Quickly Mary scrolled to the photo function on her phone to try to take a picture of the car or the license plate, but it was too late. The sedan had joined the traffic going in the opposite direction. She watched, stricken, as it disappeared down the street.
An hour later, Mary had sweated through her suit and Edward was still asleep, but she figured it had to be almost time for Patrick to be finished. She woke Edward up, and they crossed back through the parking lot, climbed the steps to the entrance, and went inside. She would tell him about the brown sedan when she had the chance, later.
Mary took one look at Cassandra’s face and knew there was trouble.
CHAPTER TEN
Cassandra ushered Mary and Edward to another white cubicle that was the same as the others except for a bookshelf containing toys and art around adult-sized table and chairs, and two large posters on the wall, which were impossible not to read. The one said at the top: HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY? COMO TE TIENES HOY? Underneath were cartoon kid faces in an array of expressions, labeled in English and Spanish: HAPPY, FELIZ. AFRAID, CON MIEDO. SAD, TRISTE. CONFUSED, CONFUNDIDO. ANGRY, ENOJADO. Next to that hung a rectangular poster that read at the top, FEELINGS THERMOMETER, next to a picture of a thermometer. Number 10 was at the top of the thermometer, with the feeling I’M FREAKING OUT!!!! Number 9 was VERY BAD, Number 8 was BAD, Number 7 was DIFFICULT, Number 6 was NOT GOOD, NOT TERRIBLE, and the numbers went down to Number 1, which was GOOD.
Mary sat down in the chair across from Cassandra, wondering what it must be like to be a child who was freaked out, angry, confused, and sad. She knew that there were abused children in the world but it had been an abstract matter until now, when she had met Patrick and saw the bruise on his little face, and until she had come to PCA and was staring face-to-face with a “Feelings Thermometer,” undoubtedly invented to help little kids express how horrible they were feeling at the hands of the adults who were supposed to love and protect them. It hurt her heart, and she glanced at the Feelings Thermometer to realize that her own feelings were probably at a Number 9, VERY BAD.
Cassandra looked up from a white page of notes, her expression professional, if grim. She glanced from Edward to Mary and back again to Edward. “I’d like to speak with you both briefly about the results of our investigation, but first I have to caution you. You in particular, Edward.”
“Yes?” Edward blinked, coming to full alertness. His lined mouth was already turning down at the corners, he lifted his chin, trying to be strong.
“Edward, what I am about to tell you will be difficult for you, as Patrick’s grandfather, to hear. It would be difficult for anyone to hear, but especially family. It is our policy to share information with family and other caregivers regarding what a child tells us during the forensic interview. There are a few exceptions to this, which don’t apply in this case, but the one that does apply is that we will not give you the information if you cannot emotionally handle the information.” Cassandra blinked. “Edward, if you don’t feel that you can handle the information, then you should feel free to step out of the room. I would not appreciate a replay of your earlier reaction. We could be overheard by other children.”
“I’ll be fine,” Edward answered with such finality that even Mary believed him. “Where is Patrick?’
“He’s playing in one of the other rooms. I gave him some watercolors and he went to town.” Cassandra smiled briefly.
“That would be Patrick.” Edward managed to smile back, but Mary could see that it was an effort.
Cassandra consulted her notes. “Okay, folks, I’ll keep this brief. As an overview, the forensic interview with Patrick went well. After a slow start, he was able to express himself and open up to me. He cried, which is completely normal. In fact, I worry when children don’t cry.”
Edward nodded but didn’t say anything.
Mary swallowed hard.
Cassandra continued. “In my opinion, Patrick’s account of what happened is completely credible. My experience tells me that he is telling the truth. He’s an intelligent and brave little boy, and he isn’t doing this for attention. On the contrary, he avoids attention and has anxiety, which he will require treatment to overcome.”
Edward nodded. “I told Mary that. He doesn’t do it for attention. And he doesn’t lie.”
Cassandra glanced at her notes. “My findings are that Patrick was not only physically abused by the teacher’s aide, a Mr. Robertson, but Patrick was also sexually abused by Mr. Robertson. Robertson fondled Patrick on three occasions.”
