hybrid in the spot reserved for “Attorneys” and headed towards her second security check of the morning. The sky, as dark as her mood, was threatening a repeat of the snow showers that had fallen over night, leaving a white coat on lawns and statues throughout the historic city. The Women’s Rehabilitation Center, or WRAC as it was commonly known, was a place she detested, but she had been summoned to the semi-secure prison by a late night phone and she felt compelled to assist, even if it meant coming here on an unplanned day.
“Dr. Owens.”
“Yes, who is this,” she answered, groggy with sleep.
“This is Malcolm Jackson.” Malcolm Jackson? Why would a Public Defender be calling her at this time?
She sat up instantly, clicked on the lamp almost knocking over the glass of water she kept on the night stand.
“I need you on a case.”
The red numbers on her alarm clock read 4:02 a.m. “It’s the middle of the night?” An anxious mood descended, from the interruption of sleep or the caller’s voice. She was still too disoriented to nail it down.
“Morning will be fine.”
“Gee thanks,” she’d replied sarcastically. “What kind of case requires that I get called at four in the morning?”
“The morning paper will tell you that.”
“My plate is pretty full right now Malcolm, but I can recommend some very capable…” she started instinctively feeling that it was probably the kind of case she didn't want, and just a bit hesitant to work on with him.
“Melony, this has just been tossed in my lap and I need to get a lawyer on the arraignment for the afternoon session. Simpson has the case. I know she trusts you and before she sets any kind of bail I’m going to need your input.”
The argument had been won, they both knew it, but she wasn’t quiet willing to lay down all of her defensives, yet.
“Can you tell me the client’s name at least,” she asked, standing in the darkness of her bedroom feeling swallowed by the familiar dizzying loneliness that came would normally appear at daybreak.
“We don’t know it yet. They processed her under Rashida Doe.”
“Rashida Doe," Melony repeated with cotton mouth. "What the hell kind of name is that.”
“Someone’s idea of a joke I’m thinking.”
She carried the phone into bathroom and switched on the light. Juggling with one hand, tugging at her pajama bottoms with the other, she blinked her eyes adjusting to the blinding light.
“And you’re allowing this?”
“I have bigger concerns,” Malcolm sighed. “The district attorney is trying this one herself.”
“Damn.”
“Sorry to wake you this time of morning.”
“No, no the toilet seat is freezing.”
The Director laughed and Lena joined using a wad of toilet paper to swipe a small thin spider web from the small crack she always left in the bathroom window.
“What are the charges,” she asked muting the phone so that he wouldn’t hear her flushing.
“Why don’t you check out front page of the Inquirer?” The Inquirer - the case had to be pretty serious to make front page of the biggest newspaper in Philadelphia. “We can talk in the morning.”
The phone died in Melony’s hand but she held it awhile longer trying to retain the warmth of the connection for a few extra minutes.
Wide awake she stared at herself in the mirror. Reddish-black circles were beginning to form under her eyes. Her white porcelain skin it immediately protested the lack of sleep. She gently massaged her cheeks in an attempt to raise some color, get the blood flowing before the circles set in and left her looking like a raccoon. The circles lighten quickly enough as she blushed, racing early morning thoughts speeding through her mind. She would see him today which made her smile at her sleepy reflection through bloodshot eyes. Melony had inherited her “Black Irish” grandmother’s famous looks. Shoulder length thick, jet black hair that made other women stare with envy, midnight blue eyes adorned with long, curvy lashes, a thin proportioned nose, and plump taut lips naturally colored to a medium shade of pink - she was a great beauty, made only the more so by her lack of recognition of the fact. At 5’7 she was taller than both her mother and older sister, and her strict eating habits kept her weight between 125-130 pounds.
Trading a hot shower for her warm bed, she pulled on a pair of expensive jeans and an old Phillies sweatshirt that had belonged to her decease husband, Jonathan. She’d never bothered to patch the large hole in the elbow or scrub away the ancient coffee stain that sat on her right breast, which made it appear as though she were breast feeding. Thick cream laced coffee burned her lips as she curled into her favorite living room chair and stared at a stack of case files before finally picking up one to read. Her patients never observed her taking notes but it was all there, in her memory, transferred to paper to assured that someone else would be able to follow what she had started with a patient if needed. Two hours later the unmistakable squeaking of the paperboy’s bicycle breached the frozen glass of her living room windows. Earphones on his head, he bobbed slowly up and down to the some unheard tune, grey puffs escaping his lips. Melony liked him. Blizzard or not, the kid respected his routine. She watched him expertly sail newspapers on her neighbors’ steps, until she finally heard the solid thud which indicated that she had been delivered. Remnants of the previous night’s snow storm assaulted her as she opened the door to retrieve the paper and she waved at her next door neighbor who'd decided to get an early start on cleaning off his car. Slamming the front door against the onslaught of icy gusts, she peeled the thick, beige rubber band from the paper and rushed back to her warm chair and hot coffee. Malcolm was right, the story had made front page, right beneath the President’s speech on the war in Iraq, and a picture of a group of French students protesting the same.
