The Missing Hours Page 10
“You’re a rapist.”
“Oh, please.”
“She was drunk.”
“She didn’t say no.”
Trevor hit him, fist to face, and Chad stumbled back, fell onto the green carpet beneath the green awning that announced The Park View. Two doormen in green coats and hats came running. The tall one grabbed Trevor by the arms while the other knelt next to Chad, who jumped up, ran toward Trevor, and punched him in the stomach. Trevor’s knees buckled and the tall doorman let go. Chad stepped back and kicked him in the face. Trevor tasted blood and kept his head down. He’d made a mistake coming here. He wasn’t helping anybody. He needed to get home.
“If Claudia Castro doesn’t want people to know she’s a slut, she should stop being one,” said Chad. The balding doorman tried to take Chad’s arm but he shook him off. “I’m fine.”
Trevor was still on hands and knees on the green carpet. Maybe he’d sink into the sidewalk.
“Call the police,” said Chad. “I want to press charges.”
“Mr. Drake,” began the balding doorman.
“What did I just say? Call. The. Police.”
“Your father…”
“My father what? Oh Jesus fucking Christ, I’ll do it.” Chad rubbed his jaw and pulled his phone from his back pocket.
Trevor stood up. Breathing hurt. Where was he? People were starting to gather around the green carpet: two women in yoga pants; another talking into her earbuds, pushing a double stroller. He was a long way from his dorm. Was there a subway nearby? He looked to the street. A taxi. All he needed to do was raise his arm. He started to walk, but Chad began shouting and the tall doorman grabbed his wrist.
“I’ve gotta go,” Trevor said.
The doorman did not release his grip. His green cap had fallen off.
Should he run? The crowd seemed to have tripled in size, and then there was a police officer. Trevor let himself be walked into the building and down an ornately carved, wood-paneled hallway, his sneakers soft on the oriental rugs that lined the floor like dominos laid end-to-end. He sat where the wide-chested cop told him to sit, in a little room that appeared to be a sorting facility for packages. After a minute, a second officer, a woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, arrived, and Chad started talking.
“He followed me home and attacked me.”
The officers listened and made notes and asked the doormen to describe what they’d seen.
If they arrested him, who would he call? Should he tell them why he was there? Should he defend himself? But he didn’t have to do either, because while Chad was detailing how he’d been stalked and ambushed, a man in a dark suit walked in.
“Stop talking, Chad,” said the man.
“Dad, he followed me—”
“What did I just say?”
Chad stopped talking.
“Mr. Drake,” said the balding doorman, “we left a message with your office…”
“Not now, Martin,” said Chad’s father, taking a business card from a pocket inside his jacket. “Officers, my name is Ridley Drake. I am an attorney. This is my son and I’d like to speak with him alone for a moment if you don’t mind.”
The officers looked at each other. The man, Officer Sanchez by his name tag, appeared to make the decision for them both.
“Come with us, son,” said Sanchez. He motioned for Trevor to follow.
Was this it?
“I’ll be just a moment,” said Mr. Drake. “I do appreciate the courtesy.”
Back in the entry hall, Trevor stood in a circle with the cops and the doormen. The tall one took off his hat and scratched his head.
“That was exciting,” he said.
“The last time I was in this building was when Mrs. Wisner’s grandson OD’d,” said Officer Sanchez.
“So, why’d you hit him?” asked the female cop, Officer Malone. Her hair was pulled back into a short ponytail and she wore a bulletproof vest under her shirt.
Claudia had not given him permission to talk about what Chad and Jeremy had done. And she certainly hadn’t given permission to tell the police about it. He wanted to say it so badly: Because he raped my friend and took a video of it. But he didn’t.
“Because he’s a dick,” Trevor said.
The tall doorman laughed and the door to the storage room opened. Mr. Drake stepped out with Chad behind him, looking deflated.
“My son has decided against pressing charges,” he said. “We’re willing to call it a schoolyard fight, slightly off campus. How does that sound, son?”
“Fine,” said Trevor. “Can I go now?”
