The Fury

8

Amanda and I sat on a small wooden bench in the lobby of the Bend police department. After they'd taken my father away in handcuffs, pressing his head down as he climbed into the backseat of the car like some common thug you'd see on COPS, we followed practi cally bumper to bumper in our rental car.

Upon arriving at the station, I didn't have a chance to talk to my father before they led him into booking.

The City of Bend Police Department had two sections: a two-level structure that sat next to a taller tower, both with sloped, tiled roofs. The sign outside read City of

Bend Police and underneath that read Public Works.

I parked the car in a lot in back and we ran around to the entrance. Inside we refused to leave, or sit down, until we either spoke with my father or an officer who could tell us just what the hell was going on. My stomach was tied in knots. Though I'd long ago learned to give up loving my father, I knew this man wasn't, couldn't be a killer. Not to mention I couldn't even imagine what kind of evidence they had that would enable a warrant to be issued so quickly.

From everything Makhoulian and Binks told me, it seemed as if Gaines was murdered. Not an impulse killing, but exterminated. How could the cops be so blind? How could they possibly connect my father to this when he was in Bend the whole time?

For perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself feeling sorry for the man. He was alone, scared, accused of a crime beyond comprehension. It was all bogus, though. No doubt there was some mistake and he'd be released.

I tried to call my mother, but she didn't have a cell phone. I left a message at home, hoped she would find it.

Finally after an hour of waiting, a cop approached us where we stood. He was about forty, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and dark, tan skin.

His badge read Whalin. We stood up, desperate to hear why they'd taken my father in for such a horren dous crime.

"You must be Henry," the cop said. He offered his hand. I looked at him, then shook it grudgingly. "I'm

Captain Ted Whalin of the BPD. I'm in charge of the criminal investigations division."

"Where's my father?" I demanded.

"Your father is in a holding cell. Tomorrow he'll have to go before a judge to be properly processed.

There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest in New

York City for the murder of Stephen Gaines."

"That's impossible," I said. "First of all, Stephen

Gaines is his son. And second, my father's never even been to New York."

Whalin looked confused. "I can't go into specifics,"

Whalin said, "but the warrant states that physical evidence does exist that links James Parker to the crime."

"That's impossible," I said again. "I don't think he's left the state in twenty years."

"That's not up to me to determine," Whalin said.

"If he's wanted for murder in New York," Amanda said, "won't he be extradited?"

"That depends on him," Whalin continued. "When he goes before Judge Rawling tomorrow, he'll have the opportunity to sign what's called a nonjudicial waiver of expedition."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

Whalin said, "It means that he agrees that he is in fact the same James Parker wanted on this murder charge.

If he accepts the charge, he'll be brought back to New

York City where he'll be entered into their system.

Though that might be a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"We believe that your father is the James Parker referred to in this warrant. We know he has a relation ship with Stephen Gaines…"

"That's not true," I said. "They didn't actually know each other at all."

"Regardless," Whalin said, "it'd be a mighty coinci dence if the NYPD happens to be looking for a com pletely different James Parker in regards to the murder of Stephen Gaines. Wouldn't you agree?"

I didn't have to. The odds were pretty nonexistent.

"As of right now, your father is refusing to grant the nonjudicial waiver." Whalin said this with frustration evident on his face.

Amanda said, "And what happens if he refuses to sign it?"

"Then it's our job to prove that he is-or is not-the

James Parker referred to in this warrant. We'll take fin gerprints, blood samples, and confirm with one hundred percent accuracy that he is James Parker. Of course, all that testing takes an awful long time, which means…"

"He stays locked up in your jail until he's extradited."

"Consider it time not served. Not a second of time he spends in prison here will be taken off any eventual sentence. So if your father wants to contest his identity, so be it. Not my ass sleeping every night on a metal bench. And did I mention he refuses to consult with a lawyer?"

"We need to see him," I said. "Right away."

"He's with two detectives right now, but I think he should be available in an hour or two."

"Wait," Amanda said. "Are they questioning him?"

"If they're doing their job."

"But you said he didn't have a lawyer."

"That's right."

"Then we demand to see him. I have a license to practice law in New York State, where any legal hearings pertaining to this case will occur. Right now your police station is acting as nothing more than a glo rified holding pen. So I can promise you that anything

James Parker says now will be disallowed in a court of law under the assumption that your officers coerced him into making a statement without legal counsel."

"Listen," Whalin said, "right now he isn't even ad mitting to being the right James Parker, so I doubt we'll get much-"

"Now," Amanda yelled.

Whalin looked her over, then said, "Follow me."

He led us into the heart of the BPD station, down a long brick corridor. At the end was a series of three rooms, marked simply 1, 2 and 3. He took us to the right, knocked on the reinforced-metal door.

