Splitsville, page 8
“You didn’t come to do business,” Kenzi said, lips tight. “You came to conduct emotional blackmail. You’re using a little girl as a pawn.”
Crozier guided Michael toward the door. “Perhaps when you’ve conducted even the most basic research, you’ll be able to speak with more professionalism and authority. Until that occurs, you’re wasting our time. This meeting is terminated.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kenzi spent the next hour with Maya, trying to comfort her. Nothing she said had much impact. If anything, Maya seemed hostile toward her.
She got it. Maya was taking the hostility she felt toward Michael and his bullyboy lawyer and targeting the nearest available person. But the truth was—Kenzi hadn’t handled that settlement well. She made the mistake of thinking everyone shared her desire to resolve disputes with minimal trauma to clients, but Crozier wanted to magnify the disputes for profit. And she didn’t know nearly enough about the background facts. She’d hoped a speedy settlement might obviate the need. She was wrong.
She had to do better at the temporary custody hearing next week. And that meant she needed to know as much about this religion…cult…whatever it was as Crozier did. Or more. ‘Cult’ was a powerful and frightening word. She had to be able to assure the court there was no child endangerment. And if she couldn’t, Maya would have to sever ties with Hexitel. But she’d address that issue after she knew more about it.
“I know words aren’t much comfort now,” Kenzi said, “but we have no reason to believe Brittany isn’t safe.”
“She’s with that man!”
“Crozier has read him the riot act. He won’t do anything violent or even…controversial now. This is his testing period. Crozier has probably given him a long to-do list, actions designed to make him look like the model parent.”
“He’s the worst possible parent!”
“I know. And I know you want to be with her. And you will be. But in the meantime, nothing is going to happen to her.”
“Says the woman who promised Brittany her daddy wouldn’t take her away from her mommy.”
Kenzi’s eyelids closed. She had said that, hadn’t she? Another stupid mistake. “I should’ve been the one getting the emergency protective order. I didn’t see the need back then. But I can—” She choked back the word ‘promise.’ She didn’t need to make any more of those. “I can assure you that when the custody hearing rolls around next week, I will come to court with my bazookas armed and ready.”
A few hours later, Kenzi arrived at Hexitel’s downtown Seattle office—what its website called “the Gathering Place.” The website made the organization look completely legitimate, all about education and female empowerment. The website was also actively recruiting new members. She considered calling to make an appointment, posing as a potential new member, then decided against it. If she showed up unexpectedly, she might learn more.
The office was located in the heart of the financial and tech districts. Several billion dollars probably walked past its doors every day. The front door was unlocked, but no one sat at the receptionist station. That wasn’t a complete surprise, since it was after six, but it left her with a dilemma. Should she wait outside politely and hope someone appeared? Or should she plunge inside and see what she could learn from people who weren’t expecting a visitor?
She didn’t have to think about that one very long…
As Kenzi entered the main corridor, she heard low-pitched sounds coming from a suite at the far left. Moaning? Humming? The door was closed, but there was definitely something going on inside.
She looked both ways up and down the hallway.
No one was watching.
She slowly and quietly pushed the door open a crack. And peered inside.
The room was about the size of a grade-school classroom, but the overhead lights were off. The room was lit by candles. On the opposite wall, she spotted a tapestry bearing a dagger symbol similar to Maya’s tattoo. There were eleven people in the room, all women, two at the front on a raised dais, and nine others kneeling before them. They appeared to be wearing robes and chanting something low and indiscernible. She scanned the faces. It was difficult to be certain in this low lighting, but she didn’t think Maya was in this group. Thank God.
Her heartbeat quickened. This was beyond weird. Granted, all religions had rites and ceremonies that might look odd to outsiders. In the Catholic church she attended as a child, people wore robes and took communion and talked about transubstantiation, wine and wafers becoming the blood and bones of Christ. Virgin births. Ascension. Annunciation.
But this still seemed weird.
One of the women at the front of the room spoke, but Kenzi couldn’t follow a word of it. She wondered if it might be in another language. Or completely invented gibberish.
Someone must’ve understood, though, because the kneeling women rose and the woman on the far end of the line stepped onto the dais.
And bent over.
The woman who appeared to be running the ceremony reached for a large wooden paddle.
Kenzi’s lips parted. Michael had referred to corporal punishment, but surely…
The leader lifted the woman’s robe and paddled her bottom. Repeatedly.
The woman swinging the paddle didn’t pull her punches. The recipient didn’t cry out, though it was obvious from her recoiling and twisted facial expression that she was feeling the impact.
But, Kenzi supposed, this was like putting out a flame with your fingertips. You felt the pain but didn’t let it show. And this was supposed to demonstrate your…
She couldn’t even think of a theoretical explanation for this. Schools had moved past corporal punishment, but people were still doing it—voluntarily—in Hexitel. Was this part of the master-servant relationship Maya had described? Was this how they demonstrated their subservience?
