American Outrage

by Tim Green

  She looked at Jake and said, “Do you think my father killed him?”

  “Your baby?”

  “Clinton.”

  “I have no idea,” Jake said, a shudder passing through him.

  Martha hung her head again and murmured to herself. After a minute, Jake stood up and held out his hand. When she took it, he patted it gently with his other hand. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m not sure at all if my son is the one. I think we should do a maternity test, and go from there. At this point, we’re only guessing.”

  “He’s got to be my son,” she said, gripping his hand with both of hers so they were locked together. “My father didn’t want me to have Clinton’s baby. It was a boy, the oldest of his grandchildren. There’s something about it in the will.”

  “Okay, we’ll find out.”

  Jake let go of her hands and stepped back.

  “Will you be here?” Jake asked.

  She looked around and said, “Yes. They have oatmeal for breakfast. You can come if you want to.”

  “So, I’ll get the test set up,” Jake said. “Okay? I’m going to go, but we’ll come back.”

  “For oatmeal?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jake reached for the door and hesitated. Something told him to go back, to tell her he was sorry, that he knew he’d made a mistake, and that there’d be no test. When he pulled open the door, Sam looked up at him, his face pasty with horror and shock.

  “Sam,” he said.

  Before he could recover, Sam bolted down the hall, threw open the door, and disappeared.

  Jake took off after him. When he blew out the front door, Sam was already in a full sprint, heading down the sidewalk in the direction of Central Park. Jake took off but didn’t catch him by the arm until the crossing on Fifth Avenue. Sam struggled to get free, but Jake was able to pull him into a bear hug.

  “No!” Sam yelled. “Leave me alone!”

  Jake held on while Sam thrashed against him. People moved away from them and a cop appeared and asked what was going on.

  “Nothing,” Jake said, still holding on, “he’s my son.”

  The cop’s eyes went from Jake’s face to Sam’s and he said, “Doesn’t look like you. How about some ID?”

  “I’m Jake Carlson, officer,” Jake said, pulling the wallet out of his pocket and showing it to him with one hand.

  “Who’s the kid?”

  “You stupid asshole!” Sam screamed, turning his red face toward the cop. “He’s my father.”

  The cop stepped back.

  “Come on, Sam,” Jake said softly. With his arm around Sam’s shoulders he led him across the street and into the shadows of the trees in the park.

  Jake kept Sam moving until his trembling stopped and they reached the boat pond, where they sat on a bench. Sam stared out at the water, sniffing to himself.

  “I’m a freak,” Sam said. “I thought those guys at school were all these stupid assholes, but they were right. I’m a freak.”

  49

  SAM WIPED HIS NOSE along the back of his forearm.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure she’s your mother,” Jake said.

  “Don’t say that,” Sam said, “because she is and you know it.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “How? How do we look all this time and find her and you say now she’s not? Then who is?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It makes sense, me being this freak, some heroin baby.”

  “Cut the crap,” Jake said. “You’re a normal kid.”

  “I never should have asked,” he said, shaking his head. “I deserve it. I should have left it alone.”

  “No one gets to go back.”

  “I don’t want to do any test. I want to go home.”

  Jake fixed his attention on a boat that careened across the pond, tilting in the wind.

  After a time, he said, “We can’t just stop, Sam.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Sam said, without raising his head. “I don’t want to know.”

  “If they did this,” Jake said. “People have to know.”

  Sam looked up at him with a bitter, tearstained face and asked, “Why?”

  “Because it was wrong.”

  Sam just stared, until he said, “Because of TV. Right?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with TV,” Jake said. “I could have gotten my job back if I was doing this for TV. Did you know that?”

  Sam shook his head and said, “I want to go home. I don’t want to know anymore.”

  “When people like this—people with all that money—break the law,” Jake said, “a lot of times the only way they get in trouble is when some reporter digs them out. What I do is about what’s right and what’s wrong, not about getting on TV. It’s who I am. I know you don’t like it, but those are the facts.”

  “That’s all you care about, right?” Sam said, standing up. “You’re always flying off somewhere to get the facts. But what about what I need? This is about me. Remember, your son?”

  Sam turned and started to walk away.

  Then, over his shoulder he said, “What about that fact?”

  Jake launched himself off the bench, grabbing Sam by the arm and spinning him around.

  “No way,” Jake said. “You’re not turning this around on me. You wanted this. You sent me on this. I know it turned ugly, but you’re not just walking away with that face. You don’t get to do that in life and you’re not doing it with me.”

  “Let me go.”

  “You’re coming with me, Sam.”

  “You can’t make me,” Sam said, digging his heels into the pavement.

  Jake spun on him. “I’m your father. You do what I say.”

  “My father’s a dead drug addict and my mother is a loon.”

  “We have no idea who your father is,” Jake said. “She’s a confused woman, Sam. She’s not well. Come on.”

  Sam hung his head, shaking it, but allowing Jake to pull him along.

  “Where are we going?” Sam asked.

  “To get that test,” Jake said, “and get this thing going before someone finds out and stops her from doing it.”