A small slat opened at about eye level, then the door opened. Inside were two cops, one in uniform and one plainclothes. And sitting in a metal folding chair, his wrists handcuffed to the table, was my father.

His eyes were red. I could tell he'd been crying. He was still wearing the same clothes, but they were soaked through with sweat. He was shaking, as though his body was simply unable to process what was happening.

When he saw us, his mouth opened and his face lit up.

"Henry!" he exclaimed.

"His son," Whalin told the cops. "And Parker's lawyer." Whalin nodded at Amanda. She went to say something, but I nudged her. She got the tip. This was the only way we'd get to speak with him.

"You have half an hour," Whalin said as the other cops exited the room.

"We'll take as much time as we damn well please,"

Amanda said, staring right into the captain's eyes. He frowned, told the cops to take a hike.

"We have to lock the door from the outside. Proce dure. If you want to leave, just knock."

Amanda pointed at the camera hung up in the upper corner of the interrogation room. A small red light was blinking on it.

"I want that turned off," she said. Whalin looked at it, then nodded, making a slicing motion across his throat, telling the cops to kill the feed. They walked away, and a moment later the light went off.

"Thank you, Captain," Amanda said. "We'll be in touch soon."

We went in and closed the door. A metal snick came from outside. The cops locking us in with the alleged murderer.

We took two chairs and pulled them up to the table.

My father reached out to us, but the handcuffs held his wrists firm. He looked dejected, then said, "Henry, thank God you're here. Did they tell you? They think I killed Stephen."

"I know, Dad. The question is why do they think that?" My father leaned down, started to bite his nails, his head comically close to the table. "Dad?"

James shrugged, but there was nothing behind it.

"Listen, Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "Your best option right now is to sign the nonjudicial review waiver. Once you do that they'll bring you back to New York and begin actual legal proceedings. I'll help you get a lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones."

"I don't want to leave here," my father said softly.

"Dad, jail isn't exactly comfortable," I said.

"I mean, I don't want to leave Bend," he said more forcefully. "I didn't do anything. I didn't kill Stephen.

They can't just take me wherever they want."

I looked atAmanda. She said, "Mr. Parker, if you don't sign the waiver you'll stay in Bend, but you'll be in prison until they prove your identity. It could be weeks, months.

And that's before any sort of trial. And trust me, you won't be doing yourself any favors with the judge assigned to the case. They will take you if you make them."

"This can't be right," James said. " Goddamn it I shouldn't be here! Henry, you know me, you know this isn't right."

I knew him, but I didn't. I'd seen the depths of his anger, his rage. It was up to me to believe he wasn't capable of reaching another level.

"Dad…" I began. "Why do they suspect you?"

Without hesitating, James said, "They told me there's evidence linking me to the crime. They said they found it in Stephen's apartment."

"In New York?" I said. "How is that possible?"

He looked down at the floor, his whole body seeming to sag into nothing. "They said they found my finger prints on the gun that killed him."

"Wait, step back," I said. It took me a moment to regroup, to process what my father had just said. "How could they possibly have found your fingerprints on the gun that killed Stephen?"

"I don't know," my father said. He said it unconvinc ingly. There was more to this. Amanda looked at him with incredible frustration. She had a great legal mind, but I could already tell that she was thinking about

James Parker's chances during a murder trial. Even if he was innocent-which he had to be-this man would never do himself any favors with his lawyer or a judge.

He was already refusing easy extradition, and he was lying-or at least hiding the truth-from the only people here who gave a damn.

Sadly, I knew what it felt like to be accused of a terrible crime you didn't commit. I knew just how lonely it could be, and how much a friendly hand meant. Amanda had been that for me. If not for her,

I'd either be dead or in prison. She'd reached out, offered a hand, and I'd smartly accepted. My father, meanwhile, was dangling from the edge of a cliff, slapping our hands away in the misguided belief that he couldn't fall.

"Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "You need to tell us what happened. All of it. You know why they arrested you.

Even if you're innocent, you don't seem surprised.

Shocked, maybe, but not surprised. I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about the circumstances that led to this. How events could have been misconstrued. We need to know this so we can understand what hap pened."

My father looked at Amanda, confused. She'd il luminated a path for him and his reluctance to see it was waning.

"I was in New York," James finally said, the words coming out in a rush like air that had been compressed.

"The day Stephen died. I was there."

"You were in the city?" I asked, incredulous.

"Why?"

James looked at me, then Amanda. He stayed quiet.

I got the picture. He wanted to talk to her. She was im partial. A lawyer. I was his son. And I would judge.

"Mr. Parker," she said. "Why were you in New

York?"