Woman Charged in the Murder of Two. Bodies of male and infant found overnight in their home.
A male and infant - the newspaper slipped from Melony's hand, blossoming as it hit the throw rug beneath her feet. The world tilted for a moment, her hands trembling from the memory of her “male and infant” crashing like whitewater throughout her mind. "Stop it," she whispered to herself. “It’s not about me.” But her hands continued to shake as she sat back in her chair and covered her legs with her favorite throw. Her breathing was erratic and she felt sick with anxiety. The panic attack had hit her so fast, so surprisingly hard, that she had not had time to prepare. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. “I’m okay at this very moment. Everything is fine. I’m okay,” she whispered over and over until the panic slowly resided and she could stand to be touched again. She hadn’t had a panic attack in over a year, but the awful feeling of them never changed. Ten minutes later, still a tiny bit off centered and shaken, she retrieved the newspaper from the floor.
The news story was accompanied by a grainy photo of a young veiled woman being led, handcuffed into the Round House, the major police headquarters in Philadelphia. Melony stared at the only uncovered part of the girl's face, her blank eyes. Even in the black and white photo there was something in the woman’s eyes that she recognized instantly – pain. She felt uncomfortable, almost as if she was invading her privacy as she read the rest of the article. Slowly, with much care and concern she gleaned what information she could from the staff writer who'd efficiently provided the facts, if not the story. According to Malcolm, Rashida Doe would be arraigned this afternoon. She had five hours to give the legal parties involved some sort insight into the girl.
She knew immediately that five hours would not be enough.
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Time was not on Luther Matisse’s side. He had acted in rage and now he was forced to clean up a mess that he should have never created. But damn, it had felt so good to finally do it. He had dreamed of this moment a hundred times over the last eighteen months and the actually act had not been a disappointment. How sweet they tasted on his tongue when he licked his fingers, how fragrant the smell of their fear. The boy had begged for the child’s life, had willing given his own to save him. But of course he’d fabricated the sparing of the child just for the pleasure of telling the lie. Anything and anyone who would separate him from her had to be removed. But if only she’d been there, the thought enraged him so he refused to allow it live in his mind. He could do that control his thoughts, keeping them silent and inactive when necessary, which is when he dreamed He had expected her to be there also, had wanted her to see him kill the boy for what he had done to him. The child had been a bonus. In their country the killing of children was as easy and effortless as swatting a horsefly, but she would see horror in his act, and be unable to hide the revulsion from her brown eyes. It would reflect out, healing his still open boyhood wounds. But she had not been home and he had to satisfy himself with the look on the boy’s face. Well it was ecstasy. He could have stayed all night, waited for her to return to her cozy little house and reclaim that which was his, but the dream showed him that he should not. It aggravated him that he was headed to pick-up and deliver instead of heading back to his home. This place, this cold, grey place had depressed him, made him weaker.
Pulling off the highway into a truck stop he dialed a number. His call was expected and answered on the first ring. He spoke first knowing what they were waiting to hear. “I located the boy.” There was dead silence and the echoing sound of semi-truck engines filled the mobile phone line. He was expected to go on so he did. “There was a child also.”
“Was?”
“It is gone, along with the boy.” He paused. “I’m on my way to pick up the package for New York City.” He hung up before any more questions could be asked, dreading the answer he would have to give once it was.
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Located on the outskirts of Philadelphia, the Women's Rehabilitation Center or WRAC, a maximum security prison built to house two thousand female inmates, currently had an enrollment of twenty-eight hundred. It was the brainchild of a former First Lady who argued that incarcerated mothers would rehabilitate if allowed the opportunity for continual contact with their children. After a three year debate between the citizens of Philadelphia and the City Council, it was finally built as a judicial experiment. No one denied that it had failed miserably.
Fifteen years after its opening, the mismanaged facility had become a cage for female murderers, drug dealers and prostitutes. The visiting rooms, which had been originally designed with brightly colored walls and kid friendly furniture to encourage visitation, had deteriorated from lack of concern and state funding.
Melony entered the facility through the door reserved for attorneys and medical personnel. A trio of security moving slowly from one side to another watched her every step. Behind a bullet proof glass eyeing her from the moment she’d left her car in the parking lot reserved for visitors, sat two guards, a male and a female commenting appreciatively on her shapely legs. As required she removed her coat and boats in the “Check In” room and stood patiently, if not happily through a quick pat down by a female guard. Melony was relieved of a toe nail clipper and two loose aspirins buried in the bottom of her worn brief case as she handed over her identification. The prison was going through it’s twice a year spruce up, but this room had not been repainted yet. A bronze splatter similar to many she’d seen at the Art Museum patterned the entry room wall. Prison gossip alleged that an inmate had attacked her attorney the week before. There had been blood, lots of it, and the prisoner had finally been dragged off of her attorney with a fractured wrist. Security had been tightened, two extra guards added to each shift, one more at the main gate and security check-ins. Satisfied that she wasn’t planning a prison break they handed her a temporary id badge and passed her on to her escort, a thick guard whose prison badge simply read Inez.
