Chapter 14: An Awesome Threesome

The civil trial went as smoothly as a well directed Broadway play. The one glitch appeared in the gentleness and contriteness of a sober Max. I worried his punishment might be lessened. Hiring a private investigator after witnessing Max's Dr. Jekyll to explore the bars Max frequented to find witnesses to his transformation; I also decided to ask around at alcohol treatment centers for expert psychologists aware of the transformative powers of alcohol--especially addicts becoming Mr. Hydes.

Dr. Bachman couldn't have been more perfect--a recovering alcoholic who traumatized his ex-wife during his life of benders and--though never attaining the violence and humiliation Max had brought to bear--felt losing the wife he loved desperately had not sufficiently recompensed her suffering and his guilt. Childless and more successful then her ex-husband in a similar profession, she refused alimony and only accepted a split of assets and a complete break of communication between them. He wanted Max to suffer.

Adding Bachman to the witness list didn't phase the defense, but Mary Cochran's name brought a spark of anger to the eyes of Max. Like Amy, Mary had been tortured and destroyed by Max. But though he loved Amy, Max saw Mary as a whore deserving the abuse.

After adding Mary to the list, that evening she came to my apartment to discuss her deposition. Around the time we expected her, we heard a commotion outside.

"Joe, come look," said Amy, peering out the window.

"Hey bitch," I heard faintly until I joined Amy, "you're butch whore has arrived. Don't pay her more than five dollars," yelled Max up at Amy.

"Keep him occupied," I said. "I'm calling the cops."

"That's your problem," yelled Amy at Max. "You treat every woman like a cheap slut. Then you can't even get it up."

"Fuck you, bitch." He grabbed towards Mary, but drunkenness made him miss.

Mary looked scared. Amy made a stop sign with her hand, a dialing motion with her finger, a fist by her ear and mouthed cops. Mary nodded.

"What's that shit?" asked Max.

"Nothing," said Amy.

"Tell me, goddamnit," said Max, grabbing Mary around the neck. Mary went limp and fell to the concrete and immediately got up.

"I just communicated to her how crazy you are. She agreed."

Max laughed. "This drunken slut is crazier than the two of us put together! She's a horny lush just tramping around looking to get fucked. I just gave her what she wanted. I gave you what you wanted, you fucking tramp. I kept you off the barstool. But you got crazy on me."

"Maybe because you slammed me around and then tried raping me but couldn't get it up, you fuck," said Mary in her raspy smoke and drink inflected voice. "Blamed me for your limp dick."

"Well look at her, Amy. Who could with that puss?" He squished her face with his hand until she slapped it away.

Problem was, though not innocently pretty, Mary Cochran's long thick raven hair framed a toughened, tight, narrow and memorably beautiful face with large, expressive eyes containing tantalizing violet irises. With strong medium sized breasts and a tight model's ass and nearly as tall as a runway model, getting it up for her seemed the least of a man's problems. Dealing with her anger and self destructive nature and her brilliant put downs on the other hand would be a problem. Clearly Max and Mary presented a devil's evil sense of humor as a match. Even I might be tempted to strike her if I stayed too long in her company.

The cops finally arrived and arrested Max for violating Amy's restraining order. Thanking Max for playing into my hands tempted me, but I dislike petty cruelty.

Maybe provoking Mary's worst side, I brought Amy and her out for dinner and drinks. Already bitter, alcohol inflamed Mary's meanness. At the same time she flirted. Her complicated nature made me dizzy. Before she got too drunk, I advised her on her attitude and suggested emotional restraint at the deposition and her dress in court. She received the advice belligerently--more so when I repeated it. "What makes you think I need to play some fucking part? The guy fucked with me like he fucked with Amy--story over."

"If you're on her side, you'll take my advice. We're dealing with people's expectations. Sure you're angry at Max, but you can't look angry at the rest of us--at every male on the jury--nor can you can you appear like a vixen seducing us."

"I am who I am," said Mary. "Who are you to... ?"

"He spent over ten years as a successful prosecutor, most of them working directly with the DA here in New York City" explained Amy losing patience. "Much of his cases he successfully got scumbags like Max, rapists and wife or girlfriend beaters put away. After that he worked for Schulz and Gould. You've heard of them, haven't you? Instead of becoming a partner, he lost a case that would have gotten that prize, a rape of a retarded girl. Then he became the King's chief legal advisor. I'm sure you've heard of him?"

"So why aren't you still?" asked Mary without malice. Apparently my resume impressed her.

"That's a long story," I said.

She insisted, so I told her. She got a lot less mean and a lot more seductive, though the mean moments became more venomous.

"So you got some high class hooker leading you by the balls since you were thirteen," she said late in the evening, slowly brewing the toxins to maximum effect. I nearly hit her. I started standing, my fist balled.

"Joe," said Amy, restraining me. And to Mary, she said, "You must like being abused."

"I hate it," said Mary. Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth trembled. Too tough for tears, she sighed quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm drunk."

"Come on you two. Let's go downtown for Chinese to soak up the alcohol," said Amy.

"I'm sorry guys," said Mary in the taxi heading downtown sitting on my left while Amy held my hand at my right. "I like you two. Of the three of us, I like you."

"I don't understand," I said. "You're beautiful and intelligent. You seem to like your work and it makes you financially comfortable."

"I don't know either. Maybe I'm just not happy. It's like I'm with these people and I get these thoughts. I realize how weak they are and I attack. I want to be better than them, smarter, cleverer, and I am. Except a moment later I realize I'm not. They're nice and I'm not. You're nice. Nice is weak. It makes them vulnerable. But I'm the weakling. I'm the dummy. The way they look at me—the way you looked at me when I said ... whatever I said—it's like the country girl unable to adjust to big city conventions stopping conversations on a dime. I make people uncomfortable and worse. I make them hate me. But I like being clever."

"What you need is a good friend," I said. "The problem is the person either has to realize it's a game at the beginning or you need to find restraint. A friend enjoys teasing and being put in his place. Of course it goes both ways."

Mary nodded and shrugged. Then she glanced at us. "Could you be my friends?" she seemed to ask but kept silent.

Amy started the ball rolling while at the table in the Chinese restaurant, and despite the available listeners at nearby tables we kept moving the ball from mouth to mouth. We talked about sex. Perhaps the inebriation shut off our embarrassment. I think we just didn't care. These people never met us and would never meet us again. On the other hand, friendship beginning and sustaining kept us in our private world.

"So you've had a few relationships with men?" asked Amy.