The Good Father

by Noah Hawley

  I felt worry settle into my hands. I said, “Is he—can you get a message to him? Mention the names Frederick Cobb and Marvin Hoopler, see what he—”

  “Paul,” she said.

  I stopped. Silence built between us. She exhaled softly.

  “I say this with all love, and I want you to listen to me very carefully. If you want to be here for Danny because you feel like you were never there for him when he was a kid, well then you have to be here—physically. You have to sit in that waiting room for hours at a time, and then take the five minutes they give you without complaining. And in the five minutes they give you, you have to hug your son, sit with him and hold his hand, and tell him you love him. Not talk strategy or pick his brain for details. You just have to hold him. Because that’s what he needs now. He has lawyers. He needs his father.”

  Murray finally managed to nudge the nose of his car into the right-hand lane. The exit was a thousand yards ahead.

  “Fuck it,” he said, and pulled onto the shoulder, gunning the SUV to fifty, racing past the frozen traffic.

  “Okay,” I told Fran. “We’re moving. I’ll see you in twenty.”

  “Paul,” she said. “Did you hear what I said?”

  I rubbed my face with my free hand.

  “I heard it,” I said, “and I’m—you’re not wrong. But I think what Danny needs more than anything right now is his freedom, and I’m—”

  “No,” she said, “you’re not listening. You’re running around, chasing smoke, and doing everything you can to stay basically a thousand miles from all the emotions you don’t want to feel. Baby, I love you, but that’s what you’re doing, and I just—I worry that when this is over, you’re going to feel like you missed the chance to spend time with him.”

  When this is over. What she meant was, after the trial, after his time on death row. What she meant was after they executed my son.

  “We’re taking city streets now,” I said. “Murray will drop me out front. Just don’t let them arraign him before I get there.”

  I hung up. Murray blew through a yellow light, took a left turn too fast. The back of the car threatened to go into a skid but Murray corrected, as if he did this for a living.

  “She’s pissed,” he said.

  “No. Not pissed. Just … worried. She thinks I should be there, holding his hand instead of … what I’m doing.”

  Murray pulled around a city bus, the SUV floating briefly into oncoming traffic. Ahead of us, cars flashed their lights. Murray made a humming sound in his throat, corrected his course.

  “Not to be, you know, a dick,” he said, “but that’s her job. Or Ellen’s. The mothers. You and I—we’re men. We act. That’s what we do. Their job is to nurture or whatever, and we—we protect our families. We provide for them. We fight. And anybody who tells you different—well, don’t even worry about that.”

  He leaned on the horn, scaring half a dozen pedestrians out of the crosswalk.

  “I’m beginning to understand why you’ve been divorced three times,” I said.

  He smiled. I looked at the clock on the dashboard: 3:55.

  “We’re not going to make it,” I said.

  “Yes, we are,” he told me. “But you might want to close your eyes. It’s gonna get intense.”

  At 4:07, Murray skidded to a stop outside the courthouse. There was a fist-size dent in the front right wheel well that hadn’t been there when we left Eagle Rock, and the inside of the car smelled of burning brake pads, but we were there. The area was choked with cars and pedestrians. Police barricades had been set up, the crowd pushed to either side of the courthouse steps. News vans were parked in the shade, dishes raised, cameras deployed, their feed sent in real time into the homes of millions of Americans.

  “I’ll park the car and meet you inside,” Murray yelled to my back, and I slammed the door in his face.

  I lost six minutes getting into the building, flashing my ID, waiting in line, another nine going through the metal detectors, first unloading my pockets, then taking off my jacket, finally my shoes. I’d had the sense—just barely—to leave the bullet we’d taken from Cobb’s apartment in the car.

  I tried Fran’s phone over and over, but she wouldn’t answer. I had to assume that she was in court, that the proceedings had already begun.

  The clock on the wall read 4:30 as I stumbled down the hall, trying to get my shoes and jacket back on without losing any more time. For the first time in weeks I felt like we had a chance, like all the digging and arguing and the dogged refusal to lose hope was about to pay off.

