The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  “Care to join your father in wallowing away?” He nudged his head in the direction of an empty seat. He was under arrest, why couldn’t he take it seriously? Or was that a coping mechanism? He’d reached the end of his rope and all he had left were jokes.

  The chair at the other side of the table had been dragged away as if a person had recently gotten up and kicked it aside. Pulling it closer, she took him up on his offer.

  Her eyes danced around the strange familiar room. She didn’t know how address him. What to say first? Hi... Hello...? They weren’t strangers; she didn’t need to act like they were. Was she to leap right in and address the elephant in the room? “We have a bit of catching up to do,” The words had pried their way from lips pressed in a thin line, addressing the stare he’d had on her shaven head. She’d forgotten about that. She’d grown beyond thoughtless glances at the mirror on her way out, beyond running a hand through her hair, once a shoulder length bed of ruffled mushroom locks now reduced to a clean scalp. A stamp of her disease. A stamp she could live with. That was a start to their conversation. Not the best, but it was something and something was better than nothing.

  “New look?” He dared to reach out a hand towards her head. She leaned away. He withdrew his hand.

  “I have cancer, Terrence. Leukemia. Much like Michel did. They caught mine early.” Terrence bobbed his head as if she’d just told him she renewed her apartment lease. Had this been what he’d done when they’d informed him of Michel’s situation? Had he merely bobbed his head and hoped like a common cold, her twin brother’s cancer would go away on his own? “It goes hand in hand with being relieved of my duties from Wellington &Turner.” At that, Terrence hadn’t even bothered with a reaction. She dumped her jacket and purse rather roughly on the table. He seemed startled, eyes broadened. “Don’t you even care?” She’d pinned him in place with an agitated glare. She wasn’t sad that her father looked as if he couldn’t be bothered by her disease. No, she was rather startled to say the least. She leaned back in her seat. “I could die at any goddamn moment. My life is purely dependent on chemotherapy and cancer medication.”

  “You’re not the first person to get cancer, Christina. I won’t give you the benefit of getting a default pity filled reaction from me. I bet you get that enough and that’s not what you need. You have cancer, your life is dependent on chemotherapy and medication… a lot of people have cancer, a lot of people live long healthy lives with it. Stop chasing attention because of it, I didn’t raise you to be that way.” He wanted to talk about parenting? He was cuffed and forced to spend hours in an interrogation room for the murder of his son!

  “Don’t talk about raising me, Terrence. You didn’t raise me. You were too damn busy throwing divorce threats at Olivia after murdering her son!”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “You didn’t kill Michel?”

  “No... Lawrence. I didn’t kill Lawrence Harrington.”

  Time sat still as Christina processed the words in her head. The words that had reverberated in her skull. Perhaps he hadn’t had a role to play in the murder of Lawrence Harrington. So he claimed. But he’d had a part to play in the death of Michel Gresham. There was nothing he could say that would convince her otherwise. Her father had killed her brother. The man that had raised her was a killer. A selfish one at that. Did he think she as well as the rest of Manhattan would believe that he had nothing to do with Lawrence? Especially after the news broadcast that did quite a job at shedding more light on the dismissed case of Michel Gresham?

  The room they’d kept him was the same as the last time. Small, beige and empty aside from a table and two chairs. Bland with a camera that sat over the door, the red flash gawking at them. Terrence wasn’t the same as before. He was an old man, but she could see the young boy still in him. The man she’d seen before had been at his peak, threatening to be tugged down. The man before her had fallen from a great height and found himself groveling, near licking the feet of those who’d brought him in like a rat. The man before her was an old man yearning to return to the field and kick a ball around. He was an old man removed from the designer brands that took years off of him. Christina Gresham couldn’t look away from the fringe of grey-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He'd had a wizened face and a back slightly hunched. It was obvious from the near translucent vest, the only thing he’d had on his torso when he’d been brought down to 28th Precinct.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, Terrence?” She leaned towards him in her seat.

  “I... didn’t kill Lawrence, Christina.”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I know what they’re saying about me. It’s not true.” He tried to reach out his cuffed hand to her. A loud clatter of metal filled the small room. He withdrew it. He was yet to adapt to his situation.

  “I don’t think you know what they’re saying, Terrence. They’re saying you killed Michel. How do they even know about that? I just learned about it and I turn on the television to find out the public already knew?”

  His silence gnawed at her insides.

  “I spoke to a reporter about it a few days ago… I didn’t think she would document what we talked about. So when the Detective showed me the morning news on his phone… I knew it was because of what I said.”

  “For the love of God, Terrence.”Christina mumbled beneath her breath. She’d reached for her bag and shuffled through for yet another packet of L&M’s. She’d picked up a new packet on the subway at 145th Street. She’d tugged a stick from the packet and a lighter and leaned back in her seat setting the citrus stick ablaze. She balanced it between her lips and returned her attention to her father.

  “I see you never quit that disgusting habit of smoking you picked up in law school.”

  Puffing out a tobacco cloud, she said; “That shows how little you know about me, Terrence. I stopped smoking, but this situation just calls for it.”

  “That’s an excuse, no situation warrants smoking.”