“You got stuck with Rashida, huh,” the guard asked in a thick accent Melony couldn’t place as they walked down the long corridor which led to the psychiatric section of the WRAC. At one time fresh flowers and plants had littered the hallway (according to one of the older guards who loved to talk to Melony about the old WRAC) but now it was bare except for a few plastic chairs and a steel ashtray. Small slithers of sunshine fell upon the grayish colored floor creating a white spectrum path as they walked. The sun was coming out – maybe her day would look up.
“Why do you have her listed as Rashida Doe? Why not Jane or Sue,” Lena asked more than a little frustrated by the secrecy.
“Oh you don’t know,” the guard laughed. “It’s because of the headdress she came in with. It took us an hour and four guards to check beneath the thing and only after we sedated her.
“What headdress?”
“You’ll see for yourself in a minute,” Inez replied knowingly.
“What did you sedate her with?”
“I don’t know. Something the doc gave her. Before that she kicked and bit, fought just like a wild animal. When I saw it I knew why”
“Saw what,” asked Melony.
“Oh you’ll find out I’m sure,” said Inez with a secretive smile. Melony hated the smug attitude of the guards. She started to ask again, but changed her mind.
She walked the remainder of the hallway in silence trying to figure out what exactly was waiting for her behind the bars at the end of the corridor while Inez chatted about the long night she’d had.
Malcolm Jackson, her four a.m. wake-up was waiting. Melony was instantly relieved to see him. “Malcolm, you really must stop the early morning phone calls,” she joked, allowing him to help her with the heavy wool coat she’d found at a thrift store on the Mainline.
“Sorry Melony,” he replied, offering a boyish smile, which made her heart stumble. “But I really need your help with this one. I’ve been here for two hours and I still don’t know what the hell is going on with this case.” They were the only two "outsiders" in the room. Seated quietly in a corner at an old, scarred wooden desk that someone must have found and dragged up from the cellar, sat a guard who appeared to be well past retirement age. She leaned slightly in their direction, pretending not to be listening to their conversation.
“Just remember that call the next time I need a tire changed or some other strong armed task that we weak women aren’t supposed to be able to handle,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Malcolm laughed, his deep bass voice echoing off the scarred waiting room walls. Some of the inherent lines in his face softened as he relaxed a bit. “I hope you don’t feel I’m taking advantage with you Melony. It’s not like you work for the Public Defender’s Office. It’s just that I know you’ll be fair and honest. I have a feeling that this young lady needs that more than most right now.”
“Forget it,” she reassured him. “You had me with the name, Rashida Doe. Who came up with that ridicules idea?”
“Apparently some pissed off cop who got an early morning call too.” The door opened and his escort stared hard in his direction to indicate that his time was up.
“What does your client have to say about all of this,” Melony asked, taking the vacant seat next to him.
“If she has a story Melony she’s not sharing with me. I’ve spent all morning trying to get her to say something - anything. She won't even acknowledge my presence.”
"Perhaps she can't, talk I mean. Often patients who have gone through a traumatic experience are in shock and are unable to communicate."
"That's more your field than mine," he replied with a shrug. "But I can't help her if she doesn't talk. What little evidence that has come in so far does not appear to be in her favor. It’s good to see you though Melony, you look great.” He smiled and she struggled to concentrate on the case.
“Maybe she should be in a hospital Malcolm and not this place,” Melony replied with obvious distaste for her surroundings. “If she’s unresponsive I don’t know what I can do to help.” They had been here before, on the same or opposite side according to which legal department called her first.
“They’re charging her as an adult - two counts of murder one. I have no idea how to defend the girl against the charges since I don’t even know her age. I'm guessing seventeen, maybe eighteen, but who knows.”
“According to the newspaper a husband and baby were found. I think that’s a good indication that she’s over eighteen.”
“Not necessarily,” Malcolm replied rubbing his forehead with his right hand. “You have no idea what I’ve seen in this job, or maybe you do.” His soft brown eyes landed on her face, stayed there a bit longer than necessary.
“How are they charging her without more information,” she asked forcing her eyes from his face.
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. He appeared to be tired, weary even. Worry flooded her liquid blue-black eyes. She wanted to touch his dark handsome face. The Public Defender's Office had ruined a lot of good attorneys and she didn't want him to become a local government statistic. “Does the police report give us anything to work with? Did they run her fingerprints,” Melony asked as he shoved a blank notepad into his briefcase. "Do we have an ID on the male or the baby? My God, a baby? Who murders a baby?" She felt sick to her stomach from the early morning coffee, the conversation, the newspaper article.
“Nothing. They can’t find any record that the girl even existed.” He pulled on and zipped his black lambskin leather jacket.
“That’s interesting. How can they proceed without a viable client?”
“They will prosecute under Rashida Doe, at least for now.”
“Why is everyone so interested in this case?”
“You're kidding right. This story was made for front page," Malcolm replied with a sarcastic smile. “Woman kills husband and infant son.”
