Chapter 3

I rushed downstairs and into the garage. For the first time, I was grateful for the "keyless go" feature on the Benz. Rather than wasting time fumbling for my car keys, I was able to back the car out of the garage immediately. I headed down Sackville Street. At Gerrard Street, I impatiently waited for the light to change. At last it did, and I turned left. Thank God the light at River Street was green. I turned right. I hoped that I could find Stacie's apartment. I knew that it was on River south of Dundas. I'd taken her home many times, but I didn't remember the exact address. Maybe I'd have to ask someone.

It turned out that I had no reason to worry about finding the place. Stacie was standing near the curb. Behind her, a man and a woman were literally throwing clothing onto the sidewalk. Some of it landed in the street. As I stopped the car and got out, I heard the woman yelling. "Your pimp is here, you whore. Good. Get in his pimp car and get the fuck out of here. I never want to see your ass again, you whoring cunt!" She went into the apartment and slammed the door.

Stacie saw me. She ran to me. I hugged her. Then I lifted her face to mine. I said, "Sweetheart, let's put your stuff in the car and go home."

She said, "Home?"

"Yes, dear," I said, "if these people won't provide you with a home, I will." Then I noticed her face. The entire left side and part of the right were red and swollen, as though she'd been beaten. "What the hell happened to you?"

Stacie said quietly, "It doesn't matter. Let's just get out of here."

I keyed the trunk release, and we began piling her belongings into the car. Everything was strewn around helter-skelter: pants, shirts, dresses, underwear, socks -- everything. The clothing was all mixed up, and much of it had been thrown into the mud or worse. As we continued to load the car, several people came over to help us. One in particular, a tall, heavyset black woman, was most helpful. She was the only one who was trying to preserve some sort of order, separating garments of one type from another and attempting to match socks. I put my hand on her shoulder. "Thank you so much," I said.

She looked directly into my eyes. "Please," she said, "just take care of little Stacie. She's had a hell of a time."

Stacie came over and hugged her. "Thanks, Aunt Charlotte," she said, "you're looking after me like always."

I held out my hand. "I'm John Charles," I said.

The woman took my hand and shook it. "I'm Charlotte Jefferson," she said, "I'm not really Stacie's aunt, but I've always felt like I was. You just take care of her, now."

I said, "I will, Ms. Jefferson. Here's my card. Call me anytime."

As we loaded the last bits into the trunk, I noticed that Stacie was favouring her right arm. After I helped her into the car, she sat cradling the arm and moaning softly. That was quite enough. I had to do something. I keyed the phone on the console. "Jerry Greenstein," I told the phone. Jerry and I had met as undergrads at university. He went into medicine, and I went into law. We'd remained friends, and he'd been my family doctor ever since he began his practice. Now he had his own clinic. There were eight doctors on staff, and the clinic had its own labs and technicians. It was open seven days a week from eight in the morning until eight at night. It was, I thought, obviously the best place to take Stacie.

Shortly, a woman's voice came over the speaker. "Doctor's office," she said, "Sunday is a walk-in clinic day. No appointments are necessary. Simply come to our office at..."

"Shirley," I said, "it's John Charles."

She replied, "Oh hello, Mr. Charles."

Good luck so far. Shirley was on duty. Often, that meant that Jerry was there as well. Shirley was his right hand. I suspected that she was more than that, but it was none of my business. I asked, "Is Dr. Greenstein in the office?"

She replied hesitantly, "He's here, but he's just doing some paper work. He's not seeing any patients."

I said, "Let me talk to him. Please."

Shortly, Jerry's voice came over the phone. "Jack, this had better be important," he said, "this is the only place that I can get some peace and quiet so that I can watch the Blue Jays' game."

I said, "Jerry, with all due respect, this is more important than a goddam ball game. A friend of mine has been assaulted. I'm bringing her to your office. I'm on my way now."

"Jack, you should really take her to a hospital emergency room."

"And wait God knows how long for some wet-behind-the-ears intern who hasn't slept in forty-eight hours? No thanks. Will you see her?"

Jerry sighed. "OK," he said, "but you'll owe me a beer."

"And you can collect any time. We'll see you in about fifteen minutes."

We arrived in front of Jerry's clinic. I stopped the car in front and helped Stacie inside. Shirley, the receptionist, came around her desk to help us, "Dr. Greenstein will see the young lady immediately," she said. "Mr. Charles, he'd like you to wait in his office."

