Broken Pedestal

By Aimee Leon

Judge Matthew Grayson stands on an uncompromising pedestal of integrity. No excuses for disobeying the law are to be tolerated, until his beloved wife Debra disappears. Then, all bets are off. He will commit any crime to get her back.

As Debra, victim of a foiled kidnapping plot awakens in the hospital she hears voices
talking about harvesting her organs. Suffering from amnesia, she has no document to identify
her. She manages to escape and, as her memory slowly returns, has to resort to extraordinary
measures to survive in ways hitherto undreamed of in her previous life of luxury, where her only concerns were the well-being of her husband and stepchildren, Ellen and Neil.

If she finds her way home, Matthew will have to wrestle with his conscience. Due to hisnefarious activities while searching for her, he discovers that the man accused of kidnapping her is innocent. But ifhe tells the authorities what he knows he'll be incarcerated, a risk he can't afford to take until he finds Debra. Then, if reunited, will he allow an innocent man to pay for a crime Matthew knows he didn't commit? And if she tells him of her horrifying experiences, after she's suffered so much, can he risk going to prison and abandoning her? Or his children, who suffered equally as they searched for their beloved stepmother?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462871537

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Aimee Leon.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011907549

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4628-7151-3

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4628-7152-0

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4628-7153-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Author Bio

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to my daughters, Janette Speyer and Julie Drucker for their support, also my late husband, Joseph Colen for his constructive criticism and untiring patience—he read every word of every draft over and over. My sister, Valerie Adler and my cousin Ronnie Rodriguez also provided valuable input. My writing companion and good friend, Annie Crawford, herself an extremely talented writer, deserves special mention. Together we fine-tuned every paragraph, and, I’m ashamed to say, her help with my punctuation was invaluable. At least I learned.

PROLOGUE

Debra Grayson is drifting over green meadows dotted with gold buttercups and white daisies. The scent of freshness fills her with joy, while a gentle breeze caresses her and the sun shines benevolence. Then she hears the voices:

Do you realize how many people we can help? We’re talking heart, kidneys, liver, corneas. So many people are desperate while she lies here useless. To all intents and purposes, she might as well be dead.

I think we should wait. She’s only been here a few weeks.

With no identification whatsoever, and in a vegetative state the whole time. It doesn’t make sense to keep her on life support. Nobody’s asking about her. We don’t have to get anyone’s consent. We can start harvesting her organs as soon as the operating theater is available.

It’s still too soon. If there’s any chance she could come out of it that would make us murderers. She’s obviously from a wealthy background.

What’s obvious about it?

I remember when she was left here, her hair was blond, looked as though she’d just come out of the beauty parlor, and you could tell she’d just had a manicure.

You wouldn’t guess it to look at her now.

Course not. Her hair grew out and you can see the brown roots. And her nails . . . well they look as though someone started to paint the tips and ran out of polish.

Doesn’t matter. She’s not going to recover. I say we should go ahead.

No! Debra tries to yell.

A loud bell. The words, Code blue! Sounds of people running. Then silence.

The sun, the breeze and the flowers invite her back into happy nothingness, but she must resist. She doesn’t know who she is, or where she is, but she knows one thing: She has to live. Now she’s paralyzed, her limbs as though bound by steel cables. No weight-lifter ever made a greater effort, muscles strained to the utmost as she raises her arm. She has no idea she’s disconnected herself from the monitor and the green lines running across the screen are flat, or that she’s yanked the needle attached to the serum drip out of her arm, or that the only nurse left at the station, who should have been aware, is exhausted and benumbed by the constant chiming of patient’s bells. That poor nurse will have a lot of explaining to do later and will lose her job. Meanwhile, Debra moves her left leg. This is minimally easier. Finally, she sits up. She concentrates and manages to stand. Then, putting one weighted foot in front of the other, Debra Grayson stumbles out of the stark hospital room.

CHAPTER ONE

Seven weeks earlier

Forty-nine-year-old Matthew Grayson, superior court judge in the county of Los Angeles, smiles as the smell of fresh flowers and Louis Armstrong singing, What a wonderful world, welcome him into his luxurious colonial-style home in Encino, but right now his stomach is screaming like an unfed baby for the baked potato he hasn’t had time to eat at lunch. Honey, where are you? he calls as he enters.

In the living room.

Debra, wearing a pencil slim black skirt, a blue silk blouse the same color as her eyes, and a pearl necklace with drop earrings to match, is seated by a large bay window overlooking a verdant lawn surrounded by colorful flowers, bushes and fruit trees. As she turns to face him, the afternoon sun turns her blond hair into a golden halo while the warmth of her smile envelops him as she stands, her black stiletto heels bringing her height to 5'9", tall enough to reach to Matthew’s shoulder.

