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“What did he say?”

“That I’d get a year in prison for every pound in the trunk.” A sob escaped her reserve. “That I’d never have children or even a chance at a decent life.”

“And,” I deduced, “I was the price to get you out of it.”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you exactly what he wanted you to do?”

“Yes.”

“What to do in the living room, what you should tell me to do, everything?”

“Yes.” That time the word hurt.

“And did you really go so far as to press charges?” I asked, wondering why I wasn’t angry.

“He had me transferred to another station. There he gave me some papers to sign.”

“What then?”

“He took me to a house in Queens and kept me there for a week. I was in restraints most of the time. He—he raped me.”

“And then he let you go?”

I could almost hear her nodding. “Yes.”

Beatrice and I shared the next spate of silence. I could hear her breathing—over a thousand miles away.

“Do you remember anything else?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to press charges against Detective Cortez?”

“I hadn’t even thought about that. Isn’t it—isn’t it too late?”

“Yeah. But you could fuck up his retirement pretty good.”

“I know you’re upset, Mr. Oliver, but could you not use that kind of language, please?”

“Sorry.”

“Why do you want to know if I want to press charges?”

“The guy you were arrested with was named Chester Murray?” I asked instead of answering.

“Yes.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Never.”

“Was he your pimp?”

“That was another time, Mr. Oliver. When do you want me to come to New York?”

“What makes you think I want you to come out here?”