The morning of Valentine’s Day, 2008, Ted pushed open the glass entrance of Rico’s flower shop. The little bell fastened to the top of the door jingled, and Rico looked up from behind the counter.
“Hey, Mister Jackson!” Rico exclaimed with a twinkle in his eye. “I knew you would be here today.”
Rico was a stout, balding, little man with dark gray hair, whose voice lilted with an Italian-American accent. He was one of the few people whose presence filled up a room so fully that it could challenge Ted’s.
“Look here,” he continued.
He stepped out onto the floor of the shop, past two islands packed with prearranged flowers on display, and hobbled up to a wall case.
“I have beautiful, colorful roses. Perfect, eh? What do you think?”
“No,” said Ted lightheartedly. “I’d rather go with something simple this year. Have any red tulips?”
“Yeah,” Rico said. “A dozen?”
“Ten,” Ted said.
“Ten red tulips,” Rico repeated. “That’s it? Just tulips?”
“Yes. And a card.”
“Ah!” Rico grinned. “Something romantic!”
“A blossom for each year I’ve been in love.”
“That’s what’s on the card?” came a voice from a woman, as short and as stout and as gray-haired and as Italian-American as her husband. She had just entered from the back room, lugging a bucket full of blossoms.
Ted sighed. “Yes, that’s what’s on the card.”
“Eh, did you two marry in ’01?” Rico asked. “Yeah, I remember, you were still on your honeymoon… Oh, that was awful—“
“No, that was his birthday, Rico,” the woman interrupted. “And you forget, they met earlier.”
“Oh, right. So ten red tulips. Got it. Good as done. Clyde’s gonna love ’em.” He turned to a young man just coming up from the back room. “Hey, Anthony, come make Mister Jackson here a bouquet of tulips. Ten red ones, okay?”
“Sure thing,” replied the young man, tall, dark, and handsome. Then he asked, “Hey, Ted, how’s the wife?”
“She’s fine.”
Rico added, “You just make sure she doesn’t leave him over the wrong flowers, okay?”
Anthony chuckled. “Sure thing, Uncle Rico.”
Unfortunately, he had barely picked the stems out from the display case when the door bell jingled again, and into the shop barged three large men, armed, arrayed in crisply pressed blue uniforms and intimidating blue jackets.
They strode up to Anthony, and one of them said, “Anthony Giordano?” more as a demand than as a question.
“Yeah?” Anthony said.
“You’re under arrest.”
The woman gasped, bringing her hands to her cheeks. She looked like she was going to faint.
Rico whispered to himself, “Signore del cielo!” Then he quickly said, “This is our lawyer.”
But Ted was already on it. “What’s he charged with?”
The cop said, “So, he’s already been talking to his lawyer.” Then he pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here’s the warrant.”
Ted took it and read it as the other two cops muscled Anthony into handcuffs.
“Ow,” Anthony complained.
“Quit being a baby,” said the cop who did all the talking. Then he began to quote Miranda to the young man.
Ted interrupted. “This man is represented by council.”
“Yeah, I get it,” said the cop.
“Don’t ask him anything, not even his name, got it?” And without waiting for an answer, he faced Anthony. “Say nothing. Not a word! I’ll meet you there.”
Anthony nodded as they dragged him out of the shop.
Ted turned back to Rico and saw that his poor, old wife was silently sobbing. He walked up to Rico and whispered, ”This warrant indicates that the police think Anthony raped the Williams girl, the one that’s been on the news. Do you know anything about that?”
“No, I don’t believe it. He doesn’t even know her. And even if he did know her… No… You got to understand. Anthony’s a little bit… uncivilized. Blame it on his mother. Black sheep of the family, you know? But he’s still a good kid. But there’s no way Anthony could have done that. I don’t believe it, not even if I live to be 500 years old. Never!
“God! This is wrong, Mister Jackson. They come into my place of business and assault my family? And with what? You have to fix this. You capite?”
Rico’s voice was raising steadily, and Rico’s bride, now partially recovered, said, “Calm down, Rico.”
“Yes,” Ted agreed. “Calm down. Capisco. I’ll meet him at the station. Okay?”
The morning of Valentine’s Day, 2006, Saddam Hussein announced that he was on a hunger strike, along with his cohorts. They were protesting their treatment by the international tribunal. And news commentators were still absorbing themselves with Dick Cheney’s hunting accident the previous Saturday. Ted noted these things in passing, as he prepared for his closing before the jury that afternoon.