“My God,” Edward said, choked.
Mary felt shocked, reaching out for Edward’s elbow to steady him.
Cassandra looked sympathetically at Edward. “I know this is terrible news for you. The only comfort I can offer you is that we will do our level best to get justice for Patrick and to get him the therapy he needs.”
Edward nodded, his eyes suddenly brimming.
Cassandra pushed a blue box of tissues toward Edward. “In terms of the facts, the first incident of fondling occurred on September 9, the day after school started. The assault took place in a closet or small room off a hallway near the classroom. Patrick said it had a ‘floor machine’ in it, and the police will follow up. Robertson managed to get Patrick alone and fondled him by touching his genitals on both the inside and the outside of his pants.”
“No.” Edward took a Kleenex and wiped his eyes under his glasses, and Mary felt outrage tightening her chest, that such a thing could happen at school. Where were the teachers? Where were the other kids? Questions raced through her mind, and she knew Edward must have them, too.
Cassandra glanced again at her notes. “Patrick had never been touched that way by anyone else and told me that he was confused and frightened. Robertson threatened him not to tell anybody or he would kill him—and you, Edward.”
Edward grimaced, and Mary thought of the brown sedan outside.
“Cassandra, not to interrupt, but I think I saw Robertson, or a man who looked a lot like him, parked in a car out front across the street.”
Edward looked over. “When?”
“When you were asleep.”
Cassandra frowned, in alarm. “Are you sure it was him?”
“No,” Mary had to answer, “but it looked like him. He had a mustache, dark hair. The car was a brown sedan.”
Cassandra took notes. “Did you get the make or model?”
“No, I tried but it drove away.”
“I’d admonish you both to keep an eye out for him. It’s not uncommon for predators to stalk their victims and intimidate them to keep them silent. We can’t rule out the possibility that Robertson is violent and may try to carry through on his threat. I’ll report this sighting to the police, but if you see him again, either of you, call 911. Do not engage with him yourself in any way, shape, or form.”
Mary nodded. “Okay.”
Edward stiffened. “I’ll keep an eye out at the house. I don’t know where Robertson lives, but it probably is in the neighborhood. It’s not hard to find out where we live, either.”
Cassandra nodded gravely. “Keep an eye out, and as I say, do not engage. If you see him, call 911 immediately. It’s not only safer for you and Patrick, but it’s better for our record.”
Mary felt concerned. “If it was Robertson in the sedan, he knows we’re here. He knows we reported him to you. What effect do you think that will have on him, in your experience?”
“He’s not going away since you came here, if that’s what you’re asking. I think the danger still exists. If it was him, he’s not going away, and the fact is, he’d still want to prevent you from taking this further. There’s a trial left, after all. Be on guard.” Cassandra paused. “Before I go on to the other two incidents, you should know that children in special education programming are often targeted by sexual offenders because they are the most vulnerable. Depending on the nature and extent of their disabilities, they are often out of the classroom for pullout sessions or to
cool down, giving ample opportunity to offenders. Sadly, they are not always believed when they inform on any such incidents of abuse, and their reports are often dismissed as difficulties with perception, if not outright fabrication. Neither of these things is true with Patrick. He has anxiety issues, and simply put, Patrick is afraid of Robertson.”
Edward nodded, taking a Kleenex from the box and wiping his eyes under his glasses.
Mary interjected, “By the way, Robertson no longer works at the school. Evidently, he quit a few days ago, and I don’t expect that Patrick will be at Grayson much longer. They’re not programming for him and I’m hoping to place him at Fairmount Prep.”
“Great. That can help his recovery, if he doesn’t have to go back to the school where he was abused.” Cassandra glanced again at her notes. “Now, as I was saying, the second such incident of fondling and physical abuse occurred on Friday, September 11, in the same room. Again, same situation, same fondling, on top and in the pants. Patrick told me that he was frightened, but because it had happened before, he knew what was happening and he told Robertson to stop. Robertson did not stop. Patrick threw up, and Robertson, evidently in anger, grabbed Patrick and forced him to lick up the vomit, and the incident ended.”