TREVOR
The big black car was waiting for him the next morning, as if his night spent obsessing had conjured the man up. Dark hair, dark suit, dark sunglasses, standing beside an open door.
“Trevor,” said Ridley Drake. “Do you have a minute?”
Trevor slid over on the dark leather seat and Ridley sat down beside him, pulling the door closed. The driver, also wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, checked his mirror and pulled into the traffic on Fourteenth Street.
“Where are we going?” asked Trevor.
“We’ll just drive a bit. I can drop you wherever you’d like. Do you want something to drink?” Ridley opened a console in the center of the vehicle that held water and flavored seltzer and glass bottles of beer.
“I’m okay.”
Behind them, in the third row, sat a younger man with a thin face and close-set eyes. Instead of a suit, he wore a polo shirt and he was typing on a laptop balanced on his knees.
“This is Eric, one of my associates,” said Ridley.
Eric nodded but continued typing.
Ridley took off his sunglasses. “I’m sorry to sneak up on you. First of all, I want to apologize for what happened yesterday. There was absolutely no reason to involve the police, for Christsakes. Total overreaction. I’m going to be straight with you: My son is a fucking idiot. He has had literally every advantage. He’s good-looking, he’s athletic, he’s intelligent. But he’s a fucking idiot. Especially when it comes to girls, and especially when it comes to Claudia Castro. He’s been with other girls. I know that for certain. But he wants the one he can’t have. And she knows exactly what she’s doing, stringing him along. And this has been going on for years, okay? Have you met her family? Mom, sister?”
Trevor shook his head.
“Well, let’s just say she comes by it honestly.”
Ridley paused. For effect? Behind him, Eric’s clicking continued. The car stopped for a yellow light. What street were they on?
“After you left yesterday, Chad and I had a talk. I’m very, very sorry he sent you that video. Like I said, he’s an idiot. And impulsive, which is at least as bad. What kind of work does your father do?”
“What?”
“Your father. What’s his job?” Trevor hesitated. Ridley didn’t care about his father, and Trevor suspected that if he didn’t say anything, the man would just keep talking. He was right. “I’m an attorney. And I don’t hide my work from my son. The fact that he would record himself having sex and then pass it around … I mean, it’s just insane. But that’s what Claudia Castro does to him. Have you shown the video to anyone else?”
“No.” Trevor straightened his shoulders. Did he just blame Claudia for what Chad had done?
“Right, why would you? Again, I’m sorry you had to see that. And like I said, I understand why you did what you did yesterday. If someone had shown me that of my girlfriend…”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Okay, well, your whatever. I’m saying I don’t blame you. Chad will pay for this, I assure you. There will be consequences at home. Strings will be tightened significantly. But I don’t believe—and I hope you don’t believe—that one mistake should ruin a boy’s life.”
Trevor almost laughed. Chad was older than his brother had been when he went to prison. Eighteen was old enough for Michael Barber to have his life ruined. But not
Chad Drake? And all his brother had done was sell weed, and sometimes a little Molly or mushrooms, to friends; Chad Drake was a rapist. But Chad Drake had Daddy Ridley. Trevor’s father had to start driving an Uber to pay for the lawyer after both his boys were arrested that icy Sunday afternoon at the duplex on Maple. Trevor had never tagged along with his big brother to the house where he got his supply before, but they’d gotten high together that morning and Mike promised Dunkin’ on the way. Trevor stayed in the car with the donuts while his brother ran in. Mike was a senior with a B-average; the definition of small time. The goofy, long-haired kid who carried the party with him, earning just enough for some pocket money, a payment on the Camry, and a chunk into the college fund. He went to Maple barely once a month for a backpack full of product. But he was there, they were both there, when the cops raided the place and found way more than weed.
Trevor might have avoided being arrested if he’d just stayed in the car, but when the cruisers pulled up he panicked and ran. The neighborhood was unfamiliar, and as he heard the boots behind him getting closer, he looked back and tripped. So they handcuffed him, threw him in the waiting van, drove him rough downtown, and made him spend the night. Mike was booked into the jail and stayed for almost a week, until Trevor’s dad could get into his 401(k) for the bail. The retainer for taking both boys’ cases was $10,000 and a month later the lawyer suggested they make a deal: community service for Trevor, a juvenile; eighteen months behind bars for Mike. And a felony on his record forever.
