Chapter 7: The Meaning of Ethics

Marge and Paul arrived at the hospital in Springfield at ten the next morning. Paul stopped as they approached the ward where they wre told they would find Audrey's room.

"Marge, why don't you go in first? You can talk to her woman-to-woman. Tell her that I'm waiting out here, and ask her if she wants to see me."

Marge disappeared and Paul sat in a small waiting room nearby. He wondered what to say to Audrey when he saw her. He had never known a rape victim. He wanted to say the right things to her, but didn't know what they were. He didn't want to say the wrong things, either, and he tried hard to figure out what they were.

He realized that he bore a good part of the blame. Audrey, after all, was carrying out a mission on his behalf and he allowed it to get out of control. He wondered if the young, injured woman hated him for his part in the debacle—and if he confessed his guilt to her she would forgive him.

"No," he reasoned to himself in the silence of the waiting room, "I'm supposed to make her feel better—not the other way around."

And so he decided to keep his feelings to himself.

After a short time Marge appeared at the door of the waiting room. "She wants to see you," she said, and took a seat in one of the chairs.

Paul was confused.

"She wants to see you alone," Marge clarified. Paul obediently made his way to Audrey's room.

Audrey wasn't in bed. She sat in a reclining chair next to the bed, dressed in her hospital gown and covered by a robe. She had on sock slippers that the hospital provided. There was no expression on her face. The upper regions of it were black and blue, and puffy with swelling.

"I'm surprised to see you out of bed," Paul said as he walked in. Audrey didn't answer, but her eyes followed him as he walked across the room. There was a small chair next to hers. Paul sat down in it.

"That must be a good sign," Paul pressed ahead, eager for a response from her.

Audrey still didn't answer, but her eyes were welling with tears.

"I won't ask you how you're feeling," Paul tried again. "I'm sure you don't feel very good."

"I was so stupid," Audrey blurted out. "I should have known that he would come for me."

"You can't blame yourself, Audrey." Paul knew his answer was weak. It was a safe answer that protected him from saying something wrong. The truth of that fact made him ashamed. He should have tried harder. Safety of words revealed itself as a frivolous convenience.

"Everyone knew that he was on the run. I should have been watching out. I was looking at my mail!" A tear trickled out of her eye and ran over the swelled flesh over her cheekbone and down to her chin. "I teased him. I should have known better."

"Everything that you said is true, Audrey. That doesn't mean that it's your fault. If you blame yourself, you're letting him escape blame. Don't do that."

Audrey was silent, perhaps pondering what Paul had just said.

"Morehead's responsible," Paul went on. "He committed an evil act of his own free will. He did it; no one made him do it. It's on his head, not yours. He allowed himself to go out of control. If you hadn't been there, he would have found some one else."

Paul paused, hoping for a sign that Audrey was listening to him. She only stared down at the floor beneath her feet.

"He's weak and evil. Men of that kind always find a good person to let themselves loose on. The goodness in people reviles them. They have to stamp it out because they know what they are. I'm sorry it was you; I wish it didn't have to be anyone at all."

"But I was so careless and..." Audrey insisted. Paul cut her off before she could say more.

"Yes, you were a little bit," Paul replied with some tenderness. "I was too. You gave me the clues when I called you the other day. I didn't put them together. I was thinking of other things. I could have warned you. I'm more experienced than you are. I'm the one who should have seen it coming."

Audrey shook her head, but didn't utter a word.

"That doesn't mean that it's your fault, or mine," Paul continued. "Rape isn't the penalty for carelessness. It isn't the just punishment for anything."

Paul stopped speaking because he found that he had raised his voice without meaning to.

"Your bruises will heal in a week or two, and your other hurts, too—at least the outside ones. You have to make sure that you heal inside, too. You can't carry this guy around inside you."

Paul finished. Audrey's eyes brightened a little.

"Do you really think that I'm a good person?" Audrey whispered.

"Yes, I do," Paul answered. "And I think that you're a brave one, too. I know that you're going to be alright, because you have what it takes right here."

As he said it, he put the three middle fingers of his hand together and softly thumped her chest twice, just above her left breast. As he started to draw his hand away Audrey clutched it and held it tightly against herself. She looked straight into him.

"You've never touched me before, except to shake hands," she sobbed. "There were times I wished so hard that you would touch me."

"I remember them," Paul said. "It was all I could do to not touch you."

Audrey was still clutching his hand. "It means a lot for you to touch me now," she said.

Paul leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Audrey grasped him around the shoulders as tightly as she could and buried her face in Paul's chest.

