Judgment Day (29 page)

"Ms. Quigly testified the first recording we saw was a complete record of her sessions with the children. If you will let me play the end of the session, you will see that the therapy does not end with the cookie."

Judge Tucker-Cannon looked as if she wanted to say no, but then her eyes flicked toward the court camera.

"We will watch only the relevant parts."

"These are private," Quigly protested.

"They will be returned to you," the judge said, then silenced her.

Stephen fast forwarded to the end of the therapy. Daniel was back on the screen, sitting before grandmotherly Quigly, rocking in her chair. The scene unfolded as before.

"You can come and play again, Daniel, but right now it's time to leave."

"Can I go home?" Daniel asked.

"Not today."

"But I talked to you."

"You did very well but we need to talk some more."

"I don't want to go back there."

"It won't be much longer, I promise. We'll get you a family to stay with."

"I want to go home."

"Would you like a cookie to take with you?"

Where the police recording had ended, the conversation continued.

"You can take two if you want," Quigly said.

Daniel took one in each hand.

"Daniel, I know you want to go home and there is a way you can."

"How?"

"You've got to remember the bad things."

"What bad things?" he said.

"The bad things your daddy did to you."

Floyd slammed his fist on the table. This time the judge didn't warn him, engrossed in the playback.

Now Daniel dropped a cookie and his fingers went into his mouth.

"I know they're hard to remember, Daniel, but if you want to go home

you have to. You have to remember the bad things your father did to you."

"He spanked me."

"Good, Daniel. But even badder things."

"Like what?"

"Like touching your private places."

"My privacy?"

"Yes, touching your privacy. He touched you there, didn't he?"

"He helps me zip my pants when I go to the bathroom."

"He touches your penis too, doesn't he?"

Daniel shrugged.

"Try to remember him touching you, Daniel, and next time when I ask you about it, you tell me and then maybe you can go home."

Quigly picked up Daniel's cookie and put it in his shirt pocket, then took him off camera, the audio still picking up their voices.

"When you remember your father touching you, then you can go home. Do you understand? Good boy, Daniel."

Stephen stopped the recording with the remote, then sat silently. Rosa Quigly hung her head. Hanson doodled on a legal pad and the judge fumed. The remote camera panned back and forth catching all reactions. Finally, the judge spoke in slow, measured words.

"Ms. Quigly, you perjured yourself here today," the judge said.

Quigly recovered her composure, straightened, and said, "Assertive therapy is the best way to uncover repressed memories. I did what was best for Daniel."

"Virtually every session ends like this, Your Honor," Stephen said. "She coerced Ruth too. Your Honor, the charges against my clients are supported only by the testimony of the children, and that testimony has been tainted if not out and out fabricated."

The camera whirred back to the judge, who was stunned into silence, her show trial coming apart at the seams.

"Mr. Hanson, Mr. O'Malley, I will see you in chambers," the judge said.

"What about us?" Floyd asked.

"You're not free yet, but have faith," Stephen said.

Mark did have faith—in God—not the justice system.

CHAPTER 54 FREEDOM

In my entire career as counselor and mediator, I've never yet seen a case where a child has come through the conflict unscathed.

—
UNDERSTANDING CONFLICT
, CHRISTINE MAITLAND

T
earing open the manila envelope, Mark spilled the contents onto the counter. He hadn't seen his personal possessions in six months and he felt like a kid on Christmas morning. His keys were there and he grabbed them first. Keys meant freedom—a car, a home of his own—and keys meant privacy—doors he could lock and unlock at will. He didn't bother to count the money, scribbling his signature on the receipt and stuffing his pockets with the rest of his belongings.

Two guards escorted Mark to the elevator. Remembering his first trip in the elevator Mark kept quiet. The guards never looked at Mark, but just before they reached the main floor one of the guards said, "There's a difference between getting off on a technicality and being found innocent." Mark's heart began pounding and when the elevator stopped Mark hurried out.

Stephen and Floyd were waiting for him and they hugged, laughed, and cried at the same time.

"Now I know how Paul felt," Mark said.

Stephen laughed, but Floyd shook his head solemnly.

"I never would have lasted as long as you did, Mark."

Stephen pulled them both by the arm to the stairs.

"The vultures are waiting out front. We're going to disappoint them."

Stephen led them to a parking garage, cracking the door, peeking inside. "They've staked out the garages too." Stephen pulled out a cellular phone and punched a number.

"We're ready," Stephen said. "Bring the van around."

Stephen kept his eye to the crack in the door until they heard the sound of a van.

"Now, we have to hurry."

Stephen led them through the door, Mark taking up the rear. A paneled van was waiting for them, the doors open. George Proctor was there motioning them to hurry. Mark could see reporters and cameramen running down the parking ramp. Proctor helped him into the van with a shove and then climbed in, slamming the door.

