Are You Sitting Down? (12 page)

“It’s not too late to recant what you
told them
,” Judge Ra
i
len whispered.

“Never,” I managed to say after a hard swallow.

“You better hope they put me away for a long long time.”

“They will.”

And they did.

Five more years were added to his sentence once a private investigator heard about the harassing phone calls.
Twenty
-
five years behind bars would never seem long enough. After the immense settlements were passed out
,
based on the amount of time
each of us suffered
and
the
level of abuse
,
most of
the women
backed out of the way instead of pushing for a life sentence. Judge Railen had put his hand on one court clerk’s leg under the bench right in court, and also forced her to perform oral sex on him
in his private chambers
.
She received close to a million dollars, and was the first to sell her story to a national news channel and to a true crime author who conveniently popped up in town.

Having only worked under his authority for a year, I r
e
ceived the smallest settlement but was okay with that.
I was more concerned with returning to being a housewife and taking care of my family now that Mark was working full time again.
I was ready for the trial to be over
so that I could start to fo
r
get about all of this.

All of the women, including myself,
did insist th
at
Judge Railen serve his time as far away as possible, as he had pra
c
ticed law in six of the eight states that border
ed
Tennessee
. Judge Railen had immediately pursued his appeal rights upon the b
a
sis that the indictment should be dismissed because the due process clause did not give protection against sexual a
s
saults.

Highly educated and trained in law, he vigorously re
p
resented himself so we did not want him to find loop holes in the state courts that could eventually overturn his conviction.
He ended up in a
California
penitentiary thanks to a motion that the grand jury made to the Supreme Court on behalf of the families of his victims.
But even while in jail he continuously pursued a reversal by seeking a new trial, arguing that new ev
i
dence had surfaced.

The public embarrassment of having my family’s name printed in the
Ruby Dregs
County Gazette every day soon faded.
Being yesterday’s news with a chunk of
Judge Railen’s dirty
money in the bank was supposed to somehow make things better.
Eventually, the women behind me in church or in the beauty shop stopped whispering. I still laid awake at night just knowing that evil man was still out there,
still
breathing.
The pressure of all the
small town
scrutiny
didn’t help
my ma
r
riage.

I demanded myself to bury all of this and move forward, but just when I’d made it through a day without once hearing the Judge’s name, someone in line at the bank felt the need to give me their condolences over everything that had happened.
This town wouldn’t let me forget.
Mark was growing tired of me jumping every time he casually put an arm around my waist or touched my shoulder.
Sex was unbearable because I only saw the Judge’s face hovering over me. Mark’s
kisses
became
distant
and i
n
termittent
.
I made them that way.

Two years passed.
Answered prayers
came one day when Mom called and asked if I’d seen the morning paper.
Now, I’d never wished or prayed for anyone to die, and if I’d ever sp
o
ken it out loud it was out of
sheer
anger for what Judge Railen had done to me.
And although no one would ever say it, rea
d
ing the headlines that the Judge had died in prison was a lot like being baptized.
The heavy burden of depression and vi
c
timization washed away, at least, for a little while.

He’
d
been dead for months
but the black robed pote
n
tate still haunt
ed
my dreams.

“
Stop going to his grave
,
”
Mark t
old
me.

I don’t know why I
went
.
Standing there, I
’d
break into tears over his gravestone like a mourning relative
who cared about him
.
Instead,
I grieve
d
for the happier days when my marriage and family were stable and had meaning, all lost at the wandering hands of a perverted boss—king of the small town legal system
, the very one
that
I felt
turned its back on me.

A therapist told me s
tanding over his grave
was
a huge step to facing my fears.
There
we
re no flowers
there
.
There
wa
sn’t even grass growing back over the patch where they planted him.
I expec
ted
to find graffiti sprayed across his ma
r
ble-etched name some day, but it’s as if this town just fo
r
got about him
forever
.
I wish
ed
I could be so lucky.
I kep
t
a safe di
s
tance, half expecting his menacing
corpse
hand to pop up out of the ground and chase me.
I dreamt that once.
The man haunt
ed
my dreams, when I
was
fortunate enough to get sleep, but still I
went
to h
is grave at least once a month.

I’d go after dropping the kids off at school in the morning.
When there was a day with no bill to pay, no errand to run,
and
no groceries to buy, I’d find myself driving the winding narrow paths through
Zion
Cemetery
to the Judge’s grave in the far back corner.
I memorized the names on the markers I drove past like they were old friends I’d
see
now and then.
Some of them were friends once.

I don’t know how long I stood there each time.
A pas
s
ing car would grab my attention and bring me back to the reality of the day.
With a jerk of my wrist, I’d look at my watch thinking I’d lost several hours of time in a daydream, but us
u
ally only a few minutes had ticked away.
Sometimes, the cell phone in my purse would ring.
It was always Mark, as if he knew where to find me and knew I needed to hear his voice.

“Where are you?”
h
e ask
ed
.

“I’m in line to pay the utility bill,” I said.

He knew I was lying.

“Come have lunch with me today.”

He never invited me to lunch until recently.
Our time alone together was suddenly precious again.
He’d hold my hand across the table and tell me whose body was at the funeral home th
at
week.
He told me how much their coffin costs, or about all the pretty flowers or lack thereof.
How had death b
e
come such an important and inevitable part of our marriage, for both of us?

I pretended to pay attention, usually lost in the ripples of a bowl of potato soup.
I wondered who would be sitting he
re
li
s
tening to him when he needed to tell someone about how
t
his marriage had died.
There would be no flowers at that funeral
either
, only a debate over what to do with the house or who got custody of
Robbie and Rachel
.

It’s a lot easier to talk about someone else’s passing when you aren’t the one who needs to grieve.
Grieving for when our marriage finally closes its eyes seemed almost i
m
possible.

And so now, it’d come to this but there was always something delaying the
divorce
. In August the kids had to have school supplies and new clothes, and in September we celebrated their birthday.
In October, there were pumpkins to carve and Ha
l
loween costumes to buy.
Thanksgiving was mine and Mark’s favorite holiday.
He’d help me in the kitchen in between qua
r
ters of football games on television.
All four of us would put up the Christmas tree the next day.

In between helping the kids write letters to Santa and building a gingerbread house, we managed to schedule mee
t
ings with lawyers.
So, in the dead of winter with all
our
warm memories buried deep in the snow, I’d find myself in a cour
t
room again making a decision that would change the one part of my life
I thought
I’d managed to keep consistent till now.

I finished making the salad to carry to Mom’s.
I chopped tomatoes and put them in a separate bowl because I hate
d
them.
I don’t mind them cooked in a sauce or soup, but raw tomatoes on anything ma
d
e me sick. I think
Mom is the only one in the family who likes them
.
Dad didn’t even like them.
I remember Mom grew them in the backyard and put them on our dinner plates out of spite sometimes, knowing that we’d pick them off and push them to the side.
She said a salad wasn’t complete without them.
So, before we eat tonight I’ll toss them over the top of the salad when she isn’t looking.