Chapter 1

Everything seemed to come together at the same time in a terrible confluence of events which seemed destined to destroy me and my marriage. It all stemmed from a series of errors in judgment and very bad choices which quickly added up to a nightmare come true.

The first bad choice was made almost six months earlier. Taken by itself it would have been insignificant. It would have had no effect on my life at all. The small furniture manufacturing business my husband and I started and have been running fairly successfully almost since we married eight years ago developed a small liquidity problem. It should have been no big deal. It happens to small businesses all the time.

Normally I would have called the bank and arranged for a small loan to cover payroll and expenses until one of our customers processed a payment and we could repay the loan. Our liquidity problem was due to the recent downturn in the economy. Our company manufactures furniture. We make some office furniture for local distribution but we are still too small to go national with that line yet. Primarily we concentrate on school furniture; student desks and bookcases being the biggest sellers.

We can always count on our customers to pay for what they order, eventually. Unfortunately, the process can be time consuming. The payment is often channeled from one plodding, uninspired bureaucrat to another before it finally gets mailed.

To that add the disaster our banking system has become. The entire financial system is in turmoil and banks just aren’t lending to small businesses. Or if they are they aren’t lending to us, despite the fact that repayment is guaranteed.

We became desperate to make our payroll. As a result of that desperation the first bad choice I made was to take the money we collected and set aside from the payroll taxes we’re required to withhold and use it to pay our employees.

That may not sound like a big deal. And it wouldn’t have been if two different quarterly tax payments weren’t involved. But in the eyes of the IRS I had committed a major crime. If they found out, even after we repaid the money, they could close us down and although it’s unlikely, they might even send my husband and me to prison.

I suppose, to be fair, I should be honest and mention that my husband was vehemently opposed to using those moneys to meet payroll. Doug is honest to a fault. He’s the kind of man who, if he comes home from the store and discovers he received too much money in change from the cashier, he will immediately return to the store and return even so much as a quarter. I’d give the money back, too. But I wouldn’t make a special trip and burn a dollar’s worth of gas to do it.

Using that money was my decision. I nearly threatened to leave him to get him to go along but even that didn’t sway him. In desperation I made the decision on my own. I used the money to pay our people and our suppliers. I didn’t tell him about it until it was done.

The problem was compounded because our business and the banks aren’t the only ones that are hurting for money. The school districts that comprise the bulk of our customers have also been scrambling for money. Their budgets are being cut and that slows everything up.

Money that’s owed us just isn’t coming in. There’s no doubt that it will when things turn around. Our prospects are better than most small businesses, too. There’s plenty of pent-up demand so we know there will be a flood of new orders soon. We just don’t know how long we’re going to be able to hold on without an influx of cash.

What made our cash flow problem so much more frustrating is that business is good. We have a lot of pending orders to fill. The orders may slow down for a while later if things don’t turn around. That was another reason why it was so important to do whatever was necessary to keep going while we still have orders to fill.

In order to meet the present demand we need a steady supply of raw materials and we need our people. And they need their paychecks. I did what I felt I had to do to save our company.

The second and by far the most disastrous bad choice I made was when we went to a party at a friend’s house Saturday night. We both had too much to drink that night. My husband tried to get me to leave our car there and call a taxi when he realized I wasn’t sober. You see, I used to have a drinking problem. It got out of hand and I can be pretty belligerent when I drink. It’s a good thing I’m a diminutive and attractive woman. If I were a man I would probably have gotten my butt kicked on more than one occasion. And I would have had it coming.

My long-suffering husband tried everything to get me to bring my drinking under control. Nothing worked until one night almost two years ago when I left the scene of an accident in which I ran a red light and hit another car. The driver of the other car was injured slightly. But I had no way of knowing that at the time because I didn’t stick around. I just backed up and drove away as if the accident never happened.

