Pretty Baby Ch. 06

I was watching some Law & Order reruns when the knock came. I frowned. It wasn't Julie, or Ian, or Cleo, or even James, I knew. They all had their own knocks. This one was loud, hard, business-like. I wondered if I should answer.

I peered through the peep-hole, saw two men standing on my doorstep. One was middle-aged, the other young and professionally handsome. Both wore suits.

I frowned, considered again about ignoring their presence. Then the good-looking one knocked again.

"Miss Green!"

I sighed. Obviously not Jehovah's Witnesses, I thought, and turned the locks. I pulled open the door just a crack. "Can I help you?" I said innocently.

The pretty-boy one looked me over, stealing a glimpse between the folds of my robe. "Alyssa Green?" he asked.

I clutched my robe closed, giving the lecher a look. "She's not home," I said.

The older one, his suit well-worn and threadbare, gave me an annoyed look. "Save the act, Miss Green," he said gruffly. "We're not here to arrest you."

I didn't budge, and looked back to the younger one. "What do you want?"

He smirked, reached inside his jacket, producing a slim billfold that he snapped open. "Arni Detweiler," he said, as if I should know the name. "From the District Attorney's office. This is Detective Sam Clay—"

"Lieutenant Detective," corrected the older one.

"We'd like to ask you some questions about Ian Holloway," finished the younger one.

I stiffened. "I don't know anyone by that name," I said, and started to close the door. The detective's strong hand smacked against it.

"Miss Green," said Detweiler in a condescending tone. "Don't make things harder on yourself. All we want is a few answers. That's all."

My eyes darted back and forth between them, noting the way they were both trying to sneak peeks at me. "Fine," I said, and stepped back. "Wipe your shoes."

I went to my couch and sat down, not fixing the flimsy fabric of my robe as it slipped off my thighs. I sat with my legs together, and knew that if I shifted my thighs even the slightest bit, my entire personality would be on display. The two men picked up on that right away.

"Nice place," Arni commented, as the detective closed the door. "Lots of space."

I sighed, leaning forward, not caring that the majority of my cleavage was revealed as I reached for my cigarettes. I snapped the case open, took out a smoke, lit it with the matching gold lighter. The two men seemed to be hanging on my every move.

"What do you want?" I asked again. I didn't like these two men, the younger one in particular. There was something . . . greasy about him. But then, he was a lawyer.

"Just a few questions," said Arni. "You have any coffee?"

I fixed him a look, letting him know he was not welcome. "No."

He pursed his lips and took out a notepad. "All right, you wanna be all business about it—"

"Maybe if you weren't too obvious about looking at my tits, I might be more friendly," I said.

Arni coughed slightly, his cheeks glowing red. Beside him, the detective chuckled.

The attorney gritted his teeth and looked down at his notepad. "Where, uh, where were you last Holloween?" he asked.

I felt a rise of anxiety. "I was home," I said. "Um . . . I wasn't feeling too well."

I heard the detective mutter under his breath. "Bullshit."

"Did you know a man named Gary Jackson?" continued Arni.

I set my jaw, grinding my teeth. "No," I said.

"Were you not admitted to the emergency room the morning of November 1^st, for the purpose of receiving treatment for facial bruises and the administration of a rape kit?"

I was breathing hard and shallowly. "No," I said again.

"Do you know anything about an agency called 'Angel Escorts?'"

"No."

Arni fell silent. I heard him flip the notepad closed. "You won't help yourself by lying, Miss Green," he said. "And you can't protect Ian Holloway."

I stared at the floor, my heart pounding. I lifted my cigarette with shaking hands, drew off it.

"Fuck this," I heard the detective grumble. He stepped to the couch and sunk down heavily upon it. He reeked of cigarettes and body odor.

"You're a whore, and we can prove it," he said viciously. "We've already talked to a couple of your 'clients.' But we really don't give a fuck about them or you. What we want is Ian Holloway. You help us, and you won't have to worry about that pretty little ass getting tossed behind bars."

I didn't say anything. I wanted them to go away.

"You ever hear stories about women's prisons?" he asked. "It's not pretty. Awful lot of hard-edged dykes behind bars, just eager to taste a sweet little thing like you. I hear they make dildos out of anything they can find. Glass, plastic, metal . . . the bigger the better, I hear—"

"All right, Sam," said Arni. "Jesus Christ, don't be such an asshole."