  50

  THERE WAS A DNA LABS COLLECTION OFFICE on Thirty-fourth Street. They swabbed the inside of Sam’s mouth with several cotton swabs before sealing them in three separate envelopes and packing them into a small box. Jake asked the technician if he could take the other kit to the woman they thought was Sam’s biological mom. She said it was no problem and together he and Sam drove back uptown to the Llewellyn House on Sixty-ninth Street.

  Jake found a parking spot on the street, and told Sam he thought it was best if he went in alone.

  “You’ll stay this time?”

  “I don’t want to see that woman.”

  Inside Llewellyn House, the receptionist was obviously flustered to see him again. She told him Martha was asleep, so Jake asked for Dr. Warren instead. After a few minutes he was shown into a small, windowless office, where the doctor sat at a desk wearing a small pair of reading glasses.

  He swiveled around in his chair, and Jake calmly explained why he was there.

  The doctor furrowed his brow, whipped off his glasses, and said, “Mr. Carlson, do you think this is good for Martha?”

  “I think the truth is good,” Jake said.

  “Really?” the doctor said. “Was it good for your son to hear that the people you think might be his parents were drug addicts? That was your son in here, right? Your adopted son?”

  “Look, we don’t know if she’s even Sam’s mother,” Jake said, “but she might be. This test will tell us.”

  Jake held the box up for Warren to see.

  “This is step one,” Jake said. “We can get to who the father is later.”

  “Well, Martha is resting from the Thorazine,” Warren said, eyeing the box. “She’s asleep. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  As the doctor stood
and reached for the door, Jake said, “You said your patients, or your clients, have autonomy. That you let them do whatever they like.”

  “Everyone here is free to come and go and make their own decisions. The visitor’s room is treated like an extension of their own homes. What they do is entirely their business. That’s central to the house’s mission statement.”

  “So, if she wants to do this, she can do it. Because that’s what she said to me. I’m just wondering about this place. The mission statement and all that.”

  Warren narrowed his eyes, but nodded and said, “Come back tomorrow, Mr. Carlson. If she still wants to do your test, she’s free to do so. She can do whatever she likes.”

  “And meantime,” Jake said, “you won’t be trying to convince her otherwise, right?”

  “I’m a doctor, Mr. Carlson,” Warren said, waving him through the door, underhand, like a maître d’, “not a tabloid reporter.”

  “I’m not here as a reporter,” Jake said, stopping outside the door. “I’m a father.”

  51

  JAKE TOLD SAM THEY HAD TO COME BACK the next day, and he asked him where he wanted to eat. Sam said the Italian place that overlooked the Brooklyn piers so they could get ice cream afterward, and that’s what they did.

  The girl behind the counter with her hair tucked up into a white scarf and a small silver hoop in her nose recognized Jake and asked him to sign a napkin. The older couple two places back in line crowded in saying they thought they recognized him, too. They were from Arkansas and asked him to sign their ferry schedule. The rest of the line looked at him with vague recognition and Jake knew the best thing was to get moving before everyone wanted him to sign things just because the others did.

  “That’s a pain,” Sam said as they walked out.

  “It’s not too bad,” Jake said. “One in fifty. If you keep moving, you’re all right. It’s not like people are taking pictures.”

  “Not like Eminem or something, right?”

  “No, my clothes fit too well.”

  The wind whipped through their hair, melting Jake’s pistachio and forcing him to roll the cone around on his tongue nonstop to keep it from dripping. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed above them and a ferry muscled its way into the dock, blaring its arrival before disgorging a hundred tourists. Jake put an arm around Sam’s shoulder as they cut through the crowd and sat together on a bench watching the ships move up and down the East River, their lights beginning to twinkle.

  “Remember when you and me and Mom and Louie were at Jones Beach that time the waves were like eight feet high and we had those blow-up rafts?” Sam asked, crunching his cone.

  “I do.”

  “Yeah.”

  The sun dropped behind the island of Manhattan as they finished their cones. Sam asked if they could see a movie. Jake said sure, and it seemed in that moment as though nothing was wrong. They’d drive through the dusk to see a movie, then head home, where Karen would meet them. Sam would go to bed and he and Karen would undress, giggling like teenagers. The ocean breeze would swirl through the open glass and they’d fall into the sheets thirsty for each other’s heat and Karen would whisper for him to be nice the way she always did.

  There’d be no Albanians. Jake would have his job. Sam wouldn’t have any problems in school. It would all be just the way it used to, when it was all too routine for him to fully realize its precious value.

  Jake studied the skyline, picking out City Hall with its elaborate design and intricate detail, a wedding cake among concrete boxes.

  “They used to make things a lot better than they do now,” Jake said. “A lot nicer. Look at that bridge. They don’t do things like that anymore. They just slap up some steel and cables.

  “Okay, come on,” he said, patting Sam’s leg. “Let’s go.”

  Even though it was late when they got home, they took Louie for a walk on the beach. They were all in bed before Jake realized they’d forgotten to rinse the sand from the dog’s feet.

  “Juliet’s gonna kill us,” Sam said with a yawn, pulling the sheet up to his chin.

