Journey (7 page)

The psychiatrist who had grown up in Detroit told a similar story, except that her father had killed her
mother, and gone to prison for it. She said that she herself was gay, and she had been raped and beaten at fifteen by a boy she had grown up with. She had lived with the same woman now for fourteen years, and said that she felt she had recovered from the early abuses in her life, but she was concerned about the increasing trend of violent crimes against women, even in the gay community, and our ability to look the other way while they happened.

Some of the others had no firsthand personal experience with violence, but both federal judges said they had had abusive fathers who had slapped their mothers around, and until they grew up and learned otherwise, they thought it was normal. And then it was Maddy's turn, and she hesitated for a moment. She had never before told her story to anyone in public, and she felt naked now as she thought about it.

“I guess my story isn't all that different from the others,” she started. “I grew up in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and my father always hit my mother. Sometimes she hit him back, most of the time, she didn't. Sometimes he was drunk when he did it, sometimes he just did it because he was mad at her, or at someone else, or at something that had happened that day. We were dirt poor, and he never seemed to be able to keep a job, so he hit my mother about that too. Everything that happened to him was always her fault. And when she wasn't around, he hit me, but not very often. Their fighting was kind of the background music to my childhood, a familiar theme I grew up with.” She felt a little breathless as she said it, and for the first time in years, you could hear the remnants of her Southern accent as she continued. “And all I wanted to do was get away from it.
I hated my house, and my parents, and the way they treated each other. So I married my high school sweetheart at seventeen, and as soon as we were married, he started to beat me up. He drank too much, and didn't work a lot. His name was Bobby Joe, and I believed him when he said that it was all my fault, if I weren't such a pain in the ass and such a bad wife, and so stupid and careless and just plain dumb, he wouldn't ‘have’ to hit me. But he had to. He broke both my arms once, and he pushed me down the stairs once, and I broke my leg. I was working at a television station in Knoxville then, and it got sold to a man from Texas, who eventually bought a cable TV network in Washington, and took me with him. I guess most of you know that part. It was Jack Hunter. I left my wedding ring and a note on my kitchen table in Knoxville, and met Jack at the Greyhound bus station with a Samsonite suitcase with two dresses in it, and I ran like hell, all the way to Washington to work for him. I got a divorce, and married Jack a year after that, and no one's ever laid a hand on me since then. I wouldn't let them. I know better now. If anyone even looks cross-eyed at me, I run like hell. I don't know why I got lucky, but I did. Jack saved my life. He made me everything I am today. Without him, I'd probably be dead by now. I think Bobby Joe would have probably killed me one night, pushing me down the stairs till I broke my neck, or kicking me in the stomach. Or maybe just because I'd want to die finally I've never said anything about any of this because I was ashamed of it, but now I want to help women like me, women who aren't as lucky as I've been, women who think they're trapped, and don't have a Jack Hunter waiting for them with a limousine to take them
to another city. I want to reach out to these women and help them. They need us,” she said, as tears filled her eyes, “we owe it to them.”

“Thank you, Maddy” Phyllis Armstrong said softly. They all shared a common bond, or most of them, lawyers and doctors and judges and even a First Lady, histories of violence and abuse, and only by sheer luck and grit had they survived it. And they were all acutely aware that there were countless others who weren't as lucky, and needed their help. The group sitting in the First Lady's private quarters was anxious to help them.

Bill Alexander was the last to speak, and his story was the most unusual, as Maddy suspected it would be. He had grown up in a good home in New England, with parents who loved him and each other. And he had met and married his wife when she was at Wellesley and he was at Harvard. He had a doctorate in foreign policy and political science, and had taught at Dartmouth for several years, and then Princeton, and was teaching a class at Harvard when he was made Ambassador to Kenya at fifty. His next post was in Madrid, and from there he was sent to Colombia. He said that he had three grown children who were respectively, a doctor, a lawyer, and a banker. All very respectable and academically impressive. His had been a quiet, “normal” life, in fact, he said with a smile, a fairly boring, but satisfying existence.

