The Fury

19

The next morning, Amanda and I took the subway to

100 Centre Street, which housed the New York County

Correctional Facility. My father was being held there before his grand jury hearing, and we were on our way to show support, discuss his court-appointed lawyer.

And ask him some questions to which I hoped he would hold the answers.

Amanda and I had spent the previous night talking and thinking about the Gaines family, Rose Keller and

Beth-Ann Downing. Drugs seemed to be the only link between the four people. Two of them were dead,

Stephen Gaines and Beth-Ann. And the stash of narcot ics from the stolen briefcase was hidden inside my laundry hamper. I figured if anyone were to break in, the stench itself might deter even the most hardened thief.

Stephen used to date and party with Rose Keller.

She claimed they'd met randomly. But I had to wonder.

Stephen's name was in the kid's cell phone I stole.

Which meant one of three things.

First, the two were merely friends. Which was highly unlikely.

Second, that Stephen was the kid's client. That one was a possibility.

Third, and perhaps the most frightening yet the most plausible, was that Stephen Gaines was a dealer himself.

Perhaps Stephen, before he died, was one of the faceless suit monkeys who entered that office building in midtown for re-ups. Perhaps had I gone there another day, I would have seen my brother enter with an empty briefcase and exit with a full load of narcotics.

Helen Gaines had somehow befriended Beth-Ann

Downing after relocating from Bend to New York City.

They both had children-though I had no reason to suspect Sheryl and Stephen had met, unless Stephen happened to have sold to Sheryl's mother. Sheryl was likely gone by the time Helen and Stephen settled in.

And at some point along the line, both Helen and BethAnn had developed drug addictions.

Chances were Stephen discovered the path to his own demise through his mother. Anytime you grow up in a household in which such evils were not only common but encouraged, it was just a matter of time before you followed in step.

In my relatively short time on this planet, I'd learned that there were two types of people. Those who were doomed to follow in whatever footsteps had been laid out for them, and those who were strong enough to carve their own path.

Amanda and I were lucky. I could have turned out like my father, with a general disregard for decency and an attitude toward women that could be described as combative on a good day. Amanda could have been swallowed by her grief as a child, stifled by the tragic deaths of her parents. She never grew close to Lawrence and Harriet Stein, her adoptive family. She feared that she would never truly be close to another person again.

She began to write in diaries. There were hundreds of them, each one chronicling every waking moment of her life, cataloging every soul she met on her aimless journey. A moment-to-moment timeline of loneliness.

After we met and later began seeing each other, she stopped writing in them. I like to think that, in each other, we found a path through the darkness. She found someone who would be with her every night and every morning, and I found a woman strong enough to show me my weaknesses as well as my strengths, beautiful enough beneath the skin to make me want to smooth over the rough edges.

And there were a lot of them.

Stephen Gaines never found that path. He'd never had a chance. Between his mother and her friends, the darkness was too much for him to bear.

I gripped the handrail tight as I approached my des tination. My childhood memories of my father were of this great and powerful man who never feared anything.

He was an omnipotent tyrant, a man unconcerned with convention or emotion. I never saw him cry, never saw him beg. Even when I knew our finances were dwin dling and my mother was as distant as the sunset at dusk, he stood rock solid, impenetrable. Seeing him today would be the opposite of everything I knew as a child. He was the negative in my life's photograph. And

I wasn't sure if I was prepared.

The New York County Correctional Facility had several outlets, and as a prisoner your stay was largely dependent on a combination of luck and just how many criminals were waiting their turn before your case came to the docket. Some ended up on Riker's Island, but many, like James Parker, were relegated to the facility known affectionately as the Tombs.

The Tombs had actually been the name for several locations over the years, beginning in 1838 back when it was called the New York Halls of Justice and House of Detention (or NYHOFJAHOD for short. No wonder they called it the Tombs).

After numerous successful escapes and the dete riorating quality of the cells themselves, the old building was merged with the Criminal Court building on

Franklin Street, separated by what was called the Bridge of Sighs.

