Redemption Road

by John Hart

  What happened in the basement?

  Who pulled the trigger?

  In a fog, Elizabeth stepped outside and wedged the door shut behind her. They had the girl, and the girl would talk. Whether from guilt or naïveté or the desire to help Elizabeth, Channing would eventually break.

  Elizabeth couldn’t let that happen.

  The shooting was too political, too racial. They’d burn her down to make an example.

  “I saw it happen.”

  The voice came from beyond the hedge, and Elizabeth recognized the neighbor who lived to the right, an elderly man with a ’72 Pontiac station wagon he polished on weekends as if it were made of something more precious than steel and paint. “Mr. Goldman?”

  “Must have been twenty cops. Assault rifles and body armor. Goddamn Nazis.” He pointed and ducked his head. “Sorry about your door.”

  “There was a girl.…”

  “A small one, yes. Two tough old bastards hauled her out.”

  “You saw her?”

  “Hard to miss, really, hanging between them like she was, all bright-eyed and flushed and kicking like a mule.”

  * * *

  For a hard flat second Elizabeth didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go to the station with a murder warrant on her head. It was beyond even Dyer to help her, now. Hamilton and Marsh had their indictment. That meant they’d pick her up and drop her in a hole. Even if she won at trial—which was doubtful—she’d be vilified by the national press, picked apart, and stripped to her bones. It was an angry nation and she was another white cop on the wrong side of a shooting. It couldn’t play otherwise, not with fourteen bullet holes in the floor.

  And that was best-case scenario.

  Worst case, Channing would talk. That meant time mattered, and not the kind that would be counted in days.

  Hours, she thought. Minutes.

  Would the girl even fight?

  Elizabeth’s paralysis snapped like a glass rod. She started the car and had Channing’s father on the line before she reached the first turn. He would move heaven and earth, but his lawyers were in Charlotte. That would take time. So, she went the only place that made sense: around the city, across the river. Box bushes took paint off the car, but she found the old lawyer sitting in the same chair on the same porch. He offered pleasantries, but she shut him down before he could rise from the chair. “No time, Faircloth. Just listen, please.”

  She started too fast, too shaky.

  “Slow down, Elizabeth. Catch your breath. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Sit down. Tell me from the beginning.”

  “It needs to be privileged.”

  “Very well. Consider me your attorney.”

  “You’re not licensed.”

  “Then consider me a friend.” She hesitated, so he spoke carefully to make his point. “Anything you tell me I will take to my grave unless you instruct otherwise. You cannot shock me or dissuade me or make me anything less than your ally.”

  “I’m not the only one at risk.”

  “Five decades before the bar, my dear, and you would not believe the secrets I have kept. Whatever the problem, you have come to the right place.”

  “Very well.” She took a deep breath and focused on his hands, on the class ring and creases and parchment skin. He leaned into her words, and she told him everything, her eyes never leaving the crooked fingers, her words rising from some dim, far place. She started with the subpoena for Channing and her own indictment, then moved to the horrible truth of what really happened in the basement on Penelope Street. It hurt like being naked in the cold, but there was no time left for shame or self-pity. She told him everything and let her wrists show to make it real. He interrupted only once, when he whispered, “You poor dear girl.”

  Even then she couldn’t look him in the face. It was the shame of it, as if she weren’t just naked but nailed to a board. “I don’t know what she’ll say, Faircloth, only what will happen if she tells the truth.”

  “And you wish to put her interests above your own.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain of that? If she tortured those men—”

  “That’s on me. My decision.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not if you understand the consequences of what you’re asking me to do. The indictment has your name on it, not hers. You’re risking prison—”

  “I’ll never go to prison. I’ll run first.”

  “As your friend and lawyer, I feel compelled to advise you that such plans rarely work out.”

  “Just keep her from talking, Faircloth. I’ll live with what comes after.”

  “Very well. One thing at a time.” He patted her hand. “You were right to come to me, Elizabeth. Thank you for that, for that trust.”

  “What can we do for Channing?”

  “For starters, don’t panic. Even if she confesses everything, we can argue the shooting is justified. She’s a child, and traumatized. Prosecution is not a foregone conclusion. Conviction is not even worth discussing.”

  “Eighteen rounds. You’ve seen the papers. You understand the context.”

  He nodded because he did. Things were different since Baltimore and Ferguson. Everything was racial; everything was watched. That made the deaths of Brendon and Titus Monroe not just public but political, especially with allegations of torture and retribution. If the attorney general had to shift targets, he certainly could. The cop, the rich girl; at this point it didn’t matter. Win or lose, the machine needed a body.

  “Even if she’s acquitted,” Elizabeth said, “you know what a trial would do to a girl so young. She won’t recover.”

  “Give me a dollar.” The old lawyer held out a hand.

  “What?”

  “Make it two.”

  “I have a twenty.”

  “That’s fine.” He took the bill. “A ten-dollar retainer for you, and another for the girl. In case anyone asks. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Of course…”

  “Give it to me.” Elizabeth handed it over. He removed the battery and the SIM card, then handed everything back and smiled to take away the sting. “Cops make bad fugitives. It’s the mind-set.”