She let out a sob, trying to hold back, and then could not restrain herself and thrust her tears into Paul as he held her.

"Why ... did ... he ... do ... this ... to ... me? He ... hurt ... me!" she managed to cry out in spasms as she caught her breath through her weeping.

"Let it all out, Audrey," Paul said to her. "You need to."

"Yes, Audrey," Paul said to himself, "give it all to me—I will take it. I have a space inside for it. I'll bury it deep, with the rest of my sorrows. I can do this for you. You have youth, and sweetness and beauty. You should be happy."

As Audrey continued to heave into his chest, Paul felt the demons of pain and guilt leave her and enter him. He plunged them down deep inside himself. They would reside there in silence forever, amidst all his other losses and pain that he had ever endured. He would entrap them, never to be released, never to hurt others. He could not kill them, only battle and subdue them, and he accepted that it was for him to do so.

The nurses heard Audrey's cries and ran to her room. When they saw Paul holding her they stepped away, knowing that her purging was the best medicine that she could receive.

Audrey was scheduled for release from the hospital the next day. Paul told her that he would have Marge stay with her for a few days. Audrey refused but Paul insisted. They made arrangements with the hospital to get Audrey's keys. Marge would rent a car and pick Audrey up the next day.

Just as they were leaving, Mrs. Mongelli arrived at Audrey's room. She was the upstairs neighbor who brought help to Audrey as Morehead attacked her. She had taken the bus to visit her young friend. Marge made arrangements to pick her up after renting a car at the airport. After that, they would go to Audrey's apartment and clean it up before she returned home the next day.

Paul and Marge were riding to the airport in a taxi.

"Buy yourself some clothes and whatever else you need," he told Marge.

"I packed some," she said. "I thought that I might be staying overnight."

"I wouldn't ask this of just anyone," Paul said. "Some couldn't do it and some wouldn't. You're the one person that I knew I could ask."

As Paul said that to Marge she turned her head and looked out the window for a few seconds, but not before Paul saw the moisture collecting in her eyes.

Two weeks had passed since the day Paul had presented his evidence to Wilton and Audrey had suffered the rape at the hands of Morehead.

Audrey returned to her job at the Agency. She seemed to be doing alright. Paul called her every three or four days to check up on her. Paul pressed her for her resume. She was still putting it together. When she did, Paul would circulate it and make some calls.

Morehead was still in jail. His lawyer kept trying for bail, but had been turned down several times because of the violence of his crime. Finally, a judge ordered psychiatric tests for Morehead and that guaranteed that he would remain locked up for a while.

Marge returned to her desk after helping Audrey in Springfield. She was in hot pursuit of the Choir Director at her church. He was playing harder to get than Marge had expected.

The case against Grafton grew cold. The Feds had taken over the case. The prosecutors needed Morehead's cooperation to move against him. Morehead wasn't talking without a reduction in the rape and battery charges against him. Everyone but Audrey agreed that it could not be done. Morehead's actions were too heinous to consider leniency.

Audrey's desire to lessen the charges worried Paul. He wondered if it she was profoundly unselfish, or trying to spare herself the ordeal of Morehead's trial. Paul questioned her about it several times. In the end he was convinced that it was her youthful idealism. She wanted it all. In the end, Paul felt better because Audrey's youth was returning. She would not get her way, though. Morehead was going to face the full rap.

Ted Wilson let Paul know that there were several parties interested in hiring Glenda. He was out of town on business. He would fill him in later.

Paul had an appointment with George Adams that morning. He had not spoken to his boss in several weeks. Soon he was seated in the Corporate President's office. He was sure that the subject was the Ethics Committee's findings on his deviation from policy in the Bert Loehman matter. Paul didn't know what to expect. He had been so preoccupied of late that he had little time to worry about it.

"George, we've got to deal with something," Adams began. "The Ethics Committee's findings are in. Frankly, it is harsher than I expected, but I can do nothing except tell you what they are."

"Alright, let's have it," Paul said with a sigh.

"It's not the end of the world." Adams said.

"Let's have it, then, George. I'm a big boy," Paul prodded. "I've seen enough over the past few months to fill up my quota of misery, so one more rock on the pile won't make the mountain any taller."

"Paul, the Ethics Committee exonerated you on receiving the drawings. They said that what you did was proper. They recommended a punishment to the Board about the Loehman affair. The Board had a hard time with it. In the end, they approved the sanction because it was the first act by the Ethics Committee. They felt that they had to back them up."