Colombia had been an interesting challenge for him, the political situation there had been delicate, and the drug trade pervaded everything in the country. It was intricately interwoven into all forms of business, tainted politics, and corruption was rampant. He had been fascinated by what he had to do there, and felt equal to the
task until his wife was kidnapped. His voice quavered as he said it. She was held prisoner for seven months, he said, fighting back tears, and then finally gave in to them, as the psychiatrist sitting next to him gently reached out to touch his arm, as though to steady him, and he smiled at her. They were all friends now, and knew each others most intimate, and best-hidden secrets.

“We tried everything to get her back,” he explained in a deep, troubled voice. Maddy had calculated from the time he'd spent in his three diplomatic posts that he was sixty. He had white hair, and blue eyes, and a youthful face, and he looked strong and athletic. “The State Department sent special negotiators to talk to representatives from the terrorist group that was holding her hostage. They wanted a prisoner exchange, trading her for one hundred political prisoners, and the State Department wouldn't agree to it. I understand the reasons for it, but I didn't want to lose her. The CIA tried too, and they tried to kidnap her back, but they fumbled the attempt, and she was moved into the mountains and after that we couldn't find her. Eventually, I personally paid the ransom they wanted, and then I did a very foolish thing.” His voice shook again as he continued to tell the story, and Maddy s heart went out to him, as did everyone's, as they listened. “I tried to negotiate with them myself. I did everything I could. I almost went crazy trying to get her back. But they were too smart, too quick, too evil to beat. We paid the ransom, and three days later, they killed her. They dumped her body on the steps of the Embassy,” he said, choking on the words and giving in to tears now, “and they had cut her hands off.” He sat there sobbing for a moment, and
no one moved, and then Phyllis Armstrong reached out and touched him, and he took a deep breath, as the others murmured their sympathy to him. It was a horrifying story, and a trauma everyone wondered how he had lived through. “I felt entirely responsible for making a botch of it. I should never have tried to negotiate with them myself, it just seemed to make them madder. I thought I could help, but I suspect that if I had left it alone and let the experts handle it, they'd have kept her for a year or two, as they had with others, and then released her. But by doing it myself, I more or less killed her.”

“That's nonsense, Bill,” Phyllis said firmly, “I hope you know that. You can't guess what might have happened. Those people are ruthless and immoral, a life means nothing to them. They might very well have killed her anyway. In fact, I'm sure they probably would have.”

“I think I'll always feel as though I did,” Bill said mournfully, “the press more or less said that.” And suddenly, as she listened, Maddy remembered Jack telling her that Bill Alexander was a fool, and she wondered how he could be so heartless, now that she knew the story.

“The press likes to make a sensation of things. They don't know what they're talking about most of the time,” Maddy added for good measure, as he glanced up at her with eyes full of sorrow. She had never seen so much pain in her life and she wanted to reach out and touch him but she was sitting too far away from him. “They just want to sell a story. I can tell you that from experience, Ambassador. I'm so sorry all of that happened to you,” Maddy said kindly.

“So am I. Thank you, Mrs. Hunter,” he said, and blew his nose in the clean handkerchief he took from his pocket.

“We all have tough stories. That's why we're here. That's not why I asked you to be here,” Phyllis Armstrong brought them slowly to order. “I didn't know most of these histories when I asked you to come here. I asked you because you're intelligent, caring people. That's why you came, and why you want to help the commission. We've all learned from experience, the hard way, or most of us at least. We know what we're talking about, and what it feels like. What we need to do now is figure out what to do about it, how to help the people who are still out there. We're survivors, all of us, but they may not be. We have to get to them soon, and to the media, and the public. The clock is ticking, and we have to get to them before we lose them. Women die every day, murdered by their husbands, raped in the streets, kidnapped and tortured by strangers, but most women are killed by men, men they know, and more often than not, their spouses and boyfriends. We need to educate the public, and show the women where to go to get help before it is too late for them. We have to change the laws, and make them tougher. We have to make the prison sentences match the crime, and make it too costly to commit an act of violence on a woman, or anyone for that matter. It's a war of sorts, a war we have to fight and win. And I want each of you to go home and think about what we can do to change things. I suggest we meet again in two weeks, before most of you go away for the summer, and let's try to come up with some solutions. Today, I mostly wanted you to get to know each other. I know each of you, some
of you fairly well in fact, but now you know who you'll be working with and why they're here. We're all here for the same reason essentially and some of us may have suffered, but all of us want to make a difference, and we can do it. Individually, we're all capable of it, collectively we will provide a force that cannot be resisted. I'm putting all of my confidence in you, and I want to do some thinking about this myself before we meet again.” She stood up then, with a warm smile that enveloped each of them. “Thank you for coming here today. Feel free to stay and chat for a while. Unfortunately, I have to move on to my next appointment.”