Edward sniffled, and Mary knew it was hard to hear the graphic details of the abuse, but it was necessary going forward, for her lawsuit. She credited Cassandra for presenting the information in such a professional manner. It had to help Edward to deal with it, like being at a doctor’s office and hearing a diagnosis of terminal cancer.
Cassandra looked up from her notes, pausing. “The third incident of physical and sexual abuse occurred in the morning of Wednesday, September 16. The incident took place in the same room, but the activity escalated.” Cassandra paused, then kept going. “To stay on track, on the morning of the sixteenth at Grayson, there was an assembly. Patrick was walking with his class to the assembly, and Mr. Robertson managed to get him away from the others, which went unnoticed.”
Edward wiped his eyes, and Mary could see that he was using every ounce of strength to maintain his composure. She wondered again if Machiavelli knew what scum he was representing. She had to believe he didn’t, that even he couldn’t be that low.
Cassandra cleared her throat. “On this third incident, Patrick tells me that Robertson led him into the closet, fondled him, and this time, tried to force Patrick’s hand on Robertson’s own genitals. Patrick refused and vomited, so Robertson struck him in the face in anger.”
Edward’s eyes brimmed again, and Mary’s heart broke for him.
Cassandra continued, “We have a pediatrician on our premises, and she examined Patrick. She found no evidence of damage to his genital or anal area, though she did find faint bruises on his face consistent with his account. We made photographs of the bruise for evidentiary purposes.” Cassandra exhaled, sliding her notepad away from her. “Let me explain what our procedures are. I’ll make recommendations to you for a therapist for Patrick and I’ll write up a report about my forensic interview for the team here, which includes a caseworker from DHS and a detective from Special Victims Unit. They will read my report, view Patrick’s DVD, review our medical report and photographic evidence and also review the police investigation report, when that is sent from the Twenty-fifth Precinct. We will then make a recommendation to the District Attorney’s Office about whether charges will be filed.”
Mary asked, “What will you recommend?”
Cassandra turned to Mary, her dark gaze steady. “The district attorney makes the charging decisions, but I would recommend that Robertson be charged with sexual assault, statutory sexual assault, sexual abuse of children, endangering the welfare of a child, corrupting the morals of a minor, simple assault and battery, and unlawful restraint.”
“Amen,” Edward said hoarsely, wiping his eyes. His parchment-thin skin looked mottled again, and his shoulders sagged, letting down now that the worst was over.
“I agree,” Mary said, patting his arm.
“Edward,” Cassandra said softening her tone. “I think Patrick is a very special boy. I’m aware that he has challenges, and I saw evidence of his dyslexia and reading issues myself. But I truly believe that he’s got some fight inside him. He’s going to get through this.”
“Thank you.” Edward managed a shaky smile. “God bless you.”
“You’re welcome.” Cassandra smiled back at Edward, brighter than before. “And I will tell you one thing, that boy sure does love his ‘Pops.’ He couldn’t stop talking about you. He loves taking care of you, making soup and helping with your meds. That gives him a lot of self-esteem, that he helps with your insulin. You’re everything to him, and he loves you very much.”
“I love him too,” Edward said, his eyes spilling over. “Very much.”
Mary felt her own eyes brimming and grabbed a Kleenex from the box, which was definitely unlawyerlike, but she didn’t care.
Cassandra straightened up, in a back-to-business way. “Okay, folks. Unless you have any questions, I think we should go get Patrick.”
“No questions.” Edward rose slowly, pushing himself up by leaning on the table.
“I have a question,” Mary said. “During his interview, did Patrick mention anything about a scissors? About Robertson threatening him with a scissors, or him attacking Robertson with a scissors?”
Cassandra frowned. “No, why?”
“That’s the allegation in Robertson’s suit against Patrick. I think what happened was that when Robertson’s ‘attempt’ failed, he started to worry. He knew that sooner or later, Patrick would tell somebody, so he filed the suit to preempt Patrick.”
