Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel

by Neal Griffin

  You really know how to screw up a good gig, Sawyer.

  Ben was honest enough to accept the blame. He’d been a thirteen-year veteran of Oakland PD. A sergeant in charge of the prestigious Gang Suppression Unit. His star on the rise, lieutenant bars in his future. High-ranking bosses threw his name around as a future commander, maybe even chief. Then it happened. Shitcanned back to Newberg, his childhood home. A place that on the law enforcement career ladder came in about six rungs below mall cop.

  Oh, let it go already.

  Ben put in his earbuds, turned up the volume on his iPod, and notched the speed up another two points. The rhythmic hum of the treadmill fell in sync with AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell,” and the antics of his fellow officers faded away. Ben did his best to drown out the internal critic by concentrating on the opening guitar riffs, but the usual insults ran amok in his head.

  You’re lucky to have any kind of job. How about a few years in prison, you ever think of that?

  He counted the impacts of his left foot on the moving rubber surface. Anything to keep his mind a safe distance from the past—but he couldn’t stop the emotional drift. Memories flooded over him in relentless, violent waves. Years of street work in Oakland. A band of brothers. Human bonds that could stand any test. Any test, that is, other than twenty seconds of insanity and a convict-turned–urban folk hero named Hector Espudo.

  The past took form in a series of staccato sounds and still images, flashing in his mind as isolated moments. Shifting angles and light. A rookie officer’s sudden and frantic call over the radio.

  “Foot pursuit of 187 suspect. Westbound on Fortieth approaching Broadway.”

  The crime and location said it all. Every cop in Oakland knew the suspect was Hector Espudo, a convict put back on the street through the governor’s bullshit early-release program. A made member of the Nuestra Familia inside the walls and a high-ranking lieutenant of the Norteños street gang on the outside, Hector had been on parole less than three weeks when he got into a beef with an adversary from a rival gang. Hector went at the man with the ass end of a table lamp, and by the time he was done, his victim’s face was mashed flat into the orange shag carpet of an Oakland crack house like a pile of stepped-in dog shit. The rival gang put a bounty on his head, and the state of California officially reneged on the early out. Every cop in Oakland was on the lookout for Hector … not to mention a couple thousand gang members hoping to get famous.

  The next radio transmission was a hysterical call for cover that caused a hundred sirens to scream out at once from all over the city. It was clear the rook had made contact and the fight was on. Sergeant Ben Sawyer was two blocks away and on scene in thirty seconds.

  The hell with it, Ben thought. You really wanna go there? Let’s go. Ben dug deep and pushed the speed of the machine to seven-minute miles. The sights and sounds of Deep East Oakland came clear in his mind.

  Ben jumped from his car before it stopped rocking on its chassis. Visible waves of heat blasted up from the asphalt; sirens wailed from all directions, growing closer. Just ahead, an officer lay prone on the sidewalk with Hector’s hulking figure on top of him. Hector wore a tight wifebeater T-shirt over a tattooed physique that marked him as a recent graduate of the California penal system. He outweighed the cop by sixty sculpted pounds. As Ben closed in, he could hear the cop’s panicked voice, shrill and full of fear.

  He’s got my gun. He’s got my gun.

  The music kicked in full force, and Ben opened his gait, taking longer and longer strides, arms and legs moving in a smooth but furious motion. The nearby crew of Newberg officers turned to gawk, but Ben saw only the face of Hector Espudo. Brown, full of hate and determination. Prison-green tattoos of two teardrops inked beneath one eye and the name of his barrio pulsing on his neck, all outlined in a sheen of sweat. As Ben closed in, he saw that Hector’s hands were wrapped around the grip of the officer’s gun, the barrel pointed directly into the man’s chest. The rookie, true to his training, had both hands tight around the slide of the semiauto and his finger shoved behind the trigger, making it temporarily impossible for the gun to fire.

  Ben’s chest burned and his breath came hard. With any luck his heart would explode and kill the memory forever, ridding him of this constant reminder of lost honor and betrayal.

