Unfaithful

I looked from Stan to Betty and back again. I could not believe he was seriously considering me—or that the governor would consent.

"And the governor said?" I asked.

"He's agreeable so long as it's an enrolled Democrat with no ties to law enforcement or my office. I checked this morning; you are still registered as a Dem."

This had a false ring about it. I barely knew Stan Katsaros. Our only interactions had been through his subordinates, and those had been adversarial. Yet, here he was proposing me for a plum political appointment. Admittedly, I did have the right résumé. I was a democrat, although not an active one, and had a record of opposing the local police department, thanks to my sister. Still, this did not pass the smell test.

Stan must have seen my hesitation because he brought out his big gun. "You may be concerned with the compensation. I suggested $175 an hour to the governor, and he agreed. Further, you needn't worry about payment. The state will pick up the entire bill as part of my agreement with the governor," Stand said with a sly smile.

Legal fees are a strange animal. You can charge $350 an hour, but clients rarely paid the full bill. In a criminal practice, you try and get the biggest retainer you can up front, knowing that may well be the only money you see. If the client stops paying the bill, you are stuck in the case until the judge lets you out, which rarely occurs.

Special prosecutors are different. There is no retainer. The bill is submitted to a governmental authority, usually the county. The legislatures for the counties are never enthusiastic about paying extra bills for prosecutors when they already pay the DA's salary and expenses. But if the state was paying, it would only be a matter of submitting a bill. You might wait three to six months to get paid, but you would get paid.

I was already doing the math in my head. This would be a minimum of three thousand hours, and at $175 an hour, that was more than half a million dollars over the next two years. Even figuring for vastly expanded office expenses, it could add $150,000 to my bottom line each year. To a solo practitioner like myself who made just sixty thousand the previous year, it was a fortune. It was too good to be true, but also too good to turn down.

Betty laid out the process for the appointment with the governor's office. She had a draft of my curriculum vitae and Stan's recommendation. She suggested we spend time together over the next two days putting things together. Hopefully, we would get the appointment squared away by the following week. I left Stan's office in a kind of daze.

I didn't get back to my office until four o'clock. Tara was waiting for me. She started in on what brought her as soon as my private office door closed.

"Lisa and I don't want to pressure you," she began. "We could tell Simone was not enthusiastic. We don't want to cause any problems in your marriage."

"You and Lisa are not the cause of my marital problems, and what you asked is fair, considering what you two have done for our daughters. Simone will come around. Just give her some time," I said.

"Still—" she began, but I cut her off.

"Put it aside. I need your help on a professional matter."

I explained Stan Katsaros's proposal. Tara was even more skeptical than I, but for other reasons.

"You propose to prosecute correction officers on the testimony of whores?" she said. "Because I guarantee you every one of your complaining witnesses will have a record that includes a loitering, disorderly, or indecency charge knocked down from a solicitation charge at best. At worst, they will have outright prostitution convictions in their records," Tara lectured, reverting to the police officer she still was at heart.

"Still, it is technically rape in the third degree."

A person is deemed incapable of consent when he or she is: a) less than seventeen years old; or b) mentally disabled; or c) mentally incapacitated; or d) physically helpless; or e) committed to the care and custody or supervision of the state department of corrections..." I said, reading from the penal code.

"Right, and all we need is a jury of twelve shakers to get a conviction," Tara said.

"No, what I need is for my investigator to get me irrefutable proof," I replied.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, but I will help. I intend to plod along, conducting what appears to be a rather inept prosecution while you work in the background, gathering the real evidence. I will keep the eyes on me so you can work. Now, I need you to start immediately."

It was a very tall assignment, probably an impossible reach, but all I had to lose was my less-than-sterling reputation.

_______________________________

It had been a big day for me, but there is no rest for parents: I still had to pick up my daughters, feed them, and entertain them until bedtime. They must have had a big day, too. I had them in bed and asleep by nine. I did the dishes, cleaned the kitchen and had the dinner leftovers put away before I settled in to wait for Simone.