You look fantastic. He puts his arms around her.

You do too, she says as she kisses him. But I rushed the manicurist because I didn’t want to be late for dinner. She moves back a step and raises her hand with pearl-pink nails in front of his face. Do they look all right?

Wonderful.

Debra laughs. Like you’d notice if they were chipped.

Matthew laughs too as he pulls her back into his arms. Of course not. In case you didn’t know it, I love you even when your nails aren’t perfect.

Debra eases herself out of his embrace. How was your day? she asks as she moves to the cherry-wood cocktail cabinet, pours a glassful of whisky and hands it to him.

The usual. I was in arraignment court—drug addicts, thieves, murderers—you’ve heard it all. Two teenagers, separate cases, their fathers beat their mothers. The kids looked about to explode. Funnily enough I remember their names: Will Maven, a big blond guy with a pony tail, the other was dark and skinny, Keith Samson, I believe his mother is in the hospital. Horrible! He shudders, then sits on the sofa, takes a sip from his glass and pats the space beside him. Where are Ellen and Neil? I’m starved.

They’ll be here soon. Debra, a glass of vermouth in her hand, sits.

Matthew is inundated with gratitude. Six years ago, when he’d lost his first wife to cancer he was a raft adrift on a stormy ocean, with his children, Ellen and Neil equally devastated. Then he met forty-four-year-old Debra and the sun began to shine again. Besides being devoted to him and his children, this beautiful immaculate woman is a passionate lover. He might be ravenous at this moment, but the way to his heart is not through his stomach.

They should have been here by now, he says.

Neil is stuck to his computer and Ellen . . . She stops as a slender wild-haired blond teenage girl wearing a soiled white t-shirt and tight blue jeans hurtles into the room.

Sorry Debra. I know you hate it when I’m late, she gasps. Simon and I . . .

Simon? Debra asked.

I told you about him, Ellen says, when you asked about Paul.

I’m sorry, I can’t keep up. Debra smiles.

At least I tell you everything. My girlfriends’ parents have no idea who they date. I’m not late am I?

No. Debra is still smiling. And I appreciate you making the effort.

Neil, almost as tall as Matthew, but with dark blond hair and flagpole thin, rushes in. I’m not late either. He turns to Ellen, I’ve just seen your latest squeeze and if I were you I’d hide the evidence of my stupidity. I thought Paul was a jerk, but Simon’s worse. How can you stand the way his pants droop way below his crotch? I don’t want to say what it looks like . . . He bends his long legs to fold himself into an armchair.

Shut up! Dweeb! Ellen explodes. Nobody could call you the epitome of elegance. If you ever tore yourself away from the computer, you’d see how the rest of the world lives.

Can’t you pick one with brains? Then again, if he has brains, he won’t date you.

That’s enough, Matthew says. If you two can’t be civil to one another, don’t speak.

Have you finished your drink, dear? Debra asks. Dinner is ready.

Neil uncurls his lanky form and stands. Ellen pats her hair and follows him out of the room. Matthew puts down his half-finished glass and rises also to go into the dining room to enjoy a perfectly-cooked-and-served dinner of roast beef with all the trimmings.

Anything special happen at school today? Debra asks Ellen.

Just the same boring old routine. I still have homework.

Do you need any help?

No. It’s just math. I did most of it during history class while the teacher rattled on about the war of independence.

Matthew frowns.

Don’t glare at me, Dad. I’ve heard the whole thing so often I could give the class myself. Anyway, I’ve almost finished and Simon’s going to call me later.

Like you haven’t seen enough of him, Neil says.

Do you have homework, Neil? Debra asks.

Already did it. Had to write an essay on torture. It was kind of cool. The teacher wanted to know if we thought it could be justified under certain circumstances, like if a terrorist was caught and national security was threatened.

If we resort to torture we’re no better than the terrorists, Matthew says.

But what if we caught a well-known terrorist and had to torture him to find out what he was planning? Neil asks.

He could be planning to hurt a lot of innocent people, Ellen says.

I think you have a point, Debra says. Not that I approve of torture, but I can see how it could be considered.

I respectfully disagree, Matthew says. We must find other ways of obtaining information. Torture is a crime and under no circumstances is crime acceptable.

Anyway, Neil says, Freddy’s coming over later. He needs help with his essay.

Not that jerk again! Ellen says.

That’s enough from you two, Matthew speaks automatically, as though he’s said these words so often, he doesn’t think about it.

Sorry, Dad. Neil and Ellen chorus.