“Miss Williams never saw her attacker’s face. So she couldn’t actually identify him. She said she knew him, that she recognized him by his voice. But you saw in this very courtroom that she failed to point out Mr. Hill’s voice from among just three men. As you heard yourself, his voice sounds quite average. How many men are there out there who might have been the actual attacker?
“Officer Simmons also could not identify the attacker. All he saw was a figure running from the scene, in the dark. No distinguishing characteristics. No distinguishing behaviors. Except that Mr. Hill does have distinguishing characteristics. As you yourself have seen, he walks with a limp. How could he have run as the attacker had? Yes, the officer later upgraded his story. After he saw Mr. Hill walk with a limp, he began to say the attacker ‘hobbled’ away from the scene. But that was not his original, unbiased statement!
“The prosecutor also failed to show how Mr. Hill could have gotten his hands on sevoflurane, the anesthetic that the perpetrator used to knock out his victim. This is a highly controlled drug, only available to anesthetists in operating rooms. Mr. Hill is an English teacher. How would he have gotten his hands on sevoflurane? It’s not even available on the street, because there are cheaper drugs that common criminals use to knock out unsuspecting victims. Yet, we know for a fact that that Miss Williams’ attacker used sevoflurane. The prosecutions own lab experts confirmed that.
“How convenient it was that this attacker never revealed his face. The prosecution is desperate, so desperate they even went so far as to suggest that he hid his face because he had a distinguishing scar that he wanted to hide.
“In logic, there is a fallacy called Appeal to Ignorance. In an Appeal to Ignorance, one side”—and he pointed to the prosecutor—“claims that they have no evidence to prove Mr. Hill did not hide his face; therefore, he must be. Does anyone besides me see the insanity in that? He hid his face; therefore, it must be him? By that logic, any of us could be suspects. Because I would be afraid to show my face if I had committed this horrific act. Look, no scar!” He pointed to his right cheek, where Gordon Hill was permanently marked.
“How about you?” Ted continued, sweeping his hand across the jury. He pointed to a dignified gentleman in the front row. “How about you? Would you show your face, if you had committed this act?” He pointed at another jury member. “How about you?” He continued. “How about you? Or you? Would any of us not hide his face? Just for fear of being caught?
“That’s why in our system of justice, it’s up the the prosecution to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that they have the right man.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, let’s be reasonable. The only reason the police have to suspect my client is that he happened to be walking down the street, five whole blocks away. Let me be clear about this. Walking down the street is not a crime! At least not in the America I live in, the country I’m proud of.
“Beyond all reasonable doubt, that’s the standard of proof upon which rests the integrity of our system of justice. We do not just go throwing innocent people in jail, just because they have a visible scar, or walk with a limp. Or even if they don’t! We demand that prosecutors prove beyond all reasonable doubt that they have the right man. This is the honor of the law you swore to uphold.
“And in this case, we cannot know beyond all reasonable doubt. Frankly, I shouldn’t have to get up before you at all, today. I should have to say anything to you, because the prosecution has failed to meet its burden of proof. The fact that I am here, speaking to you, makes the point all the stronger. And that’s why I stand before you today, asking you to carry out your promise, and to return a verdict of not guilty.”
“I can help you,” Baedes told the young man, “but only if you help me.”
For a moment, Baedes wondered what the young man on the other side of the table was thinking beneath the tuft of neatly combed, black curls on his head. But in the final analysis, it didn’t really matter what the young man was thinking. It only mattered what he did and what he said and whose side he was on.
Anthony Giordano stared up at the burly police chief with dark, soulful eyes. Yeah, Miranda was a pain in the ass, a stupid legal theory 5 crazy judges came up with over 40 years ago, and it’s been hampering law enforcement ever since. Fortunately, there were ways to end-run around Miranda. Baedes knew he wasn’t supposed to be talking to the perp. But only one officer knew that he knew, and that officer Baedes could trust not to talk. Besides, the perp had been Mirandized, and if he chose to waive his rights, that was his business. And if he was like most perps, he wouldn’t be able to keep his big mouth shut; they all wanted to tell their story, with or without a lawyer. In any case, the worst that could happen is that the information Baedes learned would be disqualified as evidence against Giordano. And Baedes was not after evidence against Giordano. The perp’s right to keep his mouth shut didn’t extend to other people.