I think I had some vague idea of settling the issues with Simone before embarking on the special prosecutor business. There might be no time later to talk things through.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch. I woke after midnight. A check of the house showed my wife was still out. It had gone past one thirty before I heard a car in the driveway. I peeked out the living room window. The garage light was on, and I could see a Porsche sports car in our driveway. My wife drives a BMW. Simone was coming home without her car, and someone was driving her home.

The Porsche had two people in the front seat, a woman and a man, but I couldn't see who they were. She leaned over and gave him a kiss. He pulled her in tight, but then they broke, and she was shaking her head. She exited the car and walked toward the house. There was enough light to recognize my wife—and to read the license plate on the Porsche. They apparently hadn't seen me at the window. They had the garage light in their eyes, and the house lights were off.

I went back and sat on the couch as Simone entered the house. When she turned on the house lights, she was startled to see me sitting there.

"You're up," she said the Porsche pulled out of the driveway.

"Someone bring you home?" I asked as if I hadn't seen.

"Yes, I left my car at the hospital and rode with Claire," she said.

There was an awkward pause as I stared at her.

"Well, I need some sleep. Coming?" she said as she turned and headed up the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor. She moved quickly and was already undressing before I made it into our bedroom.

"You're very late," I said.

"Yes, sorry. We were having a good time."

"I was hoping we could talk," I said.

"Tomorrow, when we're rested," she said.

She gave me a brief kiss on the cheek and slipped into the bathroom to prepare for bed.

In the morning, she was gone when I woke up. It was her day off, and she was going for one of her longer morning runs. In the afternoon, Claire and Deke showed up with their boys and the fixings for an impromptu barbecue. Between grilling the food and minding the kids, we were all busy. So, Simone and I never did get to talk.

When we finally had the kids settled, Deke pulled me aside with a couple of beers.

"How're things going?" he asked.

"All right, I guess. Why you asking?" I replied.

"Claire said that you two were having problems, you know, readjusting."

"Oh? what gave her that idea?"

My question made Deke nervous. It was clear to me that he was on a mission to draw me out.

"Just stuff. So, everything's fine with you two?"

"No, it's not, and Claire knows that, which is why she has you asking," I said.

"Sorry, sorry, but she's concerned, and I guess I'm worried. You guys were so close. Maybe you should see someone. Like a counselor or something."

Deke was genuinely concerned and was obviously being placed in the middle. His wife ran his marriage, that I knew, and Claire was close to Simone. So, Claire or Simone was feeling me out through Deke.

"Look, for my part, I believe that this is some aftershock from Simone's time away, and if she will just spend more time with her family, things will settle back in."

Deke accepted this. I wondered if the women would.

Sunday might be a day of rest and the Lord's day, but Simone was on duty at the hospital. So, we didn't have our talk that weekend. In spite of what I told Deke, I was upset about the kiss my wife gave the man driving the Porsche. But, I had little time to dwell on this because the first thing Monday the governor's office called, asking for my résumé. In the afternoon, they scheduled a meeting for the following day at the Capitol.

The room on the second floor of the capitol building was cramped. The woman who rose from behind the desk was young, in her early twenties at most. I noticed her long auburn hair and big brown eyes. She was very attractive and expensively dressed. It all said rich, Ivy league, and connected.

"Thank you for coming Mr. O'Reilly," she said. "I'm Carrie Wilson."

My interview was apparently not to be with the governor, but rather with a junior aid.

"Please have a seat. This won't take long. I just have a few questions," she said, waving me to a chair.

"You're a state university graduate with a law degree from Albany Law, I see," she said.

A little bit of her Ivy League snobbery was showing through.

"Yes, is this by way of a job interview?"

"No, not really. But the governor wants to be sure there is no conflict of interest. You understand," she said.

"I'm not connected to the Van Patten DA or any of his staff. I don't believe I know anyone at the Department of Corrections. I do know the chairman of the Commission on Corrections since I went to university with his son, but I doubt he remembers me."

"Well, it's just . . . you seem a strange choice for Mr. Katsaros to put forward," she stated.

"Yes, I agree, and I was rather flattered by his selection of me. Perhaps he recognizes my skill," I said.

