Damaged (8 page)

Patrick shrugged. “I don't know.”

Officer Lee continued, “Well, let's try and figure it out. How many days were between the first time and the second time Mr. Robertson hurt you?”

“Like a few days.” Patrick flushed again. “He doesn't like me. He says I'm stupid and retarded and I don't know how to read.”

Officer Lee frowned. “That's not very nice. It's mean to call people names, and I'm sure you know how to read.”

Mary bit her tongue. Before she practiced special-education law, she would have assumed that all fifth-graders could read, too. Edward looked down, linking his hands in his lap.

Officer Lee cleared her throat, in a final way. “Well, that's all the questions I have for you, Patrick. You're a very brave boy and you did the right thing, talking to us today.”

Patrick flushed. “Mr. Robertson told me not to say anything. He told me if I told anybody what he did that he would kill me. He said he would kill me and he would kill my grandfather. He would kill my whole family.”

Officer Lee frowned. “You don't have to worry about that. We're not going to let him do that. He's just being a bully.”

“Would you guard our house? I don't want him to kill us.”

“We'll keep an eye on you both. You don't have to worry about that.”

“My Pops says, ‘don't be a tattle-tale.'”

At that, Edward looked up. “That's only something I say, that's what my mother always said. I told him that when he was little.”

Officer Lee nodded. “Of course, Mr. O'Brien, we understand. There's a generational difference here, and times have changed, especially with respect to school violence.” She turned to face Patrick and leaned over toward him. “Patrick, that is not the way things are anymore.”

“The sixth-graders say, ‘snitches get stitches.'”

“I know, but they're wrong,” Officer Lee said, in a new Mom-tone. “You mentioned the terrorists before, remember? Did you ever hear people say, ‘If you see something, say something?'”

Patrick nodded, yes.

“Well,
that's
the right thing. Saying something is the right thing, always. If a bad thing happens, or if you see a bad thing, you have to tell the teacher. Or your grandfather.”

Patrick nodded, yes, but started sucking his lip again.

“Good, thank you, Patrick.” Officer Lee flipped her notebook closed and stood up, returning it to her back pocket. “Mr. O'Brien and Ms. DiNunzio, thanks.”

“Folks, thank you very much.” Officer Muniz rose, putting his notebook away. “Patrick, you did the right thing today. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said in his polite way, looking up at Edward for approval, but Edward was already rising and walking stiffly to the door.

“Officers, let me show you out, and thank you very much for your time.” Edward reached the door and opened it wide.

Mary got up, but stayed with Patrick. “Thank you, Officers,” she called to them.

“You're welcome.” Officer Lee stopped at the door. “Call the Philadelphia Children's Alliance. They conduct a forensic interview, which is videotaped and admissible in court. Give them the heads-up that you're taking him over.”

“Thanks. Will do.” Mary nodded, sliding her phone from her pocket.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

The modern gray complex of low-rise buildings on Hunting Park Avenue housed all of children's welfare services under one roof: PCA, or the Philadelphia Children's Alliance, DHS, or the Department of Human Services, and the Police Department's SVU, or Special Victims Unit. The striking architecture of the buildings stood out in this gritty industrial section of Hunting Park.

“The building looks nice,” Mary chirped, trying to lighten the mood. She was driving the O'Briens in her car, with Edward in the front seat and Patrick in the back, and on the ride over, both of them had looked out of their respective windows, saying nothing the entire time. Mary understood that not all families were as talkative as hers, that men talked less than women, and that nobody talked as much as Italian-American women, so she didn't take it personally even if it was a culture shock.

Mary pulled into the lower lot and parked, but left the engine running for the air-conditioning. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Patrick. “Hey, pal, how you doing back there?”

“Okay.” Patrick didn't look away from the window.

“Let me explain to you what's going to happen inside.” Mary had gotten the basics from the receptionist when she'd called to say they were coming in. “This is no big deal. There's going to be a nice lady and she's going to ask you what happened, just like with the police, and you should just tell her the truth. There's nothing to worry about or be nervous about. Okay?”

