Chapter 13

I had retreated all the way to the cabin to provide some dressing privacy for the ladies. I was conflicted about the way we were handling this. Both of these women — in fact, all three of these women — had been the victims of a particularly insidious kind of rape, and conventional wisdom suggested that they would benefit from some sort of access to counseling. In my work, I had seen many victims of rape, both in the role of accusers for men I was defending or as defendants themselves, in situations where the crime against them was merely a sad coda to the reasons they themselves would go on to break the law. I knew from this that there is no 'typical' rape victim; reactions to the crime had many variations, from anger to fear to withdrawal. One of my past clients was a nineteen-year-old arrested for prostitution and possession of crack cocaine. She had been forced into the prostitution trade by her much older boyfriend after he softened her up by repeatedly raping her. When I prepped her for her testimony, she insisted on saying, "He fucked me." I kept emphasizing to her that it would be better, more sympathetic, for the jury to hear, "He raped me." But when it came time for her to testify, she almost defiantly spit out, "He fucked me." It was important to her self-image to say it that way, even if it cost her her freedom.

Of course, the other extreme, withdrawal and uncommunicative isolation, was common too. And while I might wish that our victims now were inclined to an angry, fighting response, for at least Lisa I understood that adding the shocking physical body transformation to the trauma of the sexual abuse was enough to keep most anyone curled up in near-fetal position. Courtney seemed to be more lucid and willing to deal with the world, although I reflected ruefully that I wasn't doing either of them a service by not getting them some help. The only problem was that getting them that help would put them in the system, and I knew all too well that more questions would be raised than could be answered.

I had an idea to try, but not one that lent itself to immediate action, so I shelved that ruminating and turned my attention to the information that Lauren had collected on Dr. Yehuda ben Ami. He was apparently a tenured professor of physics and cosmology at UC Berkeley who held Bachelor degrees in mathematics and physics from Cornell and a Ph.D. in physics from MIT. He had been involved in the design and launch of NASA's Cosmic Background Explorer satellite, a project intended to look for particular signs of the "Big Bang" primordial explosion. He had published several papers on dark matter, derived from the COBE observations. I skimmed past lengthy descriptions of acronyms like DIRBE, DMR, and FIRAS without really understanding much at all. There was mention of a paper on 'dark energy' that had stirred considerable controversy after it was published in the Journal of Cosmology and Astroparticle Physics, with some polite but thinly-veiled accusations of fraud. Lauren had also dug up a web page from the university that noted that the good doctor was not teaching his graduate lecture classes this semester.

I sighed. Someone much smarter than I was would have to figure out if there was anything we could use to help us. I remembered my high school physics pretty well, but I had no expertise whatsoever at this level.

Behind me I heard a noise as Lauren climbed out of the tunnel entrance and said, "Can you give us a hand?"

They had gotten Lisa dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweats, and Lauren had even procured a scarf for her head and sunglasses; she looked like a feline Jackie Onassis. She was awake but moving like a zombie, and I had to lean over and essentially pull her up through the tunnel exit. She remained standing after I lifted her through, but remained focused on staring at the floor and saying nothing. Courtney followed, now dressed more fashionably in light blue slacks and a white blouse.

"Nice outfit," I commented, and Lauren grinned.

"Is there anything Walmart can't do?" she asked. "I got all this stuff, and some more things in the car, and I spent half of what I spent shopping on Fifth Avenue yesterday."

"Thanks for the clothes," added Courtney. "I want you to know that I appreciate what you're doing for us. It's... " she paused and collected herself, then continued, "It's taking pretty much every single ounce of discipline I have not to run screaming into that wall, or demand we call the cops, or just sit down and start crying. I want to do all three at once and I know we can't."

"Perfectly understandable," I said.

"And... please don't take this the wrong way, but when we're out of here, I have to try to verify what you guys are saying. I mean... listen, I saw what he did, but I have to see it for myself. I'm not crazy. But I think it would be crazy to just accept that there's no one that remembers me. I have an ex-husband, I have a boyfriend, I have a career."

"Also perfectly understandable," I agreed. "And I'm hoping we can find a way for you to do that to your satisfaction without ending up in a psych ward somewhere." I turned to Lisa. "Lisa, the same thing goes for you. I want to help you, but we have to figure out how to do it safely."

Her only response was to continue staring at the floor and shake her head slightly. I couldn't tell if she disagreed with my plan or simply didn't want to be spoken to at all.

Lauren spoke up. "I called my house before I got arrested. I spoke to my mom. I spoke to my sister. Neither one of them knew who I was." She paused. "Not a good feeling. It's like a nightmare that a kid would have, where your whole family doesn't know you." She shuddered. "Until that happened, I didn't really believe it. Even after that. I kept thinking that it couldn't be everybody. Someone had to remember me."