They held each other's eyes a little longer than necessary before Melony continued. “Was he her husband? Do we know that? The poor girl is probably in shock," she asked rushing her words as she felt the panic from earlier trying to encompass her once again. "I couldn't stop staring into her eyes as I was reading the paper this morning. That would be my professional guess even without an exam.” She kept up, saying the un-necessary. She was suddenly starting to feel the fear that came with the disease. She didn't want him to leave but could not so say.
The guard who was to escort Malcolm out sucked her teeth to indicate that she was waiting. He headed toward the exit then turned back to Melony. He looked her up and down slowly as she squirmed under his stare. Was she acting strangely? Could he tell what she was thinking about him? He continued to brazenly search her face as if looking for the answer inside of her. “Could be true, or not. At this point everything is so crazy that I'm not sure of anything." He pulled his gaze away from hers. "I have to go and try to prepare some kind of argument for the arraignment." He knocked on the door and the guard opened it quickly. “Thanks for taking a shot Melony, but I don’t know if you will be able to do anything for my mysterious defendant.”
“I’ll see what I can do Malcolm,” she replied nervously twisting the leather handle on her briefcase. “Sounds like an interesting case, if nothing else.”
“Deadly interesting,” he called back over his shoulder before leaving with his escort.
“You ready Melony,” asked Helen a female guard she recognized from the psychiatric center.
“Yes, I’m coming.” She stood, feeling more tired than she had before the conversation.
Chapter 2
District Attorney Crystal Lynch won her office after a hard fought campaign where she promised quick retribution for any and all criminal acts that took place within the borders of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In the four years since she had taken office she had kept her word prosecuting and convicting faster than any of her predecessors. Under her leadership the office had developed a hard nose reputation where very few deals were cut in favor of the defendant. Young attorneys vied for the opportunity to join her staff, worked unbelievable hours once appointed to gain her approvable. She was said to be a task master and considered her opinion to be the only correct one. In the courtroom members of the police force loved her, defense attorneys feared her, and judges respected her quick and efficient approach and legal mind. She expected perfection from her Assistant DAs, and if she repeated a directive more than once they knew to look for a new position. She hated to lose whether she was prosecuting a case herself, which was rare nowadays, or using one of her subordinates. No one wanted to report a “not guilty” verdict to District Attorney Crystal Lynch, and very few did.
Lynch was rumored to have her eye on the Mayoral race and although the Rashida Doe’s case hadn’t come in an election year, it did right after a bitter divorce settlement that required she pay alimony to her much younger, unemployed husband. Melony and Malcolm had not been the only two compelled to respond to circumstances of this case. During the middle of the night, antsy and wanting to regain her equilibrium, Lynch decided to prosecute the Dole case herself. The opportunity to get some badly needed positive publicity sweetened the pot. She needed a distraction, and currently the murderous mystery of Rashida Doe was the biggest game in town.
“What the hell is this,” Lynch screeched at Kevin, her sharpest Assistant DA whom she’d called to a seven thirty meeting.” She tossed his hurried report on the conference room table. The only two occupants at a ten seat table, they spoke easily with more candor than if others had been summoned to the meeting.
Kevin Hamilton, the newest member of the District Attorney’s Office had been selected after a 20 candidate interview process. His innocent face often disarmed his competitors allowing him the opportunity to outmaneuver his opponents both in and out of court. Thick, curly black hair and smoky blue eyes, both men and women often stopped to appreciate his good looks. Since he refused the numerous flirtations from female courthouse staff, he was rumored to be gay. Lynch appreciated his hard work, admired his cut-throat style of prosecuting, and considered him a likely candidate to replace her, even with his short tenure.
“That’s all the police could give us initially,” replied Kevin “I’ve been on the phone with the 26th since three. The girl won’t, or can't talk. They're still not sure which and there's no history on her."
“So you’re telling me all you have is two dead bodies, and one mute defendant,” she asked in a softer tone which was an indication to all who knew her, a very dangerous change. “This case has all the ingredients of a front page story for the next two months. I have no intention of going into the courtroom blind.”
“We’ve just gotten started Crystal. I’m sure the police will be able to provide us with additional information over the next couple of days.”
“I don’t bet on possibilities Kevin, and if you want to remain in this office you won’t either,” Lynch replied with soft steel in her voice. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped a few degrees. Lynch who could just as easily been a top model as an attorney shot icy darts in his direction. Any of her other associates would be sweating bullets by now, but Kevin, a Princeton graduate with a dogged attitude and razor sharp bite, knew exactly what he offered the District Attorney’s office. He hid a small smile behind the lid of his Styrofoam coffee cup.
“From what I’m reading we have a cold blooded killer who can easily slip through the judicial cracks and find herself on a vacation in the funny farm.”
“Are we sure that’s not where the girl belongs,” he questioned more to rile her than because of personal belief. “Look at how they found the girl.”
“Two people are dead. One of them was an innocent baby. There will be no free ride here," she said re-opening the folder labeled “Rashida Doe”. “Someone has to pay for this crime and we only have one defendant at the moment.”