Or was this, as Crozier suggested, how Hexitel achieved coercive control?
It seemed like the spanking went on forever, though it was probably only ten or twelve swats. Enough to leave some bruises and broken blood vessels, Kenzi suspected. When it ended, the woman rose, as if nothing untoward had happened. And said the last thing Kenzi expected.
“Thank you, Master. If it pleases you, I will happily take more.”
Okay, now this was turning into a twisted variant of the “May I have another, sir” scene from Animal House.
The woman bent over and endured five more swats.
When it ended the second time, the recipient rose more slowly, stiffly. She was hurting, no doubt about it. Kenzi could almost feel her agony. Was she being punished for some Hexitel crime? Had she committed a heinous offense against the powers-that-be?
Apparently not, because Kenzi watched every single one of the robed women get swatted hard, one after another, until all nine had run the gauntlet. If nothing else, she admired their resilience and self-control. Not one cried out. Not one complained.
Afterward, they chanted more incomprehensible mumbling sounds, and then the ceremony appeared to end. The supplicants removed their robes. To Kenzi’s astonishment, they all appeared ecstatic. Even joyous. Hugs were shared by all—including the woman who swung the paddle. Tears streamed from many eyes. They looked as if they thought they had achieved something wonderful.
This could suggest that Hexitel’s self-actualization goals were succeeding, that these women were discovering their inner strength.
Or it could suggest that Hexitel had brainwashed them with coercive control. What else might an investigation reveal? More mind games? Ponzi schemes? Extortion? All of the above?
Kenzi had an obligation to represent her client. But if this group turned out to be too twisted, or she detected any potential harm to Brittany, she would have to give this representation a serious second thought. And she hated to do that.
Especially since she had given Maya her promise. And it would mean admitting her father was right.
Chapter Fourteen
Kenzi quietly closed the door and slipped into the front lobby. She took a chair and waited patiently. She would act as if she had been sitting outside since she arrived. And hope they believed it.
A group of three women emerged first. They noticed her but didn’t say anything. More followed and did the same.
Then the leader, the woman who had swung the paddle, emerged. She was older than the rest, maybe mid-fifties. With hair slightly graying and a beauty shop bun, she looked like a remnant of another era.
She stopped in front of Kenzi. “May I help you?”
Kenzi rose, smiled, and introduced herself. “I’m representing one of your members in her divorce. I was hoping I could talk to someone in authority.”
“About what?”
“About Hexitel. I’m afraid my client’s ex-husband is planning to use her membership in your organization against her. He’s trying to take away her little girl.”
“You’re talking about Maya Breville.”
“Yes. You know her?”
“Of course. And her situation is unfortunate, but—”
“We expect this to be a high-profile case. There will probably be a lot of publicity.”
The woman’s face soured. “These are not office hours. If you could come back at another—”
“Please. I’m already here. And I’m going to be in meetings for the rest of the week. This may be my only chance. If I go to court unprepared, the results could be disastrous. For everyone.”
The woman rolled her tongue around in her mouth. She obviously didn’t like this, and it wasn’t just because she was anxious to go home.
But she acquiesced. “Very well. Follow me to my office. Let’s not make this take any longer than necessary.”
Kenzi followed her, promising to be brief.
After all, she didn’t want to end up on the receiving end of this woman’s paddle.
“Hexitel is a multi-level executive-training organization offering personal and professional development programs in a wide range of areas. For the most part, we provide small-group seminars and large-group awareness lectures.”
Patricia Clare spoke with a crisp and slightly East Coast upper-crust accent. She positioned herself behind her desk, which forced others to gaze upon her enormous Wall of Ego—more framed awards, certificates, and photos with the rich and famous than Kenzi had ever seen assembled in one place before.
“Are you the founder of Hexitel?” Kenzi asked.
“Oh no. Our founder was Randie Salvador. Our first and only male Hexitel member. He saw the way women were mistreated, especially in the business world, and he wanted to do something about it. So he started this group.”
“But he’s no longer associated with Hexitel?”
“No.” Her lips twitched. “He dropped out.”
“I think I read somewhere that he disappeared.”
Clare smiled. “I prefer to think he ascended. If anyone ever deserved to rise to a higher plane of existence, it would be Randie.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“No, I was recruited to replace him after he left. But I know his work. He was an incredible human being. Such insight. Such vision. I believe he ultimately thought an organization for women should be run by women. And I can’t disagree.”
Kenzi slid into the chair opposite Clare’s desk. “You call Hexitel an executive-training organization. But my client calls it a religion. And some, as I’m sure you know, call it a cult.”
“That would be people who don’t know what they’re talking about. But in today’s world, there are far too many people like that, aren’t there? People who think cynicism masquerading as insight makes them seem wise. And so we have a populace that denies science and embraces gossip.”
“To be fair, you do have some practices that seem a bit…cult-like.”
“Only to the uninitiated.”
