by Greg Iles
Jet shakes her head in disbelief. “That’s absurd. My client is innocent. He wasn’t even there.”
“How do you know that?” asks the younger cop. “Were you with him?”
“Did Max say I was with him?”
“Jet, let it go,” I plead. “You can’t stop this.”
Farner turns back to the younger cop. “Floyd? Cuff him.”
“Hands behind your back,” barks the younger cop. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you—”
“Turn off that camera!” yells Officer Farner.
Nadine is walking swiftly across the asphalt circle with her iPhone held in front of her. “This isn’t Russia yet,” she retorts. “I don’t see a body cam on you, and I can film anything I please.”
“You can’t do this!” Jet snaps, taking a step toward Farner.
“Mrs. Matheson,” he says, “both you women are interfering with an officer in the performance of his duties.”
“I’m doing no such thing. This is bullshit.”
“Public profanity, Floyd,” Farner says. “Add that to her list.”
“Jet, please,” I implore.
She’s not hearing me. Jet is obviously racked with guilt that I’m being arrested for something she did. Max pulled a neat trick by accusing me rather than her. It gets him lifesaving medical care without bringing Jet into the equation at all. What I want to know is my supposed motive for assaulting Max.
“Officer,” I say in the most level voice I can muster, “you’ll see that both my hands are in plain view. I need to inform you that I’m carrying a pistol. It’s in the small of my back—”
“GUN!” shouts Farner, whipping his automatic out of his holster and aiming at my chest. His partner does the same, and Jet’s shriek does nothing to defuse the situation.
“Get on the ground!” Farner screams, moving around behind me.
This is the overreaction I feared. Most cops in this situation would have asked me to turn around, then simply taken my gun. I spread both empty hands wide and look into Nadine’s cell phone. “I’m about to comply with—”
“NOW! FACE DOWN! BOTH HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD!”
As I kneel in preparation to lie down, Jet says, “Officer, my client voluntarily informed you that he is armed, and he poses no threat to—”
Planting his tactical boot between my shoulder blades, Farner kicks me flat. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. “Cuff him, Floyd.”
The younger cop slaps his handcuffs around my wrists, then yanks my pistol from my belt.
“Whoa! This is fancy. Is this a Luger?”
“Hey!” Jet yells. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”
“I warned you, Princess,” Farner says, throwing up a beefy arm and shoving her three feet backward.
“That’s assault!” Nadine shouts. “I’m an attorney, and that was assault.”
“Fuck this,” Farner mutters. “Arrest ’em all.”
Gasping for air, I look up to see Jet fly at the big cop like a wildcat. He looks stunned to be attacked by a woman, but his partner’s already got his Taser out.
“Jet, stop!” Nadine shouts. “Let go of him!”
Jet breaks contact with the cop, but when she sees the younger cop aiming his weapon at her, she says, “You’re going to tase me? Go ahead. Look right in the camera while you do it.”
She’s lost it. After fearing arrest for hours, seeing me arrested in her place has pushed her over the edge.
“Cuff these bitches, too,” Farner says, pointing at Jet. “Her first.”
The young cop takes the cuffs from Farner’s belt and moves behind Jet.
“Hey!” yells a male voice from the direction of the hospital. “Hey, that’s my wife!”
Looking left, I see Paul charging across the asphalt from the hospital doors, Kevin trailing behind him. Paul may be forty-seven and drunk, but he’s an intimidating sight with his head and shoulders lowered the way they used to be when he hammered running backs as a strong safety. I hope the cops don’t shoot him out of reflex.
“Stay back, Paul!” the older cop yells. “You don’t want none of this.”
“You boys need to stand down,” Paul drawls, stopping five yards short of us. “What the hell’s going on out here, Jerry? Why’s that kid trying to handcuff my wife?”
“She was interfering with our arrest,” says the young cop.
Paul grins good-naturedly, but I see anger in his eyes. “She’s a lawyer, son. That’s what lawyers do.”
“She assaulted Office Farner.”
“Over what?”