"I saw him," James said. His eyes had grown wide, for the first time fully beginning to piece together the circumstances. There was terror in those eyes. They ripped a hole through me because right then I knew he understood why he'd been accused of the crime. "Helen called me."

"Helen Gaines?" Amanda said. "Stephen's mother?"

James nodded. "I hadn't spoken to her in, God, almost thirty years. After she had Stephen, I wanted nothing to do with either of them. I had a family. A wife.

I told her that," he said, slamming his fist on the table.

"From the beginning, I told her this won't go anywhere.

It wasn't my fault the crazy bitch lied about being on the pill."

"How did she get your number?" Amanda said.

"It's called the phone book," James said drily. "Last

I checked I'm not the president."

"Why did she call you after so long?"

James leaned over again, chewed his thumbnail. He ripped off a ragged piece of white, spat it across the room. I saw a small line of blood well up from where he'd ripped.

"She said she was in trouble. That she needed money.

That Stephen was in trouble."

"Did she say what kind of trouble?"

"She said Stephen had a drug problem. She needed to get him help before it was too late. She couldn't afford treatment."

"So why did you come all the way to New York?"

"I hung up on her. She called back. She said if I didn't help them, she would sue me for child support and make sure my name was in every newspaper as one of those deadbeat dads. She said technically I owed her thirty years' of payments, and that if she hadn't wrecked my marriage thirty years ago she'd make it her mission to do it now. I couldn't afford thirty years back payments for the life of me. I told her I could give her some money, a little, but that's it. She said she needed to see me. That maybe meeting his father would snap some sense into

Stephen."

"And you agreed to go?"

"Not at first," James said. "I told her I could send it

Western Union. She said those two words again, 'child support,' and I was on a plane the next day." He looked at me and grinned. "Sorry I didn't call."

"Where did you tell mom you were going?" I asked.

"I don't know, just said I was going fishing or some shit. She didn't ask many questions."

"They say your fingerprints ended up on the gun that killed Stephen," Amanda said. "That means two things. One, they found the murder weapon. And two, your prints were on it. Can you explain how that happened?"

"Helen," he said, shaking his head slightly. "When I got to their apartment-a real rats' nest. Ugh, just dis gusting. Cockroaches everywhere, food left out.

Anyway, I hadn't seen Helen in almost thirty years. I had some money with me. Not much, I ain't Ted Turner in case you haven't noticed. Stephen wasn't there.

Helen told me he was working. It was late, and I didn't care much. I'd gone that long without seeing the boy."

"The gun, Dad," I said.

"I'm getting to that. So I give her some money, two grand. It's all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of course, Helen tells me it's not enough. Rehab centers cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in there."

"And then what?" Amanda said.

"Then…Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what she's doing. And suddenly out she comes holding this…this cannon. Then she pointed that thing at me and told me she needed money. Of course I've handled a gun or two, and I notice the safety's off. But she's holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn't think she'd shoot me on purpose, the way she was holding it-both hands on the butt, two fingers in the trigger guard-that thing could have gone off by accident and blown my head off."

I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing

I was. If Helen Gaines didn't know how to handle a gun, chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the gun? And who did kill him?

"So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move

I grab it out of her hands."

"Slick, Pop," I said.

"How did you take it from her?" Amanda asked.

"Just like this, I guess." My father mimicked grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual demonstration.

"The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not on the trigger, they wouldn't immediately think you killed her." Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he looked down. We both knew he was lying.

"So I might have held it normal," he said.

"Come on, Dad, we're trying to help you. Nobody else will, trust me."

"I might have pointed it at her," he said.

"You might have or you did?" Amanda demanded.

"I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to scare her, is all. Just scare her."

"Did you fire that gun?" Amanda said.

"Absolutely not," James replied. "I pointed it at her once."

"Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,"

Amanda said. "If it wasn't you, someone was able to kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact."

"The killer must have used gloves," I said. "Some thing that didn't disturb fingerprints that were already on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that's what leaves the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.

Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough to shoot him in the back of the head from close range, and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after blowing his brains all over the wall."

"They say keep your friends close but your enemies closer," Amanda said. "Stephen's killer must have been somebody he knew."

I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right now she was the only person who could corroborate my father's story. And she was a woman who certainly owed him nothing.

"Sign the waiver, Dad," I said grimly, gritting my teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. "Go to New York. We can do more for you there than we can here."

"I don't want to go to jail," my father said. His words were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my heart might have bled for this man, it was now.

"Mr. Parker," Amanda said. "James. All we can do right now is try to prove your innocence. We can't do that here. Henry's right. We'll find you a lawyer. We'll help you."

He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,

James Parker simply nodded and said, "I'll sign it."

Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn't show that emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I'd hoped someone would lock him up for one of his crimes. As a young boy I'd wished I was strong enough to stand up to him. It didn't matter how far I went, how much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher ever I went.

Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well?" he said.

"He'll sign the waiver," I said. "Let's get this over with and get him back to New York."

Whalin let out a pleased sigh. "I'm glad to hear that.

Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell we can't spare. He still needs to appear before the judge tomorrow morning, but that's a formality. I'll call the

NYPD. We'll have the waiver ready for him to sign at tomorrow's hearing, and they'll send officers to escort him back to New York. Then he's all yours. Thanks for talking some sense into him."

Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted my father out of his hair, it would help the process move faster. I felt Amanda's hand loop through my arm. I put my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.

As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering her mouth. She looked like she was debating between falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles poked out from her handbag. Memories came flooding back. The more he raged, the more she knit. Losing herself in stitches and patterns.

"Mom?" I said, approaching nervously. I hadn't seen her in a long time. That pale, thin body turned around, hand still at her mouth. She cocked her head to one side, trying to determine whether she knew the man standing in front of her.

"Is that…oh my God, is that you, Henry?"

Suddenly she righted herself, ran over as fast as her sensible shoes could carry her. She flung her arms around me and I found myself nearly supporting her entire body weight. She sobbed onto my shoulder as I bit my lip, did everything I could not to break down as well.

"The police…they called me at Spano's house…

What have they done to him?" she wailed. My mother pulled away, looked at me, hoping for some answer, some assurance that this might have been a terrible joke.

"He's going to be okay, Mom," I said, trying to inject belief into that line when deep down there was none.

"It's a big misunderstanding."

"When are they going to let him out? I bought chicken breasts for dinner."

"Mom," I said, "I don't think he'll be back in time for dinner."

"Then when will he be back?"

I looked at Amanda. Her eyes said, What do you want me to do? My mother looked so lost, confused. It wasn't that I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth about my father and Stephen Gaines, it was that for whatever reason, she'd lost the ability to truly under stand just how many wrongs this man had committed toward her. Over the years her defenses had rusted.

Nothing allowed in, no anger, hostility or resentment out. I wondered, now, if my attitude toward him, my anger, was compounded by the lack of hers.

"I don't know when," I said. I took her hand. Held it. She held on to mine, but her eyes were far off, distant, trying to process the situation but clearly failing. To her, the notion of my father being arrested was like him being sent into outer space.

"Well, what do I do?" she said. "Should I wait at home for him to be released?"

"Home is a good idea, Mom," I said. "Do you have money?"

She thought about this. "I don't know our checkingaccount information, but we keep a jar of emergency money in a safe."

"How much is in there?" I asked.

"Five thousand dollars," she said.

"That should be enough for now," I said.

"Mrs. Parker?" Amanda said. My mother turned to her. "My name is Amanda Davies. I'm Henry's…friend.

I'm a lawyer, so please don't talk to anybody you don't know. Don't speak to reporters, don't give anybody money, and only talk to the police if you have a lawyer present. If you need one, tell the detective on the case and he'll help you retain one, free of charge. We'll do our best to get your husband out of this as soon as we can. So put that chicken in the freezer."

"Thank you, dear," my mom said, her eyes twin kling as she smiled at Amanda. "You said you're a friend of Henry's…are you two in college together?"

My mouth opened, but I didn't say anything.

Amanda responded, "Something like that. You're welcome to come to New York with us if-"

"Oh no, I could never do that." It was definitive. I wondered when my mother last left the state.

"Do you want us to, I don't know, come over for dinner?" I asked.

"Oh no," she said fervently. "The house is a godawful mess."

I nodded, felt my eyes begin to sting.

"Then I'll call you as soon as we get back," I said.

"Be strong. We'll sort this out. Remember what Amanda said. Don't talk to strangers, and also don't believe anything anyone says about Dad."

"I know your father," she said sweetly. "If anyone says he did something wrong, they just don't know

James."

"I love you, Mom. It's good to see you." I ap proached, wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me back, fragile, like the tension in her joints might cause them to shatter. When we untangled, I held her hands for an extra moment, then she let them go. Sitting back down, she turned her attention to the ceiling. And we walked away.

"You okay?" Amanda asked. She could tell I was rattled. More than that. It was all my memories-good, bad and wrenching-flowing back at once.

"I'm not sure yet."

"Will she be okay?"

"She's survived being married to him for almost thirty years. I think a little while without him will be easier."

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"Given the circumstances? Could be worse. I haven't had the nervous breakdown I was sure was coming when I saw her."

"Do you believe your father's story? About the gun?

The money?"

I sighed. "Guess I have to. You know what's funny?"

"What?"

"I've never felt closer to him. Guess not too many sons and fathers can have being accused of murder as a way to relate to each other."