In 1974 much of the old Tombs had finally been shut down due to health concerns. Currently the Tombs consists of two facilities connected by a pedestrian bridge, with a prisoner capacity nearing nine hundred.

Ironically, in 2001 the Tombs were given the official name of the Bernard B. Kerik Complex, though in 2006 after Kerik pled guilty to ethics violations (including several violations of infamous book publisher Judith

Regan in an apartment near ground zero that was supposed to be used for the rescue effort) the moniker was removed.

Currently my father was awaiting a grand jury hearing on the charges of first-degree murder. Accord ing to Amanda, the prosecution was surely in the process of collecting evidence to convince the jury that there was "reasonable cause to believe" that my father might have killed Stephen Gaines. We both admitted the likelihood of a trial at this point, so time was becoming more and more precious. We had interlocked several pieces, but we couldn't see the whole puzzle.

The 4 train took us to Canal Street. For some reason, passing by the massive pillars and intricate scrollwork adorning the Supreme Court building reminded me I hadn't yet served jury duty since arriving in New York a few years ago. I could already imagine the tremendous sense of irony I would feel upon signing that jury slip.

Maybe if I was lucky it'd be juror appreciation day. Get a free coffee mug and everything. Leave this mess with something memorable.

The Manhattan Criminal Courthouse towered above the city skyscape, with four towers encircling a larger center with floors in decreasing size, as though you were viewing a staircase to the sky. In front were two massive granite columns, and the whole structure was designed in an art deco-style.

We entered the lobby through glass doors and made our way to the security stand. We showed our identifi cation, which the security guard scrutinized intensely and matched to his logbook before writing us passes.

After that we passed through a series of metal detectors and, after a search of my bag and Amanda's purse, we were headed toward the Manhattan Detention Complex, aka the Tombs.

A tall guard in a neatly pressed blue uniform accom panied us to an elevator that looked like it was built into a brick wall. I noticed he did not have a gun on his holster. Instead, there was a Taser, a can of Mace and a thin cylinder about a half inch in diameter and six inches long. The guard noticed I was staring at it.

"Expandable baton," he said. "Officers have been complaining about the longer ones for years. They're heavy as my mother-in-law and an incredible nuisance.

These puppies are compact and pack a hell of a punch."

"Can I try it?"

"No."

We got on the elevator and the guard pressed Down.

We waited just a few moments before the doors opened up.

"Not a lot of elevator traffic," I said.

"Anytime I see the elevator going up from the lower levels and I'm not in it," he said, "we've got problems."

"I hope that's not a regular occurrence."

He didn't answer me. I'd begun to get used to people tuning me out.

By staring straight ahead I wasn't sure if he thought that was a stupid statement, or one that struck a nerve.

As much as I hated embarrassing myself with silly comments, I hope it was the former.

Once the elevator opened, the guard led us through a long, musty tunnel. At the end was a series of metal bars, not unlike those on an actual jail cell. Beyond we could see several more guards, and the unmistakable orange of prison jumpsuits. The guard took a key card from his pocket, slid it onto a keypad and unlocked the door. Opening it, the guard ushered us into a smaller room lined with metal benches. Guards took both of our bags and patted us down. Guards with shotguns and handcuffs adorned the walls, their eyes traveling the length of the room and back again, dispassionate.

Security cameras with weapons.

We sat down at a table at the end of the room. There were two other people seated at a table twenty feet from us. An older balding man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, thick glasses and a thick paunch sat, chin in his hands, while a bejeweled woman many years younger (with many half-priced plastic surgeries under her belt) rattled on about something the man couldn't have seemed less interested in. In fact, he looked slightly relieved that he would end the night in his cell as opposed to in bed next to her.

We sat waiting. I wanted to take Amanda's hand. Felt like I needed to hold on to something that was right.

Being here in this place accentuated my simple need to feel like I was a part of something wholesome and decent.

Amanda represented everything I had in that department.