I ended up paying a hefty fine and damages and I’m still on probation. As a major condition of that probation I’m not allowed to consume alcohol. That may sound a bit extreme. But in my case it’s for the best. I’m a terrible drunk and I can become one very quickly. I have a very low tolerance for alcohol.

But on this night I did drink. I’ve been so good for so long. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have one or two. I didn’t drink that much, I don’t think. I spent most of the evening in a quiet, out of the way corner laughing and joking with a couple of women who have been my friends since grade school. Although they knew I wasn’t supposed to drink they saw how depressed I was about things at work. They slipped me a few drinks to cheer me up.

Thinking I was sober when we left the party my husband expected me to drive home. It wasn’t until I pulled away from the curb and started driving erratically that he realized I was far from sober. He demanded that I park so we could take a taxi home.

When I refused, insisting I was fine to drive home, he demanded that I let him out. I wouldn’t even do that. We were only about three or four miles from our house. I was certain I could manage that. And anyway, I was drunk and belligerent. I’d be damned if he or anyone else could tell me what to do!

The inevitable happened about halfway home. A dog ran out in front of our car and I swerved to avoid it. Unfortunately, as a result of swerving to avoid hitting the dog I ran into the woman who was walking the dog instead.

I was nearly stopped when I hit her and she didn’t appear to be hurt badly ... considering the fact that I struck her with a couple thousand pounds of metal. She looked dazed but she was sitting up.

I panicked. I was still on probation. And I was still drunk and belligerent.

Doug, my husband, tried to open his door to get out and see how badly the woman was hurt. Before he could unlock his door and get out I slammed the car into reverse and backed out into the road. With Doug screaming at me to stop I slammed the car into Drive and spun out of there like a madwoman.

Doug screamed at me to turn around and go back all the way home. But all I could think about was the five years in prison that I would get for breaking the terms of my parole, not to mention what they would tack on for what I just did. I couldn’t deal with that. I could not spend nine or ten years in prison.

I parked in our driveway a short time later. We were silent for a few minutes before I got out and staggered into the house to throw up.

Not immediately parking in the garage was the next big mistake I made. I followed that up by fighting with Doug for another fifteen minutes or so after using the bathroom before throwing him my keys so that he could pull my car into the garage. That was another mistake on my part.

Unfortunately, there was a witness to our homecoming. He didn’t just witness it. He photographed it!

The teenage boy who lives across the street had been outside talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone. He just finished his conversation when he saw me driving erratically down the street with one of my headlights hanging by a wire. He probably didn’t even know why he did it at the time. But he filmed it with his cell phone. He waited until we went inside. As soon as our front door closed he crossed the street and took a couple dozen photographs of the damage to my car.

I didn’t know it yet. But I was screwed figuratively. And I was about to be screwed literally.

I should point out that we have a history with this boy. He and a couple of friends started a garage band a couple of years ago. They played until all hours of the night with the garage door open. Their garage door points right at our bedroom window. We complained first to him and then to his father. When that had no effect we reluctantly called the police.

The boy and his father both seemed to think that since they’re African Americans our problem with them was racially motivated. We tried to reason with them. But eventually we just avoided them.

The very untalented band broke up in less than a year. I tried once after that to repair the hard feelings between us and our neighbors but I was snubbed. So now we ignore them and they ignore us and everyone is happy.

After I gave my car keys to Doug that night so he could put my car in the garage I went up to our bedroom and passed out fully clothed. I was out of it before he came back inside.

I awoke the next morning with a life-threatening hangover. Several minutes passed before I began to get my head on straight and the events of last night flooded back into my consciousness. Suddenly I could see the face of the woman I hit last night in High Definition every time I closed my eyes.

I started to sit up in bed much too suddenly and fell back down onto the bed moaning in pain. It was a minute or two before the room stopped spinning and I sat up much more slowly. I looked over at Doug’s side of the bed. It hadn’t been slept in.

My memory was still fuzzy. But I remembered Doug begging me to take a taxi home and then screaming at me over and over to slow down and then to pull over and park.