"Yes, I guess so. If you would just wait a minute," she said as she rose and exited her office.

I wasn't sure whether I liked her. She seemed a bit full of herself. She returned with the governor in tow. Governor Kincade was a tall, handsome man. He had a commanding presence.

"Glad to have you on this, Jimmy," Kincade said, shaking my hand.

The governor handed me my appointment, and I was ushered out by Ms. Wilson. My next stop was the COC.

Commissioner Michael Tillman, Sr., was the chairman of the Commission on Corrections. He was the former deputy commissioner for programs with the Department of Correctional Services. DOCS, as it is called, is the largest employer out of all the state agencies. Programs are the category that correctional counseling, education, and other rehabilitation services come under. Mike Tillman may have been the deputy for programs, but he began with security services. As such, he was in line for commissioner but had been passed over in favor of the lawyer Anthony Abrosso of the Department Counsel.

Abrosso may have been a lawyer, but the phrase "dumb asshole" fit him to a tee. What Abrosso had was an in with the most corrupt wing of the state's Democratic Party. This didn't make him popular with the current reform administration. I knew Mike Tillman as a stand-up guy who would nonetheless be smart enough to consider which way the wind was blowing.

"Nice to see you again, Jimmy," Commissioner Tillman said as I entered his office.

"Thank you, Commissioner," I said

"No, none of that. It's Mike," he said. "I suppose you have come about the Van Patten CF report."

"Yes, I've been—"

"Appointed special prosecutor. The governor's office called. Ms. Wilson," Mike said.

"Well, if I could see the uncensored report and the backup investigation and statements," I said.

The public report did not disclose the names of the inmate victims or the alleged official perpetrators. I would need that information, as well as everything the investigators had based the report on.

"I anticipated that and set aside a conference room for you. It's locked, and here is the key. Anything you want to copy, just ask."

"Eventually we may need to take your records if we prosecute," I said.

"When you prosecute, I will have the records sent," Mike said.

"You seem certain I will find enough evidence to indict someone."

"Yes, I have faith in you," he said.

Mike was the father of a former frat brother. In fact, Tom Tillman was there with me the night I kept Simone from being raped. Tom was no genius, but he was a good man to have next to you in a fight. His father and I had only a passing acquaintance, but he apparently, and unexpectedly, had a high opinion of my skills.

"Anything in particular, you think I should look at?"

"No, it's all there. I don't want to taint your investigation.

I left Mike's office, and a secretary showed me to a room crowded with document boxes. I began with the box marked "one." There had to be thirty boxes. Two hours later and barely a quarter of the way through, I knew something was off—way off. This investigation was garbage. There could be no doubt that there had been sexual activity between officers and inmates, but none of what the commission had was viable.

The case started when a former inmate came forward. Theresa Ryan was a recovering heroin addict, convicted of possession with intent to sell. Sentenced to ten years, she had served five. After release, she joined the Franciscan Sisters. The novice nun had stepped forward to confess her sins publicly. Her statement was detailed as to who, what, and when. She seemed the perfect witness, but she refused to testify. All she wanted was for what she saw of the abuse to stop. She didn't want the sinners punished but rather forgiven.

Martyrs make poor witnesses. I discarded the possibility of forcing the nun to testify. A hostile victim turns the prosecution into the criminal., and the last thing a prosecutor needs is for the victim asking forgiveness and offering justification from the witness stand.

The commission's other witnesses were another set of released felons, women far less reformed than Sister Theresa. The other commission witness all had one thing in common. All the complaints were old None could testify to anything that happened in the last five years. The statute of limitations on rape in the third degree was only five years. In effect their cases were cold.

It didn't make sense—why investigate at all if the principle witness wouldn't testify and your other complaint had gone stale? Once again, there seemed to be a hidden agenda. Something not being said. I needed to talk to Tara and work out a way to go from the old charges to the current problem. Rapist were repeat offenders. Perhaps my sister could find a link. I left the COC offices perplexed but determined.