Soon I heard a jangling of chains, and my father appeared behind a set of metal doors. Two guards were poised on either side of him. They looked somewhat disinterested, but the tense muscles in their forearms told me differently.

They led him over to our table, hands under his elbows as he struggled to walk with chains binding both his wrists and ankles.

Finally he took a seat across from us, and I could see what this place had done to him.

My father looked pale. Thin, reedy. He was never a very muscular man, but any tone he had seemed to have dissipated over the last week. His hair was stringy and looked unwashed. His eyes wandered around the room.

They looked scared, as though he expected something or someone to jump out of the shadows.

I wondered just what kind of hell this man was enduring here.

Part of me, and man I wished I didn't feel this way, wondered if it was penance.

"Henry, good to see you, son." He smiled weakly as he said this, and I knew he meant it. Those were the warmest words my father had spoken to me since…I couldn't recall when. And it was a shame they came under these circumstances.

"How you holding up?"

He made a psh sound and leaned back. "S'not so bad.

You see all those movies where guys get gang-raped in the shower and they're all getting stabbed waiting on line for food."

"Nobody's tried to hurt you, have they?" Amanda asked.

"No…well, one guy did get stabbed in the shower, but I didn't know him."

My mouth dropped as Amanda looked at me. "We need to get you out of here," I said.

"Well, what in the hell is taking you so long?" he shouted. The other couple turned and started. I heard a rustling as two guards moved closer. He looked at them and shrank back. Suddenly the warmth was gone. This was the man I grew up with. But that didn't mean he was a murderer.

"We're working on it," I said.

"How's your attorney?" Amanda asked. "Has he been to see you regularly?"

"He's been down here two or three times. How the heck should I know if he's any good?" my father seethed. "I mean, he knows more about this legal stuff than me, but so does the janitor here. He could be the smartest damn lawyer in New York or the dumbest and I wouldn't know the difference between him and the Maytag repairman."

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Marvin something. Marvin Fleischman."

She shook her head. "Don't know him."

"Have you spoken to Mom?" I asked.

"Once," he said. "Her sister drove in from Seattle."

"She didn't want to be here?"

"I wouldn't let her be here," he said.

"If you're worried about the money, she could stay with me," I said.

"She's not here because I don't want her to be. The house won't take care of itself. Bills don't send their own checks."

"People can help you and her, Dad."

"We don't need people. We're fine."

"Clearly."

"These public defenders," my father said. "Do they know their ass from their elbow?"

"Depends," she replied. "A lot of lawyers go the PD route because they believe everyone deserves a fair trial and good representation. Believe it or not, a lot of lawyers enter the profession for the nobility of it. Of course, a lot of them go the PD route because it's a guar anteed paycheck, as opposed to private practice where you run the risk of getting stiffed on your bill by a client who can't pay. And…" She trailed off.

"And what?" James Parker said.

"And some of them, well, let's just say that govern ment work does not always attract the best and the brightest." My father slumped into his chair. I got the feeling he thought this Marvin Fleischman fit the latter category. "But seriously, Mr. Parker, every lawyer is dif ferent. You could get great representation from a PD."

"So," I said, "let's hope you got a guy who graduated from Harvard Law with a summa cum laude in nobility."

The noise my dad made said he wasn't quite expect ing that to be the case.

"Listen, Dad," I said, "we've found out a lot. About

Stephen, his family. I think he was mixed up in some pretty bad stuff."

"You're telling me. Remember, I knew that mother of his."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that unless Helen

Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 04

The Fury (2009)

Gaines was a junkie back in Bend, she'd only gotten worse. Two peas in a pod, her and James Parker.

I filled him in on what we did know. About Helen and Beth-Ann Downing. About Rose Keller, and the

Vinnie brigade.

"We need to know more about the night you saw them," I said. "We know Helen wanted money from you, and she told you it was for rehab, but I don't think that's the case. Think about your conversation with

Helen. Specific words. Gestures. Clues that might give us a lead as to where the money would actually be going, or what was running through Helen's mind when you saw her."