Cassandra nodded. “He shouldn’t have done anything.”
“He didn’t want to take a chance and he thinks that Edward has money. Robertson saw his opportunity and took it, killing two birds with one stone.”
Cassandra glowered. “Well, now I’ve heard it all.”
Mary stood up. “Thank you so much, for all you did for Patrick and all you do for children in Philly. It’s really admirable.”
“You’re welcome.” Cassandra smiled at Mary, rising and picking up her pad. “In terms of timing, this will proceed fairly quickly, and in the next few days, somebody will get back to you about charges and the like.” Cassandra turned to Edward, as she walked them to the door. “Edward, in the meantime, I would advise you not to open a discussion with Patrick about this. If he initiates discussion, answer his questions. If he brings it up, let him say what he needs to say.”
“I understand.” Edward nodded, drained.
“Be supportive, but don’t question him further. We want you to support him, but not position yourself in a way that might hinder or compromise the investigation.” Cassandra flashed Edward a final smile. “I know this is difficult.”
“Thanks.” Edward heaved a heavy sigh, then stood tall. “Now. Let’s go get my boy.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mary hurried past the antique shops and artsy jewelry stores to the bridal salon, troubled after her meeting at PCA. She couldn’t shake what she had heard about Patrick being abused, and Edward and Patrick had remained silent the entire ride home, during which she had kept a watchful eye out for the brown sedan. After she’d dropped them off at home, she’d emailed their firm investigator, Lou Jacobs, a former cop with plenty of contacts on the force, asking him to see if a brown sedan was registered to a Steven Robertson and to find out where Robertson lived. She knew that Lou’s Blue Mafia would come up with an answer, ASAP.
Cars and buses clogged Pine Street, which was only wide enough for colonial traffic, and she plowed down the sidewalk through the businesspeople thumbing their phones as they walked. Ahead she spotted the sign for the bridal salon in curlicue script, POUR LES BRIDES. Mary got the gist of the French translation; a bride who bought her dress here would end up poor. She made a beeline for the faux French Provincial door, opened it, and entered the air-conditioned salon, which was like walking int
o a cumulus cloud, with dove-white cushiness everywhere and no harsh reality in sight.
White wedding dresses hung on padded hangers around the perimeter of the room, and the walls were of raw white silk. A white shag rug covered the floor, and a matching curved couch sat at the center of the room, embracing a dramatically lit elevated pedestal with a trifold floor-to-ceiling mirror. On the far side of the room, next to a pickled-white French Provincial desk and a completely American cash register, sat a circular glass display case of veils, tiaras, and more grandiose bridal headpieces, which Judy and Anne were gawking at, plastic champagne flutes in hand.
“Mary, Mary!” Anne and Judy squealed, almost in unison, spotting her. They rushed toward Mary, hoisting their flutes so they didn’t spill their champagne.
“Hey guys,” she called back, rallying at the sight of her friends, though the two women couldn’t have been more different: Judy in her funky yellow hair, multicolored outfit, and Mario-Batali crocs, and Anne exquisitely dressed in her sleek Lilly Pulitzer sheath with tan Manolo mules, so that together they looked like a punk-rock star and her chic stylist.
“I’m so glad you didn’t cancel!” Anne said, hugging Mary in her bony way.
“Me, too!” Judy said, throwing her arms around Mary like a bear. “How else would we get to drink champagne on a school night?”
Mary smiled, coming around. “Sorry I’m late. This special ed case is such a tough one.”
“Why?” Judy asked, frowning.
“It’s so—”
“Stop!” Anne said, raising her manicured hand. “No shop talk tonight, bitches. This is a lawyer-free zone, and we’re here tonight for love, marriage, and most importantly, clothes.”
Judy grinned. “Good point, except for the ‘bitches’ part. I’m not your bitch. You’re my bitch.”
Anne snorted. “We’re both Mary’s bitches, since she’s a partner and almost a wife.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Don’t start. Now, where’s my dress?”