"So... ?" Paul asked, "What did they do?"

"They stripped you of your Class A Stock Options from last year's bonus," George answered. "For you, that was one hundred thousand shares."

A silence filled the room as Paul let the meaning of the punishment sink in.

"George, that's hard to accept. My reasons were very sound," Paul answered back, not trying to hide his anger.

"I know, Paul. Off the record, I agree with you. On the record, my hands are tied," George answered.

"This is going to cost a lot," Paul replied. "The option price was twenty-seven per share. The shares are up to thirty-five now. That's eight hundred thousand dollars for something that wasn't wrong in the first place. This really burns me up."

"Some of the directors are concerned that you might do something drastic, Paul," George said. "They know that you had a big part in the stock going up to thirty- five. It's just that they wanted to show that the Ethics Committee has some teeth."

"Tell them to go to hell," Paul spat out.

"What does that mean, Paul?" asked George in a nervous voice. "What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to resign, George," Paul replied. "Just tell them to go to hell, that's all."

George didn't say anything.

"On second thought, why should you have to my dirty work?" exclaimed Paul, heating up. "I'll tell them, myself!"

"No, no, Paul!" cried George, raising his hands. "I'll tell them. It will go better that way."

"Tell them in your own words, I suppose?" Paul said, a wry smile starting to emerge.

"I'll buy you a drink tonight before the Directors' dinner," George promised.

"It will be 'Open Bar'," Paul protested.

"Then I'll buy you a double," George conceded.

George and Paul had worked together for a long time.

Paul was about to leave, but he had something else on his mind.

"There's one last thing, George. It's going to sound like sour grapes after all this, but it's all true and the Board should know about it," Paul said.

"I'm listening," George replied.

"Did you have a chance to look at the minutes of my meeting with the Ethics Committee?" Paul asked, hoping to make the explanation shorter.

George nodded that he had.

"When Allison Greene grilled me about the drawings she tipped me off that she was receiving confidential information from an unauthorized source. There were very few people who knew of the drawings," Paul explained.

George leaned closer.

"There's more," said Paul. "When she started up on my taking Glenda to my cabin on the Peninsula I knew that the information could only come from one source. There were only four people who knew of it: me, Glenda, Arthur Hopkins and his lawyer, Judson. She had to be communicating with Hopkins. It's the only way that she could have known."

"Are you sure of your facts?" George demanded. "This is serious stuff! As a director, she owes her loyalty to Dunn, but you're saying that she's working for Hopkins."

"I'm sure!" Paul attested. "I think that the whole thing was a setup to derail us from fighting this lawsuit over the Peoria. From the minutes you'll note that she tried her best to get her hands on the drawings."

"You should take this to Richardson," George said. "It's only right. It's his committee to clean up if he has to. They're still in town. You should try to button-hole him today before they fly out."

Paul nodded. He thought that he had done enough by passing the ball to his boss, and George sensed his frustration.

"I would have to bring you in, anyway," he explained. "Whatever I would say would just be second-hand."

During their interim quarterly meetings, the hotel of choice for the Dunn Directors was the local Marriott. At four that afternoon the meetings were over for the day. The Directors had scheduled a dinner together that evening and they all retired to their rooms to get ready. On this day a fly on the wall of a certain room was watching one of the directors get ready in a very unusual way. It looked down at Director Allen Richardson sprawled across his disheveled bed. He was nude. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but he was preoccupied and didn't see the fly. He was concentrating on the nude woman whose mouth was attached to his erect penis. Allen was thrusting his hips up at her, close to ejaculation. The woman performing her oral arts was humming as she moved her head up and down on him.

It was impossible to tell the identity of the woman. Richardson's legs were spread and bent up like a frog's. The woman was perched between them and she was on her knees. Her back was rounded over as she bent to him, so that neither her face nor her form could be made out. She held the base of his organ with one hand to steady it. The other she used to cup his testicles, or deliver a shocking probe to an area that Richardson used to only dream about as he watched his stag movies.

The woman—one might say artist—had great skills. As Richardson thrust up, with a final effort in preparation for the firing of his salvo, the woman backed her head away and allowed his intensity to subside temporarily. The cycle would start anew. First, a deep swallow down to the base, followed by a slow stroke upward with even suction. When she approached the glans, she wrapped the sensitive tip in her tongue, and swirled it around the bundle of nerves. A deep breath followed, and then a second downward plunge. Then, as she reached the bottom, she would hum some high note, perhaps a C, or a D-sharp. She repeated the maneuver many times but each plunge seemed to catch Richardson by surprise.