  “Jesus.”

  She stared at the phone. Crybaby was already moving.

  “Get a burner phone when you can. Call me with the number.” He shrugged on a wrinkled coat. The rest of him was in faded jeans and boat shoes without socks. “I’ll deal with the girl first, then we can talk about this indictment. Her father is Alsace Shore?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know his lawyers. They may complicate matters, which doesn’t matter so long as they keep her from talking. We’ll see when I get there. Will your friends on the force help the state police find you?”

  “Beckett’s on my side. Dyer, too, I hope. Everyone else is a wild card.”

  “Then, you should leave, immediately. Do you have a safe place to go? A friend in another town? Family?”

  The question almost ruined her. How could she admit the truth? That most of her friends were cops and would arrest her on sight, that even family was a shelter built on sand. “Right now, you and Channing are all I have.”

  The old man took her hand, and she felt kindness in the heat of his fingers. “Allow me to make a suggestion. I have a fishing cabin on the lake. It’s on Goodman Road, not far at all. I haven’t been there in forever, but a handyman keeps it open for me. You should go there. Just for now,” he assured her. “Just so I can find you.”

  “Shouldn’t I be doing something?”

  “Let me find out what’s happening. Then we can make a plan.”

  “All right. Come on. I’ll drive you.”

  “No. Stay out of the city. Stay away from people. I’ll call the car service.” He guided her off the porch, and she stopped on the second step. “Be quick, Elizabeth. They may have tracked your phone, already.”

  He was eager, but she needed this sin
gle moment, just to be sure. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you have pretty eyes and a lovely smile.”

  “Don’t joke, Faircloth.”

  “Very well. I’m helping you because Adrian spoke of you often, and because I’ve followed your career since his trial, because you are thoughtful and kind and unlike other detectives, because I find you to be a most admirable woman.” A twinkle glinted in the old man’s eyes. “Have I not told you that?”

  “And if you’re charged for practicing without a license?”

  “Until you showed up the other day, I’d not been out of my house for over a decade. Now, I’ve been to court, breathed fresh air, and helped a friend that needed help. I’m eighty-nine years old, with a heart so weak I’m unlikely to live another three. So, look at me.” He lifted his arms so she could take in the old jeans and flyaway hair, the coat he could have used for a pillow. “Now, ask again if I give a good goddamn about being charged with anything.”

  18

  Beckett watched the circus unfold. Alsace Shore. The lawyers. They were in the lobby beyond the glass, arguing, posturing. The Charlotte attorneys made the most noise, but that made perfect sense: $1,500 an hour between the three of them, the client right there and just as red-faced. Only Crybaby Jones seemed at ease. He stood a few feet to the side, both hands on his cane, his head tilted attentively as detectives tried to explain that none of them, in fact, represented Channing Shore.

  “She doesn’t want a lawyer. She’s waived the right—”

  “She’s too young for that. I’m her father. These are her lawyers. Right here! Right now! I demand to see her!”

  “Sir, I need you to calm down, and I’ll explain again. Your daughter’s eighteen. She doesn’t want a lawyer.”

  But Alsace Shore was not the calming kind. He had his own suspicions, Beckett thought. And, why not? He knew what Channing could do with a gun. That meant he knew the danger she was in now, that one wrong word could change her life forever. Beckett felt sick from the thought, but mostly that was about Liz. He’d made a promise and wasn’t sure he could keep it.

  “How long has this been going on?” Beckett leaned into the sergeant, who shrugged.

  “An hour.”

  “Has Dyer been out?”

  “Shit rolls downhill. You know that.”

  “Call me if it gets worse.”

  Beckett left the front desk and worked his way toward the interview rooms. Hamilton and Marsh had the girl in isolation with the local cops frozen out. Uniformed troopers barred the door. Even Dyer was banned, and that made the tension unmistakable, as if the AG thought the locals were covering for one of their own and only the state cops knew right from wrong, as if God himself wanted Liz to fry.

  It tied Beckett into knots.

  Liz was clean.

  How could they not see that?

  But they didn’t. Occam’s razor. The obvious explanation. Whatever. The truth was a coal he wanted to puke from his chest.

  The kid is the goddamn shooter!

  Twenty feet from the troopers, Beckett stopped and checked his watch. They’d had the girl inside for ninety-three minutes. The all-points on Liz was two hours’ old, and every detail was on the wire. Name. Description. Vehicles. Elizabeth was officially wanted for double homicide. Every cop in the state was looking for her, and that was not the worst part.

  Suspect considered armed and dangerous.

  Approach with caution.

  “Where’s Dyer?” Beckett caught a uniformed officer by the sleeve as she passed. She pointed, and Beckett bulled through the hall, people scrambling to get out of his way. He found Dyer near the conference room. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Making phone calls.”

  “Have you seen this?” Beckett pushed a copy of the all-points at Dyer.

  “It’s why I’m making calls.”

  “Those state cops are going to get her killed.”

  “What do you want me to do, Charlie? They have an indictment for double murder. She’s on the run and armed, and the state cops know it.”

