The Deader the Better Read Free

you.
You’d have to—”
    I held up a palm. “Whoa, now…I
haven’t said anything about taking on the case.”
    She didn’t argue or plead. She
simply said, “You must.”
    I knew what I was letting myself in
for, but I asked her anyway.
    “Why’s that?”
    She told me her story. Mark McMahon
was her son by her first marriage. Raised by his father after the
divorce. Over in eastern Washington. He and Mona had been married for
nearly fifteen years. Three years ago, Mark had been transferred to
the Seattle area, affording Constance Hart an opportunity to get to
know the granddaughter she’d hardly met. From the beginning, she’d
sensed something was terribly wrong.
    Misty had always been a timid,
withdrawn child, seemingly more content to play alone indoors than to
be outside with the other kids. A poor student. Unable to concentrate
on anything for very long, she was adjudged to have a learning
disability and was assigned to classes for the differently abled. And
it might have ended that way, too. She might have just been another
misdiagnosed kid who slipped through the cracks in the system and was
never seen again. Three months into the fifth grade, all students at
Westwood Middle School are shown a videotape designed to inform them
as to what is and is not appropriate touching on the part of
grown-ups. The tape is no big deal. Mostly drawings and arrows. Most
of the kids have seen it twice a year since second grade. Many nap.
    This time, however, when the lights
were turned back on, something was amiss. Misty’s seat was empty.
The halls and restrooms were checked. Then the school grounds. The
police were called. Nearly an hour after her teacher reported her
missing, Misty was found huddled and nearly comatose in a supply
closet at the back of the maintenance room. Subsequent sessions with
the district psychologist revealed a pattern of sexual abuse dating
back to Misty’s earliest memories. Unfortunately, while the girl
was able to speak quite cogently of her father’s abuse within the
confines of therapy, Misty proved unable to handle cross-examination
in open court and eventually, despite three criminal trials, the
protests of the school district and the best efforts of Constance
Hart’s attorneys, the girl was remanded back into the custody of
her parents, from whom she then proceeded to run away at every
opportunity.
    Misty’s father Mark made his fatal
mistake about three months ago. He’d kicked in his mother’s front
door, thrown her to the floor and then dragged his runaway daughter,
kicking and screaming, back out through the shattered portal. Big
mistake.
    What Mark McMahon overlooked was that
Constance Hart’s front door was in Peninsula County, not King
County, and in Peninsula County, Ms. Constance Hart was both
extremely prominent and astonishingly well connected. Seems her late
husband Frank had not only left his widow extremely well fixed, but
had shown the remarkable foresight to have gone to college with both
of the county’s district judges, one of whom, after a suitable
period of mourning, now considered himself to be a serious suitor for
Constance Hart’s affections. She only had to ask once. Within
forty-eight hours, Mark McMahon had been arrested on a Peninsula
County warrant charging him with kidnapping, felonious assault, child
molestation and breaking and entering. As Misty was witness to the
alleged crimes, the county insisted that she be present at her
father’s arraignment. Once they had her back in their jurisdiction,
they ruled that Mark and Mona McMahon were unfit parents and awarded
permanent custody to Constance Hart. Halfhearted protests from King
County fell on deaf ears. That was the good news. The bad news was
that Misty’s previous experience with the social welfare system
had, quite understandably, failed to foster a great deal of faith in
the judicial process. While Constance Hart was in the Peninsula
County Courthouse, on the very day when she was awarded