"What about the police?" asked Courtney. "Obviously they won't believe the whole story. But we could do something to get them involved."

"Such as?" I asked.

"When I was... under his control... I heard him talking on his cell phone. He was talking to someone saying don't worry, he'd be getting him all the girls he could use." She shuddered. "He must have done this to other women besides us. He's probably selling sex slaves to some pimp in..."

"The problem," I said, "is in the proof. Even if your theory is correct, and even if we could accurately identify him to the police, if he's using the same... eh... approach he did with you guys, then the police are going to interview someone who says, 'Oh, no, officer, I'm perfectly happy here with the man of my dreams.' I don't see what we could tell the police that would sound believable and yet still be sufficiently criminal to get him arrested."

Courtney looked grim. "I could tell them he raped me. Wouldn't that get him arrested?"

"It might well," I admitted. "But then what?"

"Well, then... then he'd be arrested!"

"Sure," I agreed. "But specifically? You'd have to swear, in detail, to what happened before a warrant will issue. Do you tell the real story? Who would believe you? Do you make something up? What?"

Her face was compressed and tight, but she nodded. "I get the picture."

"I'm sorry. And as a lawyer, believe me I take no joy in saying this, but... I don't think that whatever justice we bring to Mr. Victor Romero will be dispensed by the system. We'll have to make our own justice, here."

I looked meaningfully at both Courtney and Lauren. Lauren nodded in agreement, and after a moment, Courtney did too. "I am totally OK with that idea," she said firmly. "Totally OK. In fact, I think I could personally administer some justice to his..."

"OK," I interrupted. "I think we need to get a move on, here. Let's hold off on any planned castrations until we're better situated." I looked around for agreement and continued, "Now that we have everyone clothed and ready for travel, I think we have some different options. We can stay here in Ithaca. We can go back to Manhattan. We can go back to Virginia."

"You forgot California," said Lauren, when it was obvious I had stopped listing options. "If Victor went to Livermore, and this Dr. Yehuda is in Berkeley... how far apart are they, by the way?"

"Livermore and Berkeley? They're practically neighbors, less than a 45-minute drive. A lot of the faculty at UC Berkeley has ties to Livermore Labs, and vice-versa."

"So why not hit him on his home turf?" asked Lauren. "Or find Dr. Yehuda and see if he can help? Or both?"

"The biggest problem with that plan is that not one of you has a photo ID. And especially post-9/11, that effectively means no commercial airline flights. So that means we either drive or charter a flight. I don't mind shelling out the price of a private charter, and my firm has a plane that I could use at cost, as long as it's not being used for anything business-related. But even if we charter, I'd be worried about... um... about Lisa." I paused delicately. "I don't believe her appearance would pass unnoticed by the flight crew."

"How long would it take to drive?" asked Lauren.

I looked at her. "It's three thousand miles, give or take. Minimum of three or four days, driving in shifts."

She looked disconsolate.

"Maybe that will turn out to be the right answer," I said. "But I don't think we gain much by deciding to head cross-country tonight. I think we would do better holing up around here. I don't think our buddy Victor went to Livermore because it was the best place for his next move. I have a strong suspicion it was just a desperate move to get away before I shot up that dish. But even if I'm wrong, we can't just go rushing on to campus there, or into a classified facility, and demand to use their undoubtedly classified equipment. No," I continued strongly, "our best course of action is to stay, generally, here."

"Makes sense, I guess," said Lauren dispiritedly.

"Why don't we go back to the city?" I suggested. "I know it's not intuitive to go where there are more crowds and more people, but I think we'll have better luck with Lisa's appearance in the middle of Manhattan than here. People will think she's starring in Cats."

"Cats closed three years ago, Rick," Lauren said. "But yeah, I see your point. We can tell people she's doing a commercial or a theatre bit. Here, that's not much of a believable excuse."

"Cats closed? Really?" I asked. "I never got to see it."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Lauren grinned at me. "Wow. You only had eighteen years to get tickets. How could they do that to you?"

I gave her a mock glare. "I've been busy," I said.

Courtney said, "I would be very comfortable going to Manhattan. I live there." She paused. "I lived there, I mean."

I looked at Lisa. "Lisa? Manhattan?"

The tiniest shoulder shrug was her only reaction to my words.

"OK," I said, in my best General Patton voice. "Decision made. Let's go."

Lauren had left the SUV conveniently close to the cabin. I got my passengers situated and tried to reconstruct the cabin just as I found it. With luck, we would be the first to return here, armed with some sort of plan to undo everything that needed undoing.