Sam scoffed. "Fine. Be the nice guy," he said and shoved up from the couch.

"Alyssa."

I lifted my head slowly, looking upon the young lawyer. The grizzled, pessimistic detective was looking at my collection of movies and CDs.

"You knew Gary Jackson."

I didn't say anything. I just stared.

Arni looked exasperated. "Look, we've traced his cell-phone records, talked to his wife. We talked to some of his former employees. They had some really good things to say about you."

I noticed the detective making a pumping motion with his hand, pushing his tongue into his cheek as he leered at me.

Blood rushed to my cheeks. I flicked ash off my cigarette, stared at the coffee table.

Arni eased down beside me. His hand settled on my shoulder. "We've got a pretty good idea of what happened on Halloween," he said in a soft voice. "And what happened after. Whether you help us or not, Holloway's going down. He's going to go to prison. Now, the only question you need to ask yourself is if you want to go to prison, too."

I trembled, full of fear. I looked up to Arni Detweiler's face. "I don't wanna go to prison," I said, my voice barely audible.

"Then help us," he said in a convincing way, running his hand across my back. "Don't defend a murderer."

I shook as I cried quietly. "Oh, God . . . ."

***

Fearing 'reprisals' from Ian, Assistant District Attorney Arni Detweiler arranged to put me up in a cheap motel until my appearance at the trial. I had an around-the-clock bodyguard detail of detectives and police officers, who sat in their cars and occasionally checked in on me. I didn't go anywhere; whatever I needed, Arni brought.

Mindful of my education, the attorney arranged for members of his office to meet with my classmates and copy their notes. I took my mid-terms on a crappy little Formica-topped table in the room that had become my home.

Arni came to see me an average of three times a week as the trial began. I learned quite a few things about him as the weeks wore on, principle among them the fact that Arni was married, and recently so, with a baby on the way, and that he was seriously attracted to me. Not that he would admit it, of course.

I also realized that I was the prosecution's 'star' witness against Ian Holloway. Through repeated depositions and questionnaires, I learned that while Ian, Cleo, and even Mr. Stone had been contacted by Arni's office, I was the only one they had reeled in. That made me both ashamed and strangely fortified. I was the key to their entire case, I realized.

Ian's business practices had been under investigation in civil court for years, with no real satisfying outcome. Now, however, Ian had been indicted under the charge of second-degree murder for the death of Gary Jackson. Apparently, there was some kind of vendetta between the District Attorney's office and Ian. They would get him any way they could.

And I was the pawn.

I hated it. I was being used against the man I loved . . . and I was letting them. I could have been the martyr, the sacrificial lamb, and bravely stand against the men who sought to take Ian down. I could hold my head up high as I was being escorted to prison, proud in the knowledge that I had stood my ground, anticipating the degradation I would suffer at the hands of bull dykes. I could do that . . . .

If I had the strength.

But being raped once was enough.

As a further indignity to my house arrest (they called it 'protective custody'), my twentieth birthday was approaching fast and I had to face it alone. The room's telephone had been disconnected and my cell was taken from me. The only time I got to talk on the phone was when Arni or Detective Clay or one of the other detectives who stood watch let me use their cell-phone.

I spoke with my parents and Julie, each about every other day. I could tell them the basics, but not where I was, and the calls never lasted long. My mother was practically hysterical when I told her I was the material witness in a murder case, but got used to it over the course of subsequent conversations. She wanted to know how I had gotten myself in such a position, and I had to make something up. I hated lying to my mother, especially when the truth would come out during the trial. But I just didn't have the heart to tell her that her little girl was a prostitute.

Julie, of course, knew the entire story, and while there was a hint of 'I told you so' in her voice, she was supportive and encouraging. She also told me that some tall, stoic guy had found her on campus one day and asked where I was. From her description, I knew it was James.

There were times when the claustrophobia of my confinement took its toll, and I screamed and ranted at Arni, Detective Clay, and my other 'chaperones.' I was given my MP3 player and the room had cable, but such creature comforts helped little. Of course, I couldn't have my laptop. They didn't want to risk me sending any emails.