  Ben wasted no time, grabbing the thick, greasy ponytail that ran ten inches down Hector’s back, wrapping it tight in his fist and jerking hard. Hector’s head snapped back until his face pointed to the sky, blinding him in the intense sunlight. His mouth spewed spit and profanity. The odor of Mad Dog 20/20 mixed with the chemical smell of meth radiated like red heat off Hector’s muscular frame.

  “Hijo de puta, pig motherfucker. I’ll kill both your asses,” Hector shouted in a coarse, rage-filled voice.

  In one fluid motion, Ben slid his gun from the hard plastic shell of the tactical holster he wore and shoved the barrel against the side of the man’s head. Ben made sure the contact was hard enough that there would be no mistaking his intentions. A contact shot to the temple or through the top of the skull was justified, but Ben didn’t pull the trigger.

  “Your choice, Hector: hands off the gun or die.”

  The second syllable wasn’t spoken before Hector’s hands came off the cop’s gun and went high over his head in a clear display of unconditional surrender. His eyes filled with terror as he looked awkwardly toward the gun that was still poised at the side of his head. His expression said it all. Hector knew this cop would not hesitate to kill him.

  It could have ended there, and if it had, Ben figured he probably would have received a commendation for lifesaving. Hell, not only for saving the cop but he even managed to keep Hector alive. Avoiding an officer-involved shooting always gave the department brass something to brag about. Yep. It could have been a great day for the Sawyer legacy. A hell of a war story for the locker room: how Sawyer almost performed a gangbanger street execution with his forty-cal. But it didn’t end there. Ben was just getting started.

  Ben smashed the Stop button on the treadmill in defeat, his heart pounding defiant and strong, signaling there would be no easy exit. The intense whine of the machine slowed to a steady drone, then went silent. He bent at the waist and drew deep breaths. Large drops of sweat fell from his face to the floor. The reality of Newberg returned.

  Two minutes remained of his self-imposed physical torture. Ben restarted the machine and finished his run at a slow jog, emptying his mind of everything but the motion of his arms and legs and the steady thump of his heart. Done, he headed for the showers. An arriving officer looked Ben over and gave nothing more than a nod of his head and a look that said it all. No greeting of respect or friendship. Ben avoided eye contact. He gave no indication he would even want to stop and shoot the breeze. Ben had come to accept his place in this strange world. Outsider. Non-player. Chief’s boy.

  Ben listened to the newcomer join in with the officers already present. He heard the exchange of curse words, insults, and bravado: standard greetings for cops sheltered from public view. He felt the familiar pang of isolation.

  In the crude shower room, Ben cranked the water as hot as it would go. Steam filled the stall, and he worked to lose himself in the mist. Ben pushed his head under the water, and a thousand hot needle pricks scalded the back of his neck. He forced himself to relax. It was time to put it all away again. Try to be normal for the entire day that lay ahead. He closed his eyes and spoke in a low voice to the only person that was the least bit interested in hearing anything he had to say.

  “Forget about Oakland, Sawyer. This is Newberg.”

  TWO

  Alex Sawyer stood in front of the century-old house, stretched her arms above her head, and drew crisp, spring air deep into her lungs. The morning sun had escaped from the lingering mood of Wisconsin’s strongest season, and the warmth felt good against her face. She took in the neighborhood of stylish Victorian homes surrounded by towering oaks, a stark contrast to the California subdiv
ision where she and Ben had lived for more than ten years. That neighborhood had oozed comfortable conformity—five different floor plans, three color palettes, tiled roofs, and postage-stamp yards. The eclectic Old World charm of Newberg fed her Midwestern nostalgia. In that respect it was good to be home.

  Alex stepped off the porch, jogging at a brisk pace, and began to mentally map out her day.

  With twelve-year-old Jake off to school, Alex knew whatever plans she cared to make had to revolve around the two other men in her life. Then again, dealing with her husband wasn’t an issue—Ben had pulled his usual early-morning disappearing act and snuck off to the police department gym before the sun was up. Won’t be seeing him until dinner, she thought. Alex had done her best, but there was no denying that resentment had begun to set in. These early-morning departures were getting old. When was the last time we enjoyed coffee in bed? Or how about just sleeping in? But she felt no anger, more a sense of loss.

