Damned in Paradise

“Anything.”

“…I need you to leave Hawaii, with the rest of us, once I’ve worked things out with the governor.”

Her eyes tightened. “What do you mean?”

“There will be public pressure, here in Honolulu, and from back home, to retry those boys you accused. I need you to spare yourself the pain of going through this yet again, testifying for a third time; I need you to go back to the mainland and never return to these shores.”

She smiled, but it was a smile of astonishment. “You can’t be saying this. You can’t be saying that I should turn my back on what was done to me. That I let those terrible black creatures get away with what was done to me!”

He was shaking his head somberly, no. “There must not be a second Ala Moana trial, dear.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong…there must be. Otherwise, you’re sentencing me to a lifetime of gossip and humiliation, putting my word, my reputation, in doubt forever.”

Darrow’s expression turned sorrowful. He drew in on his cigarette, and when he exhaled smoke, it was a sigh of smoke, and he nodded, reluctantly, toward me.

I nodded back, and took a manila envelope off the coffee table before us and removed the Oahu Prison mug shots of Daniel Lyman and Lui Kaikapu. I handed her the photos.

Puzzled, she looked at them, shrugged, tossed them back on the table, and said, “Is this supposed to mean something to me? Who are they?”

I glanced at Darrow and he sighed again, nodded again.

I said, “These are two of the three men who abducted you.”

Her puzzlement turned to perplexity, with irritation working at the edges of her mouth and eyes. “Why are you saying this? Kahahawai and Ida and the others, they’re the ones, you know they’re the ones—”

“The ones you accused,” I said. “But those two…” And I indicated the mug shots on the table. “…are the ones who really grabbed you.”

“You’re insane. Insane! Mr. Darrow, must I listen to this insanity?”

Darrow only nodded, poker-faced.

I said, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and figure you were confused as to how many of them there were in the car…which is only natural, considering that your preeclampsia impairs your eyesight in low-light conditions.”

Her eyes bugged with alarm; the blood drained from her face, turning her Kabuki white.

“Yes, dear,” Darrow said softly, compassionately, “we know about your condition. Did you think our mutual friend Dr. Porter would keep that from me?”

“Oh, how could he?” she asked. Desperation mingled with despair in her voice. “That was privileged communication, between doctor and patient….”

“Sorry, Thalia—this time there’s nothing for you to tear up,” I said. “These are facts you can’t discard.”

She covered her mouth. “I think…I think I’m going to be ill.”

Darrow glared at me; he’d warned me not to be too rough on the girl.

“If you need the bathroom, dear…” he began.

“No.” She removed her hand from her mouth; folded her hands in her lap. Her features drew tight, became a blank mask. “No.”

“We also know there was no pregnancy,” Darrow said. “But that doesn’t make your fear of pregnancy any less real….”

She said nothing. She was almost frozen—almost: her eyes moved from Darrow to me, as we talked.

“Mrs. Massie—Thalia,” I said, “what I’m about to tell you, only Mr. Darrow and myself are privy to.”

She nodded toward Darrow, but said to me: “He’s not my lawyer, he’s Tommie’s lawyer. I don’t want to go any further with this unless this conversation is privileged.”

“Fair enough, dear,” Darrow said. “As my client’s spouse, the privilege of privacy due to him extends to you. This discussion is entirely an extension of Tommie’s case.”

Now she looked at Darrow and nodded toward me. “What about him?”

“He’s my investigator. He’s bound by the same pledge of privacy.”

She thought about that, nodded, said, “Then we can continue.”

“Fine, dear. Let’s allow Mr. Heller to tell us what he’s discovered in his investigating these past several weeks.”

Her cow-eyed gaze fell coldly, contemptuously my way.

I said, “You’d been having an affair with Lt. Bradford, while your husband was away on duty. For whatever reason, it went bust, and, on the rebound, you began having a fling with a music boy named Sammy.”

Her lips were trembling; she had her chin up, though, the way her mother had in court.

“You didn’t want to go to the Ala Wai that night,” I continued, “because you knew Bradford would be there and also knew the place was one of Sammy’s favorite hangouts. And being with your husband in the proximity of two lovers, past and present, could be…awkward.”