TWENTY-NINE
After calling Barry, Angela drove straight in to downtown Milford Falls. The whole way she kept trying to think of a reason why they would have let the men go. It didn’t make any sense. These weren’t petty shoplifters. These men had beat her senseless and left her hanging by a rope, fully expecting she was going to die.
Having been to the Municipal Building before, Angela knew that they had metal detectors. Once she found a parking place in a commercial lot about a block away, she did as she always did—she pulled the knife out of her boot and slid it under her seat. Since she was now carrying a gun, she removed the holstered weapon and hid it, along with the suppressor, under the back end of the floor mat in the passenger foot well, where it went under the seat.
Going up the broad steps, she realized that she wasn’t exactly dressed properly to see the assistant district attorney. Most of the other people going in and out were dressed in business suits, even though there were some messengers and lower-level workers who were dressed somewhat more casually. Angela had been on her way to work to tend bar, so she was wearing cutoffs and boots. Her attire earned her some inviting smiles from men and murderous looks from women.
Inside was the usual entry to a public building: a large, bland chamber that echoed voices and footsteps. A small line had formed at the security checkpoint as people laid briefcases and purses in tubs on a table before going through the metal detector. Angela slipped her purse off her shoulder and slung it up into a gray plastic tub. She knew the routine from delivering documents to the prosecutors who had offices in the building.
Once past security, she took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Down the hall, past people who paused to stare at her, she came to the office of the assistant district attorney. The receptionist was a thin young man with perfectly styled hair. His blue shirt, offset with a coral-colored tie, was too big for him. He asked if she had an appointment to see Mr. Babington. When she said no, he told her he was in a meeting and she would have to make an appointment and come back. She said she wanted to wait to see if he would have time to see her after his meeting. Annoyed, he asked her name. Angela told him that she was a courier and had delivered packages to Mr. Babington before. Pouting, he told her to have a seat.
Just before 5:00 p.m. John Babington opened his office door to let out a couple of men. They hurried past him on their way out. He paused, putting on his suit coat.
The guy at the front desk smirked his disapproval as he pointed at Angela. “I told her she would have to make an appointment, but she insisted on waiting.”
John Babington stood frozen with one arm in the sleeve of his jacket, taking in her bare legs. There was no question in her mind that he remembered her. He pulled his suit coat back off and gestured with a tilt of his head for her to come in to his office.
Angela closed the door and then sat in one of the two maroon leather chairs in front of his wooden desk. He swung his coat over his taller chair behind the desk and sat down.
“What can I do for you … ”
“I’m Angela Constantine.”
He leaned back in his chair and with one hand slicked back his long, thick, dark brown hair. “What can I do for you, Ms. Constantine?”
“Four men tried to murder me. I was told you dropped the charges and let them go. I want to know why.”
Recognition showed in his eyes and then he smiled to himself as if she were a child who had asked something naive.
“It’s not that simple.”
Angela nested her hands in her lap. “It is to me. They tried to murder me.”
“Didn’t you say they raped you, as well?” He leaned in with a hint of a smile, wanting to hear the juicy story.
A simple “Yes” was all she gave him.
His extra chins oozed over his collar and tie as he tried to glance down at her legs, but she was too close to his desk for him to see much, so he took a long look at her chest instead before he shifted his attention to the stack of folders to the side. He fingered through them until he found the one he was looking for and then tugged it out.
He dropped the folder on the desk in front of himself and then flipped it open. He turned over papers, reading, making small sounds in his throat. She saw the photocopied mug shots of the four men. He flipped those four pages over, then wet his thumb and picked up a page, studying it for a moment.
He finally looked up over the top of the paper. “What exactly was it you wanted to know?”
“I told the officer who came to see me in the hospital that I was willing to testify against all four men. I can identify them. I gave the officers the license plate number. I want to know why you would drop the charges and let them go.”
He gave her a long, cold look. “Are you prejudiced, Ms. Constantine?”
Angela blinked. “What?”
John Babington gave her a haughty smirk. “They’re undocumented Mexican immigrants, Ms. Constantine. This state has a policy of giving sanctuary to undocumented immigrants.”
Angela leveled a glare back at him. “They tried to kill me.”