. At that moment the phone rings. Matthew rises, pushes his chair back from the table and goes to pick it up. I’m sorry, he says, I have to take this in my study. I have a difficult decision to make tomorrow, the defense presented a motion to suppress key evidence, and I need to study the case law. He leaves the room.

The children leave shortly after. Debra goes into the kitchen and finds Priscilla, the maid, in tears. My sister called. I have to go. My father’s sick and he’s already had two heart attacks. I’ve cleaned up everything.

I hope he makes a speedy recovery, Debra says. She likes Priscilla and regrets losing her. Head hurting, Debra leaves the kitchen and goes into her bedroom. When Ellen and Neil snipe at one another she’s reminded of her parents trading insults throughout her childhood. Each told her separately that she was the only reason they stayed together and they divorced when she was in her late teens. Her father had married again, presumably happily, but died soon after. And her mother, Celia spent her time traveling in Europe and getting involved with different lovers. Perhaps her parents’ discord had inspired her to choose a career as mediator in divorce cases, her specialty: counseling parents to put aside their differences, make sure the children didn’t feel responsible for their break-up and helping to arrange joint custody. She loved her job, but after falling in love with Matthew she gave it up, not because of the hours, but because of the mental energy it consumed. Energy she needed to establish a good relationship with his children.

She picks up a bottle containing make-up remover but her hand shakes and she knocks it over spilling most of the contents. She mops it up with Kleenex, removes her jewelry and lies down without taking off her clothes. But, too restless to relax, after five minutes she decides to drive to the drug store and get another bottle. As she leaves the house she calls out to say she’ll be back soon. Her car is parked outside the front door. Nobody answers, but she isn’t worried. She’ll be home before anyone realizes she’s left.

*     *     *

CHAPTER TWO

Seething with rage, eighteen-year-old Will Maven, blond hair escaping from his pony tail, brown eyes hard, watched his father in jail blues standing in line with equally clad prisoners behind a glass window in Division 40 of the criminal courts building. While the charges against him were being read and Ronald Maven pled ‘not guilty,’ Will’s mother Adele, cried noisily. Then his father moved out of sight and another name was called.

Devon Samson: how do you plead to the charge of spousal battery? the prosecutor droned. As Will was leaving, he passed in front of a skinny dark-haired teenager. The boy’s fist was clenched, his expression furious.

Your father? Will muttered as he eased his way past him.

The fucker! Beat my mom bad. She’s in the hospital.

He’ll do it again when he gets out, Will said. My mom had a restraining order against my dad. Then she goes and calls him. Of course he beats her up again.

Move on, a voice grated. You’re in the way.

I’ll be out in a sec, the teenager said. Wait for me.

Will exited the courtroom. Take the car and go home, he said to his mother who had followed him into the congested corridor. I’ll get the bus later.

How can you leave me alone when I’m so miserable? Adele blew her nose loudly and continued to cry. A child screamed and ran towards him and Will stepped aside to avoid being hit. A moment later a woman grabbed it. The yells were deafening.

I won’t be long, Will said as soon as he could make himself heard. He glared at his mother’s back as she wobbled away on impossibly high heels. She didn’t have to be so helpless. Why the hell didn’t she lose weight, fix herself up and get a decent man instead of the drunken loser who was his father? If that was what love did to you, he’d make sure it never happened to him.

I’m Keith Samson, a voice behind him said. Wait a minute, I know you.

Will turned to see the teenager he’d spoken to in court. Keith Samson? From grade school?

Remember when we used to make fun of the teacher?

Skinny legs, like pins.

Tight dresses with big boobs hanging out.

Wouldn’t mind meeting her today, Keith said. Wasted on little kids like us.

Yeah. But your father wasn’t beating you then, was he? Will asked. Mine lost his money and my mom had to clean houses, otherwise we’d have gone hungry. I was lucky to finish high school. But that’s when he started knocking her around. He beats me too, when he can catch me. The rotten bastard!

My dad was O.K. till after I finished high school a coupla years ago. Then he decides my mom’s cheating on him, so he gets drunk and beats us both. He’s 6'2, solid as a rock. Look at me, 5'9, skin and bone. I been working out regular but I’ll never be strong enough. He’ll kill my mother first.

He’ll go to prison, Will said.

Sure. Then he’ll get out and beat her again.

I don’t know if my dad will even get to prison, Will said. My mom’s a retard. She always says it’s her fault.

We should blow up the fucking building! Get rid of the two motherfuckers! Keith said.

Kill the two bastards! Will said.

Let’s do it. What are you doin’ tomorrow night? We could get together. Where do you live now? Keith asked.

