Behind His Eyes - Convicted: The Missing Years Page 7

  Through clenched teeth, Tony seethed. “Get me out of here before I add murder to my list of charges. So help me God, if I see my in-laws…”

  Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

  —Lord Acton

  The night before, Brent had ventured further into Meredith’s book. It wasn’t that he wanted to know the details, but with everything that was happening, he believed that he needed to know. The recent memories of the three of them, Claire, Nichol, and Tony in his kitchen and living room, gave Brent the strength to read with an open mind. It was a luxury not held by many. Other than Roach, Courtney, and himself, Brent wasn’t sure of anyone else who knew how far the Rawlingses’ relationship had progressed.

  My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 2…

  I couldn’t remember what happened, but I knew it had. I knew that somehow and for some reason, my life had changed. My body ached, each movement evidence of the atrocities I suffered, atrocities cloaked in veiled memories that my mind kept locked behind my conscious recollection. When I finally awoke, I didn’t move or make a sound, fearful of what or whom my actions may alert. I lay still for the longest time, utilizing my other senses. I heard silence. It’s true that it’s audible: a buzzing that drones on and on. While the blankets against my exposed skin were soft and comforting, I fought to deny the aroma of the bed where I lay. Instead, I drifted in and out of sleep. With time, my mind cleared and the calmness of the room gave me the strength to move.

  Though the suite where I was kept was beautiful and lavish, I was too focused on survival and escape to notice the opulence. Despite my circumstances, I held onto false hopes that I could make both goals a reality. With each step on my tender legs or the sight of my marred reflection, the hope dimmed. The reality was suffocating: I’d been used, physically abused, and undeniably raped.

  I remember thinking that things like this didn’t happen to real people. This was the storyline for TV shows, movies, and books—not for real life. Yet, for some reason…it was now my life.

  I had vague memories of fighting, none which ended well. As the recollections began to surface, I understood with painful clarity that I was no match physically for the man I’d recently met. Not only had he overpowered me, but my reception of his advances in Georgia had also opened the door to his mental domination. With an overwhelming sense of defeat, I recalled surrendering, not having the strength to continue the fight. As I cried under the hot spray of a much-needed shower, I found it difficult to blame anyone but myself. I’d lived my life independently and safely by following my rules. In a matter of days, Anthony Rawlings had broken my rules and shattered my world. No longer was I safe and independent. At twenty-six years of age, I was huddled in the corner of the cavernous shower, petrified of what the next hour would bring, and terrified of the suite door opening.

  The ambiguity of my future was numbing. All I knew with some certainty was that I was trapped in a large suite with windows that looked out for miles and miles onto a dormant forest of gray, leafless trees. No longer was I in Atlanta… but where was I? How did I get here? And… could I handle the answers?

  The fear of learning my location was equally as upsetting as the prospect of seeing the dark eyes that I knew in the pit of my stomach would return to that opulent cell. I was a prisoner at the mercy of my captor. At some moment in those first few hours of wakefulness, I convinced myself that there’d been a mistake—a terrible mistake. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding or maybe a mistaken identity. No matter the reason, survival instincts told me that it wasn’t enough for me to believe there’d been a mistake: I needed to convince the man with the key to my freedom. Naively, I believed that was possible.

  In what I later realized was a game of wits, I was informed of Mr. Rawlings’ impending return. I was told that he would come to my suite at 7:00 PM, and that I was to be dressed and ready to dine. It was as if each minute were more absurd than the one before. My brain truly had difficulty keeping up.

  Instead of being left alone to my own devices, which in hindsight would have more than likely resulted in another painful lesson, I was assisted with dressing, fixing my hair, and makeup. The entire scenario was unreal and vulgar. I was being helped to make myself presentable for the man who’d kidnapped and abused me. As much as I planned to state—or even plead—my case of mistaken identity, in the pit of my stomach, I feared that with the help of the kind housekeeper, I was doing nothing more than preparing myself for more abuse.

