A Thousand Steps

46

Matt sits across from Furlong and Darnell in the LBPD interview room, both paper airplanes on the stainless-steel desk between them. He explains how he found them. He doesn’t want to give them up but he knows he’ll have to. Last night he folded three identical copies, using pages from Jazz’s Advanced Ukulele Hits.

Last night he also thought of the Register doing a front-page story on these airplanes, with a picture of one, so everyone in Laguna who had found one could tell him when and where. He quickly realized that her kidnappers would know what she was up to and keep her from ever launching another one again. Or worse.

Darnell, her notebook open, is too surprised to write or speak.

Furlong touches the first glider with the button end of his pen.

“Unusual design,” he says.

“It’s a Little Wing. My dad invented it when we were kids. Jazz named it. She was really good at folding them, see?”

“Those ailerons along the wings—”

“They’re called elevators. If they’re not perfect, the plane spirals and crashes. Dad worked on the design for months.”

Furlong pokes the plane again with his pen. “Tell me the man’s name and address again.”

Matt repeats Arnold Service’s name and address, explains that the man doesn’t read papers or watch the news, didn’t know that a local girl had been missing for almost three weeks.

Both police officers make notes. Darnell excuses herself to get a camera.

“I want to see you in the conference room after this,” Furlong says quietly.

Matt’s heart dives. He knows that the insatiable sergeant will want something else from him. Furlong has become a burden. Five dollars per each bit of useful information isn’t worth the betrayal. Thirty pieces of silver. Not that Johnny Grail and the Brotherhood of Eternal Love are comparable to Jesus, but Matt wishes he’d never taken Furlong’s damned money to start with.

Darnell comes back with a big heavy-looking camera, rearranges the airplanes, and fires away. The shutter clatters and the flash fills the tiny room.

“Are you going to look for more of these?” Matt asks.

“Why should we?” asks the sergeant. “We have no evidence that Jasmine folded or launched them.”

“But if we find more planes, we can establish a pattern,” says Matt. “Of where they came from. Of where she is!”

“Doubtful,” says Furlong.

Darnell carefully places the gliders into plastic bags for their journey to the property room.

“Officer Darnell, if it was up to you, would you look for more?” asks Matt.

“Brigit does what I order her to do,” says Furlong.

She gives the sergeant a sharp look.

“And you, Mr. Anthony, have some explaining to do. Come with me.”

“Would you, Officer Darnell?”

“Matt, come with me.”

Furlong seats Matt facing the others in the conference room, and makes brief introductions.

In front of Matt, seated around a three-table horseshoe, are LBPD Chief Norman Hein, Orange County District Attorney Mike Saffalo, Detective Lance McAdam, and Dr. Mary Hamilton. They do not look happy.

Furlong takes a seat near a large tape recorder and turns it on. Also on the table before the sergeant are a roll of paper towels, a baking dish, a wooden spoon, and a pair of shiny metal tongs.

These are some heavy hitters, Matt gathers. And they’re here to talk to him on the Fourth of July. No wonder they’re unhappy. He knows this can’t be good.

Furlong states that Dr. Hamilton is the director of Orange County Juvenile Hall’s Youth Leadership Center, describing it as “a residence and rehabilitation center for troubled youth with sentences of a year, or longer.”

Matt feels a faint, dizzy rush. He hears in Furlong’s voice the pleasure of inflicting fear. Dr. Hamilton is very large and looks very old — over sixty, Matt guesses — hair in a high black beehive, her face tight-lipped and heavy-browed.

In the loaded silence, Furlong reaches into a box on the floor and places a mason jar of Laguna Sunshine Farms stewed tomatoes on the table in front of him. Then a leather-bound Tibetan Book of the Dead. Then a box of Languedoc Toffees. The plastic wrap has been taken off the book and the candy. Furlong takes a moment to space them equidistantly. Matt wonders what catastrophe his theft has launched, and who it will land on.

“First of all,” says Chief Hein. “Thanks to all of you for being here. I’m sure you all have holiday plans and I’ll try to make this brief. Dr. Hamilton, can you start off by telling Mr. Anthony here what you do at the Youth Leadership Center?”

“Yes, thank you.” Dr. Hamilton’s voice is pleasant but firm. “Matt, the Center is designed for Juvenile Hall’s most promising — and most serious — older offenders. We house sixteen-to-eighteen-year-olds with sentences of over one year. Their crimes range from drug dealing to assault to murder. Many of our youth are being held over for trial in the juvenile courts, which are crowded and slow. Others will be tried as adults and serve out their time in the county jail, the state prison system, or in work camps. We offer occasional furloughs and excursions. You — our youth — are allowed two hours of weekly visitation.”

Matt feels like crying. He imagines Laurel and Sara sitting on the other side of a juvie safety-glass window, taking turns talking to him on a phone. Two hours a week?

“I didn’t do it,” he says. “I didn’t know there was LSD on the invitations. I distributed them for Johnny because he paid me five dollars.”

“Matt,” says Dr. Hamilton. “You are not on trial here. None of us in this room wants you to be tried. You are a good citizen and a good student. You are employed. You have no criminal record. You are being raised in a challenging environment of divorce, low income, and a single, possibly drug-affected mother.”

“She kicked it, doctor. She’s clean now.”

Dr. Hamilton gives Matt a tolerant nod. Then she looks across the table at Furlong.

“Sergeant Furlong, what more can I do here? I think we’ve scared this boy half out of his wits and I have eighty-four Leadership Center partners to attend to. We call them ‘partners,’ Matt, not prisoners or inmates, although that’s exactly what they are. Whatever you can do to stay out of my Leadership Center, do it. I urge you to cooperate. Please excuse me to my favorite American holiday, gentlemen.”

Furlong clicks off the tape recorder. The men all stand and thank the doctor and shake her hand. She’s as tall as Furlong and looks about as strong. Matt stands too. Chief of Police Hein shows her to the door. She stops and looks back at Matt.

“Good luck, Matt.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“I hope to never see you again.”

“I hope to never see you again, too, I mean—”

Everyone chuckles.

“I know what you mean,” she says, then is gone.

“Okay,” says Chief Hein. “Let’s get to the heart of this proceeding, Bill.”

“Yes, sir,” says Furlong. “Matt? Sit. I’m going to show you some things and you’re going to answer some questions.”