But I did watch the news, and there was some mention now and then about the case against Ian Holloway, beginning with the indictment against him toward the end of May. News reporters caught him outside his office and home, and while he refused to talk, the look of anger and betrayal on his face was telling. I winced at seeing the pain I was causing.

But the worst was when Erin was interviewed briefly, having been caught in a cafe parking lot one day as she headed to her car.

"Whoever this supposed witness is," she said at one point, after describing how her family's life had been "torn apart" by the investigation and trial. She stared right into the camera, right at me. "She doesn't know my father as well as she thinks she does. She's not going to get her fifteen minutes of fame by spreading lies about him. All she's going to do is ruin her (bleep) life."

I never felt lower than I did after watching that interview. I wasn't just hurting Ian, I was hurting Erin, and Ian's wife, and everyone associated with them. And for what? Because he'd had the man who raped me killed? Ian may have acted impulsively, calling in Mr. Stone to do his dirty work, but what he did, for whatever reasons, he had done out of love.

For me.

But to recognize that meant sacrificing years of my life, enduring pain and humiliation in a woman's prison . . . I was too frightened to take that risk.

The day before my birthday, and the trial was already in full swing. I was becoming more and more nervous and apprehensive about appearing in court, about facing Ian and admitting the truth . . . the truth that would destroy him. And save me.

I agonized over what my life had become. It wasn't fun anymore. I wasn't a carefree call girl or cocksucking teenager anymore, cheerfully exchanging my body for a handful of money, living out my hottest fantasies and having a parade of men tell me how gorgeous I was. Now I was a material witness in a murder case.

My parents would be devastated. My friends would abandon me. And the man I loved would be going to prison for the rest of his life.

"Alyssa, pay attention," Arni said that afternoon as he was practicing his cross-examination with me. He was prepping me well, going over the specific questions he would ask in the courtroom when I took the stand. He wanted me to act a certain way, have certain expressions, even say particular words in ways that supposedly had the most impact. It was a scene we had played over so many times that it read like a script to me.

"I'm tired, Arni," I said, not looking at him. The creaking chair beneath me was uncomfortable. "We've already gone over this—"

"And we'll keep going over it, babe, until I—"

I snapped my head up, giving him a vicious look. "Stop. Calling. Me. Babe!" I yelled.

Arni met my look and matched it, striding toward me with a pair of long steps, stopping just before me. "Now get this straight, little girl," he snarled. "I'm not gonna lose this chance because you're 'tired.' We're gonna keep at it until—"

"Fuck you!" I snapped. I crossed my arms and huffed, looking away. "Go to Hell."

Arni grumbled under his breath, wanting to respond as rudely as I had, I figured. He paced for a moment or two before me. I watched him from the corner of my eye.

"I've been in Hell," he said. "Kissing ass and backstabbing the other attorneys in the office. Buying Scotch for the old man and flirting with his middle-aged bitch receptionist to get the best appointments. This is my one chance, Alyssa. My chance to get out of the rat maze and into the prize box. And you're not gonna fuck it up for me."

I glared at him. "You're just a cocksucker, you know that?" I spat. "Maybe I sucked dick and did a lot more for money, but you do it for pride. You're more of a whore than I am."

He laughed harshly, startled and dumbfounded, staring at me with an incredulous, insulted expression. He finally turned away. "We're done," he said curtly, gathering up his briefcase. He snapped it closed loudly and headed for the door. He paused before opening it.

"I know you're good at fucking," he said rudely. "But you try to fuck me over and I swear you'll pay for it."

I seethed with defensive anger. "Go suck your boss' dick," I hissed.

Arni jerked open the door. "Bitch," he mumbled, then slammed it closed after him.

I shuddered with tears.

***

I didn't get out of bed the following day until I heard the pounding on the door for the second time. With an annoyed groan, I got up in my long T-shirt and pulled the door open, not looking at the man on the other side. I knew from the loud, hard thumping he had given the door that it was Lieutenant Detective Clay. I fell back onto the bed and pulled up the covers.

Clay chuckled sarcastically behind me. "Not even a 'good morning?'"

I gripped a pillow against my cheek. "What do you want."

"Just want to introduce you to your new chaperone," he said. I heard him talking to someone else: "She's a little stuck-up, but don't let it bother you. And no one comes in unless either I or Detweiler gives the okay, got it? Good."

The door shut. I could feel the other man's presence in the room. I didn't turn to look at him.