“You know Ted Jackson, don’t you?” the chief continued.
“Yeah.”
“How do you know him?”
“He’s a customer. What does it matter to you?”
“What does he buy?”
The young man peered through thin slits under a furrowed brow. “Flowers. What else would it be?”
“Information, maybe?”
No response.
“You also know Mira Jayson,” Baedes said.
“No, not exactly,” came the response.
“Come on, Anthony. It can’t go like this. You have to come clean, or I can’t do anything for you.”
Anthony grunted and rolled his eyes. “How stupid do you think I am? You’re trying to distract me. You just want to trick me into saying I did something, so you can pin it—”
“Anthony.” The chief spoke calmly but deliberately. “Don’t fool yourself, Anthony. We don’t need any confession from you, because we already have you dead to rights. You followed that girl to her apartment, and you forced yourself inside, and you beat her up, and you raped her. She told us exactly how it happened, and we have a mountain of physical evidence to convict you. Make no mistake. You’re going away, my son, for a long, long time.” He let that sink in. “What I’m talking about is a deal. You help me, and I help you.”
Baedes continued. “We think Ted Jackson has been selling government secrets. And I think you’re one of his couriers.” Baedes could see the whites of the young man’s eyes, splashes of fear peeking out from around each iris. He grinned. “What’s it going to be, Anthony? Start by telling me about who you work with.”
Anthony hesitated. He finally said, with an edge of his voice, “No thanks. I think I’ll wait for my law—”
“Unless you come clean, you’re going to go to prison for the rest of your life, young man. Don’t be a fool. I can help you. Come on, you probably didn’t rape that girl, right? Maybe it was consensual. And maybe you didn’t rough her up, either. There’s probably some evidence of that, too. And I can help you find it. But unless you come clean with me, you’re going to go away for a long, long time.”
Anthony sat, stone cold silent.
Baedes nodded and swallowed. “You’ll be sorry, you know.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see, won’t we.”
Baedes stooped over the table. He rested his hands on the tabletop, hanging his face close over the young man’s. “Oh yes,” he said without blinking. “You will.”
Anthony looked up, but he neither moved nor breathed. Nor did he say a word.
Finally, the chief said, “Well, at least you can tell you friends not to cross me, because they’ll see what happens to those who do.”
He stepped through the door in the small room, leaving the young man behind. In the hallway, he met a diminutive, balding man in a dark suit and tie.
“Ted Jackson is here,” said the dark suit in a edgy, nasally tone.
“This one’s not going to talk, for now. Might talk after he thinks about it for a while. Too bad there’s no evidence to exculpate him. He could use some.”
“Unfortunately not.” The dark-suited man held up a nondescript Manila folder. “Here are some papers that were delivered to my office by mistake. I think they were meant to go to you.”
Baedes took the folder and glanced at the lab report inside. An unidentified sample of blood from the Williams rape kit. What did he just say about exculpatory evidence? Baedes had been waiting for an opportunity like the Williams case, and he was glad this report had into the right hands. He couldn’t allow the perp’s guilt to be clouded by misleading evidence.
“Thanks,” Baedes remarked. “I have paperwork to do. Tell Mr. Jackson his client has already been sent to lock-up. He can catch him at the arraignment.”
The dark-suited man nodded.
Mira had agreed to meet in a cozy coffee shop on the corner of Main and Commons, and she had promised herself she wouldn’t get her hopes up, because the last time she did that, she ended up hurt. Even still, she drove in from the city to meet him for just a casual lunch at the Commons Café. The atmosphere smelled of coffee, and in the background, Mira heard the clanking of glassware. The shop’s several rooms were arrayed around a central counter. Small tables dotted the floor plan, and comfy green-patterned couches and wicker chairs with flowered cushions lined its boundaries.
Black purse in hand, she crept timidly toward the counter, scanning the faces of the patrons. It didn’t look like Ike had arrived yet. But it had been months since she had seen him, months which seemed like years, and she wasn’t sure she would recognize him. He had been calling her once in a while, but she had been making excuses why she couldn’t see him. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to get him into deeper trouble than he already was. More on the nose, she didn’t want to feel the way she felt about him. She needed time away from him, time to recover, time to calm down.