But of course I wouldn’t let anyone tell me what to do.

I’m far more headstrong than is attractive when I’m sober. When I’m not sober ... well, when I’m not sober I’m impossible.

I undressed and stumbled into the bathroom. I took three Tylenol caplets. I used the toilet and then took a long hot shower. I brushed my teeth for a very long time. By that time I was almost feeling like a human being as long as the lights were dim and room was quiet. I went back into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

I went downstairs to find Doug in the kitchen. He was drinking coffee and reading the paper. I couldn’t quite read the look on his face when he looked up at me. I knew what that meant. He’s mad. Doug avoids conflict when he’s upset. He gets quietly mad. He didn’t say a word and I was afraid to.

I poured a cup of coffee and sat down across from him at the kitchen table. He watched me take a sip of coffee and then he tossed the first section of the paper onto the table in front of me.

I was the main story. Top of the fold. Large headlines screamed about the hit and run. There was a picture of the woman I hit. She was propped up in a hospital bed. She wasn’t all wrapped up in bandages like a mummy but it didn’t look like she’d be playing tennis anytime soon.

She was in good condition, having escaped with only abrasions and contusions but no other internal injuries. They kept her in the hospital overnight for observation. All she could remember was that a white car swerved off the road and headed right for her on the sidewalk as if the driver intended to run her over. The only other thing she could remember was that the driver was a female. Everything else was a blur.

I finished the story and looked up at Doug. I couldn’t bear that accusatory look. I looked away and whispered, “I’m sorry. I ... what do you want me to say?!”

In a calm voice he answered, “You have to turn yourself in. Call our lawyer. Tell him what happened and get him to go with you to the police.”

“I can’t do that!! Doug! I’ll go to prison!”

He sighed and replied, “Maybe. Probably. Maybe that’s what it will take to straighten you out. Brooke, you know they’ll catch you if you don’t turn yourself in. We aren’t devious enough to get away with something like this. If they have to come and find you it’s going to be so much worse.

“I promise I’ll support you in any way I can. I’ll be there for you. I’ll wait for you. I still love you. But you did something terrible last night. You have to do the right thing now. It’s time for you to grow up and take responsibility for your actions.”

I stared at him for a moment. I could see that he was sincere. I know that he loves me. But there was no way I could spend close to a decade of my life in prison. I’m only twenty-six years old. These should be some of the best years of my life! I’d be almost forty by the time I got out of prison. Much older if they bought her story about me intending to run her over. That’s a whole other level of crime.

I knew Doug was right. Turning myself in is the right thing to do. But there’s just no way. I’m not that strong. I couldn’t force myself to make that call even if I wanted to. I’m sorry for what I did last night. But I cannot go to prison.

I also knew in my heart that even though he knew it was the right thing to do, and he knew this could end up tainting him if he didn’t, he wouldn’t turn me in. This was probably the only set of circumstances under which he wouldn’t do what he knew to be the right thing. But he was very upset and he was obviously disappointed in me. I can’t say I don’t understand how he feels. I know how badly I fucked up last night.

We didn’t speak for a long time. Doug was furious but he’s one of those men who don’t argue. He just holds everything in until he explodes, except that he never explodes. He said what he needed to say. Now it was up to me.

I slid the newspaper back across the table. I couldn’t stand to look at it. I got up and went out to the garage to see how badly messed up my car is. It’s pretty bad. Surprisingly, my car seems to be in worse shape than the woman I hit!

The right fender and the front bumper need to be replaced. But not anytime soon and not at any repair shop in the area. I can’t worry about that now, though.

I turned to go back in the house when a sudden terrifying thought occurred to me. What if someone from the party calls the police and tells them about me. They all know I drive a white car. They all know the accident occurred between my house and the house where the party took place. And several of them, at least two of my friends, know I was drunk when I left.