  He’s been through a lot, she reminded herself. Thrown to the wolves by his own department. Tossed aside after almost fifteen years of dedicated service. Forced to come back here and work for his father-in-law. Of course, Ben refused to talk about it. Typical cop. Confront an armed gunman in a dark alley? No problem. Talk about personal issues? No way. If he ever does open up, she told herself, I want to be there for him. Then again, how much longer was she expected to wait? But her absentee husband was only one of the troubled cops in her life. The other was her most challenging relationship of all.

  Four months had passed since Police Chief Lars Norgaard collapsed while giving his update on the state of crime in Newberg to the local Chamber of Commerce. He had been air-lifted to the university hospital in Madison sixty miles away. By the time Alex reached him, her father had slipped deep into a nonresponsive state that lasted for days. He had finally come around, but the initial reports were grim: severe stroke with possible brain damage. Total loss of speech. Greatly reduced motor skills. The best the doctors could offer amounted to “wait and see.” Progress had been slow.

  Even as she ran, Alex knew her father had likely been awake for hours and was already awaiting her arrival. She pictured him, cross and surly, banging his cane and pointing at a staff nurse or orderly. He’d keep it up until someone wheeled him to the porch. There he’d sit and watch the sidewalk, waiting for his daughter to come into view. But the staff at the Newberg Convalescent Center discouraged visitors before ten and she had time to kill.

  With all they had been through, being back in Newberg gave Alex a sense of peace. The isolated prairie town was forty-five miles west of Milwaukee and inhabited almost exclusively by twenty thousand second- and third-generation Swedes and Norwegians. A place where the only social institutions of any significance were bars and churches. It was the town of her childhood. The place she met her husband. Home.

  Alex headed into the heart of Newberg’s downtown. Owner-operated shops specializing in the niche-market of antiques, crafts, and pottery lined the shady cobbled street. At this early hour none of the stores were open, but Alex decided to slow her pace to a brisk walk and enjoy the window displays and the solitude of near-deserted sidewalks. The aroma of coffee drifted toward her from Newberg’s one and only bistro. A moment later she found herself standing inside the empty shop, calling out an inquisitive hello.

  A man’s voice answered from out of view, “Come on in. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  The place was clearly in transition. Stacks of aged, hardcover books stood like short towers along the length of a wall. Alex began a quick mental inventory and noted several familiar titles until her eyes stopped on one. She reached out and ran her fingers over the gold embossed letters on the binding. She pulled the book from the stack and opened it gently. The odor of old print and paper, along with the familiar lines of text, took her back in time.

  “Find something you like?”

  Alex looked up to see a man standing across the store. His voice implied hope for more than a one-word answer.

  “My Ántonia. Cather has been a favorite of mine since I was a little girl.”

  He stepped forward to get a closer look. “Yeah, that’s a quality printing. I think it’s about forty years old. I’m not sure, but maybe it’s a first edition.”

  “No. It was published in around 1918. Way back.”

  The man looked at her with surprise, and Alex thought she might have come off sounding stuffy. “Like I said. She’s a favorite of mine.”

  The man smiled. “I’m Louis Carson.”

  “Hi, Louis. Alex Sawyer.” Alex extended her hand and Louis shook it warmly. His grip was firm, and Alex guessed Louis might be five years younger than her. He was a good six inches taller, with a trim physique and jet-black hair worn long and combed back. His jaw was square and covered with two or three days of stubble. For a moment, the gaze of his hazel eyes felt intense and unsettling. Alex drew her hand back and looked away; an awkwardness hung in the air.

  She stammered out, “Is this a bookstore or a coffeehouse?”

  Louis, apparently clueless of her discomfort, put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Well, I need a customer, so if you’re looking for a good read, it’s a bookstore. If you’re thirsty, I’ll offer you some coffee.”

