No Way Out. David Kessler

used to it.’

      ‘Are you understaffed?’ asked Andi.

      She knew perfectly well that they were understaffed. Rape crisis centers always suffered from a chronic shortage of employees, exacerbated by the low pay.

      ‘Understaffed and underappreciated,’ Gene replied. ‘Everyone rails and rages against crime, but they’re more concerned with punishing the perpetrator than helping the victim recover from the trauma. Who needs to help the victim when you can get revenge? That’s the American way.’

      This was unfair, and they both knew it. They both understood the desire for revenge all too well. But it was strange how guns always counted for more than bandages on the human balance sheet.

      ‘You’ve got something on your mind, haven’t you?’ The voice was gentle, sympathetic. It was one of those spontaneous mid-conversation role reversals that characterized their relationship.

      ‘I had a case this morning…’

      She trailed off, but Andi could read the rest of the sentence in the silence.

      ‘They threw you in at the deep end?’ This was something that Andi had been hoping for in her own job. But it wasn’t to be. Instead it was Gene who had the dubious privilege.

      ‘Wha’d’you expect? Like I said, we’re understaffed.’

      Andi put a gentle hand on her lover’s bare arm. ‘What’s bugging you? You’ve seen it all before. You know the score by now.’

      A pained expression flipped briefly across Gene’s face. ‘I’ve seen this before all right,’ Gene muttered bitterly. ‘It’s the kind of case that sets off the talking heads on TV. Feminism versus race politics. A white girl raped by a black man.’

      Andi, who had been taking a sip of her orange juice, gulped and put the glass down. ‘The press’ll have a field day. It’ll probably turn into another black rights versus women’s rights circus.’

      ‘And don’t I know it! The defense will raise the specter of the Scottsboro Boys and the prosecution will use everything they can throw at the defendant from Mike Tyson to O.J. Simpson.’

      Andi nodded sympathetically.

      ‘And caught in the middle of it is one frightened little girl, not yet out of her teens.’

      ‘You think you can handle it?’

      ‘Oh, I can handle it all right. I’ve been there before, remember. The question is, can the victim?’

      ‘And can she?’

      Gene shook her head, sadly. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for.’

      ‘Have they got a suspect?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Has she ID-ed him?’

      ‘Yes. Only they released him pending DNA results.’

      Andi sat forward, part eager, part concerned. She had known Gene long enough to pick up the nuances in her words as well as her tone.

      ‘Well if she ID-ed him then maybe she’s tougher than you think.’

      ‘She’s not tough. She’s just naïve. She doesn’t realize that she’s going to carry the can for two centuries of racial persecution.’

       Saturday 6 June 2009 – 11.00

      Albert Carter was an old man. Not a wise old man, not a crusty old man, not even really a frail old man, just an old man who had lived a full life and been around the block a few times. He wasn’t in the best of health, having done his share of smoking and drinking, before he gave it up when he noticed it slowing him down a bit. But he was a lonely old man, having lost his first wife to divorce and his second to the Grim Reaper.

      Oh yes, the Reaper.

      There were many weapons in the Reaper’s arsenal, and Albert Carter couldn’t even pronounce the name of the disease that had claimed Hildegard.

      His children were still around, but he had lost them to professional migration. He saw them at Christmas and on his birthday, but that was pretty much it. One lived in Utah and one in Boston. The one in Utah was a store manager and the one in Boston some kind of academic. He understood the work of the former more than the latter, but, both had families and neither came out west very often.

      So he spent his days watching TV, reading the newspaper and – with diminishing frequency – bowling with his old friends. It was a dull, repetitive chapter towards the latter part of his book of life, but he had his basic needs and he didn’t want more. All he yearned for was a bit less arthritic pain. Oh, and he wished that the cops would do more to round up those gangs who were turning the neighborhood into such an unpleasant place. He knew who they were…in a generic sort of way, at least.

      It was while he was watching the TV alone one night, he saw a news report about the Bethel Newton rape case, saying how a famous local talk show host had been arrested and then released. They didn’t have any footage from the police station, but they showed a still photograph of the girl and stock footage from the man’s talk show. Apparently he’d been arrested after shooting the latest show, yet to be broadcast.

      And that was when Carter got the feeling.

      He didn’t remember the details too clearly – the whole thing had happened just too fast. But there was one thing that he remembered.

      For a moment he hesitated, realizing that criminals could sometimes be vengeful towards people who snitched. But then he remembered his own, all-too-frequent words about the cowards who don’t speak out when criminals destroy their communities. He didn’t want to be like one of those people whom he routinely criticized. He knew now that it was his civic duty to speak out and he didn’t want to be like all the shirkers.

      So he dragged his weary bones out of the comfort of his tattered, dust-ridden armchair and trudged over to the phone.

       Friday 12 June – 9.40

      Detective Bridget Riley was a victim chaperone, not a counselor. She was the principal point of contact between the investigating officers and the rape victim. The detectives investigating the case put most of their questions through Bridget. When they had to put questions directly or when others had to have contact with the victim, such as during the medical examination, the victim chaperone had to be there.

      She had a sporty, athletic look about her, the tough look of a kick boxer. Male colleagues found her attractive and her face, highlighted against her raven-colored hair, was potential photographic model material. But what would be a blessing in the world of show biz, could be something of a curse in the locker room culture of the police.

      Because of her looks, Bridget had been the target of sexual harassment by her colleagues. And it had made her tough. She could take the compliments with a smile and a shrug and when they became vulgar she hit back with a glib ‘in your dreams, buster.’

      When one of the rookies was bold enough to try to pin her against a locker, showing off in front of three of his friends, she deterred him from further action with a well-placed fist to the groin. Then she added insult to injury by asking him if he wanted her to kiss it better. The rookies never bothered her again; nor had anyone else in the department during the four years since.

      Bridget was sitting at her desk typing up a report on a domestic violence case for Sarah Jensen at the D.A.’s office, when a female officer dropped a fax on her desk. But Bridget did not look up.

      Sarah Jensen, the Assistant District Attorney in charge of the domestic violence division at the Ventura County D.A.’s office, was no less