It was nearly four o'clock and Maddy couldn't believe how much she'd heard in two hours. It had been so emotional for all of them that she felt as though she had spent days with them. And she made a point of going over to Bill Alexander and talking to him before she left. He looked like a kind man, and his story was so tragic. He looked as though he still hadn't recovered from it, and that hardly surprised her, given the trauma he'd been through, and it had happened only seven months before. She was surprised he was coherent.

“I'm so sorry, Ambassador,” she said gently. “I remember the story, but it's different hearing it from you. What a nightmare to go through.”

“I'm not sure I'll ever recover,” he said honestly. “I still dream about it.” He told her he had recurring nightmares, and the psychiatrist asked if he was in therapy, and he said he had been for several months, but was getting by on his own now. He certainly looked sane and normal, and was obviously extremely intelligent, but Maddy couldn't help wondering how he could
survive an experience like that and still be functioning sensibly and calmly. He was clearly an extraordinary person. “I look forward to working with you,” Maddy said with a smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hunter,” he said smiling back at her.

“Call me Maddy, please.”

“I'm Bill, and I saw your story the other night, about Janet McCutchins. It was very disturbing, as it should be.”

She smiled ruefully at the compliment and thanked him. “My husband has yet to forgive me. He was very upset about the implications for the network.”

“You have to be brave and just do the right thing sometimes. You know that as well as I do. You have to listen to your heart as well as your advisers. I'm sure he understands that. It was the right thing to do, and you did it.”

“I don't think he'd agree with you, but I'm glad I did it,” she admitted.

“People need to hear it,” he said firmly, the strength coming back into his voice. And he looked younger as he chatted with her. She was very impressed by him, both by his presence and the way he had handled himself at their first meeting. She could see why Phyllis had asked him.

“I think they do need to hear it,” Maddy said, and then glanced at her watch. It was after four and she had to get to the studio for hair and makeup. “I'm afraid I've got a five o'clock show to do. I'll see you at the next meeting.” Maddy shook hands with several people before she left the room, and then she left the White House as quickly as she could, and caught a cab back to the network.

Greg was already in the chair getting his makeup done when she got there. “So how was it?” he asked conversationally. He was intrigued by the commission being organized by the First Lady and thought it would make a great story.

“Very interesting. I loved it. I met Bill Alexander there, the ex-Ambassador to Colombia whose wife was killed by terrorists last year. What an awful story.”

“I remember it vaguely. I saw a clip of him, he was an absolute mess when they brought her body back to the Embassy, not that I blame him. Poor guy, how is he?”

“He seems fine, though I guess he's still pretty shaken. He's writing a book about it.”

“Sounds like a good story. Who else was there?” She reeled off a few names, but told him none of the personal stories that had been told, she knew she had an obligation not to, and she respected it. And as soon as her makeup was done, she walked into the studio and looked at the stories they'd be covering. There was nothing startling or terrific, it was all fairly run of the mill, and once they were on the air, they ran through it smoothly, and then she went back to her office. There were some stories she wanted to read about, and some research she had to do before the seven-thirty show. And at eight o'clock, she was finished. It had been a long day, and as she got ready to leave the office, she called Jack. He was still upstairs, finishing a meeting.