Karen gives him a strange look that is part reminiscence and part fondness.
“Level with me,” Brian says, “what are my chances?”
She shakes her head. “As your lawyer . . . not good. All the evidence seems to point to some sort of struggle, and definitely intercourse . . . with your sperm inside her. It’s her word against yours. There is, of course, the possibility of her staging the whole thing – ”
She pauses.
Brian finishes for her, “And there also isn’t.”
The silence between them is a balloon void.
Karen finally punctures it. “You seeing that shrink?”
“Yeah.”
“And he thinks you’re non-violent?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ve asked him for a deposition. He’s coming in into testify on your behalf.”
Brian’s face softens. “He’s all right.”
“Unfortunately, the prosecution also dug up your old hospital records. The ones that suggest a childhood history of abuse.”
Brian’s stomach tightens. “The abuse was done to me.”
“Yes. And they are going to bring up the correlation between childhood and adolescent abuse to violence in later life. They are doing all this not to make the jury sympathize with you . . . although they will . . . but to paint you as a possible ra**st, especially since you don’t have a track record of misdemeanors.”
Karen is right. The situation for him is glum. He won’t be able to prove that he didn’t do it. Especially with that hanging A.D.A., who is said to put a pox on all men for what one of them did to her.
“If they decide to convict you,” Karen says gently, “let’s hope the judge will be lenient. It’s only your first offence, and it may have been substance-related. With good behavior, you can get out in five years.”
Five years! That’s five years too plenty, Brian thinks. His spirits sink to the bottom of his Gucci loafers, which he may not be wearing in a while longer.
“Hey.” Karen’s hand snakes across the table and clasps his. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”
She doesn’t say it, but he knows what she means. In prison – with his looks and unsolicited fame, and especially because he will be a convicted ra**st – he’d be a target for the hardcores. And whatever they do to him will be far worse than what his father had drunkenly visited upon him that night so long ago.
In five years, there’s no way you won’t be scarred from that.
*
Brian feels particularly vulnerable when he comes home to Sam that night. She greets him at her apartment – the one he has helped allow her to keep – with a kiss and a hug.
“You look awful,” she says.
“Thanks.”
She gently strokes the skin of his face. “You’re getting worry creases. At your age.”
“Thanks again. Remind me to always come to you whenever I need a motivational pep talk.”
She laughs. “Come and have some dinner. You’ll feel better.”
She has arranged the table artfully with two placemats and a bowl of roses. Two candles flicker on their stands. He immediately feels at ease as he shrugs off his jacket and lays it on the back of her couch. He didn’t even berate her for the obvious romance of the tableau. She doesn’t mean it to be romance – she respects his ideals too much for that. But the fact she would go through all this effort for him is nothing short of remarkable.
Sam serves them both pot roast and black bread – real comfort food. Brian begins to relax as all the tension of today leaves his body. He wonders when he has come to think of Sam’s apartment as ‘home’. Then again, he’s equally at home in his own new apartment. When she’s around.
A fleeting pang in his chest makes him wince. He puts down his fork.
“What’s the matter?” She observes him. “Pot roast giving you gas?”
He masks it by smiling up at her. “Nah, Fitness Worx is giving me gas.”
As is the beauteous Thor, who has become the most sought-after trainer in ‘Shape’ for obvious reasons.
He continues, “Shape’s rolled in a hefty revenue this fortnight. If we keep doing the way we’re doing, we’ll be in the black before the year is up. But we can’t rest on our laurels. Fitness Worx is mounting a defense campaign even as we speak.”
She pours them both some red wine and raises him a toast. “To ‘Shape’.”
“To ‘Shape’,” he repeats. “May all the six-packs be flattened and steam-ironed into eights.”
They both take a sip.
“To our partnership,” she adds, flushing slightly.
“Amen.” He finds himself thinking that unbidden thought – that they are partners in more ways than one.
And all this might go away in another fortnight or so.
His heart heavy, he reaches for the little box inside his jeans pocket. In the candlelight, the box is rich purple velvet, simultaneously absorbing and gleaming in the light. A frog comes to his throat, and he makes an attempt to clear it. But his voice still comes out funny. A strangled kind of funny.
“I wanted you to have this.” Oh God, was that a squeak? Brian Morton squeaking. That has got to be a first without his balls being squeezed.
He shoves it at her before he can make a further embarrassment of himself.
“Oh, Brian,” she exclaims, taking it. “What is this?”
“A little present I’ve been saving up for an occasion. Like your birthday. But I figured now is a good time to give it as any.” He bites back from saying ‘Before I get carted off to prison’. It sounds too melodramatic, and he’s not into sweeping melodrama.
She opens the little velvet box. The pair of diamond earrings sparkles up at her.
“Oh my God, these are . . . these are . . . ”
“The ones I got you for the opera.” The night of his undoing. “You liked them so much that I . . . thought you might like to keep them . . . permanently.”
Besides, he’d best get them out of his sight before he’d be tempted to pawn them for cash. The good thing is that ‘Shape’ is starting to turn around, so Sam won’t be in want for money.
It is weird how he has started to think about someone else other than himself. If he has to go to prison, he needs to make sure Sam will be taken care of. His partner. He smiles inwardly. Funny how he manages to see her as a partner in all ways. They are not even married and he’s already making provisions for her, for Chrissake.