I parked the car and returned. I waited in Jerry's office. In about twenty-five minutes, he came in. He looked very angry. He sat behind his desk and punched his phone. "Shirley," he said, "call the police. Tell them to send an officer here immediately. I want to report a suspected assault." Jerry turned to me. "Now," he said, "supposing you tell me just what the hell is going on here. That kid in there has obviously been beaten. She has bruises over most of her body. I suspect that she's been punched and kicked, as well as struck with a variety of objects. Her right shoulder is sprained. There's no doubt that she's been physically assaulted, but I doubt very much that she's been sexually assaulted. I've taken vaginal swabs just to make sure. Maybe you can start by telling me who did this to her."

"I believe she was beaten by her mother and step father," I said.

"Christ! How are you involved?"

"I befriended this kid. She's working as a receptionist and clerk at my office. She's very bright and highly motivated. She wants to be a lawyer, and I think she'll probably make it, in spite of her background. She lives in Regent Park. I believe that her parents have severe substance abuse problems. To my certain knowledge, this isn't the first time they've been violent, although it's probably the worst so far. They threw her out of their apartment. I picked her up, and here we are. That's the short version."

Jerry looked at me with tears in his eyes. The tough old bastard was crying. "What kind of a fucking world do we live in? You need a licence to drive a goddamed car. But any asshole with functioning genitals can have a child. Stacie is in the X-ray lab. I'll bet that when I see the films there will be evidence of prior abuse -- possibly scarring where she's suffered broken bones in the past. When the cops get here, I want you to give them the name and address of the cocksuckers who did this."

Stacie came in. Her right arm was in a sling, and she was holding an ice bag against her face. She sat beside me, and I put my arm around her. "Darling," I said, "Dr. Greenstein has called the police." She looked up at me with alarm. "You must cooperate with them. This is now a criminal matter, and it's Dr. Greenstein's legal duty to report it. I think that you should also give them Ms. Jefferson's address and phone number."

Stacie snuggled against me. "I don't want to get Mum in trouble," she said, her voice muffled against my shirt.

Jerry said, "Stacie, you're not going to get your mum into trouble. She's already done that all by herself. Just tell the officers what they need to know to do their job." He turned to me, "Jack, thanks for bringing Stacie to me. You did the right thing."

There was a knock at the door. Jerry said, "Come in." Shirley opened the door and showed in two cops, one male, one female. The woman spoke.

"I'm Sergeant Watkins, and this is Constable Sonji. We're here in response to your report of a suspected assault." She turned to Jerry. "Are you Dr. Greenstein?"

"I am," he said, "This is Ms. MacPherson, the young lady who has been assaulted. I'm Ms. Macpherson's physician, and this is Mr. Charles, her lawyer." So I was suddenly Stacie's lawyer. Well, so be it. It was as good a description as any. And it would probably avoid long, unnecessary explanations.

After the introductions and obligatory handshakes, Jerry suggested that we go to the meeting room down the hall. We did, and were soon seated around the table. Stacie sat between Jerry and me. The cops were across the table. Shirley, ever her efficient self, showed up with a tray containing a large thermos pot of coffee, sugar, cream and cups. She poured us coffee while the police began their interrogation.

Basically, they wanted to know the five "W" words: who, what, where, when and why. Stacie answered levelly. When she came to the point of identifying her parents as her assailants, she looked at me. I said, "Yes, Ms. MacPherson, even though you don't want to implicate your parents, I advise you that you must answer the officers' questions truthfully and completely."

The cops thanked me, obviously grateful that I wasn't there to cause trouble. The police all too often think that a lawyer's job is to keep the cops from doing their job.

Stacie answered all the questions. They asked how she got to Dr. Greenstein's office. I told them that I'd driven her. I described the scene when I'd arrived chez MacPherson. Sergeant Watkins looked at me with one eyebrow raised. She said, "And why did Ms. MacPherson call you?"

Stacie answered. "Because Mr. Charles isn't just my lawyer, he's my employer and my friend. I hope to be a lawyer, and he's helping me achieve that goal. I had no one else to turn to."

Watkins wrote in her notebook. Then, she looked directly at Stacie. "Ms. MacPherson," she said, "I'm afraid that I need to take a look at your injuries. Would you mind if I take some photographs? These are for evidence, and they could be important. Dr. Greenstein will accompany us, of course."