“The good people of New York State”—he lifted his arm to twirl his hand in the air over his head—“and all the elected officials above me, have made it abundantly clear that this is to be a sanctuary state for undocumented aliens. That means we protect them. There are standing orders not to cooperate in any way with federal officials—”
“This isn’t a federal case,” Angela said, cutting him off. “This is a criminal case. I don’t want them deported, I want them prosecuted.” With a finger, she pointed out the bruises around her neck. “They hanged me and left me to die. They attempted to murder me. You’re the one who is supposed to speak for victims and prosecute criminals.”
He stared at her throat a moment before looking up into her eyes. “Are you into Satanism, Ms. Constantine?”
“What?”
“Satanism. You know, Devil worship.” He gestured toward her neck. “Your tattoo, there. It says ‘Dark Angel.’ Do you worship Satan?”
Angela frowned her incredulity. “No. And even if I did, which I don’t, what does that have to do with those men raping me and trying to kill me?”
He briefly looked back at the paper he was holding and then looked up with icy contempt. “It says here that the men said the sex was consensual.”
Angela stared in astonishment at the accusation. “That’s a lie. Of course they’re going to say it was consensual—they’re trying to get out of going to jail for what they did. I suppose they also claimed that the attempted murder was actually assisted suicide?”
He arched an eyebrow at her sarcasm before going back to silently reading the report in his hand. “I have the testimony of all four men saying the same thing, that it was consensual. They claim that you wanted to have an … ‘experience.’ ”
“What are you talking about? What ‘experience’?”
“They all say that they met you at Barry’s Place, where you’re a bartender. They say that after work, out in the parking lot, you got friendly with them and then told them that you had a rape fantasy. They say you asked them if they wanted to play along and help you have that kind of experience.”
After work that night Angela was busy killing Owen. But she could hardly say that.
“They put me in the hospital.”
He nodded as if he knew all about it. “They claim you wanted it to be rough sex, so that, as they say, it would feel real to you. They say you told them beforehand that you wanted them to hang you by a rope and leave you so as to complete your fantasy. When they were reluctant to go that far, you told them not to worry, that you had a knife in your boot and you would cut yourself down.”
Angela sat stunned. The men didn’t know she had a knife when they’d left her there to die. That knife was only discovered by Officer Denton at the hospital. That could only mean that someone fed that information to the four men and helped them craft their statement, or crafted it for them.
She realized that since the state’s policy was to provide sanctuary to undocumented aliens, he needed to find an excuse to drop the charges and let the men go, so they fabricated a story to discredit Angela.
He cocked his arm and pumped his fist as he gave her a knowing wink. “You enjoy a little gang bang, now and then, Ms. Constantine? Is that it? A bit of hard, fast, and rough?”
Angela could barely contain her rage. But she knew she had to. She knew her face was going red but she couldn’t stop that.
“I’m telling you what happened,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’m the victim of a crime, of attempted murder.”
John Babington regarded her with an imperious expression. “I’m just letting you know the statement the four men gave. It certainly is at odds with what you say. Their account would come out in court, of course. There are four of them and one of you. Their side of it would be a sensation in the press. It would be all over the Internet with sympathy pouring in from all around the country for the poor, innocent, undocumented immigrants. You would be hounded as a bigot, a racist, and worse.
“That’s why, in my view, I had to drop the charges. It protects everyone, including you.”
“They’re criminals,” she repeated. “I’m not a criminal.”
He flipped over a few more pages. “Well, let’s see. I have a report here that you were carrying a concealed weapon.” He looked up over the paper and arched an eyebrow. “Is that true?”
Angela swallowed. She knew better than to lie. “Yes. I carried a knife for self-defense. I was unaware it was illegal.”
“Ignorance before the law is no excuse, Ms. Constantine. You do realize, don’t you, that because the officer found the weapon and seized it, we have the evidence needed to prosecute you for carrying a concealed weapon?” He gave her a threatening smile. “At the discretion of this office, of course.”
Angela didn’t say anything. She was getting the bigger picture. They intended to let the men go, period. He was letting her know that he would bring charges against her if she made a fuss about it. He would charge her with a crime and suggest that it hadn’t been rape at all, but consensual sex. He would say that after the romp she wanted to charge the men to cover up the true nature of her behavior and because she was a racist.