  Jake lay still and listened as Sam’s breathing got deeper and lower, finally turning into a snore. He got up and slid open the glass door, stepping out onto the balcony where the sounds of the house were drowned in the surf and he could think about what he was doing.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there or the exact time he went to bed, but when morning came, he found himself in the bed with Sam at his side and Louie at his feet. It was too late for a run. He tried to sneak out so Sam would sleep, but when he came out of the shower Sam was already dressed and downstairs eating cereal at the kitchen table.

  “I thought maybe you’d sit this one out,” Jake said. He tugged the cuffs of his shirt out of the sleeves of the forest-green Zegna suit he’d taken fresh from the closet, then held up his handheld DVD camera. “I wanted to ask her some questions and get it on tape.”

  “You said no TV.”

  “It’s not for TV,” Jake said. “It’s for the DA. There’s something between Lukaj and the Van Burens, but cops, in my experience, aren’t always A players when it comes to connecting the dots.”

  “Why the suit?” Sam asked.

  “You don’t see a tie, do you?” Jake said, tugging at the open collar of his shirt.

  “I’m going with you,” Sam said, wiping his mouth and putting his bowl in the sink.

  “What about wanting me to stop?”

  “Who figured out Muldoon’s AutoTRAK? Who found Lukaj’s Delaware office?”

  “You. So?”

  “So, you need me,” Sam said, “I keep telling you that.”

  “You can come,” Jake said, “but I don’t want you meeting her yet. Let’s make sure she’s your mother before we do that. Trust me.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait outside,” Sam said.

  “In the lobby, not listening at the door,” Jake said.

  “You know why I did that, right?” Sam asked.

  “No. I don’t.”

  Sam showed him a full mouth of metal and held his arms out to the sides, palms up. “’Cause I take after you.”

  52

  TRAFFIC SLOWED TO A STOP just before the tunnel toll booth and it took them forty-five minutes to go the last half mile into Manhattan. When they finally arrived, it was after ten. Jake circled the area three times before finally putting the BMW into a garage and walking four blocks to Llewellyn House. When they were half a block away, the white van across the street caught Jake’s eye, but he didn’t think any more about it until he got to the brownstone. They were on the first step when the front door opened and out came one of the guys from Skip Lehman’s crew with a coil of cable around his shoulder and a light stand in his hand.

  Jake cursed, handed the DNA test kit to Sam, and launched himself up the steps. He blew past the receptionist and burst into the front room. Sitting in the midst of the lights, cameras, wires, and reflective screens were Martha Van Buren and Sara Pratt, facing each other in two chairs. Martha was dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex.

  “Get out,” Jake said.

  “Hey,” Muldoon said, striding over from his monitor and holding out a hand to stop Jake. “You use my AutoTRAK account and don’t think I’m going to follow up? We’re here first.”

  Jake slapped his arm down and showed Muldoon his fist.

  “I’ll break your fucking nose,” Jake said.

  Dr. Warren walked in and said, “You people are sick.”

  Muldoon took half a step back and Jake went over to Martha, raising her gently by the arm and saying softly to her that he was sorry and that these people had nothing to do with him. The mike had been wired up her shirt and it pulled at her as she stepped away. Jake unclipped it and pulled the wire out through the bottom of her shirt, throwing it so that it dinged off a light pole. Martha stepped tentatively through the tangle of cables. She was still crying, and Jake put an arm around her shoulder.

  “You can’t do that,” Sara said, popping up a
nd sticking her chin out at Jake.

  Jake ignored her, but when Sara followed them and grabbed hold of Martha’s arm to tug her back into the room, Jake clenched the reporter’s wrist and twisted it until she yelped and let go. He shoved her arm and she stumbled on the wires, banging into one of the tripods that supported the light screen. The screen, a large rectangular sheet of canvas, yawed, tipped, and crashed into the window. Sara tried to spin and catch herself, but missed her grab at the wing chair and sat down hard on the floor.

  “I’ll sue your ass,” Sara said, looking up, her eyes squinted tight and her mouth pulled back to show her little white teeth. “Get this on tape, Conrad. Shoot it all. How’s this story going to look when I run it?”

  The cameras turned toward him as he escorted Martha out of the room. Dr. Warren spoke to her in a low voice and put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook free from him, shaking her head and clinging to Jake. Sam was there in the hallway, wide-eyed and holding the test kit with both hands like a holy grail.

  “Go,” Jake said to him, pointing, “get out, Sam. Go to the car. Now. I’ll meet you.”

  “Sam?” Martha said, following.

  Jake turned and waved his hand in front of the camera that was following them until he heard Sam close the door on his way out. Then Jake pointed back at Muldoon and said, “I always knew you were a fat piece of shit, but I didn’t think you’d pimp for this little whore.”

  He turned his finger on Sara, jabbing it at her as he said, “Run that story.”

  53

  THE CAMERAMAN PURSUED THEM out to the sidewalk, where Jake flagged down a cab. When he spun around, the camera was right there in his face. Jake splayed his fingers and gripped the lens, covering it and shoving the cameraman back. He fell to the ground with a thud, but kept the camera going, filming Jake’s scowl and his backside as he turned to help Martha into the cab.

  Muldoon helped the cameraman up and strode over to Jake as he climbed in.