“Okay.” Patrick still didn't look away from the window, so Mary turned around to face him, and in the daylight, she could see that his bruise was larger than she'd thought, though it was faint.

“You're not worried, are you?”

“No.”

“Do you have any questions before we go in?”

“No.” Patrick kept turned to the window.

“You sure? You can ask me anything, you know that.”

“I know.” Patrick shrugged.

Edward turned, emitting a low grunt as he twisted around in the seat. “Patrick, look at Mary when she's talking to you. She's trying to help you.”

Mary said, “Edward, it's okay—”

“Wait, I have a question.” Patrick turned to Mary. “How do you get the air-conditioning in your car to be so good?”

Mary smiled. “I keep it on high.”

“I like it.” Patrick smiled back, which Mary thought was adorable.

“Good. Any other questions?”

“Is this place we're going air-conditioned?”

“Yes, I'm sure it is.” Mary chuckled.

“Do they keep it on high?”

“I'm sure they do.”

Edward shook his head. “Patrick—”

“Let's go,” Mary interrupted, preempting what she sensed was going to be a reprimand. She liked Edward, but she could see that he was getting crankier as the day went on, and though she understood his reaction, her focus was Patrick. The boy was the one who had been beaten up and now had to answer questions about it, twice in a row. The three of them got out of the car, and Mary led the way through the parking lot. She noticed that Patrick bopped along at Edward's side, but they didn't hold hands, which must have been another cultural difference. Mary's mother didn't let go of Mary's hand in parking lots until sometime last year.

They reached the Philadelphia Children's Alliance entrance, which was of frosted glass with a transparent single door. Patrick scooted forward to open the door for them, glancing up at Edward for approval, but Edward was already walking through the door with Mary, who stepped into a waiting room that struck her immediately as an oasis for children. The room was large, with every square inch made for kids. The reception desk was on the left, painted on three sides with a mural of a fantastical garden, and on the right were green-padded chairs, with lots of smaller chairs for kids. Two little girls were watching a new flat-screen TV that hung on the wall, playing a
Shrek
DVD, a little boy and a girl were playing in a brown Little Tykes kitchen stocked with molded pork chops, fake fruits, and a pretend roasted chicken, and next to a kiddie-height table covered with construction paper, Magic Markers, and crayons.

Patrick's gaze went immediately to the art table, then he looked up at Edward. “Can I?”

“No,” Edward answered, and Mary kept her own counsel. She would have said yes, but she kept that to herself and crossed to the reception desk.

“How can I help you?” asked the receptionist, a young girl with a long ponytail.

“I'm Mary DiNunzio, I called for a walk-in for Patrick?” Mary intentionally didn't use his last name, which was standard practice in any case involving a minor.

“Please, sit down. That will just be a minute.”

“Thank you.” Mary went to the seating area and took a chair next to Edward, with Patrick on the other side.

Mary sat down, getting her bearings. The waiting room was almost full, with men and women reading their phones in the chairs, amid a noise level predictable for children, and fortunately, the air-conditioning on full blast. Mary watched the little girls mesmerized by
Shrek
on DVD, then the little boy cutting the pretend pork chop with a toy knife, then slowly, it dawned on her that the happy scene wasn't so happy, at all. This was the intake for all of the child abuse cases in the city, and that meant that all of these children had been abused and that these parents were here in their worst moments, just like Edward.

Mary's mouth went dry at the thought, and she kicked herself for not realizing it when she had first entered the waiting room. It was really too awful to contemplate, not only that anybody could harm an innocent child, but that there were so many of them, and they all looked so adorable at play, little girls in their flowery sundresses and pink sandals, with their hair in barrettes, and little boys in tank tops with skinny arms and crumbling wash-off tattoos.