  “So … it’s both, then?” She asked, liking the idea.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Louis said. “I bought this place about two months ago. Business is okay, but I want to give it something distinctive. The coffee’s already great. The previous owner had a first-rate roaster; I won’t change that. But I thought it might be interesting to dabble as a bookseller. You know, only the finest coffee and nothing less than classic books.”

  Louis delivered the last line mocking an advertisement on the radio. He paused and looked around at the stacks of books and the empty seats and unoccupied tables. His voice took on a much less enthusiastic tone. “That’s the plan, anyway.”

  “I like it,” Alex said, nodding. “How about I take a cup to go?”

  “I’d rather you have a cup to stay.” He was still smiling. “That’s the idea, you know.”

  Alex couldn’t help but think the attention felt pretty good. “All right,” she said. “Make it for here.”

  Alex looked around at the cramped space. “You might be on to something. Newberg doesn’t have a used bookstore. I think the yuppies from Madison who come into town on the weekends will be all over it.”

  “Good,” Louis answered. “I’m glad you think so, seeing that I am a yuppie from Madison.” Louis stepped behind the counter and poured out two mugs of coffee as he explained how he came to own a coffeehouse.

  “One day I was a financial planner and the next day I wasn’t. The job just sort of evaporated. Then I figured out I was better off. Instead of jumping onto another spinning wheel of the rat race, I cashed out my severance and here I am.”

  “Pretty brave,” Alex said. “Tough time to be opening your own business.”

  “Yeah, but I did my homework. I looked around and found this great town with the only coffeehouse up for sale,” he said. “The bookstore angle is just my twist. But I have to tell you, this town is turning out to be a tough nut to crack.” Louis returned with two steaming mugs and cleared a small table. He motioned Alex to sit.

  “Yeah, us Newbergers can be a stalwart bunch,” Alex said. “Mixture of Nordic values and Protestant work ethic. Bottom line, we don’t trust anyone born outside the city walls.”

  “So you’re native?”

  “Sort of. My husband and I lived out in California for almost fourteen years with our son, Jake. But we both grew up here. Just moved back about a year and a half ago.” Alex’s comfort level rose, spurred on by adult conversation. She took a sip of the flavorful coffee, then went on. “Actually one year, seven months, and twenty-three days ago, but who’s counting.”

  “The ultimate long and winding road, huh?”

  “I swear, in the time we were gone, nothing changed. This place is like Brigadoon.” Al
ex warmed her hands on the mug of coffee and began to tell Louis the G-rated version of the Sawyer saga. She told Louis about Ben being a cop in Oakland—leaving out the juicy conclusion—and that he now worked for Newberg PD. When she mentioned that her dad had spent the last five years as chief of the small department, Alex was pleased to see that Louis didn’t raise his eyebrows with the assuming look that said, Your husband must be a kiss ass. She didn’t stop until she had drained her cup, looked at her watch, and found that an hour had passed. It struck her she hadn’t talked to anyone for an entire hour in, well, years.

  “Oh, my gosh, it’s nine thirty already?” Alex stood abruptly from her chair. “I’d better go. I’ll be back when I can spend some time on a cup of coffee and a good book.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Louis said as he stood. “Take the Cather with you.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got a paperback copy somewhere. It’s been a while, but if I want to find it, I will.”

  “Cather in paperback? Stop. The book needs a good home. Take it,” Louis said, extending the book toward her.

  “Okay, but I’m going to read it, then either bring it back or pay you for it.”

  “You’d better or I’ll call a cop.”

  Alex laughed. “Thanks for the java and the book. Get this place cleaned up, okay?”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  As Alex left, she noticed that shops were opening and a fair amount of traffic now flowed in the street. She thought of a new friend and at the contrast between Louis and the men in her life, none of them happy and not shy about letting her know it. Every day was a balancing act, like walking an emotional high wire. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that Louis had come out onto the sidewalk to watch her leave. He waved and Alex waved back, already looking forward to her next chance to step down off the wire and get away.