“The judge has scheduled a psych evaluation,” informed Kevin as he confidently freed the case file from Lynch's grip. He flipped through the almost flat folder in front of him thinking hard about how to appease his boss. “Melony Owens has been assigned. We had better try to get her feel on this situation as soon as possible.”
Lynch’s chair scraped loudly as she stood and walked to one of the ice covered windows to stare out at the city below. Twelve floors above the awakening city, white snow lay virtually untouched by the slow moving traffic beginning to flood the Center City streets. In spite of herself she enjoyed the view for a minute before responding.
“Get Melony’s feelings on this whole thing Kevin. This girl is spinning some kind of fairy-tale and I want to know what exactly what it is.”
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“Let me out of here! I can’t stay in here,” yelled an unknown patient in a tunneled out tone, her voice carried by the long barren hallway to the where Melony and Helen stood waiting to buzzed inside. “I gotta get home to my kids. Let me out, please let me out!”
“That’s crazy Janet. She just got transferred from somewhere upstate, was threatening her judge I think.” Melony cringed at the prejudicial statement. “She ain’t got no kids though.”
“Why what happened to them?”
“She poured gas on them, lit a match, then stood outside the house to watch ‘em burn,” Inez said with no sympathy. “Thinks their still alive.” They walked the rest of the way in silence.
The psychiatric ward at the WRAC, similar to the rest of the facility, was at one time state of the art. Despite a lack of funding and political interest, it struggled to retain a light and airy atmosphere conducive to patient rehabilitation. It was not very successful. One of the main functions of the prison was to offer its inmates the mental support they would need to take control of the demons that landed them behind bars. Unfortunately, the WRAC, with its reputation of politically appointed leadership and mismanagement, could not attract and keep the type of mental health staff that would be dedicated to the long term assistance the patients required. Mental health in the facility consisted mainly of heavy handed drugs and two overworked doctors.
Lena, who has volunteered at the center twice a month over the past five years, spoke to a few patients as she was led down the colorless corridor that led to the holding cells. The cases were always a challenge, and sadly, made overly so by the bureaucracy of the prison community. A family of keys jangled from the guard's belt loop as they walked finally stopping outside a solid iron door painted standard WRAC grey.
“She’s in there Melony, but I think you’re wasting your time with that one,” the guard said shaking her head as she unlocked the door. Lena nodded, comfortable with the use of her first name. In the WRAC most people were called by their first names, even the guards. "This is where we bring all new patients 'til they get processed, medicated. Don't know why she's here though since she's been shot up pretty good so far." She was concerned, one of the few at the WRAC who genuinely cared for the inmates. "You want me to come in with you?”
“Thanks Helen, I can take it from here,” Melony touched her shoulder lightly as she stepped through the open door and allowed it to shut with a loud bang. She leaned into the steel for a moment arching her fingers against the hard surface. It was an old practice, one she did to mentally brace herself whenever she met with new patients behind the walls of the WRAC - a reminder that she would be allow to leave with only a soft tap on the locked door. The guards were listening, always, just in case they were needed. Her eyes closed only for a second, long enough for her to prepare. Never react, never, no matter who or what appeared before you.
Overhead, dual florescent lights flickered before settling down with a slight buzzing noise. No windows. “Fresh Paint” signs hung crookedly on opposite sides of the room, a thick acrylic smell frozen in the unmoving air indicating that the walls had recently been coated in the flat colorless white they liked to use at the WRAC. In a second she took it all in. A claustrophobic wave inched slowly up her spine as she wondered what the paint hid beneath its damp coats. Melony smiled at her new patient.
Six years of training and five years of psychological practice, and some things still took her off guard. This was one of them. The “monster” everyone had spoken of with measured fear in their voices was in actuality a tiny, timid looking girl, trying her best not to tremble under the stark overhead lights hanging above her head. Her hair and most of her face are hidden behind a multi-colored head wrapping, an ornamented mixture of orange, yellow, red and black. A single braid peeped shyly from beneath the decorative scarf resting softly upon her creased forehead. Extremely thin, dangling blueberry black arms hang loosely from the short sleeves of her orange prison issued jumpsuit. Stiff as a block of wood, her newest client sits rigid, seeming slightly catatonic yet not completely so, as Melony continued her silent observation. With nervous tic like movements, she pulls unconsciously at the collar of the jumpsuit as if it is strangling her though it is obviously too large to do so. Dry, hurt filled eyes - Melony simply wanted to gather her into her arms, rock her slowly, and relieve some of the pain burning in her face. Instead she slowly removes a small tape recorder from her front pocket and places it on the thick wooden table near Rashida’s bony hands. She had been horribly abused, Melony is sure of it, and with therapeutic patience she waits allowing silence to fill the unrivaled space between them. There is something animalistic about the girl’s dry bed brown eyes which swirled with specks of intrigue, curiosity, and something much, much deeper. Ten minutes passes with only the whining sound of the tape recorder and the soft ticking of the large wall clock filling the room, the doctor sneaking glances at the patient before quickly turning her eyes away. Melony finally breaks the silence.