  The man who entered my suite that night was somewhere between the charismatic man at the bar and the monster I’d seen glimpses of during my abduction. Though intimidating, he was also debonair. It’s an odd combination, one that left me reeling with uncertainties. To say I was scared to face him would have been an understatement; however, after an afternoon of attempting to escape, I knew my only mode of freedom was through him. Though I tried to hide my trepidation, the physical cues were obvious: my entire body trembled merely at the sight of his black eyes.

  Anthony Rawlings had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. With time I learned to read the emotions that swirled in their abyss. But on that night, all I witnessed behind his eyes was an impenetrable hunger that I didn’t understand. How could I? I was figuratively walking the tightrope of my life.

  We did dine—or should I say that he ate. My nerves were too stretched to even consider consuming food. I wanted to appear strong; however, I doubt that I did. He spoke casually about the meal, dining, and trivial things. Had my body not throbbed with the abuses from the night before and my muscles not been as taut as metal stretched to its brink, I could have pretended I was on a date with an eloquent gentleman. That mirage—or should I say charade—faded into the reality of my situation once he’d finished his meal.

  He told me to stand and I did. It wasn’t until he told me to remove my dress that I found my voice.

  “I think we need to discuss this…” was what I remember saying. He didn’t want to discuss it. Anthony Rawlings had other plans. A second later my dress lay shredded on the floor, torn from my body. Unfortunately, that night will live forever, burned into my memory.

  Does one fight when one knows she can’t win? Does one protest when she knows it falls on deaf ears? Does one pray for escape, even if death is the most viable alternative? I only know how I can personally answer those questions. I pray that those of you reading this will never need to learn your answers.

  The chapter wasn’t over, but Brent couldn’t read anymore.

  Those words from Claire’s memoirs rushed to the forefront of Brent’s mind as he stared at his best friend in the hospital corridor. The look in Tony’s eyes was darker than Brent had ever seen. Was that what Claire had been forced to face years ago?

  Truly, Brent’s bravado spoke volumes about the evolution of their friendship. The reality of Brent successfully removing Tony from that hospital hallway was something that years ago would probably not have even been attempted. Somehow, Claire’s plight gave Brent strength. She moved mountains when it came to Tony—it was doable. The last thing Anthony Rawlings needed to do was to walk through a restraining order, and just because they both knew that, it didn’t ease the tension as they rode back to Rawlings Industries in impenetrable silence.

  The lack of conversation didn’t bother Brent. He had a lot to do. Once he had Tony back to the office and safely tucked away, Brent planned to visit the judge who’d signed the restraining order. Maybe it was against protocol, but he’d learned to work the system. As they rode, he sent a message to his assistant telling her to set up the meeting.

  From what little Brent had read, he believed that Meredith’s book was the cause or at least the bias for the order. He didn’t doubt the accuracy. Beginning with Claire’s testimony from what seemed like a lifetime ago, to the book now sitting comfortably on the New York Times bestseller list, Claire’s story had stayed consistent. There was no reason to doubt what the entire world now knew. However, as he’d counsel Tony, ther
e was no reason for Anthony Rawlings to publicly confirm it, either.

  While reviewing emails, Brent came to the one he received just prior to Tony’s first court appearance—the one stating that two charges of false imprisonment had been added to his list of infractions. Brent was confident that the same two people who alleged they had been falsely imprisoned were the same ones who’d filed for the restraining order. He was immediately thankful he hadn’t told Tony anything more about the charges. He was even happier that the Vandersols hadn’t made their presence known at the hospital. Entering Claire’s room could have been the match to ignite the explosion that none of them could survive.

  They weren’t far from the office when Brent asked, “Are you sure you want to go into Rawlings? You haven’t been there in months.”

  Tony turned as if pulled from a trance. “Where the hell else would I go? Well, other than to my wife and daughter, but I can’t. I have an order restricting me to stay at least one hundred yards away and to make no attempt to contact. My home is still being investigated as a crime scene, not to mention the fire, water, and smoke damage. Hell, I can’t even go there.”