"Let's go, Guy!" Proctor shouted.

The man at the wheel accelerated with a squeal and they were off. Mark and the others sat in the windowless back. Through the front windshield he could see reporters and cameramen jumping out of the path of the accelerating van. Guy slowed as they reached the street, moving through the sea of photographers. Then they were on the street, media vans falling into pursuit. At the second light Guy turned right onto a one-way street, slowing and then accelerating quickly, leaving a space between their van and those following. As he did, two more vans driven by Proctor's men pulled out from the curb on either side, cutting off the media. Guy made the next light, but Proctor's men made sure the media didn't.

"Thanks for getting those recordings," Mark said.

Stephen hummed loudly, saying, "I'm not hearing this. Those tapes arrived anonymously and I want it to remain that way."

"Sorry," Mark said. "George, if you ever find out who got those disks would you thank them for me?"

Proctor smiled, taking his hand.

"I'm sure they don't need to be thanked, they were just doing the Lord's work." Then he turned solemn. "You know the attacks on you won't stop. Satan is behind this. His agents are attacking you on every side and they will do anything to stop you. If you are going to finish the Lord's work you better be about it."

Mark turned to Stephen, who looked as solemn as Proctor.

"Well, Stephen, can we be about the Lord's work?" Mark asked.

Now Stephen broke into a smile.

"Ira says the heavens are open to us."

"Not without my children," Floyd said.

"We pick them up this afternoon," Stephen said solemnly.

Floyd was relieved, smiling in anticipation of the coming reunion, but Mark noticed Stephen wasn't sharing the joy.

"Mark, George is right about your enemies," Stephen said. "They've taken your reputation from you and when they realize you can't be stopped by smearing you, they'll take your life."

"I've had plenty of time to think about this, Stephen," Mark said. "I'll move up to the New Hope."

Stephen looked relieved, but Mark knew removing himself as a target would only intensify attacks on other members of the Fellowship. His security would come at the cost of others and he intended to repay them for that by completing God's plan.

A church parking lot was to be the transfer point for the children, since the cult did not want the social workers on their property and the social workers did not want Floyd and Evelyn to have contact with the foster parents. Evelyn and Floyd waited with arms around each other, their long agony soon to be over. Ruth arrived first, struggling to get out of her seat belt as soon as she saw her parents. Evelyn rushed forward and opened her door, pulling her little girl into her arms. Floyd wrapped his arms around the pair and they rocked together in a big family hug. Mark and Stephen rejoiced with them.

Ruth was talkative and friendly, happy to be with her parents again. She asked about her stuffed animals, her friends, and what they were having for dinner, without waiting for replies. Then Floyd took her in his arms, tossing her high in the air and then catching her. She giggled and begged for more. While the family play went on the social worker watched suspiciously, as if she expected Floyd to molest Ruth at any time. The social worker was plump, gray-haired, and overdressed for the warm weather in a long wool coat. Stephen noticed the social worker and stepped forward, saying abruptly, "You can go now." She glared at him but took Ruth's suitcase out of the trunk and left. Ruth was describing her new clothes when Daniel arrived.

Floyd put Ruth down, ready to hug his son, but Daniel sat in the car refusing to look at them. His social worker got out and came around the car, opening the door. She was young, wore her hair above her ears, and dressed in slacks and a blue blouse. She frowned at Floyd and Ruth, then smiled at

Daniel, asking him to get out. Daniel remained in the car, staring straight ahead.

"Daniel?" Evelyn said, stepping forward. "What's wrong, Daniel?"

When he didn't reply the social worker tried coaxing him from the car. Again, Stephen intervened. "Stay out of this," he warned. The social worker backed up, her eyes flashing.

"It's time to
go
home, Daniel," Floyd said.

"I don't want to go home," Daniel said.

"I'm not mad at you, Daniel," Floyd said. "I know they made you say those things about me and Mark."

Now Daniel turned on his father, spitting out his words.

"You did do those things. You made me have sex with you."

"I never did, Daniel," Floyd protested, his heart broken. "It never happened. I never touched you."

"I remember."

Floyd stepped forward and Daniel cringed in the car.

"If you strike the boy I'll report you to the police," the social worker said.

"No one is going to hurt Daniel," Stephen said. "However, if you say anything that further alienates the boy from his parents, I will bring suit against you personally and against your agency."

The social worker glared defiantly but kept her distance, saying nothing more.

"Let's
go
home, Daniel," Evelyn said, stepping in front of Floyd. "We can talk about it at home."

Seeing the social worker would not help, Daniel had little choice but to get out of the car, but he walked past his mother and father and climbed into their van, sitting in the backseat.

"How about a hug, Daniel?" his mother asked, leaning into the car.

"No. You let him do those things to me. I hate you and I hate him even more."