Tara had little she could tell me. Yes, there were cases of sex between officers and inmates, but not as much as would be expected. Van Patten's real problem was that it was understaffed and overcrowded.

"But I'm working on a new lead," Tara said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Remember Nancy Silverman?"

"Short, obnoxious, and ultra-feminist lawyer," I said.

"Well, short, but obviously you know who I mean. She says she may have a lead for me," Tara said, and we left it there.

My next move would be a visit to the scene of the crimes, Van Patten CF. But before that, it was Simone's day off, and that night her mother would be taking our girls to see the latest Disney movie. So I was going home to confront my wife and settle our problems. I had checked the license of the Porsche, and, no surprise, it belonged to Eshe Faraji, MD. My wife and I had some issues to discuss.

Simone was waiting for me at home. I found her in the living room dressed in a green teddy and matching stiletto heels. Green, certainly, was the color for this redhead. The silk-and-lace teddy concealed nothing of importance, not her deep pink nipples or her lush pubic hair.

My loutish frat brothers use to ask whether the carpet matched the drapes. In fact, it doesn't. Whereas Simone's long hair has the color of red mahogany, her nether regions are covered with hair the color of a sunset. In her green silk, she stood like a goddess in our living room. Her four-inch heels made her my height. She held a filled martini glass out to me.

After her return home, martinis had become Simone's drink of choice. She had been a rare drinker before, but that had changed as well—a disturbing fact when you consider how loose my wife gets when she drinks.

Seeing my hesitation, she said, "Not what you expected?"

"I thought we were going to talk."

"We will, but later."

We each downed a drink; they were strong. Then she led me by my tie up the stairs and to our bedroom. Once there, she began to undress me, and when I tried to help, she slapped my hands away.

"Don't be taking my job," she said.

After getting me down to my shorts, she knelt and jerked my boxers off. In one quick movement, she engulfed my erection in her mouth. For a woman who had always told me she disliked giving head, she was very aggressive with her mouth.

I tried to relax into it and turn off that portion of my mind that was seeking to ask all the awkward questions. This was my wife, and she might be acting like a whore, but she was clearly playing a game that was about bridging the gap between us.

On the bed, she pushed aside the lace crotch of the teddy and impaled herself on my erection. I had to hold back to not come that instant. She moaned as she rode me up and down. Her face took on that wicked, crooked smile she got with sexual excitement. I pulled the top of her teddy down and palmed her breasts.

Simone is an active fuck but not usually a vocal one. Now she started talking dirty.

"I love your cock in me, pushing in me and slipping away. There and gone. Please, baby, fuck me hard. Make me come."

I flipped her over and did just as she asked. A moment later she screamed and went limp. I knew her orgasms were intense but short. She curled up after and shivered as she came down. I gave her a minute and began slowly again.

It took a few minutes but she managed to climax again, and we came together. Then she spooned into me and drifted off to sleep for a minute. That was the Simone I knew, relaxed and sleepy after sex. And it was the wife I knew, warm and happily beside me.

I didn't sleep. I waited. This was just the prelude. The questions were ready and the answers probably well rehearsed, but I was waiting to hear them yet woefully unsure that I wanted to. I was trapped between the need to know and the fear of knowing.

"Hello, baby, did I fall asleep?" she said.

I pulled her tight. "Yes," I said. I did so love this woman.

"Hmm, this feels so good. Such a shame to spoil things, but we need to talk," she said.

"A question first: who brought you home last Friday night?"

"A friend. But why?" she asked.

"Because I didn't know Eshe Faraji was in the friend category," I said.

"If you knew the answer, why ask the question? Or is this meant to be an interrogation, Counselor?" she said, pulling a bit away.

We had been cheek to cheek, and now I turned to look at her, "It's not an interrogation. But a better-phrased question is why come home after midnight with a sleaze like Faraji?"

"Firstly, he is not a sleaze. He happens to be an excellent surgeon and a friend of Claire Hudson. He offered us both a ride and happened to drop her off first."

In the back of my mind a connection was made that would be important later, but for now I said, "And the fact he just happens to want into your pants."

"Well, finally, there it is," she said.