  My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed Murray’s name.

  “I can’t talk,” I said. “I’m trying to get in there.”

  “They found Cobb,” he told me.

  “Who?”

  “It was the fingers. Remember I said he lost three fingers in Afghanistan? Well, I had my guy comb hospitals and morgues. He just called. Cobb’s body is in Riverside.”

  “His body?”

  “He’s been there about three days. Cause of death looks like stabbing.”

  I stopped walking. “He’s dead?”

  On the other end of the phone I could hear Murray leaning on his horn.

  “My guy’s getting the autopsy report,” he said, “but I’d say sometime Monday night our boy Cobb ran into the wrong end of a knife something like sixteen times.”

  As the gist of what he was saying caught up with me, time seemed to stop. I felt myself going into a kind of shock. The sensation was physical, the flight response of an animal in the moment it realizes it has become prey.

  “Murray.”

  “Hold on,” he said. “I just found parking. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up. I held the silent phone to my ear. Cobb was dead. What did it mean? Was this proof of something or just another detail? I felt the predator on my heels, its measured breathing getting closer, the thunder of heavy feet.

  Up ahead I saw the courtroom doors fly open. Men and women poured out, walking quickly, some yelling into cell phones. I saw Fran emerge, pushing herself through the bodies. She looked around, saw me.

  “Paul,” she said.

  “There’s no time,” I told her. “Cobb’s dead. The vet. Somebody stabbed him on Monday. This is—we have to find Douglas. Danny’s lawyers need to get on this right away.”

  “Paul,” she said again, more forcefully this time, worry on her face. “Danny pleaded guilty,” she said.

  I stared, trying to understand. She held my eyes.

  “The prosecutor presented the charges and the judge asked him how he pleaded, and Danny stood up and said, Guilty. And his lawyers started shouting. They asked for a recess. The judge said no. He asked Danny if he knew what it meant to plead guilty and did he need a moment to consult with his lawyers, and Danny said no. He understood. He said, ‘I killed him, and I don’t want to waste any more of anybody’s time talking about it.’ ”

  A tunnel of darkness surrounded me.

  “That’s …” I said. “No. He’s protecting them. It’s—don’t you see? He’s not …”

  The thoughts were coming too fast to articulate. I felt the panic of the animal in the moment of capture, the mouth of the trap closing down.

  “He pleaded guilty?” I said. None of it made any sense.

  Fran grabbed me, pulling me to her, as if worried I might fall. Her hair smelled like apples. Behind her I could see Murray pushing his way through the crowd.

  “Murray,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I just heard. We’ll get a psych evaluation for Danny. Sane people don’t confess to things like this.”

  I pulled myself free from Fran’s grip.

  “Unless he was—what if he was covering for them? Hoopler and—I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  I made fists of my hands, punched myself in the legs, trying to think.

  “Paul, please,” said Fran. “You’re starting to scare me.”

  Murray took my elbow, pulled me to an empty
corner.

  “Look,” he told me. “This is bad, but it’s not the end of the world. The judge is going to order a psychiatric evaluation. He has to. If Danny’s unbalanced, or if he has another agenda here, we’ll know. And if he is, then we may have to have Danny declared mentally incompetent. Meanwhile we push Douglas to dig into Cobb and Hoopler.”

  He kept hold of my arm, using himself as a ground, trying to keep me from floating off into the void. At the end of the hall I saw movement. A crowd of men in uniforms emerged from a doorway, escorting a shackled prisoner.

  “Danny,” I called. I pulled away from Murray and pushed my way through the crowd. “Danny!”

  At the end of the hall, my son turned. Our eyes met.

  “It’s okay,” he called.

  “Wait.”

  “It’s okay.”

  A man in a suit broke off from the pack and moved to intercept me.

  “Sir,” he said. “You need to stop.”

  “Please,” I said. “I just want to talk to him. Danny!”

