‘Start getting soppy on me.’ Mary repositioned herself on the sofa, moving closer to Denise. ‘He’s a mark, Denise… and he’s a man. They are all the same. You know that. Might not look like it just yet, but in time, he’ll come round. They all do. The story always repeats itself – kind, understanding, caring and loving at first, but the façade never lasts. Very soon, the lying and the cheating starts… why? Because no matter what we do, Denise… no matter how much we sacrifice… no matter how much in love we might be with them… no matter how beautiful, sexy, loving, understanding, supportive, or whatever we are… we areneverenough.’
Denise looked down at the floor, but Mary softly touched her chin and brought her gaze back to her.
‘Have you forgotten it already?’ Mary asked, her tone firm, but not aggressive. ‘Your mother gave her life to your stepdad, andherlifewasn’t enough for him. He wanted yours too… and he took it, with absolutely no regards for how much pain and devastation he was bringing into your life. He took it simply because he wanted it. Our childhood… our innocence… our trust… our possible future… we were both robbed of all that. And that’s something that we’ll never get back. And why did they do it? Simply because they couldn’t keep it in their pants. One minute of pleasure for them, and a whole life of hurt and psychological destruction for us. They wear the crown, and we wear the pain… forever. Does that seem like a fair trade to you?’
Denise was clearly fighting back tears.
‘Quaddra might seem like the perfect man at this point in time, but trust me, that just won’t last. It never does. Very soon the hurt will start – emotionally, psychologically, maybe even physically…’ She smiled at Denise. ‘And that’s why we take them for everything they’ve got.’ She paused to make sure that Denise had locked eyes with her. ‘One last time, sis… I promise you… and then we’re done. We’ll live in luxury for the rest of our lives. No more cons… no more stupid men. They can all go fist themselves. So, what do you say?’
Denise wiped her eyes clean of tears before nodding. ‘Let’s go get this motherfucker.’
Sixty-Five
‘Why did we have to drive this far for lunch?’ Denise asked Mary, as they were shown to their table at the small taqueria in Westlake, on the northernmost edge of San Mateo County.
‘Because I can’t risk the two of us being seen together, Denise,’ Mary whispered, as they took their seats. ‘You coming to my place was already risky enough.’
‘Maybe I should’ve knocked at the door at Quaddra’s house instead,’ Denise said, pulling a defiant face at Mary. ‘You’re practically living there already.’
‘That would’ve been a terrible mistake.’
‘I know, sis. God, I was just joking. Would you relax a little.’
‘I’m serious, Denise,’ Mary volleyed back. ‘You know the rules. You turning up at my apartment in the early hours of the morning was crazy irresponsible. What if someone had seen us together?’
‘Like who?’
‘I don’t know… maybe a neighbor, or someone.’
‘Do you know any of your neighbors?’ Denise challenged.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Of course it is,’ Denise cut Mary short. ‘And even if somebody had seen us together, what could they say – that they saw you talking to another woman in the hallway?’
Mary glared at her.
‘No one could identify me.’ She pointed to her baseball cap.‘My hair was tied up and tucked under my hat, like so… my top is twice my size.’ She pinched her sweatshirt, just above her breasts, and stretched it out to demonstrate how large it really was before indicating her face. ‘And I’m wearing no makeup. You mentioned looking like a hobo earlier…’ She used both index fingers to point back at herself. ‘Well, I’m the bag lady… the sole definition of a “forgettable” person.’
‘Still a risk, Denise, and you know it. Let’s just stick to the rules from now on, OK?’
A waitress came to their table, and they ordered two mezcalitas and a selection of assorted tacos.
‘Talking about rules,’ Denise said, once the waitress was out of earshot. ‘How about the psychologist side of the plan? Have you got that ball rolling yet?’
‘Of course,’ Mary replied. ‘Those have always been our trump cards – the psychologist and the lover. No jury on this planet can argue with those two witnesses. The psychologist testifies to the domestic abuse and the violence and the lover confirms it. They are our game-set-match cards. Especially with the evidence package.’
Another key element in Mary and Denise’s wedding con was the ‘evidence package’ that got mailed to whichever therapist they were using at the time, just as the trial had started. The package contained all the Polaroid photos that either Mary or Denise had taken of their ‘bruises’ since they had met their mark, in this case Quaddra. Also included in the package were several Dictaphone tapes, where either Mary or Denise – whoever was playing the wife – would describe the ‘abuse’ in detail, including dates. Those dates would perfectly match the therapist’s notes, because Mary and Denise both knew that therapists wouldalwaysmake a note every time they noticed a new bruise on their client. In a court of law, that kind of information, when given by a well-respected psychologist, would weigh very heavily in their favor.
‘So, you’ve started the package already?’ Denise asked.
‘Of course.’
‘And when did you start seeing the therapist?’
‘Ten months ago,’ Mary replied. ‘The same week that I moved to San Francisco.’
‘That’s what? Five, six months before you met Quaddra?’