“My name is Doctor Owens, but you can call me Melony if you want." She studies the eyes which stare blankly, unresponsive, yet not cold. There's a life inside of there she thinks. "I’ve been sent here to help you. Do you understand me? Can you understand English?”
It was fast, the way her eyes flickered, and gave her away, but Lena notices, and also the mild shaking. “You’re trembling. Are you okay,” Melony asks quietly, carefully, keeping her voice soft and friendly.
Another flicker, then followed quickly by a slow blink. There is definitely fear, but something else, something that sends a shiver across Melony’s heart. She understands and recognizes the fear, but there were so many other things in Rashida’s blank stare that she has to break off the eye contact. She uses the opportunity to again survey the stark white walls of the room. The painters have done an average, thank-less job, probably rushing like most outside people to leave the WRAC as soon as possible. With an invisible stick she mentally traces several surviving cracks running perpendicular to the ceiling. Someone has stuck a note with a wad of pink chewing gum on the back wall right above her patient’s head. It simply read “help me”. Her eyes fall again on the darkest skin she’s ever seen, the most stunning. Even half hidden she can tell that the girl is beautiful in the unassuming way that only people who do not recognize that they are beautiful can be. In prison gear she reminds her of the deliciously foreign models who suck the air space right off the thick pages of the fashion magazines she often flicks through but never purchases. She is definitely very different.
“Did you write that note,” Melony asks, already knowing the question will not be answered. And then changing the subject. “I come here quite often but this is the first time I’ve used this room. Pretty terrible, don’t you think?” Her attempt at breaking their silence lands weak and unbalanced.
Then suddenly, like a sneeze that you don't expect, Rashida relaxes, her thin arms collapsing like two deflated sticks into her lap. Her chest rises slightly indicating that she has taken a deep breath although there is no movement of her lips or nose.
Melony not sure what to make of the movement picks up the tape recorder. “I hate the sound of these tape machines. Even the tiny ones like this make the most irritating noise. They are ingenious though.” She has been trained to be quiet, evaluate the silence of people – the “what they are not saying”, but something about the girl is making her nervous, ramble on un-necessarily. Maybe it is the freshly painted box room’s colorless color, the starkness, barred door, cigarette burned table, or its overall similarity to the prison’s standard cell. She fights to control her nervous reaction not wanting to shut the girl down even further, if that was possible. Normally Melony saw her patients in the psych ward’s library which was a little nosy at times but not inhibiting. Everything about this room feels smothering. Melony continues to chatter in a second attempt to connect with her patient - to cross a bridge where none exists.
“I’m just going to sit here for awhile, if that’s alright with you. I’m not in a rush to go back through those steel bars.”
This time Rashida’s eyes blinks faster, awareness appearing behind the brown shadows in them. Melony has gotten her attention. From the hallway the muffled sound of steel slamming against concrete echoes into the room and the girl turns toward the noise as if expecting someone to walk through the door.
“I hate walking through the bars the most. In fact, I hate this place,” Melony announces realizing that it was the truth. “It’s scary here? Every time I come through the doors I feel lost and lonely. Does it feel that way for you too?” They have this moment, this prison, this room that they are sharing – it is her toll onto the bridge. That’s all she has to use. “Am I talking too much? Would you prefer quiet?” She would have sworn she'd seen another response. “You know most of my patients talk my ear off. I’m not use to doing the majority of the talking, though we therapists do tend to ask a lot of questions.” This time she received a tiny movement from behind the scarf. Had it been a smile?
Rashida slips a finger under the front rim of her scarf and slowly scratches her scalp with the tip of her finger. To Melony's thinking it is a natural thing for someone to do. A sane thing. She continues to sit with her allowing a relationship to be planted in their silence. Out of the corner of her eye she notices a black spider slowly descended from the ceiling tiles, working quietly to begin a new webby home. She hates spiders, the death in them, feels the urge to swipe it like she'd done earlier this morning to the other. But she keeps her seat, not mentioning the existence of the creature to her patient.
“You're head is covered. Are you Muslim,” she asks after some long moments, intentionally avoiding eye contact as she questions the girl. “Your name is not Rashida, is it? What is your name?”
And to her amazement, the girl stands, shaky at first on what has to be thin legs, then stronger with a low guttural cry slipping from between her thin dark lips. She opens her mouth as if to respond, then closes it just as quickly. With a ghost-like limp she takes to the corner opposite of the spider's home as if she’s known of his presence all along. Melony holds her breath, bites down hard enough on her bottom lip to taste the metallic in her blood. Afraid any sound or movement will frighten the girl further, break this incredible moment she sits perfectly still. Something she said has affected the girl forcing a reaction, and in her mind she replays her last words as she continues to study her. At about 5’1, she is as thin as a rail, a dark shadow resting awkwardly against the ballooning orange of her jumpsuit. She looks no more than twelve or thirteen.
“Oh my God,” Melony thinks, but remains frozen at the table. Her left foot itches nervously in her ankle boots - she must allow space, but hopes desperately for an invitation.
“Won't you tell me your name," she asks, time slipping away behind the windowless walls.