He rubbed his head, either thinking very hard or working very hard not to think. "Henry, it was a rough night. I remember the big things. The gun, this woman

I hadn't seen in years looking like she was hopped up on something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I'm not a doctor. But her eyes were red as all hell and she had a bad cough. That girl was not in good shape."

I looked at Amanda. That would jibe with the pos sibility that Helen was still using.

"Anything else?" I asked.

He tapped his thumb against his cheek, tongue flicking against his upper lip. "One thing seemed strange," he said. "Helen."

"You mean besides the jitters and the gun? What about her?"

"She was a mess, but she was scared, too," my father said. "And not of me. Kept looking around, like someone could burst through the door at any moment.

I could tell from her eyes something was wrong. Now, does that make sense? She wants to check her son into rehab, seems to me that'd be a cause to have hope, you know, these two chuckleheads finally getting their act together. But Helen wasn't like that. When she didn't think I was going to give her the money, she just… freaked out."

"Maybe that's why she took the gun out," Amanda said. "She was worried that if she didn't get the money from you something terrible was going to happen."

"What?" my father asked.

"I don't know, but you're right about her being scared. Granted, I've never been to rehab, but you'd think fright isn't the number-one emotion running through a mother's head when helping her son. Unless she was scared of you. Is that possible?"

"Oh, she was scared of me at the end of the night,

I'll say that, but this was there when I got to the apart ment. Something else scared Helen."

Amanda said, "I'd be surprised if what scared Helen didn't kill her son."

We both looked at her, knowing she was on the money.

Turning back to my father, I said, "Please, Dad, think hard. Did she say anything, anything at all that could give you a clue as to what she was afraid of?"

My father raised his head, his eyes red. His breath ing grew labored. Immediately I recoiled and Amanda looked at me. I could see my father's teeth, bared through his lips. I'd seen this before. It was rage boiling inside him, ready to explode. It was how he would get when my mother or I upset him. It was how he looked before a rampage, before he made us too scared to live in our own home. It was the rage and confusion of a man who couldn't do anything to stop his world from spinning on an already tilted axis. So all he could do was force that energy outward onto the people closest to him.

I watched this from across the table as he simmered for several minutes. Then the rage subsided, his breath ing returning to normal. He realized there was nowhere for the rage to go here. No outlet for it. He was an animal surrounded by barbed wire.

I finally realized that what it took to subdue my father was not him seeing the pain he caused others, but him seeing the pain he could cause himself.

"There was a notepad," he finally said quietly. "At one point Helen went to the bathroom. I took a look around the apartment, just curious. So I see this lined pad she must have just been writing in."

"What was on it?" I said.

"First thing she wrote, weird as hell, was 'Mexico' and 'Europe.'"

"Any specific country in Europe?"

"No, just Europe."

"Maybe those were rehab spots Helen had in mind.

Cheaper ones since she couldn't afford the tony places in the States. What else?"

"Next she wrote '$50,000,' with a question mark after it."

"Thirty years' back child support," Amanda said.

"That could add up to fifty grand. Maybe that's what the number represented."

"The last word she wrote was-" my father thought for a moment "-fury."

"Fury?"

"It was capitalized, like a name. And she underlined it. A few times. With another question mark at the end."

"We can guess what the other words represented," I said. "But what does the 'Fury' mean?" I asked the question, but a small chime went off in my subcon scious. Like I'd heard the word before. And not in relation to its standard usage. Something more specific.

But I couldn't conjure up just what it was.

"What if," Amanda said, "they had nothing do to with rehab facilities or resorts. What if Stephen and

Helen were trying to get away from something?"

"Like what?" my father asked.

"I don't know, but that kind of money seems kind of high for a rehab joint, especially when he could probably just check himself into detox. It would, though, be just enough money if you wanted to disap pear."

"Fifty grand might get you somewhere," I said, "but is it enough to start a new life?"

"Maybe not," she said. "But it might be enough to survive."