  “I’ve got a call into Judge Temple about the restraining order. Give me some time. And Courtney wants you to come and stay with us.”

  “I think a hotel would be better right now.”

  “It’s your decision, but our home is less likely to draw reporters.”

  Tony nodded. “Good point.”

  They’d been through Tony’s rendition of the events a hundred times, but Brent wanted to hear it again. “Before we get to the office, tell me what happened from the moment you got to the estate with Eric and Phil.”

  “I’ve told you, and you’ve watched the office tapes. What more do you want to know?”

  “Specifically, I need to know about John and Emily. They weren’t on the office tapes.”

  Tony’s brow furrowed. “No, they were locked in Claire’s suite. There are cameras in there,” he added somewhat sheepishly, “as you know.” His normal tone returned. “Those tapes should also be available. Have Eric or Roach find them. Roach and Eric should also be able to compile the entire chain of events leading to the Vandersols’ entrance to the suite. There’s even a way to electronically verify that the lock is set on the suite door. Hell, most of the damn house is under surveillance. That’s how I knew where to go to find them. Roach texted me their location…” He lifted his phone. “…check my phone records; it should be on there.” Tony’s voice trailed away as he added, “I didn’t know where Sophia was. I didn’t get her location…”

  “No one’s blaming you for Sophia.”

  Darkness once again prevailed. “What the hell are you saying? Is someone blaming me for John and Emi—are you telling me they’re the cause of the false imprisonment charges?” Tony’s thoughts and sentences overlapped each other as they came forward at untold speed. “I risked everything to help them, and they’re saying it was me who put them in there and locked the damn door? It wasn’t me: it was her!”

  “I think you’re right about sharing the surveillance tapes. I wanted to wait and hopefully keep them suppressed, but I don’t think we can. I think we need them. I’ll call Evergreen’s office and set up a meeting.”

  “Get this damn restraining order lifted first. I need to see Claire, and I want to see Nichol.”

  In order to get the restraining order dismissed, Brent needed to contest the order on Tony’s behalf and ask for a hearing before Judge Temple. Before he followed protocol, Brent wanted to hear the grounds that the good judge heard to get a better understanding of why the order had been granted. His request may be slightly out of order: in most cases forms were filed and time went unaccounted for; however, this was different—this was Anthony Rawlings.

  By the time they arrived at Rawlings Industries, Brent’s assistant had his response. Esquire Simmons had been granted a 3:00 PM meeting with Judge Temple in his chambers. Once he arrived, the judge wasted little time.

  “Good afternoon, Counselor. Make this quick. My docket’s full.” Judge Temple said, looking up from his desk. He was a stocky man with a thick neck. No doubt he was more comfortable as he currently appeared with his robe hanging around his shoulders, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a loosened gray tie and wrinkled white shirt.

  “Thank you,” Brent began, “for granting me this meeting. I’m here about the restraining order—”

  “Ah yes. You see, I thought perhaps you were here to apologize for shutting me out of Mr. Rawlings’ first appearance. As a judge in district court who hears a wide array of cases on a regular basis, I’ve always been a supporter of your client. You can imagine how surprised I was to see his first appearance taken from my docket and put onto Jefferies’. Well, that’s no matter. You got what you wanted. I heard Mr. Anthony Rawlings made bail.”

  Brent stood dumbfounded.

  “Come, Counselor, time is money.”

  “Yes,” Brent said, “my client was granted bail. I’m here today about the restraining order that you granted for Jane Allyson, representative of Emily Vandersol, who assumes that she is speaking for…” he emphasized, “…Mr. Rawlings’ wife.”

  “The medical records submitted as evidence state that Mrs. Rawlings is currently incapable of making her own decisions or even voicing her opinion.”

  “Mrs. Rawlings is married, and as her husband, Anthony Rawlings is legally—”

  “At the time of the complaint, Mr. Rawlings was being held in the Iowa City jail. As a prisoner, he was relieved of his rights.”