  “Let’s talk about how you killed my brother, because I’m not the one cuffed to an interrogation table about to be linked to about to be linked to yet another murder.” She returned the stick to her lips and gulped a breath; she’d held it in her lungs, testing their strength. It burned like the mid afternoon sun. Her lips parted and she’d let the smoke slither from between her parted lips.

  “Your brother was in pain, I did what any parent would have done!” Was he really trying to justify his actions? He’d taken his son off life-support. The medical team had warned him against it, hadn’t they? They sure as hell had a duty of care to warn him… why the hell didn’t they?

  “You were negligent, Terrence. That’s why his condition deteriorated. And even still he could have survived.”

  “You didn’t see him, Christina. He was begging to be put to rest.”

  “It wasn’t your place to make that decision. It wasn’t your goddamn place.” Again, she kissed the butt of her cigarette, breathed it in, held it and parted her lips.

  “You would have liked to see your brother as a vegetable? He was brain dead after his heart stopped. He was a body plugged into a machine making his heart beat. He wasn’t going to survive.”

  “People are calling to reopen your case regarding Michel Gresham’s death. The authorities just want to know if you had a part to play in the death of Lawrence Harrington.”

  “I already told you I didn’t!” She wasn’t the one to make that decision. “…They know that I was there at Gresham Square on the night of the murder.” Kiss, breath, hold, and part. She liked the rhythm.

  “Did you tell them that and think they wouldn’t use it against you?” He refused to meet her gaze. So, again with the thousand-yard stare.

  “What were you doing there, at Gresham Square?”

  “I was talking to a receptionist that wanted a raise. He knew I had relieved Lawrence of his duties and he wan
ted to corner me for a raise. I was damn close to cutting him from the payroll too!” Terrence looked at her. She tossed the residue of her stick of L&M onto the floor and crunched out the flame with the red bottom sole of her Suede Pumps.

  “But what happened?” She held his gaze.

  “He blackmailed me.” Terrence said.

  “Blackmail?” She folded her arms over her chest.

  “Yes, Christina, blackmail. He had information over me that I didn’t want getting out and he used it to get a raise. And after that, he left my office. I was at Gresham Square till the early hours of the morning.”

  “Can I know what he had over you?”

  “If I didn’t want it getting out then what makes you think I want it out now?” He nodded. She slipped off her coat. “There are some secrets a man has to take to his grave, Christina.” What else did he have to hide?

  “You’re going to prison; everyone already knows what you did to your son, my twin brother. What more could you possibly have to hide?” She hoped it wasn’t something much worse than what she’d already learned.

  “A motive.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “What motive, why are you being unnecessarily difficult, Terrence?” Her head tilted. “I am still your lawyer, unless you’re going to relieve me of my duties the same way you did Lawrence?” That was a low blow. She knew that, he just irked her.

  “I can’t tell you, Christina, because if it gets out… It’s going to seem like I did it. Like I killed Lawrence Harrington.” Was he really obstructing justice by concealing information? Was he sincerely under the impression that she would run to the authorities with the motive he had?

  And then she remembered. There were cameras and microphones. The authorities were listening. Reaching for her bag and rummaging through it, Christina pulled out a pen and paper. She slipped it to him.

  “You’re not going to survive in prison, Terrence. Not at your age, and not with your lifestyle. And I can’t let you die.” He’d tugged the paper closer and with the pen, begun to scribble. “But I have to know how you dropped the first charges. If I don’t the prosecution is going to use it against you.”

  He paused, and from beneath hooded eyelids, looked at her and said; “I knew the judge. A little too well and he owed me a favor. He made the prosecution drop the charges.” He continued to scribble. “If they reopen that case, he’s going to lose his position on the bench, face multiple charges and I… am going to go away for a long time.” He sat up straight and slipped the paper and pen back to her. “And I think I could handle myself behind bars…” He’d chuckled to himself.

  “Don’t get cocky, Terrence.” She’d said picking up the note, line by line she ran over his neat curly handwriting.

  I’d intended to get rid of Lawrence, though I hadn’t wanted to kill him. I’d slipped a company Lawrence had been interested in partnering with into our index during a conference. I’d always warned him that enterprise was going to plumet and he never listened. I’d wanted to prove a point and relieve him of his duties soon after… but things got messy after numerous investors incurred great losses.

  He felt they would link him to the murder of Lawrence Harrington if it was uncovered that he’d intended to fire Lawrence?

  He was right to fear.

  She looked at him, nodded and slipped it into her bag.

  “I spoke to Olivia.” She changed the topic. “She hasn’t bothered to reach out to you or me since the divorce.” He leaned back in his seat “I don’t know why I thought… I don’t know… that she would at least be in contact with you. I don’t know why even after I begged you not to reach out to her I thought you would.” Terrence’s shoulders slumped.

  “You miss what we were before the divorce?” Christina nodded.

  “Whether or not you want to see it, it was bound to happen. After what happened to your brother, Olivia just couldn’t get passed that. She couldn’t see me as the man I tried to be for her. She saw me as the man that killed her son… and I am not that man.”

  “Then who are you Terrence?”

  “I’m your father, Christina.”