On Fifty-fifth Street in Compton. You?

Not far. Sixty-Seventh Street. But I gotta work now. Come to my place tomorrow evening.

The boys separated after exchanging phone numbers. Will felt a surge of excitement as he waited for the bus. Blow up the building? Was Keith serious? Was he? He didn’t know, but he sure liked the idea. No father to fuck up his life. His mother might cry—of course she would—but she’d get over it. Did they dare? They could make plans. Didn’t mean they’d actually have to do it.

Before leaving his apartment the following evening Will looked in the mirror at his well-developed muscles outlined by his tight t-shirt. Too bad he didn’t have a date with a hot chick who’d appreciate his great bod. He wouldn’t bother telling his mother he was going out. He didn’t want her asking questions: Where was he going? When would he be back? He never told her the truth anyway.

When he arrived, his friend was standing outside a run-down apartment building. My sister’s come in to clean up, he said. We gotta go somewhere else.

Whatever, Will said.

We’ll go to the park. You thirsty? Keith said. There’s this guy sells beer, never asks for I.D.

Good!

Wish I had your muscles, Keith said once they were seated on a park bench, a six-pack between them. I’d beat my fucking old man to a pulp.

I’m working out. A surprise for my dad, the lousy rat! So, Will felt a jolt of adrenaline, are we really going to blow the place up? He took a gulp of beer.

You bet, Keith said. But I’m not into suicide. We make sure we don’t get caught.

Deal.

First, your mom. Do you care if she’s there?

Will looked horrified. Not my mom.

Right. Wouldn’t do it to my mom neither. Keith sniffed, then went on, How’re you gonna make sure your mom’s not around?

We got time, Will said. First there’s the preliminary hearing. Then the arraignment in the superior court, then . . .

Don’t have to give me no details, Keith said. It’s not like I never went through this shit before. But what if the fuckers cop a plea?

They won’t do it before the preliminary hearing and that’s not for two weeks, Will said.

It’s still not enough time, Keith said. We got to get your mom out of the way. We got to see how we can get a bomb through them metal detector things . . .

We need to get stuff, Will said. I read instructions on the internet how to make bombs.

You got a computer? I don’t have no money.

It’s an old one, Will said. I was helping a guy move out and he gave it to me.

That’s what you do? Moving? Keith asked.

I do odd jobs. Whatever I can get, Will said. I’ve been trying to save to go to night school, but it doesn’t matter where I hide my money, my dad sneaks around until he finds it.

I bag groceries, Keith said. But my dad steals my money too. Spends it on booze.

Fuckers! They deserve to die! Tomorrow we go back to the building and look it over.

The bomb’s gotta be in the courtroom they’re in, Keith said. Don’t want no mistakes.

How do we know which one?

They said my dad’d be back in two weeks, Keith said. Then they said the judge’s name, so I checked—there’s a board on the wall beside the elevators. It’s Matthew Grayson. His court is on the fifth floor. But we gotta be careful. Last time there was people everywhere. Anybody coulda heard us.

My dad’s going to be in the same court. I suppose their cases’ll be heard on the same day, Will said. Hey, wait a minute, wasn’t that the judge in court yesterday?

Maybe, Keith said. But it don’t matter which judge it is. We gotta get rid of our fuckin’ dads.

They arrived at the Criminal Courts building at 10:00 the following morning, passed through the metal detector and took the elevator to the fifth floor where they located the courtroom with Matthew Grayson’s name on the door. The boys walked to the end of a long corridor passing a number of doors on the way, each one of which they tried, but they were all locked. At the end they found one that opened and though the light on the other side was dim, they could see stairs going in both directions.

Maybe this opens onto the street. Let’s go down and see, Keith said. Then, the day of the hearing, you can come in through the metal detector, I’ll wait outside with the explosives and you can let me in.

Should be easy, Will said.

They entered and started to descend. Not wanting to admit he was having second thoughts, and doubting that the security would be so easy to breach, Will didn’t speak. Were they really going to blow up the building? Could they actually do it? If they could just be sure of killing their dads, that’d be one thing, but all those people? He wondered if Keith felt the same way, but didn’t want to ask him.

Over the door to each floor was a number: fourth, third, second, then first. They descended one more flight to find themselves at the basement so they went back to the first floor. Keith arrived first. Ready? He leaned his shoulder against the door. It refused to budge. Both boys pushed with all their weight. In vain.

Fuck! Keith said. We’ll have to go back up to the next floor.

But they couldn’t open that door either. They continued to run up the stairs and push the door on each floor all the way to the top of the building. Then they returned to the basement. Every door was locked. They were trapped.

