Violence by Timothy McDougall

years, Stateville.” Ward set that folder down and picked up Ruben’s file.
    “Ruben Roney, a couple of misdemeanor drug possessions, charges dismissed.” Ward read. “Criminal trespass, court supervision. Theft of Auto, second-degree burglary, eighteen months, Cook County.”
    Ward closed that folder, dropped it on the other two and tore open a packet of sugar, emptied it into his coffee cup as a waitress stepped up to freshen it.
    Anderson hadn’t touched his coffee so the waitress simply moved off with the coffee pot after filling Ward’s cup.
    “They’re not likely to get bail before trial…” Ward went on. “…or even if any of them did it’s going to be high so they’re not likely to post it. Prosecutor’s office will let us know if any of them are going to get a pre-trial release. For now they’re jumping all over the inconclusive nature of the autopsy report. It was lucky for them that they didn’t get the chance to rape your daughter. It would have blown their story and made it a living hell in jail because they would have found retribution. This way, unlike regular rapists who get beat on, they’re probably becoming jailhouse heroes in a way, because inmates love it when someone can game the system.“
    “I don’t understand.” Anderson said, hanging on every word.
    “Don’t look for them to change their not guilty pleas or look for a deal.” Ward explained. “They’re basically not going to challenge any of the evidence because it feeds into their story. They’re going to say your daughter came home from her school dance, went around back where it was dark, saw through the window what was happening, was so upset, she didn’t even realize she was backing away, hit her head, was knocked unconscious, fell in the pool and drowned. One of the guys then goes out to have a smoke and sees your daughter in the pool. Your wife gets the news about your daughter, sees it’s too late to save her, was so upset she gets the gun, tries to kill herself, but Derek, whose prints were found on the gun along with your wife’s, says he was trying to stop her, and the gun just went off.”
    “They’re saying she was going to commit suicide?”
    “Basically.”
    “So how do they get past the raping of my wife?” Anderson asked, confused.
    “They’re saying she invited them in, that it was consensual.” Ward stated matter-of-factly.
    “Son of a bitch!” Anderson hissed with rage as he reflexively grabbed Ward angrily by the shirt.
    Ward just as automatically threw Anderson’s arm off him, knocking some plates to the floor where one of the butter dishes broke into pieces.
    A few nearby patrons tossed anxious looks in the direction of their table.
    A manager quickly moved over. “What’s the problem here?”
    “No problem.” Ward offered, adding a smile as he straightened his shirt collar.
    “Just add the cost of the plate to the bill.” Anderson nodded benignly to the manager, using a napkin to soak up some spilled coffee.
    The manager directed a busboy to clean up the mess and, after a moment, walked away.
    Ward and Anderson waited in silence as the busboy swept up the debris.
    Once the busboy finished and headed off, Ward leaned in close to Anderson and said sotto, “I’m not going to be a lightning rod for your anger. You called me, remember? You asked me for my expertise. You want me to tell you what I think, I’ll tell you. You want fantasy? Rent a movie!”
    Ward was right. Anderson had called him. This was after Anderson was informed of his “Victim’s Rights.” Anderson quickly learned he had the right to be treated with dignity, respect and sensitivity, he also had the right to communicate with the prosecutor who had been assigned to the case, the right to talk with the officer who was put in charge of the investigation, the right to be notified and present at all court proceedings, and even the right to appoint an advocate to act in his stead. There were many other rights but,