Bright Young Women(87)
I’d taken a debate and rhetoric class my junior year; learned about something called process values. In a rule of law–based society, you could make a winnable argument based on these values. Even when a legal outcome might not appear obvious, fair, or logical, you could at least show that the process to get there was. I clasped my hands in my lap, made my voice sonorous. “Don’t you think,” I started, “that if the state is going to use citizens’ tax dollars to extradite somebody, charge them, and prosecute them, then that should happen? The person should not be allowed to escape. Our system recognizes that as a criminal offense in and of itself.”
“Not every country penalizes escape,” Dad pointed out.
I nodded eagerly. I liked when we did this. Built a case together. “But ours does. And part of that penalization involves increasing security around an escaped prisoner if and when he’s recaptured, usually by moving the inmate to a higher-security facility.”
“Sure,” Dad said. “If a higher-security system isn’t available, measures like round-the-clock surveillance can be implemented by the judge.”
Our entrees arrived, and I readied the rest of my argument while the waiter fanned out the identical plates. My father had been a civil attorney for fifteen years before making the move to in-house counsel. He would have only cursory knowledge of criminal law, so the fact that he had retained knowledge like this boded well. The clearest argument is always the one that relies on ordinary people’s latent understanding of our system.
“The Defendant was remanded—appropriately—to a level-three facility in Utah after he was convicted of kidnapping Anne Biers,” I continued once the waiter had gone. “The Colorado DA came in and extradited him to a level-one facility in Aspen, which is the least restrictive—”
“Can you pass the breadbasket, Pamela?”
I passed Brian the breadbasket and tried to remember what I was saying. “Level one is considered minimum security. Someone who’s been convicted of aggravated kidnapping and charged with first-degree murder really should be somewhere more restrictive. At the very least, he should not be permitted to roam free, unshackled and unsupervised. Which is how he escaped the first time. You would think Colorado would have learned from that, put tougher restrictions in place. Instead, they remanded him to yet another level-one facility and failed to follow the judge’s ruling that he should have round-the-clock—”
“And the butter?”
I passed Brian the butter. “Surveillance,” I finished. Then, “I think I have enough to make a claim.”
My father split his baked potato down the middle and let the steam pour out. “Which would be?”
“Negligent infliction of emotional distress against the Colorado Department of Corrections. Witnesses and bystanders can sue for emotional anguish if they witness something horrible. I’d say I qualify.”
My father raised his eyebrows.
“This all should have ended in Colorado. Two adults and a child are dead because of their negligence. When a girl in The House violates the organization’s standards, it’s my job to hold her accountable. Why would this be any different? Plus, a lawsuit gives me the opportunity to request the evidence that the prison guard told me about, anything that could connect The Defendant to crimes in other states. There are families who are desperate for answers about what happened to their loved ones. I could help give them some solace.” I stopped. Poked at the verdant pile of spinach on my plate. Waited to hear what my father thought.
“That’s a tough case to win,” he said at last. “A lot of steps to prove.”
Brian nodded in vehement agreement. He was eating only the charred perimeter of the meat, leaving behind a pink puck at the center. I knew he preferred his well-done. “That’s what I said too,” he said pompously.
I turned to him, my patience whittled down to something speared and dangerous. “Actually, that’s not what you said at all. You said to sit back and let the police do their job, because they’ve done such crack detective work up until now. Oh, and what else? That Tina had brainwashed me.”
“Someone managed to brainwash Pamela Schumacher?” My father forked a piece of steak into his mouth with a laugh. He’d believe that when he saw it.
Brian went from pink to a scalding red. “Just so you are aware, sir—”
“Bill.”
“Bill, sir. I’m just a little concerned about how much interest this woman has taken in your daughter. She was in a lesbian relationship with one of the victims. Supposed victims, that is.”
My father glanced between Brian and me, chewing. “Are you in a lesbian relationship with this woman, Pamela?”
“No, Dad,” I said. “I’m not.”
“Then I’m not concerned. You know what does concern me, Brian?”
Brian stared at him insolently.
“That is the best cut of meat north of Fourteenth Street. Eat up.”
* * *
For some reason, I turned right out of the restaurant. Right was uptown, away from Penn Station. Brian trailed me in a stewing silence, unaware for the first few blocks. “Hey,” he said, pawing at my arm, trying to get me to stop. “We’re going the wrong way.”
But I wasn’t, I realized with razored clarity. I was planning to grab the crosstown bus at 66th Street, then an uptown train to 116th Street, where the sanctity of the Columbia campus waited for me.