Farner steps closer to Paul. “Me arresting the asshole your daddy says hit him in the head with a hammer.”
“Ahh,” Paul says in a knowing tone. “Yeah, she gets a little defensive about this particular asshole. Takes things a little personally where he’s concerned.”
I try to catch Paul’s eye, but he’s taking pains to avoid my gaze.
“You need to get back inside,” Farner tells him. “You’ve obviously had a few.”
Paul grins. “More than a few. But that’s my normal state, brother. I’m a high-functioning drunk, like Marshall’s daddy. But now it looks like mine may beat his to the cemetery.”
“Can I get up now?” I cough.
“Slowly,” says the young cop. “Damn slowly.”
As I struggle to my knees, Farner says, “Mr. McEwan, do you have a concealed-carry permit?”
“Mississippi’s an open-carry state,” Jet declares.
“Stay out of this, Jet,” Paul snaps.
I get carefully to my feet.
“Answer the question,” Farner orders.
“No, I don’t have that permit.”
“Well, I don’t see a belt holster. Was the gun in plain view when you walked out of the hospital?”
“It was,” Jet says quickly. “I asked him to get it out. I didn’t feel safe.”
“Goddamn it,” Paul mutters. “Would you shut up?”
Jet’s head snaps up as though he slapped her.
Farner laughs. “Something tells me you’re being less than honest, lady. Well, security tapes will tell us. Mr. McEwan, I’m adding carrying a concealed weapon to your charges.” He turns to his partner. “Get him in the car, Floyd. I’ll call backup for these other two.”
“Bullshit you will,” Paul says in a low voice.
Knowing Paul’s explosive temper, I try to distract him. “Why am I supposed to have assaulted Max, Paul? What was my motive?”
His head turns slowly from Farner to me, and even the cops seem to be waiting to hear his answer. “You accused him of killing Buck Ferris.”
This is the last answer I expected, but it makes sense.
“When Pop denied it,” Paul goes on, “you accused him of killing my mother. Supposedly because she wouldn’t give him an alibi for the night Buck died.”
This is no place to argue Max’s lies. For the moment I have to be satisfied that Max turned Paul’s focus away from Jet.
“That sounds like you, doesn’t it, Goose?” Paul says, stepping closer to me. “You gonna deny it?”
I can smell the alcohol from two feet away. “Nobody here is interested in my denial.”
“Imagine that. You know, I’ve kept my distance tonight because Duncan’s close to dying. That’s what they said in the ER. But I want to hear you deny what you did to Pop.”
Something in Paul’s eyes doesn’t look right. It isn’t just the alcohol. He’s not all there. I fight the urge to glance at Jet. Something tells me she’s about to confess to being Max’s assailant.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Farner says, obviously more than a little worried about Paul.
“Backup’s on the way,” says the younger cop.
It’s only because I know Paul so well that I sense his punch coming in time to duck. He still manages to clip my skull above the ear, and white light explodes through my brain. When my vision returns, I find myself lying on my back, staring up
into the streetlight, my cuffed hands crushed beneath my pelvis.
“Goddamn it!” Farner bellows. “That’s it! Get back, Paul, or I’ll arrest your ass, too! What the hell’s wrong with this family?”
As Paul stands over me, panting from exertion, the sound of helicopter blades cutting the air rolls over us, growing louder by the second. That distinctive whup-whup-whup always carries an overtone of Vietnam, but especially tonight, given the passenger that this medevac chopper has been summoned to carry.
“That’s Max’s ride to UMC,” Paul says. “Jet, come on with me.”
“Uh-uh,” Farner says. “Not this time. The lady stays.”
Paul looks at the cop, then runs his tongue around behind his bottom lip. He points at me. “There’s your outlaw, Jerry. Attempted murder. My wife’s just a little high-strung tonight. You know how that is.”
“We’re taking her in,” Farner says doggedly, glancing over at Nadine, who’s still filming.
“Nadine, turn off that camera,” Paul says.
Nadine hesitates, but Jet nods at her.