  “She didn’t kill anyone.”

  Dyer’s eyebrow went up. “Are you sure?”

  “Just find her.”

  “I have people on the street.”

  “Send more. We need to be the ones to find her. Us. Her people.”

  “She could be out of the county by now, out of the state.”

  “Not Liz.” Beckett was certain. “Not with Channing Shore in custody.”

  Dyer crossed his arms. “Is there something I should know?”

  Beckett looked away and choked on the same hot coal. “All I can say is, she’s got a crazy-strong connection to this kid.”

  “Like the Gideon thing?”

  “Stronger, maybe.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  A day ago Beckett would have said the same thing. Now he wasn’t so sure. “There’s a connection there, Francis. It’s deep and instinctual. Primal, even. She won’t leave the girl.”

  “Whatever the case. Best thing we can do is to bring her in and straighten this out through channels. Counseling. Lawyers. Everybody runs dark at times, and anybody can snap. All we can do now is work the fallout.”

  “You really think she killed those men?”

  “Animals, Charlie. That’s what she said.”

  “Francis—”

  “Let’s just get her home and safe. Deal?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Deal.”

  Beckett watched Dyer all the way to his office, then talked to the first trooper he could find. “I want to talk to Hamilton.” The state cop was six-three and solid, unflinching in the brimmed hat and dove-gray uniform. “Don’t give me that dead-eye, state-cop fucking stare. Go find him.”

  It took a few minutes. When Hamilton came out, Beckett didn’t waste time. “Is she talking?”

  “That’s why you brought me out here?”

  “Has she given you anything? Yes or no?”

  Hamilton studied Beckett’s face, thinking about what he saw on it. Determination maybe. Maybe desperation. “She’s staring at the table. Hasn’t said a single word.”

  “You’ve had her for two hours.”

  “She’s a tough little nut.”

  “Walk with me.” Beckett moved for the back stairs.

  Hamilton trailed along. “There’s nothing I can do for your partner. You know that.”

  Beckett led him into the break room downstairs. “You want a Coke?”

  “Indictment, man. Come on. My hands are tied.”

  “It’s all right. Have a Coke.”

  Beckett fed a bill into the machine, pushed a button, and waited for the bottle to drop. When it did, he opened it and took a sip. “What does your boss want?”

  “Your partner tortured and executed two men. What do you think he wants?”

  “Reelection.”

  “Funny.”

  “Will he take the case capital?”

  “Death penalty. Life in prison. Do you really think it matters?”

  “Yeah.” Beckett bought another Coke. “Damn straight.” Beckett handed over the bottle, then bent for his change to buy time. When he straightened, the decision was made. “I can make her talk.”

  “Channing? I seriously doubt it.”

  “Do you want to know what happened in the basement or not?”

  “Of course, I want to know.”

  “Give me five minutes alone with her.” Beckett sipped from the bottle, and his eyes were flat. “The kid will fucking talk.”

  * * *

  When Beckett walked into the interview room, the girl sat alone at a metal table. He sat across from her, empty-handed. Channing kept her head down, but Beckett saw a pearl of blood at the quick of her nail, the places she’d chewed her bottom lip raw. “I’m Detective Beckett. I’m Elizabeth’s partner.” She stirred at the name, but kept her eyes down. “I know you’re Liz’s friend. I know you care. I’m her friend, too.” Beckett put his elbows on the table. “
Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you’re her friend.”

  “That’s good. Thank you for that. Do you understand that there’s an arrest warrant with her name on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That she’s charged with double homicide for what happened in the basement?”

  The girl nodded.

  “That means she could go to prison for life and might be executed. Do you understand that, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think that’s fair?”

  Nothing.

  Stillness.

  “What if she gets hurt when they arrest her? There’re a dozen state patrolmen in the county looking just for her. Every cop in the state has her picture. What if she gets shot or wrecks a car or hurts somebody trying to elude arrest? What happens to her, then? Life on the run? Life with nothing? You understand that North Carolina is a death-penalty state?”

  “She told me not to say anything.”

  “I know she did. And I know why, too.” The girl looked up at that. “It’s okay. I know what happened.”

  “She told you?”

  “I’m a cop. I figured it out. Others will, too.” The girl looked away, and Beckett waited for her to look back. “Does the name Billy Bell mean anything to you?” It did. He saw it in the twitch of her hands, and in the sudden flush he knew was shame. “He works as a gardener for your parents. I spoke to him this morning.”

  “So?”

  She was on the edge, and Beckett made his voice hard because on the edge meant nothing. He needed her broken.

  “Billy bought drugs for your mother. Mostly, he bought them from Brandon and Titus Monroe. Pills. Cocaine. That went on for years. That’s fact. But you knew that, didn’t you? That your mother’s a user. That your gardener had a connection. You wanted to meet that connection. You and your friends. You wanted to be bad. You wanted the thrill.” Channing tensed, a moment of terror in her eyes. That’s when Beckett knew he was right. “Do you know what an affidavit is?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s a sworn statement, admissible in court. Billy Bell signed one this morning. Would you like to read it?”