Rashida raised her head slowly, small dark circles appearing on the material wrapped about her face, and then allowed it to drop quickly back to her chest. She is crying, and suddenly Melony feels the connection, that invisible pull that draws her to a patient, assures her that they were meant to travel awhile together.
“I’m sorry,” Lena whispers softly, but she is secretly happy to see the girl have any response.
“Sorry?” The question came out in a croak from a soft voice, a foreign accent.
“Yes, I'm sorry this is happening to you, and yes I want to help.” Melony swallows the tears welling up in the back of her throat. Already this mystery patient was having an effect on her.
“Help me.” She points shyly at her chest. "Help me." She has never had a patient like her. Her lovely eyes are wet and red as she nods with some small understanding. Melony sighs with relief. She can feel the invisible pull, the link growing between them as she smiles and pushes back her chair. Scrapping wood mixes momentarily with angry voices which float from beneath the door. A scream follows, and then the room falls silent. The sounds are scary, but familiar and her eyes never leave the face of her patient who begins to shake uncontrollably.
“What’s your name honey,” she asks again. “I have a feeling that Rashida Doe isn’t your name.”
“Rashida?” She is clearly confused.
“That’s what they are calling you, Rashida Doe,” Melony explains slowly, struggling to place the accent which feels familiar, yet distant. Understanding, like a soft yellow light switches on in her brown eyes
“La ismi," (not my name) she replies in a strong voice. Was that anger? Melony wasn’t sure as she concentrated on the response, the delivery.
“Yes, you do have a name," Melony assures, joining her, legs crossed on the cold, cement floor. "You do have a name don't you sweetheart. So what shall I call you?”
"La ismi,” louder this time, her head bent in a servant ant manner, her neck downward, eyes searching for something in Melony's.
This is the moment, and Melony trained to know this moment more than any other, sits up straight, her back taut and hard. She leans forward, again taking note of the girl’s strikingly beautiful facial features which refuses to stay hidden even under her spotted multi-colored scarf. Shallow breathing fills the space between them as her warm breath escapes the head wrapping and skirts across Melony’s left cheekbone. An earthly smell pours from her exotic skin. Excitement floods Melony's body, flowing quickly with purpose toward her heart. She isn't from here - didn't belong to these damn white walls and suddenly Melony knew and was grateful.
“Ana Asmina," (my name is Asmina) she says in a breathless whisper
"Ash - me - nah," Melony repeats, and the girl’s eyes brightens momentarily, fills with joy, and then dies just as quickly. “Yes, yes you are.” Not from here. The accent, the lovely dark skin, it all fits. Dumbfounded, Melony pulls away a bit. How the hell did this beautiful young girl get here, a Philadelphia jail cell? She has to know. “You're not from here, are you? Where are you from Asmina? The name rolled easily from Melony’s tongue, feeling wonderfully sweet and strong.
"Here," she repeats not understanding. Frustration fills her eyes and she raises her head only enough for Melony to see the struggle flooding her features.
"You're not American. You're not." She touches her then, lightly laying her hand over her hand, remaining even when the tiny fingers stiffened under her touch. "Oh baby girl, what has happened to you?" Inside her chest her heart shouts across space and time, calling out to a girl she doesn't know, doesn't understand, but feels so deeply for that she can hardly breathe. A wave of questions thunders through Melony's mind, generating a torrent of possible answers. She squints at the clock - forty minutes gone - fighting back the stinging tears determined to have their way with her eyes. How can she possible help this girl, build a relationship, uncover her story when there wouldn't be verbal communication? This girl was touching her in places she'd never been touched before. Her eyes fell on the table where the tape recorder was still running unmanned, wishing she had thought to grab it on her way over, hoping and praying that it is recording from a distance. She will need its words when she leaves this cold place to hold on to Asmina. And she knows, instantly, she will hold on tighter to her than she has any other patient before. The knowledge of this causes her to grasp the incredibly thin hand tighter.
“Are you a murderer Asmina,” she asks inwardly. You are accused of murdering your own baby. "Do you even remember that?” A scream builds up in the back of Melony’s throat. Nothing, absolutely nothing frustrates her more than not getting a handle on a patient. The inability to connect always leaves her feeling helpless and weak. Asmina has something to say – she can feel it, see it in her horribly sad eyes. But how can she possibly get into broken world?
Fear floods the girl's eyes, a dam of trepidation shimmered on her long black eyelashes, before rolling silently down the unhidden part of her face into silk material. Melony's tears threatens to spill over, finally sympathy winning out over sensibility, they surge hot upon her cheeks. They cry, she and Asmina, swaying gently as if connected by an invisible umbilical cord which will only allow synchronized movement. And even harder still when Asmina begins to slam her skeletal back against that damp still white wall freeing the note which reads "help me" and it drifts airlessly to the floor.
"People are dead Asmina. The police will keep you here until they find out who hurt them," Melony warns in a scratchy voice. "But you won't be alone. I promise you, you won't be alone."