Mira’s heart was beating faster than normal, and her breaths fell heavily upon her chest. She felt as if she were in a dream, as if everything were not quite real. She studied the menu, neatly printed in colored chalk on a large, slate blackboard overhead. It described a selection of coffees, baked goods, and sandwiches. She finally decided on a coffee and a ham-and-cheese bagel sandwich.
“Hello, Mira,” said a sweet, soft, masculine voice just behind her.
Mira swung around and gazed up at the smooth face of the man she had been waiting for. His sandy hair had grown out a little, and he had parted it neatly to one side. His presence smelled like mild aftershave, and his dark eyes looked like chocolate. He wore a thick sweater of blue and beige and burgundy and green, and Mira wanted to squeeze it to see how soft it was, or rather, how soft he felt in it. And if it were anyone else, she probably would have. But right here, right now, she wasn’t sure of herself. Mira didn’t know whether a hug would be merely friendly or whether it would betray feelings she had promised herself she would not feel.
So instead she said, “Aren’t you cold out without a coat?”
He grinned. “I don’t know. Aren’t you hot dressed as the Michelin Man?”
Mira suddenly noticed the bulging, blue winter coat she was wearing, and she felt her face flush hot red.
Ike said, “Can I hang up your coat for you?”
She unzipped it and slid it off, revealing a tight-fitting salmon sweater over a white blouse. She felt sheepish under Ike’s radiant gaze.
He took the garment. “Get whatever you like. It’s on me.”
They brought their food to a table and sat and ate. They eased into conversation. Had she ever eaten here before? No, she hadn’t, but she was enjoying herself. Was he still working? Yes, and things were going well for him. But the roofing business was slow over the cold winter months, and he had arranged to take a vacation day. Because once spring hit, with its melting snow, driving rain, and abundant roofing emergencies, there would be far too much work and not enough manpower, and he would not be able to get time off. How was work for Mira? Fine, but she couldn’t talk about details, because of counselor-client confidentiality. How was the Committee? Slow. They were working toward a ballot question for the 2008 November election, but that work would not begin in earnest until April. The big part of that was to form a separate committee just for the ballot question. They called this the Committee to Replace Sam Baedes, which just happened to be run by and consist of the same people behind the Committee for a Fairer Future. Yeah, politics makes no sense sometimes. This process had actually begun some months ago.
Then Mira asked the question she had been dying to ask, but had no interest in asking, because she was too ashamed to ask. “How’s your girlfriend?”
“Sophie?” Ike said. “She’s fine.” Then he added, “And she’s not my girlfriend anymore.”
“Oh,” said Mira. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She held her breath for a moment, involuntarily.
“Don’t be. It was good while it lasted.”
“What happened?”
“Well… I guess she just wasn’t the right one.” Then he asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Not really,” she replied.
Not really? That was a deceptive way to put it. The truthful answer was an unequivocal No! She had been depressed about men in general, and she was beginning to wonder whether she should try lesbianism. If she had been one of her own clients, she would have told herself that you can’t “try” being gay. Life doesn’t work that way, because sexual experimentation can’t resolve deep-seated emotional issues. She would have advised herself to focus on the things in life that make her happy. And she would have worked with herself to adjust her image of romance to be more in line with reality, so that she could steer herself in a more positive direction. All this she would do if she were one of her own clients. Unfortunately, there’s no one more neurotic than a psych major. Doctor, heal thyself.
After lunch, Ike walked Mira to her car, which she had parked in one of the metered spaces on Main Street. Mira felt self-conscious about her unassuming, puffy coat, which left everything to the imagination. She told herself it didn’t matter, but for some reason, she cared nonetheless that she look attractive. So she put her arms through the jacket’s sleeves, but left the front unzipped. The air outside was nippy, but calm, and a strong, clear afternoon sun warmed everything it touched. Ike remarked how good the weather turned out, and how romantic the sun was. In response, Mira relayed a joke she had heard about a blonde who wanted to visit the sun. (You can’t visit the sun, because you’d burn up, to which the blonde replied, “Duh, not if you go at night!”) Ike laughed a polite laugh.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess it wasn’t that funny.”
Ike smiled warmly. “Are you kidding? That’s a great joke. I have to remember that one.”
Mira reached her car and stopped walking, and without thinking about it, with her left hand she brushed her hair behind her ear on one side. “Uh, this is me,” she said, pointing to a bright red Nissan hatchback.