As soon as Nadine lowers her cell phone, Farner says, “Look, man, if you don’t like it, call Mr. Buckman.”
Max’s umbrella of protection for his daughter-in-law has definitely been removed. I don’t think Paul’s ever experienced this kind of resistance from Bienville cops. He sighs, looks at the ground for a few seconds, then steps within two inches of Officer Farner. In a voice so low as to be nearly inaudible, he says, “I’ll tell you how this is gonna go, Jerry. You can take Marshall there straight down to the pokey, but my wife and son are coming to Jackson with me.”
Farner stiffens and tries to step back, but Paul catches his arm and holds him close. The young cop clearly has no idea what to do.
“If they don’t,” Paul goes on, “you’re gonna be calling Roto-Rooter to fish your balls out of your septic tank. After I flush ’em down the toilet.”
Pale with anger, Farner lays his hand on the butt of his gun.
“Last thing you’ll ever do,” Paul says, never taking his eyes from the cop’s face. “Badge or no badge, I swear to God.”
Farner leaves his hand on his pistol for a few face-saving seconds, then pivots away from Paul, catches hold of my arm, and drags me toward the cruiser’s back door. The young cop jumps forward and opens it for him.
“We’ll have you out first thing in the morning,” Jet promises me.
“You leave that to Nadine,” Paul says.
As Farner’s big hand clamps down on top of my skull and forces me into the stinking backseat, it comes home to me just how dangerous Paul is. He just told a cop—in front of witnesses—that he’d beat the hell out of him if he disobeyed Paul’s order. And rather than wait for backup and arrest Paul, both cops decided to let it go.
Not the guy whose wife you want to sleep with . . .
“How you like it back there, Mr. Newspaperman?” asks Farner.
The reality of spending the night in a cell at the mercy of the Poker Club is settling over me. But not even that can bury the epiphany that hits me behind the metal mesh separating me from these fine officers of the law. Paul didn’t slug me because he thinks I hit his father with a hammer. Paul hates his father. He hit me because at some level he knows that, despite my denial earlier today, I am sleeping with his wife. He may not know that he knows . . . but he does.
“Hey,” Farner goes on as the squad car leaves the parking lot. “A week ago I’d have worried what you’d write about me in the paper. But you ain’t got no newspaper anymore. There ain’t no more Watchman. Not now. And when they reopen that rag, it’s gonna be under new management. Things are gonna get a little easier around here. A little looser, you know? Like the good old days.”
I give him nothing.
“I said, how you like it back there, boy?”
I should keep quiet, but for the thousandth time I picture Buck being dragged from the river by incompetent deputies. He was probably killed by a guy a lot like Farner.
“How do you like being Paul Matheson’s bitch?” I ask mildly.
Chapter 42
I’m drowning.
The more I gasp for air, the more water I suck down my throat. I’ve been blinded, and my arms are strapped to my sides. My mind is screaming, my vocal cords locked in spasm. A man is shouting in my ear, but the words make no sense. This nightmare is not happening in Afghanistan or Iraq, but in my hometown jail.
The city cops handed me over to a deputy who booked me, but I was never taken to a cell. The deputy led me, still handcuffed, to a group shower in the basement of the county jail. There I found good old Officer Farner waiting for me. City and county law enforcement usually coexist in a state of cold war, but apparently the Poker Club has the power to bring them together in common cause. Farner showed me that he had my wallet and cell phones. Then he locked me in the shower room, telling me on his way out that we were going to have a good time together soon.
An hour after he left, Farner returned with a second man wearing a hood. The new man wore jeans and a black T-shirt, not a city or county uniform. The two men used ballistic nylon straps to bind my legs, chest, and arms to the long bench. They wrapped a towel around my head and used duct tape to secure my head to the wood—to keep from bruising me, I guess. Then one of them started pouring water down my nose and mouth.
I figured I would hold my breath, but when I tried, they pulled the wet towel close over my face. I knew that when I gasped, there would be no air, and that knowledge drove the breath from my lungs and made me suck in with all my strength.
