Free Crime of Privilege: A Novel by Walter Walker Page B

multiple times.
     I wondered why I was saying sorry to him—he was just a messenger, an employee, a hired
     hand—but I had to say it to someone, and he was there.
    “They got to you, didn’t they?”
    “I went to see him. I did what you asked.”
    “Oh, you went to see him, we know that. I doubt very much you did what I asked.”
    “I answered his questions.”
    “So what are you saying, George, the fucking state attorney for Palm Beach County
     didn’t ask the right questions?”
    “He asked what happened that night. I told him there was a party at the Gregorys’
     and a bunch of us had gotten completely drunk—”
    “Very bold of you. Went way out on a limb, did you?”
    “It was true. I had, Kendrick had, some of the cousins had. What hekept asking about was the Senator. Whether the Senator had gotten drunk. Whether I
     had seen him with Kendrick. Whether the Senator had done anything inappropriate.”
    “He didn’t ask about Peter and you didn’t tell him.”
    “It was the Senator he wanted to know about.” I sounded as if I was whining. I didn’t
     mean to whine. I wasn’t going to whine. If he was here to punish me, then I was going
     to take it.
Go ahead, Mr. Andrews. Smack me. Beat the shit out of me, if that’s what you’ve come
     here to do
.
    But Mr. Andrews did not do that. He didn’t slap me, he didn’t kick me, he didn’t grab
     me by the shirtfront and throw me through the dining room window to the sidewalk fifty
     feet below. He just stood over me and waited for me to explain.
    I had time to gather my thoughts. Gather them up, have them split apart again. “Look,
     Ralph Mars, the state attorney down there, told me it was a very sensitive matter
     because of who was involved. He said he had to be careful the claims weren’t just
     politically motivated. That was all he seemed to be interested in.”
    It was not good enough. Mr. Andrews twisted my words in his mouth and spit them back
     at me. “
Politically motivated?
A girl gets violently raped and you claim that all the prosecutor cares about is
     whether her complaint is politically motivated?”
    “He wanted to know if the Senator had come into the library when Kendrick was in there
     with us. He wanted to know if the Senator had participated in any way.”
    “Participated?”
He was twisting again, making everything I said sound foolish.
    “I told him the Senator just stuck his head into the room and I didn’t think he really
     could see anything other than, you know, there was a girl in there with a couple of
     guys.”
    “A girl who was being raped.”
    “Well, see, it wasn’t all that clear. Even to me.”
    “What wasn’t … clear … Georgie?” He used the diminutive like I was a child. Like I
     was an idiot.
    “Like whether she was …” I didn’t want to use the word again.
    “Participating?”
    “The thing is, she wasn’t saying anything. She wasn’t doing anything to stop them.”
    “She was passed out, you perverted little creep.”
    “She wasn’t passed out,” I argued, my voice rising. And then I cut it off.
    “What was she doing, Georgie, while people were shoving things up her vagina?”
    It was a candle. I had stopped Peter from using the candlestick … Peter’s dick maybe,
     although I hadn’t seen that for sure. And his finger. And Jamie’s finger.
    “Look, I didn’t get Kendrick drunk. I didn’t invite her into the library, and I didn’t
     get her to lie down on the couch, take her shoes off, put her leg up.”
    He bent at the waist, moved his face close to mine. “And you didn’t do anything when
     those scumbags began shoving shit inside her, did you?”
    Don’t say a word. Don’t say anything, George. Let him hit you if he wants. Whatever
     it is he does, just take it. Take it and keep your mouth shut.
    Mr. Andrews, however, still did not hit. He straightened up instead, pivoted as though
     he could not stand breathing the same air I did, and walked to the dining room