Evelyn pulled back, tears running down her face. Mark and Stephen could find no words to comfort the Remples. Their son had been returned to them but without the love he had once had for them. Unaffected by her brother's anger, and happy to be reunited with her parents, Ruth was bubbling over, talking incessantly, but the joy of her return was muted by Daniel's declaration of hate.

CHAPTER 55 PAYBACK

In the end the therapist must not expect any gratitude. Uncovering the hidden truth is an ugly business, but very necessary. Only clients will benefit from exposing hidden abuse, and by the close of therapy even they may hate the therapist for forcing them to face that truth.

—
HIDDEN TERRORS'. WOMEN IN THERAPY
, ROSA QUIGLY

R
osa made sure there were no reporters lurking in the shadows before she parked and entered her office. The debacle on national television had put her in the middle of the media spotlight. She had been inter viewed many times before about her analysis of other people, but never had she been the focus of the media—it was a special kind of hell. She had no privacy left; her picture was snapped by camerapersons at every turn, and even through gaps in her shades. Half of her clients canceled their appointments with her the day after the trial. The rest of her clients were scared away when they found her waiting room filled with reporters. Her professional life was in ruins and her privacy gone. Therapy—being a therapist—was who she had been for a decade. Without her work she didn't know who she was. She had to begin again.

She would move to another city; maybe on the East Coast. Tonight she would begin the process, sorting her papers, shifting her few remaining clients to other therapists. Ironically, the controversy had fueled sales of her book and she would have income, at least for a while.

Leaving the lights off, she let herself in and went to her office, locking the door behind her. She closed the blinds before turning the desk lamp on. The light was bright enough to read by, but it didn't have the power to drive the shadows from the corners of the room. Opening a desk drawer she pulled out a stack of patient files to review, starting with the top folder. She was leafing through the pages when she felt a presence. Then a form separated from the shadows—a man. Her heart pounded and she reached for her left desk drawer.

"It's not there," the man said.

Opening it anyway, Rosa ran her hand through the empty drawer.

"I thought you were a liberal," the man said. "What would you be doing with a gun?"

The man pulled Rosa's gun from his pocket, handling it casually, as if it were a tool, not a weapon.

"Get out of here or I'll call the police," Rosa said.

"If you had any faith in the police you wouldn't own the gun."

Rosa reached for her phone, then paused, watching for his reaction. He merely waved her on, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

Finding the line dead Rosa put the phone down and eyed the door, estimating her chances of making a run for it.

"Do you support mass transit?" he asked.

"What? Get out of here."

The man had strange bright blue eyes and in the dim light they seemed to glow.

"I said, do you support mass transit?" he repeated angrily.

"Yes, of course," she stammered, eyes flicking to the door.

"Do you ride mass transit?"

"Whenever I can. What's this about?"

"Don't lie to me. We know you drive a white Lexus to work every day."

The mention of others had Rosa searching the shadows again, but she saw no one. While he rambled on about mass transit she noticed he would close his eyes in a slow blink. At times his eyelids remained closed for ten seconds or more. Hope swelled—she could be through the door in that amount of time.

"Typical liberal. You vote to spend other people's money for buses and subways instead of highways, then raise gas taxes to force other people to ride them, leaving the highway free for you. You pass gun control laws to keep honest people from protecting themselves, then keep one for yourself. By the way, is this gun registered?"

Now he sounded angry and she answered carefully.

"I'm not sure."

"Is it, or isn't it?"

"It's not my gun. A friend loaned it to me. I work a lot at night and she thought I should have protection."

The man's eyes closed again, this time remaining closed as he lectured her.

"It's illegal for you to have an unregistered handgun in the city limits. That's a law people of your ilk created. If you fire it in self-defense you're guilty of using a firearm in the city limits. If you hit the person you are firing at you better hope they are carrying a loaded weapon in their hand or you're guilty of assault with a deadly weapon. If you wound the person you will be sued for damages to cover medical bills, loss of income, and pain and suffering. You'll be in court for years and even if you win you lose, because your lawyer will own you."

"Gun crimes are out of control in this country," she said, baiting him.

With his eyes still closed he said, "Disarming victims is a poor solution."

She bolted for the door but his hand shot out, grabbing her arm, his eyes still closed. When she swung at his face he grabbed her other arm, standing to face her. He was powerful and she had no hope of breaking free. She swung her knee at his groin but he was prepared and protected himself by swinging a leg across, absorbing the blow. Then he turned her, pulling her right arm behind her back and releasing her left.

"You're not a pacifist, are you?"

Now she screamed until she had no breath left.

"Finished?" he asked.

"Please don't hurt me!" she begged.

"If I was in the revenge business there would be no pain great enough to punish you for what you did to the Remples."

"You're one of them. If you kill me the police will find out. You'll all go to jail."

"I can't let you go on destroying families."

A chemical-soaked cloth was clamped over her mouth. She struggled vainly until she lost consciousness.