CHAPTER THREE

In his den, which had no furniture except a high-backed leather chair, a leather-topped desk and shelves lined with law books, Matthew sat down, opened his briefcase and lost himself in his papers. The ring of the phone an hour and a half later jolted him.

Judge Grayson?

Speaking. Matthew didn’t recognize the raspy voice.

I have the pictures.

What pictures?

Be outside the ‘Black Rooster’ in twenty minutes. Or they’ll be published on the internet and in the newspapers.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, Matthew said. I don’t have time for practical jokes.

It’s about your wife. The phone clicked.

When he exited his den to look for Debra, she’d left. The children were nowhere in sight either.

Should he ignore the call? Matthew had to admit that an uneasy curiosity impelled him to drive his slate-grey Infiniti to the Black Rooster, a run-down bar he’d never thought of entering. When he stopped the car and rolled down the window, he saw a masked man wearing a black shirt and blue jeans. He laughed.

You won’t be laughing for long, the man said, his voice distorted by the mask. Here’s the deal: $100,000 by this time tomorrow night or pictures get published.

Blackmail?

You’d better believe it.

I have no time for this. Matthew switched the engine on.

It’s your wife. It’s your funeral. The man held a packet in the air. Then, illuminated by the street light, Matthew saw the picture.

It was a photocopy, but the image was clear: Debra was lying naked on her back and the back of a head with short black hair covered the area of her crotch. Like the sample? the man said. There’s more. Rapidly as a magician shuffling cards he displayed another picture. Matthew broke into a sweat as, unbelieving, he watched the masked man fan more photocopies. That was when he saw the face of Debra’s partner: a teenage boy. One of Ellen’s exes? He wasn’t sure.

I have original copy, the man said. Matthew couldn’t decide if his accent was Hispanic or Armenian. The only thing he was sure of was the man wasn’t born in this country.

As he sat mesmerized in his car, the man disappeared. For a few moments, Matthew wondered if he’d imagined the scene, but his roiling stomach told him otherwise. He staggered out of his car, stood doubled over beside the curb, threw up and continued to retch long after his stomach was empty. He didn’t know how much time passed before he realized he couldn’t stay there indefinitely. Now his mind was numb, but the awareness of reality hovering, waiting to invade him, filled him with dread. He got into his car, rolled down the windows hoping the cold air would make him feel better, and drove aimlessly.

He knew he had something important pending but couldn’t remember what. No matter how he tried to think, all he could see was the picture of his naked wife fucking the boy. Beautiful lustful Debra. The only woman for him. The woman who’d brought happiness into his life, his children’s too, after his first wife’s tragic death. The woman who’d taught him to laugh, teased him, told him to be less sober and more human or if he wasn’t careful he’d choke on his dignity. She said she enjoyed seeing the expression on his face when she came out with outrageous statements. But although the teasing made him uncomfortable occasionally, it always ended in passionate lovemaking. His wife. His illusion. Ruined. He wondered how he could live without her.

Blackmail. There was no way he could get hold of $100,000 between now and tomorrow night. Through his haze of horror, he realized this was just the first installment. Eventually he’d run out of money and the photos would be published on the internet. Or he’d have to find a way to get rid of the blackmailer. But what was he going to do about Debra? He eased his foot upwards on the accelerator as he realized he was way over the speed limit. The last thing he needed right now was a ticket.

Another thought struck and he stopped beside a parked car: could it be a hoax? Could Debra’s face be superimposed onto another body? The photos had been fanned in front of him too quickly for him to see the details, and he’d been too horrified. Tomorrow night he’d go back and confront the blackmailer. He’d insist on having the copies to study before making any decision. If Debra was innocent, she’d never forgive him for believing her capable of such a thing. He wasn’t going to ruin his marriage because of a hoax. His mind was a revolving door, each turn showing a different picture. Each one unbearable.

He looked up and saw he was in a residential area. Cars were parked on both sides of the street in front of single-story houses with small front yards. A light went on in the house in front of him and he decided to move on. Probably everyone knew everyone else and a stranger would attract attention, even apprehension.

He couldn’t confront Debra at this moment. What could he say? His heart felt hacked with a rusty saw, contaminated blood everywhere. Hoax? Of course it wasn’t. He knew that intimate smile. In the past it had filled him with delight. Sometimes she’d catch his eye when other people were present and smile exactly that way, knowing how it affected him. That smile brought back their intense passion and made him want to grab her and make violent love no matter who was around. He continued to drive.

Now he remembered: he was supposed to study case law and render a decision on a motion to suppress evidence in the trial in the morning. The lawyers would