  “He’s out.”

  “On bail.”

  “Yes,” Brent conceded, “on bail. Innocent until proven guilty. He is her husband.”

  “Mr. Simmons, I assume you’ve heard of the book My Life as It—”

  Brent felt his blood pressure rising. “Surely this court is not making decisions based on works of fiction?”

  Judge Temple’s neck and cheeks reddened as his voice lowered. “If you’re suggesting that I look at anything other than the facts, Counselor, I will find you in contempt.”

  “Judge, Mrs. Rawlings remarried Mr. Rawlings. We have legal documentation of their union—or reunion. They have a daughter who needs her parents. Since Mrs. Rawlings is incapacitated at this time, their daughter needs her father. There’s no evidence to suggest that Mr. Rawlings is a threat to his wife or his dau—”

  “Are you confident?” Judge Temple interrupted.

  “I’m confident that he is no longer a threat. His family means the world to him, and he’d do—”

  “Save it for court, Counselor, or maybe the Lifetime movie. In the meantime, there’s protocol for this, and you’re not following it. I don’t care who your client is. I will not in good conscience allow a man who has obviously physically and mentally abused a woman and stolen her from her life—twice, I may add—access to do it again when that woman is suffering a mental break at his hands. The evidence appears to support the premise that Mrs. Rawlings was reaching out in desperation, as she did once before, in an attempt to free herself from your client’s clutches. How many times does Ms. Nichols need to attempt to murder your client before she succeeds? Mr. Simmons, this restraining order can be seen as a benefit to both your client and Ms. Allyson’s. Regardless of the validity of Ms. Banks’ book, these two people do not belong together. As an officer of the court, I must look at what is best, not what is popular.

  “Besides what is best for Ms. Allyson’s client, I must also consider the best interests of the minor. Her safety is a top priority. At this time, both her mother and father have felony charges pending against them. I’m in full support of Ms. Allyson’s contention that for the child’s safety, she needs to be removed from this volatile environment. Currently, the Vandersols have been granted temporary custody. Child protective services have been involved. I suggest that you do your research before we meet in court.”

  Before Brent could respond, Judge Temple concluded their meeting. “Con
sider that advice my support of your client, since I was deemed unable or untrustworthy enough to be the one to grant him bail.” Temple sat taller and squared his shoulders. “I guess we’ll never know how that would have gone.” He shrugged. “That is all. I look forward to seeing Mr. Anthony Rawlings on my docket.”

  Brent left the judge’s chambers in a daze. Damn political hard-balling—that was all this was. Allyson found the judge who’d been denied the ability to decide bail and played to his ego—not like it was difficult to play to Temple’s or any other judge’s ego. As soon as he got back to Rawlings, Brent intended to subpoena Claire’s medical records. Until they officially arrived, he knew how they could get a head start: Roach’s information. It might not exactly hold up in court, but it would kick-start the medical legal team at Rawlings to get going on their research.

  Brent called Roach. “This is Brent Simmons. Can you get me everything you can find on Claire’s medical treatment, diagnosis, and prognosis? We’ll subpoena the official records soon enough, but this will help our research get started.”

  “I’ll have everything I can find to you as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks, we appreciate your help. You know, usually I wouldn’t ask—”

  “Unusual circumstances warrant unusual procedures,” Phil replied.

  “Yeah,” Brent said. “This definitely qualifies as unusual. Thanks again.” He hung up.

  While Brent put those wheels into motion, the next stop would be Evergreen’s office. He sure as hell hoped that would go better than his chat with Judge Temple. His goal was to get the false-imprisonment counts dropped before the additional accessories to murder and attempted murder charges went on.

  The raise that Brent gave himself about six months ago wasn’t going to cut it. If Rawlings Industries didn’t fail entirely under this burden, Brent’s 2013 taxes would show a significant increase in income. Friend or not, with Brent’s head pounding, this shit deserved more money!