  “Sir, our transfer protocols are very specific.”

  I felt like a man standing on a riverbank, watching his son wash away.

  “Fuck that,” I said. “Danny!”

  The agents tightened their grips and dragged my son toward the exit.

  In five seconds he would be gone. Who knew when I would see him again. If he could be pushed to confess to a crime he didn’t commit, what else could he be pushed to do?

  Or worse. What if he’d confessed because he truly was guilty?

  I had to talk to him, had to know once and for all. What was the truth? How could I save my son if I didn’t know what I was saving him from? Half mad, I tried to push through the agent, to chase my son down. He grabbed me by the neck, his hand closing down like a vice. We wrestled.

  “I know about the vets,” I yelled. “Danny! On the train. I know!”

  And then the floor disappeared. I felt myself moving in space, revolving. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my face, my right arm jacked up behind me. There was a knee in my back, knocking the wind out of me.

  “Stop fighting,” the agent told me. I tried to breathe, tried to call out.

  “I’m going to get you out of this,” I said, or tried to say. It came out as half squeak, half grunt. I struggled to get to my knees, but Danny was already gone, washed away, lost to the river of history. And as the agent moved to put me in handcuffs I finally surrendered to him, the way the rabbit goes limp in the jaws of the wolf.

  The moment where he finally accepts that death is inevitable.

  Three

  CARTER ALLEN CASH

  PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION OF DANIEL ALLEN

  Conducted by Dr. Arthur Fielding, MBBS, MD

  Dated: October 11, 20__

  This psychiatric evaluation was prepared for the U.S. District Court, Western Division, by Dr. Arthur Fielding. It draws information from two three-hour interviews with subject, and a review of 147 pages of subject Daniel Allen’s writings.

  EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

  Subject is accused of murdering Senator Jay Seagram on June 16, 20__ in Los Angeles. The court has asked that subject be evaluated to determine if he is mentally capable at this time of entering a plea of guilty.

  Though subject shows several signs of dissociation and has suffered at least one serious bout of clinical depression in the last twelve months, he does not, in this evaluator’s opinion, suffer from a mental illness, as defined by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Therefore, it is the conclusion of this evaluator that Daniel Allen, sometimes known as “Carter Allen Cash,” is legally competent to enter a guilty plea in this matter.

  It is also the conclusion of this evaluator that, at the time of the assassination, subject was able to distinguish fantasy from reality. Based on in-depth interviews and a review of subject’s own writings, it is clear that he knew the difference between right and wrong, as defined by the M’Naghten Rule and the Durham Standard.

  PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

  Subject is twenty years old. He is 5′ 10″, and weighs 150 pounds. At the time of his interview, he was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit. He was well groomed, and, though underweight, seemed healthy and alert. Subject appears to be a young man of above-average intelligence, who spoke articulately about many subjects, though he was reluctant to delve too deeply into matters of his own emotional state.

  HISTORY

  Subject Daniel Allen was born April 9, 19__ in Santa Monica, California, to Ellen Shapiro, mother, and Paul Allen, father. Subject reports his early life was basically happy, though he says his parents divorced when he was seven years old. His father, a doctor, moved to New York City that same year. The mother retained primary custody, and subject traveled to New York to visit his father for summers and holidays. When asked, subject reports that he was “fine” with this arrangement, though he says his mother was “a little scattered” and “used to cry all the time.” A review of subject’s school records shows he did well in primary and elementary school, displaying no signs of a PTSD adjustment disorder, such as bed-wetting or the development of a stutter or other speech impediment.

  Subject reports one incident from this period that is worth further consideration. He states that in his eighth year, he was “almost killed in a plane crash.” The details are as follows: Subject had been in New York City visiting his father for Christmas. Subject was to fly alone back to Los Angeles, which, he says, was standard. While over the Midwest, his plane developed “an electrical problem” and fell into a steep dive. “Everybody thought they were going to die,” subject reported. The pilot subsequently fixed the malfunction and righted the plane.