“I’m told you require members to pay increasingly large sums of money to remain involved. I’m told there are master-servant relationships. I’m told you conduct…secret ceremonial rites. And the devotion of your members does suggest a religious fervor, don’t you think?”
“Education, religion, cult. What’s the difference? And so long as people benefit and no one is hurt…who cares? Labels are unimportant. Jesus was a great teacher. It was only after his death that others turned his teachings into a religion—which was originally a small cult—yes, cult—within the Jewish faith. It’s simply a matter of perspective. The majority always applies ugly labels to those who choose a different path. Do you see what I mean?”
What Kenzi saw best was that Clare had dodged her question. “Maya showed me her tattoo.”
Clare shrugged. “I have several tattoos. Many people in various organizations get tattoos. Fraternity members. People working on the same film crew. Today, it’s like having a secret handshake. We don’t require tattoos, but if people want to do it, I’m not going to stop them. What’s the harm?”
“They’re permanent, and some say disfiguring.”
“A typical example of people trying to create drama where none exists. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”
“As an attorney, I have to be prepared for anything the other side might sling at us in the courtroom. These allegations against Hexitel are certain to arise.”
“I suppose.” Clare looked down wearily. “I wish people could be less…judgmental. More open to new ideas. It is the great conundrum. Everyone agrees this is a harsh, bitter world, and yet we resist anyone who tries to change it.”
She supposed there was some truth in that. “I’m particularly concerned about what Maya told me about certain…exercises in domination. Anything that could be deemed coercive control.”
Clare raised an eyebrow. Did she suspect Kenzi had seen their little ceremony? “We do nothing illegal. We do nothing without the consent of the participants.”
“But consent can be coerced.”
“And who’s the judge of that? If I urge you not to eat the chocolate cake when you’re dieting, have I exercised coercive control? Should I be arrested? We’re only trying to help women better themselves. And we’ve had many dramatic success stories.”
Kenzi drew some papers out of her satchel. She didn’t really need them but thought Clare might open up more if she appeared to be churning through paperwork. “Maya has mentioned something about putting out a match with her fingertips.”
Clare nodded. “A great exercise in self-control. We never let anyone take it far enough to do any serious damage to themselves.”
“Any other exercises that could cause harm, even temporarily?”
“A few. But that’s such a small portion of our work. Occasionally you need something dramatic to grab people’s attention. To stir their emotions. Most of our work is traditional executive training. Out intensives are renowned all across the country. In the basic-training sessions, participants are immersed in instruction for two weeks, fourteen hours a day, with few breaks. It changes them. In a good way.”
“What does that cost?”
“What does it matter? If it heals the damage that’s been done to their soul, any price is cheap.”
Well, not any price, Kenzi thought, and she couldn’t help but notice that the woman had once again dodged her question.
“We help our members probe their deepest childhood memories. Often that’s the source of the trauma that holds them back. We urge them to confront it, wrestle with it honestly, and overcome it. So they can move forward and become better people.”
“You know these programs have been criticized. People call them mind control. You make people weak, hungry, sleep-deprived—and they’re easy to manipulate.”
“Why must we always assume the worst possible motivations? Imagine Christ trying to spread his message of universal love and peace, only to encounter cynics saying, ‘Well, your followers are all poor uneducated fishermen. They’re weak and hungry and thus easy to manipulate.’”
“I get your point. But I have to explore anything Maya’s husband could use to take her daughter away permanently.”
“Maya’s a strong woman. She’ll survive.”
“You know Maya well?”
“Of course. Because of the spiritual nature of some of our teachings, we don’t get many scientists. She’s smart, well-spoken, educated. A great asset.”
“For recruitment?”
“For strengthening our base. I expect she will rise to the master level in a short period of time.”
Did that mean she got to swing the paddle? “I’m concerned that the judge may see red flags when he hears about Hexitel.”
“Is he an anesthetist?”
Kenzi blinked. “Is he…what?”
“An anesthetist. That’s what we call those who try to suppress our word. To impede our work.”
“Your enemies.”
“Not necessarily. Some people are just ignorant. Some have personal motivations, like members of the press. Others are jealous or fearful. And some object to our mission of promoting the advancement of women, so they try to dull people’s minds. Put them to sleep. With lies.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“When the anesthetists hit us, we hit back hard. And fast.”
“No messing around.”
“Of course not. I was a high-ranking Nazi in a past life.”
Kenzi stared at her. Was she joking? “That reminds me of another accusation I’ve had to confront. Maya’s husband claims she’s been branded.”
“If anything of that nature has occurred, it was done without my knowledge or consent.”
Sounded like a canned response she’d given before. “Why would anyone do that?”
“Some see it as similar to tattooing. But demonstrating an even deeper commitment.”
“He suggested she’d been branded in an intimate location.”
“To demonstrate trust. Allowing someone to mark you where you’re most vulnerable.”
A shiver raced up Kenzi’s spine. This conversation was creeping her out. “What would the brand look like?”
