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Samantha has been handling everything remarkably well, better than me, if I’m honest. She says she wants to face it all head-on and has had several sessions with Sara, her friend from school who’s specializing in trauma therapy. That’s not to say she hasn’t had some moments of tears, nightmares, and jump startles from benign noises, but she acknowledges them, does her grounding exercises, and moves on as best as she can.
I’m still stuck somewhere between murder and confusion.
I feel guilty that Stephen was thinking that way–so darkly radicalized–and I didn’t recognize it. Hell, I thought he was a damn poster child for the Gentlemen’s Club, and I wonder if in thinking of him that way, I failed him. At the same time, I want to destroy him for what he’s done. Slowly, painfully, and with more malice than I’ve ever felt.
Which is why I’m following Samantha’s example and going to a therapist too. Big boy’s don’t cry? What bullshit. Real men can, and do, cry... and get help when they need it.
“Stephen’s made a full confession and is pleading guilty,” Thaddeus says. “The DA tells me they’re taking a plea deal that’ll give Stephen around fifteen years.”
Ironically, of all the charges, the one with the longest possible sentence is the attempted murder of Jim. Stephen saw that the shock of the stun gun had messed with Jim’s heart, sending him into a cardiac arrest, and instead of rendering aid, he’d stepped right over him, hauling an unconscious Samantha from the club.
That image is the stuff of my nightmares.
“That’s it?” I ask hotly. “With good behavior, he’ll be out even sooner than that.”
But Samantha speaks over me. “That’s fine. It’ll be done, right? No trial, no testifying, no waiting. Justdone.”
“You can do a victim impact statement if you’d like, but yes, it’d be finalized within the week unless you want me to tell the DA no on the plea deal.” Thaddeus looks at Samantha blankly, not pressuring her either way. I do my best to do the same.
This is her choice. I’ll support her, always and forever, but she has to decide what will be the most healing for her.
“Do it,” she says with an affirmative nod. “I want it to be over. I want to focus on me, not a trial or Stephen. He’s already taken so much from me–my time, my trust, my mind. I won’t give him another minute. I’m doing what’s best for me, and he can go fuck himself in prison,” she says bluntly.
That’s my badass, fierce, strong girl. Later, I know this will be hard on her, but for the moment, she’s solidly in control.
Thaddeus nods. “Okay, then, I’ll pass that along to the DA,” he says, looking at the paperwork on his desk. “I think that clears things up.”
Samantha and I stand to leave but stop when Thaddeus calls her name.
“Miss Redding,” Thaddeus says, “the scars of what you went through can last a lifetime. But those scars do not have to stop you from having a happy and fulfilling life. You’re training to be a counselor, yes?”
“Yes,” Samantha answers, smiling a little. “Sex therapy still means a lot to me.”
“Then may I suggest, although I’m just a lawyer,” Thaddeus says, “that you use what happened and become the best sex therapist you can? Maybe even work with victims if you’re able to do so without jeopardizing your own mental well-being.”
"Thanks, I’ve already been thinking about that,” she tells him.
That’s something she’s discussed at length with Sara because though Samantha wasn’t raped, there’s been some pretty significant triggers she’s had to work through from the things Stephen said to her. For now, we’re taking things really slow, discovering new ways to be physical that don’t cause her to have any flashbacks, and letting her be in charge of it every step of the way.
“On the other hand, from what I’ve heard, your work with the remaining members of The Gentlemen’s Club has yielded amazing results. Help those guys, and as many others as possible, to prevent future Stephens from occurring,” Thaddeus recommends. “Best of luck to you on every front.”
We leave Thaddeus’s office, and outside, the sun feels cleansing, warming away the cold sterility of the legal business. Gathering Samantha into my arms, I hold her, letting her know that I’m here. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she says, relaxing into me. “I just... wow. I didn’t think it’d all be over so suddenly.”
“Me either,” I reply, stroking her hair. “What do you want to do now?”
I mean literally right now—like going home or getting lunch. But Samantha has bigger plans.
As we walk across the parking lot, she tells me, “I’ve been thinking about that. I want to write a book. About the consequences of radicalizing young men, and how ultimately, we all lose if there isn’t equality, respect, and communication between men and women.”
She pauses as I open the door for her. I wait for her to sit and then close the door, striding around to the driver’s side.
“It’s a work-in-progress,” she says as I get in the car. “But what do you think? It’ll be a long road, because I’ll need professional experience, letters after my name, and I don’t even know what else to be taken seriously, but yeah, that’s what I want to do.”
I smile at her as I start the car, in awe of the brilliance of her mind. “That sounds amazing.”
“Good, because I’m going to ask the guys at the club to be my initial interviews. They have a unique perspective on what listening to people like Jake McGibbons can do. They lost a friend to it.”