His gaze went from her hair as far down as he could see. “It’s rather self-evident that you were asking for it. Right?” he said to make a point of it. “I mean, why else would you dress the way you do? Anyone can see by looking at you that you’re the kind of woman who is always looking to get laid, right?”
“The way I dress does not make it okay to rape me.”
He smiled as he winked at her. “Come on, now, tell the truth. You liked it.”
Angela knew she was in a dangerous situation with a powerful man, the kind of situation with authorities she always tried to avoid.
She simply said, “That’s not true.”
He shrugged off her denial and flipped over the page. “It says here in this report that the officer who interviewed you at the hospital suspected that the incident might have been some kind of drug deal gone bad.”
Angela blinked. “I don’t use drugs.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say. It only matters what the jury believes.”
He flipped over some more pages, mumbling a list of things under his breath as he read. He finally straightened the papers and laid them back down in the folder, then leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. His big belly flopped out over his pants.
“Despite what you say, young lady, the evidence shows that you are likely heavily involved in drugs. The Constantine residence—where you lived—has long been the scene of visits from the police for drug activity, including possession with the intent to distribute. Your place is well known to police. There have been fights there, stabbings, and any number of arrests on various charges, most of them having to do with drugs. All of that is very incriminating to a jury.”
Angela did her best to control her voice. “I don’t do drugs.”
It didn’t matter. She was guilty for the sins of her mother.
Hands still laced behind his head, he shrugged. “All the people I prosecute for drug possession and for dealing say the same thing. They don’t do drugs. They don’t deal drugs. We have the wrong person. The police planted the drugs on them. All that kind of bull crap. You’re all the same.”
“You would prosecute someone you know is innocent?”
“It’s not up to me to say who is innocent and who is guilty. It’s up to a jury to make that determination.”
Angela stood, fists at her side. “I don’t have anything to do with drugs.”
“Well, what we’re left with is the word of the police …” His gaze glided down to her cutoffs for a lingering look. “… against the word of a whore the cat dragged out of a trailer park.”
His gaze came up to glare at her with cold contempt.
By the way he kept looking at her body, Angela realized that he had something important in common with the four men. Like them, he thought he was better than her. More than that, he had an elitist disdain for her, and yet, he couldn’t help lusting for her. It left him with the confused emotion of hatred mixed with desire.
Angela didn’t say anything as she sat back down.
He shrugged. “Maybe what we have here is a simple case of a woman dealing drugs and known to be carrying a concealed weapon.”
He leaned forward, pointing at her with a pen he picked up off his desk as his voice got louder. “Like I said, we’re a sanctuary state and we are not going to unfairly prosecute undocumented aliens on the word of a fucking little trailer tramp!”
With great effort, Angela kept her mouth shut.
“So,” he said, his voice returning to normal levels. “I think that you should consider yourself fortunate that I’m not inclined to press concealed-weapons charges against you. Don’t you agree?”
Angela swallowed back her anger. She knew she had to be very careful in her answer. This was not a battle she could win. Worse, she knew she would be in great peril if she said the wrong thing.
“Yes … I agree.”
His politician smile returned. “I’m so glad that I could explain it and learn that we see eye-to-eye about this whole matter.”
There was an urgent knock at the door. When Babington looked up and called “Yes?” the door opened just enough for the young man who had been at the front desk to stick his head in.
“Can I have you for just a minute, Mr. Babington? A critical matter.”
Babington shut the folder on his desk and rose. “Excuse me for a moment, Ms. Constantine.”
He hiked up his pants as he went to the door. He leaned his head out, discussing something with the young man. Babington’s side of the discussion sounded heated.
Angela watched him a moment, watching as his ill humor revealed itself. Babington had one hand on the doorframe and the other on the edge of door as he leaned his head out asking pointed questions and giving angry orders. She couldn’t see the young man. He had withered back under his boss’s temper.
Angela leaned in over his desk and lifted the cover of the folder, then the papers, until she found the four mug shots. She quickly snatched them out of the folder, folded them up, and stuffed them in a pocket. She closed the cover of the folder.
When Babington finished talking to the young man and came back into the room, Angela lifted her purse off the other chair and put the strap over her shoulder. He gave her that lewd, condescending smile she had seen from him before.
She returned a phony smile she sometimes had to use at the bar to avoid trouble with fragile male egos.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Babington,” Angela said on her way past him.
“Any time, my dear,” he called after her. “Any time.”