In his letters, Mike wrote to Trevor about keeping his chin up. Get back to church, he’d advise. Ignore the bullshit. Give yourself a second chance. So Trevor stood in the pews with his parents every Sunday at Grace Christian Fellowship. He went to Wednesday evening Bible Study and he went on spring break mission trips and he was a summer counselor at a Baptist camp in Pennsylvania. Sometimes he let himself feel that love Jesus supposedly wanted to give him. He prayed for strength and he thought about justice. Mike loved hearing the stories of the girls who wanted to stay technical virgins. I bet you do just fine, he wrote back. And it was true. Mike’s letters came weekly, long missives where his big brother considered where he’d gone wrong and imagined a better path for himself. But the path was never going to be better. The path was no student loans for felons. No Section 8 for felons. Limited professional licensing for felons. Even more limited jobs. The path, when he got out in the middle of Trevor’s senior year, was living at home, scrounging for work from friends’ parents, online classes, depression, weed. Trevor tiptoed around his brother’s molten anger and his parents’ increasing desperation; he kept his grades up and his head down, and when the thick packet from NYU came in the mail the next spring, his mother and father took him out for lunch and told him they were thrilled and proud but that they didn’t want to make too big a deal at home.
“Your brother is happy for you, too,” said his dad. “We just need to be mindful of how he’s feeling right now.”
Trevor almost wept, right there over his steaming fajitas. He’d spent his whole life looking up to his brother. His funny, creative, kind, capable brother. Mike was a grown man, and here they were, the people who knew him best, talking about him like he was a fucking baby.
So should one mistake ruin poor Chad’s life? Yes. That’s exactly what it should do. But he wasn’t going to argue the point with Ridley Drake. Ridley Drake was summa cum laude at arguing. The night before Trevor had been thinking about what the lawyer in Canton told them about the deal that took his brother’s life away from him: It’s the best I can get. The DA wants to make a point, said the lawyer. Selling drugs to teenagers will not be tolerated in Canton. Selling drugs to teenagers will ruin your life. The lawyer said the DA wouldn’t listen to reason but Trevor suspected something different. Trevor suspected the DA wouldn’t listen to their lawyer. Because $10,000 wasn’t enough for a lawyer people listened to. It wasn’t enough for a lawyer like what Chad got for free.
“Sure,” said Trevor.
“I’m glad you agree,” said Ridley. “And let’s be honest, I can’t imagine Claudia wants to extend this situation any further.”
Trevor nodded.
“Have you made any copies of the video? Uploaded it anywhere?”
“No.”
“That’s what I was hoping.” Ridley brought a briefcase onto his lap and snapped it open. “We agree that nobody wants this video to go any farther than it’s already gone. I’ve destroyed Chad’s phone and computer. What I’d like to do is make an exchange with you. This is a brand new iPhone. The latest model. Uri is going to pull up to a cell phone store where we can set it up with your number and the bill will go to me for the next year.”
Chad’s father then pulled a yellow envelope from the briefcase.
“I realize there is some inconvenience involved and I want to offset that.” He paused. “This is ten thousand dollars.”
Trevor stared at the envelope. Saliva gathered in his mouth.
“What about Claudia?” asked Trevor.
“She’s very emotional right now. No girl wants to look like a slut. And definitely not so … graphically.”
“You talked to her?”
“She doesn’t want this to get out, either.”
Eric click-clicked in the back seat and Uri made a right turn.
“The cell phone store is just up here,” said Ridley. “We’ll pop in and then take you wherever you need to go.”
“I think I’m going to keep my phone,” said Trevor.
“Oh, come on now. This is found money, son. You just won the lottery.”
“Could you pull over?”
“Don’t be stupid, Trevor. What are you going to do? Jerk off to it?”
“I want to get out.”
“I can give you twenty thousand dollars right now. Cash.”
