Chapter 5

If I had been a model of lawyerly efficiency, my time on the train would have been put to good use getting some detailed directions and guidance from my firm's New York office on how to track down someone in jail. Since I spent it honing my "I Spy," skills, I was at somewhat of a disadvantage now. I hadn't responded in detail to Lauren's half-spoken questions about why I was uncertain, but this is the kind of practical knowledge that is utterly different in different jurisdictions. I could navigate Virginia's penal system with the ease of a veteran; here I was not much better than a civilian.

A little time spent while standing in Penn Station's cavernous waiting area on the cell phone navigating the perplexing interactive touch-tone phone system provided by the New York court system had led me to discover that we likely needed to go to an ominous-sounding place called "The Tombs," which was towards the Chinatown area, a leisurely three-mile stroll down 8th Ave. That rang a bell or two from my occasional "Law and Order" watching, so, not being in the mood to walk three miles, we grabbed one of NYC's ubiquitous cabs and prepared to take our lives in our hands. But perhaps the stories I I'd heard about New York cabbies were exaggerated; this guy drove reasonably competently and only yelled out his window at another driver once: after being narrowly cut off by a delivery van, he shook his fist and shouted in what was most likely an African accent of some variety, "May no harm come to you, but you are a great fool!" Lauren and I looked at each other and grinned simultaneously.

"That," I said quietly, "is truly a solicitous curse. We need more of those."

"A good omen," she said hopefully.

A mere 30 minutes later, we were standing in front of Manhattan House of Detention, where we would hopefully find Courtney Collins of no fixed address. I had wanted to find a nearby coffee shop and park Lauren there until I was done, and she had even agreed... but as we got closer to the point of actually separating, I could see she wasn't happy. So I sighed and waved her along, and she came happily, the smile that lit up her face almost blinding me for a moment.

It was the work of a few minutes to find out that, in fact, Ms. Collins was there and that she had a cash bond set of $150 for one count of Penal Law § 140.05, which was apparently a pretty minor violation. I gathered that if she had been in possession of local ID and a reasonable story, she'd have been out already. I paid her bond and we sat down to wait out the system's wheels turning to release her.

"What I would like to do," I told Lauren as we were waiting, "is take you both somewhere calm, quiet, and private, and talk to her before we plan any next moves. I especially want to know what she remembers about the... eh... the period in which you were both captives." As I spoke it occurred to me that I had all but accepted Lauren's perception of this event as real — or, at least, real to her. And if it was real to her, I needed to know if it was just as real to this woman, or if her recollections would reveal another facet of this puzzle.

Lauren nodded. "That's OK. I'm just happy at the idea of having someone else with us that knows I'm not crazy. But..." She looked away before continuing in a smaller voice, "Rick, I just want you to know that... that... I'll understand if you don't want to help me any more. We had to get out of there. I had to get out of there. I did things that weren't nice."

"You're talking about the things you skirted over when we talked in the car yesterday, aren't you?" I asked.

She nodded. Her face was pale and worried.

"Lauren, I don't know what you experienced, exactly. But I can tell you something about rapists, sadly, because it's been my unhappy experience to defend more than one in my career. And in the course of that, I've talked to an awful lot of rape survivors. Some of them blame themselves for fighting back. Some of them blame themselves for not fighting back. And it's a shame, because as far as I can see the only thing to do is blame the rapist."

She was utterly silent for a moment and then nodded slowly.

"We still have a lot of stuff to figure out. But... don't worry too much about that particular issue, OK?"

"OK," she responded quietly. A moment later she brightened up and pointed at a woman being buzzed through the half-door connecting the waiting area to the back. "That's her."

"OK, I said, feeling a bit nervous myself. "Let's go say hello."

She saw me approaching but her glance swept over me, and then she saw Lauren and her eyes widened. "Lauren!" she said. "Did it work?"

Lauren glanced quickly at me and closed the distance to the woman. "No," she said. "I ended up in Virginia, so that part worked, but..." she paused and gestured around as she continued, "... as you can see, I'm not here in a limousine to pick you up." She turned to include me. "This is Rick, Rick Mason. He's... he's my lawyer, I guess."

I stepped forward and offered my hand. "Pleased to meet you," I said in the time-honored tradition. She shook my hand firmly, looking at me closely as she did. Her eyes were slate-gray, and she had soft chestnut hair cut short. She was in good shape and the lines around her eyes put her somewhere on my side of thirty. She was wearing a summer dress that showed a tan and lithe body, and carrying a small shopping bag.

"Charmed," she replied dryly. "I gather I have you to thank for posting bail?"

"No trouble at all," I assured her. Trying for levity, I added, "I was in the neighborhood," but she didn't respond to my attempt, so I turned the conversation back to the practical.

"Ms. Collins," I began, "If you wouldn't mind, I would like to sit down with you and with Lauren and talk about some things. I want to help you both, but I'm afraid that beyond coming here to New York and finding you, I have no master plan."

"Well," she said, "I appreciate your help here, Mr. Mason, I most surely do, but if you don't mind, I will pass on your invitation. I have another idea in..."

Lauren stepped into the breach. "Can I... can we have a word or two in private, Rick? Do you mind?"

I looked at her steadily. I had intended to question this Collins woman without giving them a chance to compare notes first. On reflection, I realized that was probably silly. They were obviously acquainted already, and had plenty of time to concoct a story ahead of time, if that's what they were doing. And if a tenth of what Lauren imagined was actually real, and had happened to Courtney as well, then I can imagine her being gun shy.

"Sure," I said. "I'll head out front. Please join me at your convenience."

I didn't have to spend even three minutes studying the pavement before they came out as well, meeting me at the bottom of the grey granite steps that led up to the entrance. "Mr. Mason," said Courtney, "I would be happy to go with you and Lauren and talk." She paused. "I... I am still unsure about a lot of things, and if I seemed rude, it's only because it's... well, it's been a hard week for me." She paused again. "I understand that she's told you something of why it's been so hard a week?"

I nodded.

"And you... believed her?"

"Let's just say I'm agnostic for now. I believe something happened and that it was devastatingly traumatic."

She gave a short barking laugh. "You, sir, have a gift for understatement." She turned and gave a sharp whistle to summon a cab, and one immediately responded. "Come on," she said, opening the door. "I know a little place."

Courtney's 'little place' turned out to be a coffee bar called The Last Grind, over on Avenue A. Now approaching mid-afternoon, the place was not busy, and we were able to commandeer a booth in the corner with no one nearby. I indulged in a café au lait, Lauren had a cappuccino, and Courtney ordered a double espresso and a pack of cigarettes. She looked briefly guilty as she tore open the pack and said, "Even living in an alternate reality, I can't quit."