Suddenly I’m finding it hard to breathe. I know Doug was right. I should immediately call our lawyer and tell him everything. But I can’t do it. If I made that call I’d spend most of the next decade in prison. I think ... no, I know I’d rather die.

Doug and I spent the rest of Sunday in separate rooms. He made something to eat for himself during the day. I was too scared and too hung over to eat.

On Monday I got up and got ready to go to work but at the last minute I knew I couldn’t face anyone at the office. I told Doug I’m too sick to go to work. He seemed almost relieved that I’d be staying home.

He drove off without a kiss or a goodbye. I sat at the kitchen table and cried my eyes out. I felt even worse for knowing I’m feeling sorry for myself, not the poor woman I struck with my car.

I was still sitting at the table almost two hours later when the doorbell rang. I immediately panicked. I just knew it was the police coming to arrest me. I wiped my eyes and headed slowly for the door. I didn’t hear any sirens or see any flashing lights through my living room window but I had a mental image of my house surrounded by a S.W.A.T. Team and snipers on every roof. There was nowhere to run.

I was both relieved and very surprised when I opened the door to discover the teenage boy who lives across the street standing there looking very smug about something.

Ordinarily I would probably have just told him to get lost and slammed the door in his face. He’s a rude, obnoxious, inconsiderate, self-centered juvenile delinquent. I don’t have the patience to put up with him on one of my good days. This isn’t a good day.

I started to ask him what the hell he wants when he pushed past me. He walked calmly through my small foyer and into my living room. As he pushed past me he said, “I thought you might stay home from work today. I was so sure of it I skipped school so we could ... talk.”

He placed a canvas bag a little smaller than a backpack on the floor in front of the television, ignoring me completely.

I was too shocked to even demand that he get out of my house at first. I stood holding the door open and sputtering like an idiot. By the time I pulled myself together he was turning on my television and DVD player as though he lives here!

I finally yelled, “YOU HAVE A LOT OF DAMNED NERVE! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!!”

He didn’t even look up. He snickered and calmly replied, “You can call them if you want. But I think you should take a look at this first.”

Although only sixteen the boy is at least six feet tall, probably closer to six foot two. It’s obvious his body has matured quite a bit in the last two years. But I’m not afraid of him. That’s probably because I know who he is and where he lives. Or maybe I wasn’t afraid because he offered no physical threat. Not yet anyway.

I stormed into the living room intent on throwing him out. He may be larger, but I’m ten years his senior. I’m an adult and despite his size he’s still a child. I refuse to tolerate this outrageous behavior. The nerve of him! Barging into my house and making himself at home!

I stomped into the living room intent on physically ejecting him from my home. I reached out to grab the sleeve of his t-shirt when the flickering image on the television caught my eye. I gasped in shock and suddenly I knew where he got the nerve to barge in the way he did. There I was, driving down our street last night with one headlight hanging by a wire and swaying wildly because the car was swerving from one side of the street to the other, obviously being operated by someone who is extremely intoxicated.

I can plainly be seen driving when I slowed down and turned into my driveway. There’s even some footage of me nearly falling on my ass when I climbed out of the car before weaving drunkenly as I made my way towards my front door. The alcohol in my system had really hit me by then. I walked pretty much the same way I’d been driving, only just managing to stay on the sidewalk.

The movie was very short. It only lasted two or three minutes. It was followed up by a collection of still photographs, close-ups of the damage to my car. There were even a few clear pictures of the small flecks of blood on the fender. He was thoughtful enough to get a nice clear picture of my license plate, too.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I started to collapse to the floor on the verge of fainting.

He caught me before I could fall. I heard the amusement in his voice when he said, “You’ll be on your knees soon enough, bitch. You’ll be spending a lot of time on your knees from now on. Your ass is mine. Your ass and your cunt and your smartass, cocksucking mouth, they all belong to me now.

“But before you give me that first blowjob I’m going to want you to get out of those clothes. I like my cocksuckers naked. And I’ve got to be honest. As much as I hate your uptight, racist ass, I’ve wanted to get in your pants since I first saw you when I was twelve or thirteen. The first time I ever beat my meat I was thinking about seeing you naked.”