Uri stopped at a red light and Trevor opened the door. Horns honked as he stumbled onto whatever street he was on. He hopped the curb to the sidewalk and started walking fast. At the corner he looked up: Thirty-Ninth Street. There was a subway at Forty-Second Street—he knew that. He kept walking. When he got to Forty-Second Street, he asked a hot dog vendor which way to the subway. The vendor pointed. His phone rang as he was crossing Park Avenue. It was Claudia.
Trevor stopped walking. The woman behind him ran into his ankles with a stroller.
“Asshole!” she shouted.
He stepped out of the middle of the sidewalk and beneath the awning of a plus-sized ladies clothing store. A homeless man was slumped there, dressed in oily winter clothing, his boots half off, ankles swollen hard red and purple.
“Claudia?”
“Can you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t texted you back. I turned my phone off. I haven’t talked to anybody.”
“It’s okay.” The relief he felt at the sound of her voice was breathtaking. He couldn’t help how much he wanted her. He wanted her more than he wanted twenty thousand dollars. They were going to get through this together. “Did you talk to Ridley?”
“Who?” asked Claudia.
“Chad’s dad.”
“What are you talking about? Where are you?”
“Forty-Second Street.”
“I’m in a hotel on Forty-Fourth. The Towers in Times Square. There’s a Bubba Gump on the corner. Room 1492.”
Sailed the ocean blue, he thought as he began walking. He had only gone half a block when the man ran into him, snatched his phone, pushed him toward the street, and disappeared into the crowd.
CLAUDIA
“What should we do?” asked Trevor after he’d told her about his encounters with Chad and Ridley.
“We?”
“Those assholes came after me, too.”
Claudia was ready with her answer: “I have to assume that video is going to get out. When it does, the story isn’t going to be: Claudia Castro is a slut. The story is going to be: The guys who fucked with Claudia Castro got fucked up.”
They decided that step one was to get Claudia out of the hotel, where she was registered under her name. Whatever was going to happen next had to happen with a minimal footprint. She’d turned on her phone on that morning and deleted all the social apps. Texts were mostly from Trevor and her mom. Mom requesting a “family meeting”; Mom saying Edie “needs her sister.” They were easy to ignore. But after what had happened to Trevor’s phone, Claudia realized that having hers on made her vulnerable to GPS tracking. Ridley had his lawyer fingers in with all kinds of hackers. Chad once told her that was how his dad got a better deal in the divorce: He got into Chad’s mom’s phone and got proof she’d been having an affair, too. She paid up rather than look like a slut, Chad said. How could she have ever thought they were friends? The whole time, he just wanted to shove himself into her. To make her his.
She and Trevor went downstairs to the hotel’s business office to use the Internet. A few clicks and they found an open room at a Holiday Inn on Ninth Avenue. Her fake ID said she was Ingrid Greggs twenty-two, of Yonkers, and she figured that with enough cash up front, she could convince the desk clerk to overlook a “lost” credit card.
Step two was the bank.
“I’m gonna run some errands,” she told Trevor. “Meet me at the hotel in an hour?”
He didn’t make her explain further.
She walked into a Bank of America branch on Forty-Second Street, but the ATM had a $2,000 daily withdrawal limit. That wasn’t going to cut it. She needed $5,000 for Lesley. Plus who knew how many nights in the hotel after this. And maybe a plane ticket? And she should give Trevor something to make up for what he lost when he told Ridley to fuck off. Claudia knew she had nearly $70,000 in her personal checking. Jim Morgan transferred $5,000 from the family’s account into hers every month, and since coming to college she’d cut back on clothes and shoes and bags. It was one of her resolutions when she started at NYU: less stuff, more experiences. Aerial yoga and live music and even tasting menus were cheaper than designer dresses, so the money piled up. To get as much out as she wanted, though, she was going to have to show her real ID. Hopefully it would be worth it. From behind the glass doors leading into the branch Claudia assessed the tellers for the one she thought would ask the fewest questions. She picked well and when she told “LUIS”—clean-cut but young enough not to be suspicious of light flirting from a teenager—that she wanted to withdraw fifty thousand dollars cash because she was going to Vegas, all he asked was, “Can I come, too?”