The bed shifted as his weight settled upon it. I frowned, feeling immediately annoyed. What the fuck--?

"Hello, Alyssa."

I recognized the voice in a heartbeat. I sat up and spun around, staring at his face with both elation and consternation. "James!"

He had a slight smile on his face. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt under a black leather jacket. His square face was as stoic as ever except for the mirthless smile. I wasn't sure if I should be glad or afraid.

"Detective Meeks," he corrected me.

I stared at him for a long moment, confused. I searched his face, his small eyes. "Wh-wh-what are you . . . I-I mean, how—"

"Connections," he said simply, and stood from the bed. He stepped around the room, his eyes darting around like those of a hawk. They finally settled upon me once more.

"What are you doing?"

I swallowed nervously, suddenly unsure if James was the man I knew . . . or a different version of Mr. Stone. "I'm scared," I said.

He nodded curtly. "I know. They've told you a lot of things to make you turn against Ian," he said. His casual use of Ian's first name seemed out of place, belying a closer association than I had always supposed.

"They'll send me to prison if I don't testify," I said breathlessly, on the verge of tears. "I don't want to go to prison."

His chin barely nudged. "So it's you or him, huh?"

I sighed, ashamed. "Don't do this. I feel like shit already."

"You should."

My emotions exploded out. "What the fuck do you want me to do!" I cried, slapping my hands to the bed. "Give up my fucking life?"

James' eyes, his expression, were impassive. "If this was a perfect world," he said. "What would you want to happen?"

I scoffed. "It's obviously not a perfect world."

"But if it was."

I sighed. "I don't wanna go to prison," I bemoaned. "But I don't want Ian to, either."

James pursed his lips, nodding to himself. "And, if you could . . . ."

I sobbed quietly. "I'd make it all go away," I said, my choked and strained voice barely audible. I wiped my eyes defensively. "But I seem to have misplaced my magic fucking wand."

James didn't say anything for a long moment. "Do you love Ian as much as he loves you?" he asked.

I lifted my anguished face. "He loves me?"

James' expression remained hard. "Answer my question."

I sniffed, wiped my eyes with quick moves of my hands. My words sounded strange but true as I spoke. "He's the only man I love."

"Then why hurt him?"

I breathed out heavily. "I don't have a choice," I said.

"Alyssa."

I squeezed my eyes shut, shuddering as I tried not to cry again.

"Alyssa."

"What."

"Look at me."

I forced my eyes open and lifted my head slowly, looking up at James through my pain.

He smiled, then, a slow and soft smile. "You always have a choice," he said knowingly. "There is always a way. You just have to find it."

My tears slowly dried. I frowned. James was trying to tell me something. "How?"

James' smile remained. "You have gifts. Use them," he said enigmatically, and turned away. Then, as if as an afterthought, he looked back, his thin lips curled.

"By the way . . . happy birthday."

I hung my head. Had to rub it in, didn't he . . . "Thanks."

I heard the door open and close as James left. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering about his words.

And then I saw the little black case James had left on the cracked table by the door.

My lips curled in an understanding smile. You have gifts. Use them.

***

I stared at myself in the mirror. After six weeks of wearing minimalist makeup and rotating the same wrinkled shorts and T-shirts, wearing a dress again felt almost uncomfortable. Especially this one. Arni had purchased the conservative skirt suit for me, since my wardrobe held only the extremes of 'college student' and 'call girl.'

The fabric was heavy and almost coarse, and I didn't like the dull blue color. The buttons were too big, the jacket too square, the skirt too long . . . .

"I hate it, Arni," I said, looking at him in the reflection as he stood behind me.

He shrugged. "That's what you're wearing tomorrow," he said. "I don't want you showing up in one of your hooker gowns."

I glared for a moment and shrugged off the jacket. I had to admit that I did like the blouse. It was practically see-through. The color of my puffies were clearly visible. I noticed Arni's eyes darting to them in the mirror.

"I'm just a cheap whore to you, aren't I?" I asked acidly.

His eyes returned to mine. "Definitely not cheap," he commented, then shook his head. "Jesus Christ, I don't care how hot a woman is, shelling out two grand just to fuck? Give me a break."

I turned around and stepped past him on my way out to the room. "I gave them their money's worth," I said.