“Mr. Copeland?”
I didn’t recognize the young man standing over me.
“You mind?” I said. “I’m trying to eat here.”
“This is for you.”
He dropped a note on the table and left. It was a sheet from a legal yellow pad folded into a small rectangle. I opened it up.
Please meet me in the back booth on your right.
EJ Jenrette
It was Edward’s father. I looked down at my beloved burger. It looked back at me. I hate eating cold food or anything reheated. So I ate it. I was starving. I tried not to wolf it down. The beer tasted damn good.
When I was done I rose and headed toward the back booth on my right. EJ Jenrette was there. A glass of what looked like scotch sat on the table in front of him. He had both hands surrounding the glass, as if he were trying to protect it. His eyes were transfixed on the liquor.
He did not look up as I slid into the booth. If he was upset by my tardiness—heck, if he noticed it—EJ Jenrette was hiding it well.
“You wanted to see me?” I said.
EJ nodded. He was a big man, ex-athlete type, with designer shirts that still looked as though the collar was strangling the neck. I waited.
“You have a child,” he said.
I waited some more.
“What would you do to protect her?”
“For one,” I said, “I’d never let her go to a party at your son’s frat house.”
He looked up. “That’s not funny.”
“Are we done here?”
He took a long pull on his drink.
“I will give that girl a hundred thousand dollars,” Jenrette said. “I will give your wife’s charity another one hundred thousand.”
“Great. Do you want to write the checks now?”
“You’ll drop the charges?”
“No.”
He met my eye. “He’s my son. Do you really want him to spend the next ten years in prison?”
“Yes. But the judge will decide the sentence.”
“He’s just a kid. At worst, he got carried away.”
“You have a daughter, don’t you, Mr. Jenrette?”
Jenrette stared at his drink.
“If a couple of black kids from Irvington grabbed her, dragged her into a room and did those things to her, would you want it swept under the rug?”
“My daughter isn’t a stripper.”
“No, sir, she isn’t. She has all the privileges in life. She has all the advantages. Why would she strip?”
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Don’t hand me that socioeconomic crap. Are you saying that because she was disadvantaged she had no choice but to choose whoredom? Please. It’s an insult to any disadvantaged person who ever worked their way out of the ghetto.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Ghetto?”
He said nothing.
“You live in Short Hills, don’t you, Mr. Jenrette?”
“So?”
“Tell me,” I said, “how many of your neighbors choose stripping or, to use your term, whoredom?”
“I don’t know.”
“What Chamique Johnson does or doesn’t do is totally irrelevant to her being raped. We don’t get to choose like that. Your son doesn’t get to decide who deserves to be raped or not. But either way, Chamique Johnson stripped because she had limited options. Your daughter doesn’t.” I shook my head. “You really don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“The fact that she’s forced to strip and sell herself doesn’t make Edward less culpable. If anything, it makes him more so.”
“My son didn’t rape her.”
“That’s why we have trials,” I said. “Are we done now?”
He finally lifted his head. “I can make it hard on you.”
“Seems like you’re already trying that.”
“The fund stoppage?” He shrugged. “That was nothing. A muscle flex.”
He met my eye and held it. This had gone far enough.
“Good-bye, Mr. Jenrette.”
He reached out and grabbed my forearm. “They’re going to get off.”
“We’ll see.”
“You scored points today, but that whore still needs to be crossed. You can’t explain away the fact that she got their names wrong. That will be your downfall. You know that. So listen to what I’m suggesting.”
I waited.
“My son and the Marantz boy will plead to whatever charge you come up with so long as there is no jail time. They’ll do community service. They can be on strict probation for as long as you want. That’s fair. But in addition, I will help support this troubled woman and I will make sure that JaneCare gets the proper funding. It’s a win-win-win.”
“No,” I said.
“Do you really think these boys will do something like this again?”
“Truth?” I said. “Probably not.”
“I thought prison was about rehabilitation.”
“Yeah, but I’m not big on rehabilitation,” I said. “I’m big on justice.”
“And you think my son going to prison is justice?”
“Yes,” I said. “But again, that’s why we have juries and judges.”
“Have you ever made a mistake, Mr. Copeland?”
I said nothing.
“Because I’m going to dig. I’m going to dig until I find every mistake you ever made. And I’ll use them. You got skeletons, Mr. Copeland. We both know that. If you keep up this witch hunt, I’m going to drag them out for all the world to see.” He seemed to be gaining confidence now. I didn’t like that. “At worst, my son made a big mistake. We’re trying to find a way to make amends for what he did without destroying his life. Can you understand that?”
“I have nothing more to say to you,” I said.
He kept hold of my arm.
“Last warning, Mr. Copeland. I will do whatever I can to protect my child.”
I looked at EJ Jenrette and then I did something that surprised him. I smiled.
“What?” he said.
“It’s nice,” I said.
“What is?”
“That your son has so many people who will fight for him,” I said. “In the courtroom too. Edward has so many people on his side.”
“He is loved.”
“Nice,” I said again, pulling away my arm. “But when I look at all those people sitting behind your son, you know what I can’t help but notice?”