The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow. The fate of my club rests in the balance, but suddenly there’s something even more important at stake.
I click out of social media and into my contacts list, dialing a number I rarely use.
* * *
“You don’t need to handle this,” Leni insists. “We have lawyers and petitioners who can do the heavy lifting.”
Hearings are a place for the general public to trot out their objections and for officials and the committee to ask questions. They’re not something I’d deign to participate in if it weren’t important. And since the head of zoning is the man who raped my girlfriend, it’s fucking important.
When I show up at the meeting, there’s a modest crowd. My lawyers handle most of the conversation on my behalf. There are some ridiculous questions and pressures from a local interest group that make me sit up.
“Mr. King has a reputation for taking over clubs only to mismanage them. We don’t want a large venue in our community.”
“Those claims are unsubstantiated,” my lawyer says.
“I have reports dating back years.” He holds up a stack of papers, takes them over to the commission.
“Give me a copy,” I demand.
The man does.
They’re the usual “not in my backyard” allegations, plus some disturbingly short-sighted arguments aimed at dismantling our claims that the club will enhance the surrounding area.
“The committee will take this under consideration,” Zachary concludes from the front. “We’ll take a short recess before our next agenda item.”
He gets up to use the washroom. I follow him in.
The man goes into a stall, and I wait at the sink, meeting his gaze in the mirror when he comes out to wash his hands.
“That was… disappointing,” I say.
Another man starts to enter, but I cut him a look and he quickly reverses out the door.
“I told you. Interest groups are very active here.”
A few days ago, I was convinced we could work together. He’d be one more bureaucrat I’d manage.
By Saturday afternoon, I realized that would never happen.
“You’re from a good family,” I start. “Political. Affluent. Elite golf course memberships. Old money. It must be nice to be so connected. To have kids. A wife.”
“Ex-wife,” he bites out.
“The divorce is before the courts. Do she and her lawyers know you raped a teenage girl?”
“You can’t threaten me.” He sneers, his confidence bolstered by the lawyer he dialed the second he left the wedding—the one who no doubt reminded him he was in the clear for whatever heinous acts he committed more than ten years ago.
“That’s not why I’m here.” I jerk on a paper towel, and two sheets tumble out.
“Then why?”
I toss him one sheet. “Because I needed to look in your eyes, but more than that, I needed you to look in mine.” The second paper towel crumples into a ball under the pressure of my fist, and I toss it into the trash without taking of my gaze from the man before me. “You hurt someone I love. In the most repugnant, despicable way a man can hurt a woman.”
The protectiveness I feel for her is different from anything I’ve ever experienced.
“God might absolve you of that sin.” I lean in, savoring the fear edging into his eyes. “I will not.”
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