haul truckers? Can’t say
Most men have been trained since birth to respond to a female authority figure. They view someone like me either as the mom they have been prepped to obey, or maybe, given my age and appearance, as a desirable woman worthy of being pleased. Either way, I’m not a direct challenge. Thus, the most belligerent male can afford to step down in front of his buddies. And in situations overloaded with testosterone, my fellow troopers often called me directly for backup, counting on my woman’s touch to defuse the situation, as it generally did.
Male parties might flirt a little, fluster a little, or both. But inevitably, they did what I said.
Females on the other hand…
Pull over the soccer mom doing ninety-five in her Lexus, and she’ll instantly become verbally combative, screeching shrilly about her need for speed in front of her equally entitled-looking two-point-two kids. Doing a civil standby, assisting while a guy under a restraining order fetches his last few things from the apartment, and the battered girlfriend will inevitably come flying at me, demanding to know why I’m letting him pack his own underwear and cursing and screaming at me as if I’m the one responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened in her life.
Men are not a problem for a female trooper.
It’s the women who will try to take you out, first chance they get.
My lawyer had been prattling away at my bedside for twenty minutes when Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren yanked back the privacy curtain. The state police liason, Detective Bobby Dodge, was directly behind her. His face was impossible to read. Detective Warren, however, wore the hungry look of a jungle cat.
My lawyer’s voice trailed off. He appeared unhappy with the sudden appearance of two homicide detectives, but not surprised. He’d been trying to explain to me my full legal predicament. It wasn’t good, and the fact I had yet to give a full statement to the police, in his expert opinion, made it worse.
Currently, my husband’s death was listed as a questionable homicide. Next course of action would be for the Suffolk County DA, working in conjunction with the Boston police, to determine an appropriate charge. If they thought I was a credible victim, a poor battered wife with a corroborating history of visits to the emergency room, they could view Brian’s death as justifiable homicide. I shot him, as I claimed, in self-defense.
But murder was a complicated business. Brian had attacked with a broken bottle; I had retaliated with a gun. The DA could argue that while I was clearly defending myself, I’d still used unnecessary force. The pepper spray, steel baton, and Taser I carried on my duty belt all would’ve been better choices, and for my trigger-happy ways, I’d be charged with manslaughter.
Or, maybe they didn’t believe I’d feared for my life. Maybe they believed Brian and I had been fighting and I’d shot and killed my husband in the heat of the moment. Homicide without premeditation, or Murder 2.
Those were the best-case scenarios. There was, of course, another scenario. One where the police determined my husband was not a violent wife beater, but instead, found me to be a master manipulator who shot my husband with premeditated malice and forethought. Murder 1.
Otherwise known as the rest of my life behind bars. Game over.
These were the concerns that had brought my lawyer to my bedside. He didn’t want me fighting the police for my husband’s remains. He wanted me to issue a statement to the press, a victimized wife extolling her innocence, a desperate mother pleading for her young daughter’s safe return. He also wanted me to start playing nicely with the detectives handling my case. As he pointed out, battered woman’s syndrome was an affirmative defense, meaning the burden of proof rested on my bruised shoulders.
Marriage, it turned out, boiled down to he said, she said, long after one of the spouses was dead.
Now the homicide detectives were back and my lawyer rose awkwardly to assume a defensive stance beside my bed.
“As you can see,” he began, “my client is still recovering from a concussion, not to mention a fractured cheekbone. Her doctor has ordered her to remain overnight for observation, and to get plenty of rest.”
“Sophie?” I asked. My voice came out strained. Detective Warren appeared too harsh to be approaching a mother with bad news. But then again…
“No word,” she said curtly.
“What time is it?”
“Seven thirty-two.”
“After dark,” I murmured.
The blonde detective stared at me. No compassion, no sympathy. I wasn’t surprised. There were so few women in blue, you’d think we’d help each other out. But women were funny that way. So willing to turn on one of their own, especially a female perceived as weak, such as one who served as her husband’s personal punching bag.
I couldn’t imagine Detective Warren ever tolerating domestic abuse. If a man hit her, I bet she’d hit back twice as hard. Or taser him in the balls.
Detective Dodge was on the move. He’d commandeered two low-slung chairs and positioned them next to the bed. He gestured for D.D. to take a seat, both of them pulling up close. Cargill took the hint and perched on the edge of his own chair, still looking uncomfortable.
“My client isn’t up to answering a lot of questions, just yet,” he said. “Of course, she wants to do anything she can to assist in the search for her daughter. Is there information you need relevant to that investigation?”
“Who is Sophie’s biological father?” Detective Warren asked. “And where is he?”
I shook my head, a motion that immediately caused me to wince.
“I need a name,” Warren said impatiently.
I licked my dry lips, tried again. “She doesn’t have a father.”
“Impossible.”
“Not if you’re a slut and an alcoholic,” I said.
Cargill shot me a startled glance. The detectives, however, appeared intrigued.
“You’re an alcoholic?” Bobby Dodge asked evenly.
“Yes.”
“Who knows?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, some of the guys.” I shrugged, trying not to move my bruised cheek. “I sobered up seven years ago, before I joined the force. It hasn’t been an issue.”
“Seven years ago?” D.D. repeated. “When you were pregnant with your daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“How old were you when you got pregnant with Sophie?”
“Twenty-one. Young and stupid. I drank too much, partied too hard. Then one day, I was pregnant and it turned out the people I thought were my friends only hung out with me because I was part of the circus. Minute I left the show, I never saw any of them again.”
“Male associates?” D.D. asked.
“Won’t help you. I didn’t sleep with men I knew. I slept with men I didn’t know. Generally older men who were interested in buying a young stupid girl plenty of alcohol. I got drunk. They got laid. Then we each went our own way.”
“Tessa,” my lawyer began.
I held up a hand. “It’s old news, and nothing that matters. I don’t know Sophie’s dad. I couldn’t have worked it out if I tried, and I didn’t want to try. I got pregnant. Then I grew up, wised up, and sobered up. That’s what matters.”
“Sophie ever ask?” Bobby asked.
“No. She was three when I met Brian. She started calling him Daddy within a matter of weeks. I don’t think she remembers anymore that we ever lived without him.”
“When did he first hit you?” D.D. asked. “One month into the marriage? Six? Maybe a whole year?”
I didn’t say anything, just stared up at the ceiling. I had my right hand under the thin green hospital blanket, gripping the blue button a nurse had retrieved for me.
“We’re going to need to see your medical records,” D.D. stated. She was staring at my lawyer, challenging him.