“Al La~am ," (The butcher) Asmina cries out. "Hoowa Al La~am ." (He is the butcher)
“Who, who are you afraid of?” But Melony was losing her again, saw the dulling begin to cloud her velvety chocolate eyes. Would she get her back again?
“Tell me, who has frightened you,” Melony presses, desperate to keep the connection between them. "Who hurt you, your family Asmina?"
"Ana Aba", (I am a slave) she cries in a tongue lost on Melony. Was it the name of the killer? Her husband? "Huwwa majruh." (He hurt me) Melony swears under her breath. She is losing her now; she might never get her back.
“Where are you from Asmina," Melony almost yells, gripping her hand hard. “What country? Where is your home?"
Before Asmina answers, several things happen at the same time to fully retract the delicate bridge between them. The door opens suddenly without a knock, a strangled yell pours into the room and Asmina, her eyes wide with terror, curls her legs and backs into the corner as far as the wall will allow.
“You okay in there Melony,” the guard who'd brought her in yelled as if they weren’t in the same room. Lena wanted to scream, but instead she loosened her grip on Asmina’s hand. “We’re fine Helen,” she responds never taking her eyes from the girl.
After a moment, the door shuts loudly behind them and once again the humming of the tape filled the room.
“I want to help you Asmina. Please tell me, where is your home?”
"Dar Fur. Sudan, Dar Fur. Kevin." (The face of death) Then she was gone, closed off in her silent world behind her veil, tears rolling silently down her face.
Melony left the WRAC confused, but excited. How could she feel so hurt, yet so happy at the same time? Just a short time ago she thought there would be no kind of breakthrough, now everything felt different. They could journey together, if only for a short while. That is all a therapist requires, to be of some help to someone, and she decided in that moment that she wanted help to this girl. There was clearly such deep pain inside of Asmina that it radiated from beneath her beautiful black skin. There was something amazing about her – murderer or not – and Melony left determined to find out just what it was.
Chapter 3
Despite it being mid-morning and the promise of rush hour traffic, Melony took the expressway back to Center City. She wanted to get to her office and call Malcolm before the arraignment hearing. The traffic was all it promised to be and as she set amid a mass of unmoving cars she rewound and played the tape of her conversation with Asmina. Static filled the car as she fast forwarded, bypassing her empty questions to the section where the girl had finally spoke
"Ana Aba." It was some type of African tongue - she had watched enough National Geographic to figure that out. But what country and how in the heavens had she gotten to America? They would need an interpreter she thought as the foreign words bounced like tiny hard pebbles against the frozen windows of her small car. But bringing a third party into therapy was never a smart move, especially in such an important case with such a wounded client. Melony replayed the answer two times before moving on. What was on it might not help, but it certainly couldn't hurt. Judge Simpson, along with the District Attorney and Public Defender’s Offices would have to be told of the situation. She would call Malcolm personally. Melony wasn't sure how the information would affect the case but it had to have some bearing. She had been unprepared for the session and it had drained her. Leaning back on the car's headrest she continued to listen intently to Asmina's voice. Her tone and inclination was almost childlike, swollen with apprehension and fear. Skittish and anxious, she was clearly frightened, but of whom? Melony was not a betting woman, but if were forced into a decision, she would bet it was not the dead man. Something had broken inside of Asmina's mind, snapped it like a dry twig, and whoever or whatever it was continued to have a hold on her that one session with Melony was not going to break. She wanted to speak with her again as soon as possible, but at the moment she only had an hour to prepare a report a mental health report sharing the little information she'd gotten. Blending with the morning traffic towards downtown Philadelphia she determined that she would stay involved with the case after giving her report. Maybe petition the judge to remain on as a consultant.
Fifteen minutes later Melony walked through the double glass doors of the office she shared with two other therapists, college friends. Arlene the receptionist was the only occupant in the waiting area and she hurried to hang up from a phone call.
“Hey Melony,” called out Arlene, a tall, plump platinum blonde who kept the place running smoothly around her weekly hair appointments. “Mr. White called. He said he was running about ten minutes late.”
She had forgotten to cancel the appointment.
“Thanks Arlene. Do you have Malcolm Jackson’s number in that rolodex of yours,” Melony asked flipping through the mail on the cherry wood reception desk. “I need a cup of coffee.”
“I’m sure I do, but you need to watch the coffee Lena. It’s not good for you,” Arlene chide handing her a piece of paper with Malcolm’s number. “When are you going to start using all the fancy features on that new phone of yours?’
“But if I did that mother we wouldn’t need you any longer,” Melony laughed, as Arlene rolled her soft green eyes. Arlene was the only five years older than her, but she had designated herself the office mom since her arrival three years ago.
“Speaking of mothers, yours called about an hour ago to arrange lunch this afternoon. I told her I would have you call her back.”
“That’s going to be impossible today,” she mumbled more to herself than Arlene. “Thanks for the messages.”
Dropping her briefcase and pocketbook on the couch in her office, Melony dialed Malcolm’s number while balancing her second cup of coffee of the morning. She had time for one tongue burning sip before he answered.
“Department of Criminal Defense, Malcolm Jackson.”