He glared down at me and said, “You’re a hot little bitch. And I ain’t ever fucked a white girl.”

I finally stepped back, pulling my arm out of his strong grip. I’m still having trouble breathing. It felt like my heart was going to explode it was beating so rapidly. I seem to be aware of every square inch of my skin. It’s tingling with the fear I’m experiencing.

I had to focus. I had to find the right words to make this kid understand that he’s out of his mind. This, those things he said, that’s never going to happen! I’ve never heard such a string of foul, offensive language in my life. I was suddenly determined to teach him some manners, put him in his place.

But all I could think to say was, “I’m not a racist!”

He chuckled and replied, “What’s important is, are you a good cocksucker, bitch?”

“DON’T TALK LIKE THAT! STOP SAYING THOSE THINGS!!”

I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and try to sound more in control when I said, “I’m not doing those things with you. Now get out of my house.”

He shrugged and turned to leave. I was almost overwhelmed with relief ... until he said, “You can keep the DVD. I made another one for the cops.”

“Wait! Stop! Please ... please don’t. I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident. Please, I can’t go to prison.”

He grinned that smug, arrogant, heartless grin and shrugged again. He merely said, “It’s up to you, bitch. You give your sweet ass to me or the cops take it away and throw it in jail until you’re too old to put it to good use. I seem to remember you did this once before a couple of years ago. Aren’t you still on probation?”

“Please ... I don’t even know your name. Please. I’m married. I can’t do those things. And you’re only sixteen.”

For just a second I thought how strange it was that I knew his age but not his name. I recall his father yelling at me that his boy was only fourteen in one of our confrontations when we were arguing about his garage band a couple of years back. But I can’t remember ever hearing his name. If I did it didn’t leave an impression.

He turned around to face me again and said, “Delon, bitch. My name is Delon. And I don’t give a fuck if you’re married. I don’t want to marry your ass. I want to fuck it. I’m going to own it. That’s right, bitch. From now on I own your ass. A sixteen your old boy owns your ass. How old are you?”

I can’t think. I know I shouldn’t answer. I shouldn’t tell him anything. Every time I accepted something he said without a response, every time I answered a question I would be giving him more power over me. I can’t do that. I have to think!

But I can’t think.

He snarled, “I asked you a fucking question, bitch! How fucking old are you?”

I jumped at his violent and vulgar demand for personal information. Instead of answering I pleaded, “Please, don’t use that language.”

He laughed and responded, “Fuck? You don’t like the word fuck?! Bitch, you’re gonna have fuck coming out of your ears from now on.

“I’m through talking. I been thinking about this since I watched you come home last night. I’ve had a hard on since I saw the headlines in this morning’s paper. Now why don’t we just assume we’ve gotten past that ‘I’m not that kinda girl’ crap? From now on you are that kind of girl. You’re any kind of girl I want you to be. You’ve just become the biggest slut on the block. You just don’t realize it yet.

“Let’s get on to the good parts. I’m going to go over there and sit down on the couch. Once I’m comfortable I want you to get undressed. Hold on. I’ll tell you when to start.”

He glared at me for a moment. I think he was waiting to see if I was going to continue to argue with him. Probably to find out if I have accepted my fate he asked, “Or would you rather I go home and call the cops?”

I CAN’T THINK!

There’s simply no way I can do what he’s demanding of me. And yet I can think of no way to avoid it. Well, there is a way. I can turn myself in. I can let a black teenager rape me to his heart’s content or I can go to prison for a decade. How can I possibly choose between those options?!

He took my silence for surrender. He reached that conclusion before I did. I still wasn’t certain what I was going to do. Neither option was acceptable.

I watched as if in a stupor as he unstrapped some poles from underneath the canvas bag he was carrying when he came in. He began to manipulate the poles and they quickly became a tripod.