“Without question.”
“What else would happen to her?”
“Every case is different,” Abramson replied as though giving a dissertation. “But the results would invariably be catastrophic. A scenario like yours would probably start out for the young girl as nothing more than a crush. This sophisticated, older man is nice to her when nobody else is. He understands and cares about her. She probably doesn’t have to invite his advances—they just sort of happen. The young girl may encourage them at first, but probably not. She may even resist, but at the same time she feels responsible. She blames herself.”
Myron felt something in the pit of his stomach open wide. “Which causes more problems.”
“Yes. You talked about how the world-famous coach isolates her,” Abramson continued. “But in your scenario he does more than that. He dehumanizes her. Her adolescence is turned upside down by her tennis greatness. Her life is not about school and friends and family. It’s about money and winning. She’s become a commodity. She knows that if she displeases him, the commodity becomes worthless. And her being a commodity makes it easier on him too.”
“How?” Myron asked.
“A commodity is far easier to abuse than a human being.”
Silence.
“So what happens when it’s all over?” Myron asked. “When the world-famous coach uses up the commodity, what happens to her?”
“The young girl would reach out for something—anything—that she thinks might save her.”
“The old boyfriend maybe?”
“Perhaps.”
“She might even want to get engaged right away.”
“That’s possible, yes. She may see the old boyfriend as a return to her innocence. In her mind the boyfriend may be raised to savior status.”
“And suppose this boyfriend was murdered?”
“You’ve pulled out the final block,” Abramson replied softly. “The young girl was already in need of serious therapy. Now a complete mental breakdown is a very real possibility. Maybe even a likelihood.”
Myron felt his heart crumble.
Dr. Abramson looked away for a moment. “But there are other aspects to your scenario that need to be explored,” she said, trying to sound offhanded.
“Like?”
“Like what actually occurred during the abuse. If, as you say, the world-famous coach was a narcissistic man, he would only concern himself with his pleasure. He wouldn’t worry about her. He probably wouldn’t, for example, wear protection. And since this girl is rather young and probably not sexually active, she wouldn’t be using oral contraceptives.”
Dread flooded Myron’s chest. He remembered the rumors. “He got her pregnant.”
“In the realm of your scenario,” Abramson said, “that is certainly a possibility.”
“What would happen …?” Myron stopped. The answer was obvious. “The world-famous coach would make her get an abortion.”
“I imagine so, yes.”
Silence.
Myron felt something well up in his eyes. “What she went though …” He shook his head. “Everyone thought Valerie was so weak. But in reality—”
“Not Valerie,” Abramson corrected. “A young girl. A theoretical young girl in a theoretical situation.”
Myron looked up. “Still trying to protect your ass, Doc?”
“You can’t say anything, Myron. It’s all hypothetical. I will neither confirm nor deny that Valerie Simpson was ever a patient of mine.”
He shook his head, stood, and headed for the door. When he reached it, he turned back toward her. “One more hypothetical question,” he said. “The world-famous coach. If he’s willing to abuse one child, how likely is it he’ll do it again?”
Dr. Abramson did not face him. “Very likely,” she said.
29
By the time Myron got back to Stadium Court, Duane had dropped the first two sets 6–3, 6–1, and it was 2–2 in the third set. Myron sat between Jessica and Win. Pavel Menansi, he immediately noticed, was no longer in his seat. Aaron was still there. Senator Cross and Gregory Caufield were in their box too. Ned Tunwell still sat with his Nike colleagues. Ned was no longer waving. He was, in fact, crying. The entire Nike box looked like a deflated balloon. Henry Hobman was still as a Rodin.
Myron turned to Jessica. She looked concerned but said nothing. She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. He squeezed back and gave her a small smile. He noticed that she was now wearing a bright pink Ray•Ban cap.
“What’s with the cap?” he asked.
“A guy offered me a thousand dollars to wear it.”
Myron was familiar with the old advertising trick. Companies—in this case, Ray•Ban—paid anyone seated in the players’ boxes to wear the caps during matches, figuring, of course, that there was an excellent chance the person and hence the hat would show up on television. Relatively cheap and effective exposure.
Myron looked at Win. “What about you?”
“I don’t do caps,” Win replied. “They muss my hair.”
“That,” Jessica added, “and the guy only offered him five hundred dollars.”
Win shrugged. “Sexual discrimination. It’s an ugly thing.”
More like smart business. Five hundred dollars was the normal rate. But somebody at Ray•Ban realized Jess was both attractive and a celebrity—ergo, extra exposure.
Duane dropped another game. Down 3–2 after losing the first two sets. Not good. The players collapsed in their chairs on either side of the umpire for the changeover. Duane toweled down his racket. He changed shirts. Some female fans whistled. Duane did not smile. He glanced over at their box. Unlike just about any other sport in the world, tennis players are not allowed to talk to their coaches during the match. But Henry did move. He took his hand off his chin and made a fist. Duane nodded.
“Time,” the chair ump said.
That was when Pavel made his return.
He entered through the portal on the right near the grandstand carrying an Evian in his hand. Myron’s eyes locked on to him. He felt his pulse quicken. Pavel Menansi was still wearing the sweater tied around his neck. He took his seat behind Aaron. Pavel Menansi. He smiled. He laughed. He sipped a cold Evian. He breathed in and out. He lived. People patted his back. Someone asked for an autograph. A young girl. Pavel said something to her. The young girl giggled behind her hand.