Freedom’s Child

“Quick, turn around and grab her head,” Mattley yells to the newbie.

“What?” he responds. Is that all this guy knows how to say? What? Mattley skids the car to a stop on the soft shoulder. He turns from the front seat and grabs my head, right as I’m about to head-butt the window. Don’t ask me why I do the things I do when I am drunk, I just do. I hurt myself constantly, try to start fights so I get hurt, I feel I deserve to be raped, I’ll sleep with anyone with hopes that they’re sadistic just to feel the pain. This goes back to the glutton-for-punishment thing, I suppose.

After a small struggle, I give up on trying to break the window with my forehead. I think at one point I bite his hand. Probably. Mattley sighs with heaviness and turns to his partner.

“Next time I tell you to do something quick, do it quick and ask about it later.” He’s composed. See? That’s what I love about Mattley. The coolest and most collected man you’d ever meet. “When Freedom starts singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ she’s about to hurt herself.”

“So, now what?” the kid asks. “We put her in the drunk tank for the night?”

“No.” I scream bloody murder, as loud as I can, and throw myself around the backseat like a slug on a salt mine. I lie on my side to kick the shit out of the back of the front seat.

“No, Freedom, don’t worry. I promise we won’t take you to jail, got it?” Mattley has a way of calming me down, but it always takes a few attempts. He really should be canonized for his patience. Saint Mattley. “There’s no point. She’ll be like this the day after tomorrow too,” he explains to the newbie. We pull up to my house. What a fucking depressing sight. Mattley pushes me up the steps to my shoddy apartment.

“Have I ever told you about Layla and Ethan?” I ask him. “Only now they’re Rebekah and Mason, or some stupid shit like that. I mean, who names their kids Rebekah and Mason? Amiright?”

“Shush now, Freedom. No need for any of that. You just get some sleep,” Mattley hushes as we reach the second story.

“Quakers! Quakers name their kids names like that.” I begin to laugh. “Like that Quaker Oats man on the oatmeal cans with the white curly wig.” Suddenly, I do my best impression of a Quaker. “Ho, ho, ho, I’m a fucking Quaker, and my Quaker offspring shall be called Rebekah and Mason Quaker Walton,” as I mock in a Santa Claus voice. I actually don’t know anything about Quakers.

He directs the conversation to Newbie, who stands behind in case I fall. Even I’m surprised I haven’t yet. Mattley knows to never take me through the front entrance. I just can’t stand the sight of the meth-head super, hate him telling me to keep it down. Sometimes it turns ugly, if I’ve had enough to drink. “Never mind what she’s saying. Just grab her key from under that plant.” He motions to the fake plant on the wooden fire escape at my front door on the second story of the building. And what fucking good are wooden fire escapes, anyway? Mattley carries me to my bed, kicking the mess in the dark with his toes.

“Try and go to sleep, Freedom.” God, I love his plummy voice. It’s audio Valium. I look up at Officer Mattley in the dark. He’s a stern copper with most everyone else, but for whatever reason, gentle with me. He feels sorry for me and I hate it. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I’m no victim. Faint white light from the shades paints him into a recognizable being in the bedroom. I can smell his spearmint gum and see his bald head, but he’s sexy. Good Lord, he is a sexy man.

Mattley helps my head onto the pillow and grabs a few blankets from the floor to drape over me. I pretend I’m dead. I pretend he wraps me in a sheet to take me to the morgue. I shut my eyes. I will have no recollection of any of this in the morning. Mattley is a good soul. I truly love his soul. Too bad he’s a Goody Two-Shoes, and too bad I’m the town drunk and too bad for a lot of things.

“Mattley, I need a huge favor.”

“What’s that, Freedom?”

“Those letters in the living room.” I point to piles by the hundred. “If anything were to happen.”

“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober, hon.”

“Third-Day Adventists. Mason and Rebekah Paul, Goshen, Kentucky.”

Mattley strokes my forehead for just a second. “Get some rest and forget all that.”

12 (#ulink_221b8c8e-0cdc-5746-bed3-dc38c52aad96)

The Firm and the Archangel (#ulink_221b8c8e-0cdc-5746-bed3-dc38c52aad96)

Glass flutes of gold ascend into the air with the cheers and salutations of the firm of Tyndall, Finn, and Moore, Esquire. Tight collars, crooked smiles, and ugly ties welcome Mason back to the office after this morning’s high-profile victory, when an all-star college football player was found not guilty by a jury of his peers of sexually assaulting his eighteen-year-old one-night stand. Guilty as sin, innocent thanks to a few motions submitted, sprinkled with a few objections against the assistant district attorney and a flood of press releases and exposure of the defendant, a would-be valedictorian and prospective NFL star. The photo of the victim giving him a lap dance moments before the alleged rape was the golden ticket, the smoking gun. Mason tries not to remember the look of horror on the victim’s face after the verdict was read out; he can’t afford to. He clenches his jaw and fights the thought from his head; he’s on a winning streak, so close to becoming a senior associate out of so many others clawing up for the position, the opportunity of a lifetime. Can’t let something as petty as compassion ruin a good thing.

“Way to go, Mason.”

“Mason the Caisson, full of ammunition and out on a mission.”

“Thatta kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” as Mason tolerates the discomfort of his shoulders being squeezed. “Piece of cake.” Sylvester Moore, known as Sly, hands him a glass of champagne, but Mason takes it with disdain. He sees the way Sly looks at Violet every time she walks by, the way he touches her shoulder, her back at every opportunity. But Mason lets it slide and pretends not to notice. He raises his glass along with the others, “Here’s to truth, justice, the American way. Oh, and standing next to your ugly mugs along the way.” The men beam into the glasses, feet in the air. “I need this vacation.” The words echo back from the glass. But Mason feels the weight on his shoulders, the burden that he’s responsible for helping a rapist get away with it.