  “No, you’re not, Terrence. You’re a killer. And from now on, you’re nothing but my client.” And with that, Christina gathered her belongings, and rose to her feet. Things were going to be different now. She would handle his case as an independent lawyer. She would use it to get back on her feet. And she would slap it in Cohen Wellington’s face. She would keep him from serving time for a murder he probably didn’t commit, but for the one he did, she would ensure he went down like the titanic for it.

  A groan. Detective Harrington was tired. Worn weary from waiting.

  Simon King had been late to the venue, his kids elementary school. Was he always late? Had he picked the kids up earlier and merely sent Harrington on a wild goose chase? That didn’t seem likely.

  Barron Harrington wasn’t naïve. He’d entertained the possibility that he could be meeting with a potential criminal off social media. But then again, why would a person who intended to kidnap another, base their meeting outside an elementary school?

  He hadn’t lost count of how many times he’d shut-off his engine, subjected himself to the blazing afternoon glare and made his way into the public property. North Shore Rangers elementary was a state of the art establishment; one Barron had learned housed over six-hundred children from within Midtown Manhattan and East Village. Unlike the six-hundred children, Detective Harrington hadn’t been privileged to acquire his education in such a diverse community. Born and raised in Manhattan Valley, Detective Harrington had been raised in a neighborhood elementary a stone through down from Papa Daniel’s Coffee and Scones. Valley Prep Academy. It had been a public school, not nearly as big as North Shore Rangers Elementary.

  The first time Harrington had stalked the property; a deep brown three story brick building, his hands shoved in his pocket, sun-shades resting against the crook of his nose, he’d seen a couple hundred kids running about the playground and running from their class to their lockers. Those number of children had dropped within the forty minutes he’d spent in the confines of his SUV, the window cracked down, running through one article after another detailing his father’s murder. Parents in their multitude had pulled up at the parking lot and shuffled inside to claim their kids.

  Harrington had been curious. He couldn’t deny it. And as he walked yet again through the halls of the west-wing; noting once more the bright green and yellow lockers a contrast to the white walls stamped with posters, he’d entertained fleeting thoughts of what it would be like to have a kid that would leap from where they were talking to their friends in the hall and run over to him… He could only imagine. And like a raincloud on the spring morning of his thoughts, he pondered over the ache of watching that child wither away. Turn their back against him and neglect his presence. He couldn’t imagine the torment of having a kid that would barely check-in on him, barely acknowledging all he did to keep him from danger, from the world. He could only imagine the agony Lawrence had endured having a child that had been claimed by the world. A child that forgot his home, and roots.

  “Can I know who you’re looking for Detective?” Gregg Foley had asked. He was the principle. Barron Harrington had spoken to him the first time he’d made a survey of the school. Harrington at the time not intending to linger amongst the children for too long had told Gregg that he was conducting an investigation and needed to speak with a parent. The man hadn’t disturbed him since. Though making a third lap round the school had to have piqued the mans’ attention.

  “… I can’t really disclose that information…”

  “It’s me!” A voice piped in. Both Harrington and Gregg Foley turned to the jogging man by the entrance doors to the west-wing. He didn’t have a kid with him.

  “Mr. King, you’re the one this Detective is looking for?” The man who’d reached them, took a breath then nodded.

  “We have a date, today.” Harrington huffed. Gregg F
oley seemed surprised.

  “Well then, enjoy your day, Detective, Mr. King... And before I forget, Helen and Elliot have already been picked up by their mother.”

  “I know. I had her clear out that part of my afternoon.”

  “I guess, I’m done here then. Nice meeting you, Detective…” Gregg Foley tried yet again to dismiss himself.

  “Harrington.” Barron supplied. Gregg Foley seemed distant, then snapped his fingers pointing into the sky saying;

  “You’re the son of Lawrence Harrington!” Barron nodded even though it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, he was my father.”

  “My condolences, Mr. Harrington.” Gregg Foley turned Grim. “Your father made quite an impact on many in Manhattan. I especially enjoyed a few of his write-ups documenting the life of an investor, and what we as laymen should and shouldn’t do.” The man, Gregg Foley, a stout man with skin resembling olives and hair a flaky jet black had remembered Lawrence with a pitiful smile on his face. “I presume you’ve read his works?” Barron shook his head. He was yet to.

  “No, sir, not yet.” He voiced.

  “tsk…tsk…tsk… children these days. You should. You’ll have a new found perspective on your father.” Clapping his hands together, the man wiped the smile off his face and said; “Anyway, let me not take up too much of your time. Enjoy your date.” Gregg Foley turned and begun the journey to his office.

  “You’re not my type.” Detective Harrington cleared the air. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Harrington let his eyes run over Simon King. He was a man who had lost the traces of boyhood. With a defined jaw, he had a sort of hen-pecked look. “I don’t do married men.” Simon King grinned.

  “Who told you, I had the hots for law enforcement I met off Facebook?”

  “You know why I’m here,” Barron forced. He was still yet to turn in at 28th Precinct and cement what he’d arranged with Bennett Mathews and decide what he would tell Lieutenant Watson. He didn’t have all day.