“Nice,” Ike said, peering through the passenger-side window. “When did you get this?”
“A couple months ago.”
“Well, it fits you.”
“Thanks,” Mira said.
Ike turned back to her and stared into her eyes. “Hey,” he said, with a sweet, tender voice. “It was really good to see you again.”
“You too,” she replied.
“I missed you.”
Mira hesitated. Then she squeaked, “Me too.”
She regretted those words as soon as she uttered them, but she couldn’t remember why. She felt more than ever as though she were in a dream, as though things were happening to her inside her mind and she couldn’t control them. It was as if part of her mind had shut down, the part that directs her conscious thoughts, and her subconscious had taken over.
Ike took a step forward and ran his fingers through her hair where she had brushed it back. Cradling her head gently in his hand he brought his lips to hers. Carefully, tenderly, their lips touched. Mira felt a slight suction, and she closed her eyes and responded in kind. With his other hand, he reached inside her jacket. It ruffled as he pushed past, behind her, across her sweater, and caressed the small of her back with the tips of his fingers. With delicate motions, his tongue stroked the inside of her lips. His breath rushed across her face, smelling of coffee. His mouth tasted of sugar. For a moment, Mira’s whole body felt on fire, not with pain, but with satiated longing. Her nipples felt tender, her body, enraptured, her being, at peace. She groaned softly. Then, as seamlessly as it had started, it was over.
Mira breathed out a deep, heavy breath. She stared at the sidewalk. A sudden fear and guilt embraced her, deep in her gut, but she couldn’t remember why that would happen.
“This is wrong,” she said.
Ike was mute. She looked back at him. He looked dumbfounded.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I have to go.”
She ran around to the driver’s side of the car, rifling through her purse. By the time she reached the door, she had come up with her keys and opened the door. Ike might have been asking something. She couldn’t hear him. She just got in the car, started it, and drove off.
Clyde watched the jury file into the courtroom. The judge, a stout man with very little hair on his head, leaned back in his chair and said, “Foreman, have you reached a unanimous verdict?”
“Yes, your honor,” the jury foreman said.
The judge continued, “Defendant, please rise.”
Mr. Hill, and Ted beside him, stood up.
“What say you?” the judge asked.
The head juror read from his note, “In the matter of the Commonwealth versus Gordon Hill, on the charges of aggravated rape and battery, we find the defendant not guilty.”
Unlike the courtroom TV shows, the entire room remained silent, until the judge spoke. “So say you all?”
Each juror nodded.
“Very well. The jury is discharged. Jurors, we thank you for your service. The defendant is free to go. Court is adjourned.” The judge banged his gavel.
Clyde slid off of the bench and slunk up behind Ted. She snuggled up to his arm. “Congratulations,” she cooed.
Ted turned and pecked her on the lips.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Gordon Hill. “Who’s this pretty lady?”
On top of his head, short hairs shone bright red, even more so than Clyde’s, like a field of tiny flames. Freckles spotted his pale complexion, from which gazed large, piercing, green eyes. From just under his left eye, a scar trickled down his cheek like a river. And when he said the word ladeeee, he accentuated each vowel, and he drew out the last syllable with a suggestive leer.
Frankly, he creeped Clyde out.
Ted nonchalantly answered. “This is my beautiful bride. Clyde, meet Gordon Hill. Gordon, this is my wife, Clydene.”
“Clyde, eh?” He held out his hand. And when out of politeness she returned the favor, he took her hand and kissed it, all the while gazing into her eyes.
Clyde was desperate to get out of there. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hill,” she said. Then turning to her husband, “Ted, romantic dinner reservations.” She eyed him.
She immediately regretted using the word romantic, considering the third wheel currently eavesdropping. But Ted so frequently worked late. Even Clyde’s late nights at the office didn’t compare to Ted’s. So whenever she had the opportunity to go out with her husband, it didn’t have to be fancy to be romantic. Even hamburgers and fries were a special occasion.
“I have to cancel,” Ted said. “I have a mountain of research to finish for a meeting tomorrow morning.”
Clyde felt her countenance physically fall.
“Don’t wait up for me,” Ted continued. “Hey, why don’t you take Gordon?”
“No,” Clyde said as pleasantly as she could muster. “I think I’ll just whip something up at home.”