The children were of all ethnicities: white, black, Hispanic, and Asian, and the adults showed the same mix, though when Mary looked closer at their faces, she realized that they all shared the same expression, the controlled anger and unbearable strain of adults whose children had been abused—the same pursed lips, subtle frown, out-of-proportion concentration on a phone screen—masking the pain, anger, and hurt they must be feeling for their children.

“Ms. DiNunzio, Mr. O'Brien, and Patrick?” a young African-American woman called out, as she came through a door on the other side of the room, carrying a manila folder. She had a round, pretty face dominated by lively brown eyes and framed with dark, oiled curls. She smiled broadly when she spotted Mary, Edward, and Patrick, standing up.

“Here, we are.” Mary brightened as she walked forward with Edward and Patrick.

“I'm Cassandra Porter,” said the woman, shaking Mary's hand, then Edward's, and smiling down at Patrick. “Hi, Patrick, come on in.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, and they passed through the door into a large open space that led to a long hallway of closed doors, with a blue-patterned carpet. The walls were a soft creamy hue, clean and freshly painted, and appealing, large-scale cityscapes painted by children lined the walls on both sides. Yellow signs outside the doors read
QUIET ZONE
,
SENSITIVE RECORDING IN PROGRESS
.

“Welcome, folks.” Cassandra smiled again, down at Patrick. “Patrick, nice to see you.”

Patrick didn't reply except to nod, looking around.

“I'm Edward O'Brien, Patrick's grandfather.” Edward extended a hand to Cassandra, and she shook it.

“Good to meet you, Mr. O'Brien. Thank you for bringing him in.”

“Are you sure this is necessary?” Edward asked, his tone unmistakably cranky.

Mary looked over at him, surprised at his question. She had explained the reason for the forensic interview at the house, out of Patrick's earshot.

“Yes, it is, and it's standard procedure,” Cassandra answered pleasantly, then returned her attention to Patrick. “Patrick, I'm going to be speaking with you today and asking you a few questions. But first, will you do me a favor and step into this room for a moment, so I can talk to your grandfather and Ms. DiNunzio?”

Patrick nodded, yes.

“Here we go.” Cassandra opened the first door in the hallway, and it swung open onto a white room the size of a cubicle, with purple-and-orange bubbles painted on the walls. There was nothing in the room but a round white table with two kiddie-sized blue stools, and on the table was a small box of Kleenex and a tray of Magic Markers and some white paper. Patrick spotted the art supplies immediately, though Mary's gaze found the box of Kleenex, knowing what it was for, sadly.

“Can I go draw?” Patrick asked, looking up at Edward.

Cassandra answered, “Go right ahead, Patrick.”

Patrick took off, already in motion when Edward called after him, “Patrick?”

Cassandra shut the door, closing Patrick inside, then looked to Edward and Mary. “Folks,” she said, lowering her voice. “Follow me, so we can chat about this without disturbing the other interviews.” She turned on her heels and led them two doors down, where she opened the door with a red triangle that said
CONSULTATION ROOM
.

Mary stepped inside to find a larger room than the cubicle, containing a round conference table of wood veneer, and around the table sat four adult-sized padded chairs. On the near wall hung another child's cityscape, but opposite that was a large LG flat screen.

Cassandra shut the door behind them. “Mr. O'Brien, it's standard operating procedure in a child abuse case for a forensic interview.”

“But why do you need another interview?” Edward frowned. “He just talked to the police. Why don't you just use that one?”

Mary still didn't understand why he was asking. She had explained to him that this would be a videotaped interview, but she let Cassandra answer.

“Mr. O'Brien, a forensic interview is a fuller investigation of the facts than the police do, especially with a minor. In addition, we videotape the interview and audiotape it as well—”

Edward interrupted, “I didn't see a camera.”

“The camera is hidden, and that's by design. We don't want the child to feel inhibited by the fact that he or she is being filmed, nor do we want them to perform for the camera.” Cassandra kept her tone reasonable, though firm. “The camera lens is mounted in the corner near the ceiling, so it's not in the child's view, and if you notice the metal plate next to the table, that's where the audio feed comes in.”