All I got was soaked cloth and water.
After ten seconds of blind panic, they stopped pouring. Until that moment, I had never understood what waterboarding was. The simplicity of the torture makes it incomprehensible to anyone who hasn’t endured it. That’s how life is: in the simplest things lie the greatest joy and misery. Ask any hospital patient who can’t urinate or defecate without emergency catheterization or a forcible bowel evacuation. Ask someone dying of thirst the value of water.
Ask a drowning man about air.
They did it to me twice before they even asked a question. Until that moment, I believed Officer Farner was simply punishing me. But no, their process had an object. While dripping water onto the towel, a new voice said, “Where is the stuff Sally Matheson put together to blackmail her husband?”
“I don’t know,” I coughed, trying to place the genteel Southern accent.
“We know you have it.”
“I don’t! I never had it.”
“You’re lying. You quoted from it to Tommy Russo this morning.”
“No! Somebody emailed me that. Anonymous source. You can look in my phone. Look in my phone!”
“Stop for a minute,” said the voice.
Until those words, I’d existed only moment to moment.
The prospect of even temporary cessation of the pain and terror filled me with shameful gratitude. In less than two minutes I’d learned that I would betray anything I knew, everyone I loved. How could it be so easy to break a man? How could it be that some men had held out for days or weeks or months against torture? The only answer I could imagine was that there are degrees of torture. Pain is one thing; terror is another. Pain can be isolated by the mind, objectified, distanced, even befriended. Terror is a wild animal trying to claw its way out of your chest.
“Take that blindfold off,” said the genteel voice.
A strong hand yanked the towel from around my head, banging the back of my skull against the bench. Beau Holland stood over me, his golfer’s tan dark and rich above a salmon-colored button-down. His eyes contained a mixture of malice and pleasure, and when he smiled, his Chiclet-white porcelain veneers shone in the dim room.
“I warned you this morning,” he said. “You didn’t listen. Listen now. You had two phones when they brought you in.”
“The email I quoted from is in my iPhone. Look at it. You’ll see the sender used some high-tech anony
mous program to send it. We tried to trace it, but it’s impossible.”
Holland nodded to the man in the hood. “What’s your password?”
“Zero-five-two-seven-seven-two.”
“Good boy. You don’t like drowning on dry land, do you?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I would if I could. I’d save myself a lot of time.” Another smile. “What’s your second phone for?”
“That isn’t mine. One of the Watchman employees Pine fired gave it to me today.”
Holland thought about that. “Who does it connect to? A source?”
“I don’t know.”
“I guess it’s time to play again.”
“Damn right,” said Officer Farner, picking up the water jug.
“Not yet,” said Holland. “Have you found his emails?”
The hooded man answered, “Got an email with a big PDF sent by a Mark Felt.”
Holland laughed. “A source with a sense of humor. Whoever sent that is going to be giving me deep throat before they’re finished.”
He crouched easily beside the bench and looked into my eyes from inches away. “Am I going to have to tell them to keep going? Or are we going to have a civil conversation?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Good boy. I need one name from you, McEwan. Who did Sally Matheson give her cache to? Think hard before you answer. Because these Rhodes Scholars here are going to keep going until you tell them. You might as well start where it’s going to end anyway.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to talk him into giving you a piece of ass,” Farner muttered.
“You want severance pay with your pink slip?” Holland asked without even looking at the cop.
“No, sir. I mean, sorry, Mr. Holland.”
Beau Holland raised his hand and gave my cheek two friendly pats. “You heard my question. Now’s your chance to answer. Think hard, McEwan.”
Fear unlike anything I’d ever known turned my bowels to water. When I crouched in that house in Ramadi, waiting for the final insurgent assault, I never felt this. Back there, at least I had a rifle. I could do something. Even after they captured me, and I lay helpless on the kitchen table while they argued about cutting my throat, something told me that if I died, it would be because I was American. But facing Beau Holland in this stinking basement was the worst torture of all. I didn’t have the information he wanted, but he believed I did—which meant that he would drown me for no reason.