  When asked how he felt during the free fall, subject reported, “I felt … it’s hard to say. I was scared, but I didn’t think I was going to die.” When asked why, he said, “Just a feeling. It wasn’t my time.” When asked how he believed the incident had affected him, subject stated, “It must have affected me, but … I’m not sure exactly how.” When asked whether the incident changed the way he felt about his parents, subject said, “Yes. It made them seem smaller.” When pressed to expand his answer, subject stated, “I didn’t feel like I had to listen to them anymore. Almost like they weren’t my parents anymore.” When asked why, subject stated, “Parents are supposed to protect you from things like that, aren’t they? Mine just didn’t seem that interested in me.”

  HIGH SCHOOL

  When subject was fifteen he asked to live with his father. When asked why he said, “I just wanted a change. My mom was a little clingy, you know? She’d had a number of bad boyfriends and was sad a lot. I think she wanted me to fill that hole for her.” Subject stated that his father had remarried several years earlier and had two young sons. “They were like a real family,” subject told me, “and I guess I wanted to see what that was like.”

  After the move, subject continued to do well academically. His teacher evaluations focused on his attentiveness and creativity, and stated he was most always prepared. But subject stated the change in custody did not bring the feelings he’d hoped it would. He told this evaluator that instead of feeling like he was part of his father’s new family, he felt outside of it. An intruder. When asked how this made him feel, subject stated, “It didn’t bother me too much. I wasn’t that surprised, actually. I mean, my dad never really felt like a huge part of my life. And now, I don’t know, I guess I felt like one of those exchange students, you know? When you go to France or something, and they put you with a French family. That’s how it felt.”

  Subject applied to and was accepted by several colleges. He chose to attend Vassar in New York State, though he only stayed for one and a half semesters. He stated that he had a “hard time focusing” on his curriculum at college. “It just didn’t feel that important, you know?” he said. When asked if he had made friends, subject stated that he’d made a few, but “no one I felt really close to.” He stated that he “hadn’t had many friends in h
igh school, either.” When asked why he thought that was, subject stated, “I don’t really like to talk about myself. I guess that’s a big part of friendship, but I just don’t like telling people how I feel about something, or what I think. I think most of the time people say stuff just to hear themselves talk.” When asked if he felt his opinions were less valid than others, subject stated, “No. I just think you learn more by listening than you do by talking.”

  Subject stated he left college because he felt he could learn more “out there, on the road. You know, where life really happens.”

  THE ROAD

  Subject spent the next fifteen months traveling. According to him, “I went all over—the Midwest, Texas, Portland.” Federal records show that in the aforementioned fifteen-month period, subject spent time in Chicago, Iowa City, Austin, Helena, Portland, San Francisco, and Sacramento, before driving to Los Angeles, where the incident occurred. Subject stated that he never stayed in one place longer than four months. When asked, he said this wasn’t a rule, but “I just felt antsy if I did.”

  In the course of our interview, subject became increasingly uncomfortable as he discussed his time on the road. He said, “I don’t like talking about this stuff. I went where I went. I did what I did. Who cares why?” While he spoke with genuine enthusiasm about the time he spent in Iowa, working for Ted and Bonnie Kirkland, he refused to talk at all about the three months he spent in Montana during the winter of 20__.

  When presented with pages from his own journal detailing his thoughts and feelings from his time on the road, subject stated he didn’t want to talk anymore. Our first interview ended on this note. It is worth noting that several dozen pages outlining his time in Montana have been torn from his journal.

  In our second session, subject apologized for his “attitude” in our previous session. But, he stressed, “I don’t really want to talk about what I went through last year. It’s not relevant, you know? I mean, all you care about is why I did it, right? Why I shot the guy? And, you know, we can talk about that, I guess, but I just don’t see the point. All this why, why, why. My reasons are my own, you know? All that matters is that I did it, and I’m, you know, sorry about it.”