The unknown, musical woman started the journey upward again.

"Please don't tease me any more!" Richardson gasped. "I need it now."

"Oh, Allen!" the vixen cooed, "You always cut me off before I'm done. Now just lie back."

"Please!" Richardson pleaded.

The woman thought for a moment and decided to relent. Instead of a renewed downward stroke, she let her lips encircle the tip of his organ. She alternated between suction and licking. Richardson gasped harder; his breath became uneven. She knew that his climax was not far off. A little more sucking, some licking, a tickle of the scrotum, some gentle pulsing suction, and Richardson arched his back and thrust up hip hips. His semen sprang from him and he cried out. The woman caught it in her mouth and let it flow down her throat. It was effortless. There was no spilling.

The woman, uncoiled her body. As she crawled up Richardson's body to lie next to him she teased him.

"Allen, you always leave such a good taste in my mouth whenever we get together!" as she giggled to show him that she, too, had enjoyed the fellatio.

The change of position revealed the woman's identity. It was certainly not Richardson's spouse, whom he had left behind in Des Moines. One might have guessed a recruit from the secretarial corps at the office, but it wasn't. It was not it a call girl of local talent, either. The fellatrix turned on her side. The dark hair and complexion, the slightly chubby figure and the wrinkleless face pegged her at none other than fellow Director of Dunn Chemicals, Allison Greene.

"Allison, you're a magician!" Richardson panted as he caught his breath.

"Well, you know that practice makes perfect, Allen," she said, snuggling next to him. "And I love practicing on you—especially after you were so nice and helped me with that Paul Crane problem."

"I still feel badly about that," Richardson said

"He'll be alright. There will be plenty of more stock options in his future, and I promised my friend, Arthur, that I would do this for him," Allison purred. "You don't feel bad all-over, do you?" she asked as she stroked the tip oh her finger lightly along the length of Richardson's deflated organ. "A favor for a favor—that's fair enough!"

In the lobby of the hotel, Paul was impatient as he waited for Richardson to come down to meet him. It was obvious that he had forgotten their appointment. Paul planned to inform on Allison Greene as they sat in the hotel bar and sipped a scotch together.

Paul tired of waiting. He approached the front desk.

"Can you tell me which room is Mr. Richardson's?" he asked the clerk.

What Paul asked for should not have been given out, but Paul was well known as a Dunn Executive, and so was Richardson. The clerk wanted to be helpful and couldn't see the harm in telling him.

"Room 308, sir," she said.

As Paul approached Room 308 he noticed the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the doorknob.

"He's taking a nap," he said to himself. "He won't be for long, though," he added as he drew closer.

As he lifted his hand to knock on the door, he heard voices coming from inside the room. They were too muffled to make out any of the conversation. He recognized one voice as Richardson's; the other was female, but he didn't recognize it.

"He's got a business girl in there, the old dog."

Paul was annoyed. He didn't care much about Richardson's extra-curriculars except that this call girl was infringing on Paul's time with him.

"If they're talking, maybe they're almost done," Paul thought to himself.

He ambled back toward the elevators, which were hidden in a small alcove that was recessed off the hotel hallway. He decided he would go back downstairs and wait for Richardson there. It would be pointless to catch him in an indiscreet moment.

As he neared the alcove where the elevators were, he heard the loud click of a hotel room door opening. He stepped into the alcove and turned and looked back down the hall he had just come from, expecting to see the call girl coming toward him on her way to the elevators. The woman exiting the room went the opposite way. Paul couldn't mistake recognizing Allison Greene. She was dressed, but carried her pantyhose and heels instead of wearing them.

Paul went downstairs to the bar and nursed a scotch. When he was done he called Allen Richardson on the house phone, who said that he was on his way down to meet with him. While he waited he hoped the bracing amber fluid would soothe him. It couldn't, and Paul knew the 'why' of his debacle with the Ethics Committee. Paul would say nothing about what he had seen upstairs, and he would tell Richardson about Greene's connection to Hopkins, although he couldn't explain to himself what good it would do.

He lifted his glass in a mock toast. "To the Ethics Committee!"

Summer had nearly given way to Fall. In the City of Chicago, at Northwestern University School of Law, Glenda Mahoney sat at her desk that guarded the Dean's office. She had acquiesced to save her position, serving her unjust imprisonment at the hands of Arthur Hopkins, and his minion, Dean Judson. She had made no attempt to escape, or to venture out of the confines they laid down for her. Each passing week was a step closer to the end of her sentence.