The Question of the Absentee Father

by E. J. Copperman

  I maintained the speed posted on traffic signs as we proceeded so I would not be cited for speeding if a police officer were to stop our progress. We had gone 3.2 miles on the shoulder when Mike emitted an ominous, “Uh-oh …”

  There was no law enforcement vehicle visible in the rearview mirror, so it took a moment before I understood the cause of Mike’s dismay. Looking farther ahead than before, I saw what had made him groan.

  “There’s no shoulder ahead, Samuel,” Mike said.

  twenty-six

  Less than one thousand yards ahead of the Kia Soul a temporary concrete barrier had been constructed in the lane I was currently using to get Mike and myself to Ms. Washburn within George Kaplan’s time limit. It took up the entire width of the shoulder. There would be no driving around it except to reenter the freeway’s right lane.

  That was currently crammed with motor vehicles that were barely moving. I drove as far as I could on the shoulder and then engaged the left turn signal on the Kia Soul.

  No vehicle left room for the one I was driving to enter. I was deadlocked on the shoulder of US 101 in Southern California, unable to drive to Ms. Washburn’s rescue. I did not possess the proper skill set to cope with the present situation.

  With my emotions raging I slammed my fists on the steering wheel four times. I’m sure the sound coming from my mouth was disturbing to Mike, but he did not react strongly. I raised my hands to hit the steering wheel again but they stayed next to my ears, fingers bent like talons, shaking as my frustration and concern overwhelmed my decision-making faculties. This was a nightmare—Ms. Washburn was in imminent danger and I could not rely on my mother for advice. Mike was a friend but he did not provide the kind of support I needed right now, I thought.

  “Samuel,” he said. “We’ll get to Janet. Trust me.”

  His words sounded hollow. I realized he was trying to reassure me but I could find seven different ways his sentiment was incorrect and could be proven so. But I could not form coherent thoughts at the moment. I simply sat there making incoherent noises while my hands vibrated on opposite sides of my head.

  “We’ll do it,” Mike reiterated. “But you have to let me drive. Put the car in Park and put the emergency brake on. Then we’ll change seats and I will get us there, okay?”

  “No!” I could force out only the one syllable. Mike was aware of the insurance ramifications of his suggestion. He knew I could not let him take control of the vehicle without a written authorization from the rental firm. I could not understand why he would put such a plan forward.

  “Samuel,” Mike said, his tone attempting to soothe. “We don’t have a—”

  He stopped as we both noted the sound coming from behind the Kia Soul, accompanied by flashing lights of various colors. The sound was clearly mechanical and amplified, a series of bleats meant to attract attention. The lights flashed consistently and constantly.

  The vehicle now stopping behind us came from the California Highway Patrol. Its driver was now speaking through the amplification system, his words hitting my ears harshly and not in any way decreasing my anxiety.

  “Please do not step out of the vehicle,” he said. “Stay in the car.”

  I had never had any intention of leaving the Kia Soul, so it was not difficult to comply with the officer at all.

  “Leave your hands on the steering wheel,” he continued. I placed my hands in the driving position again and gripped the steering wheel very tightly. “On the passenger side, put your hands on the dashboard.” Mike complied with that command as well.

  In the side mirror I saw the officer, in full uniform, step out of the cruiser he had been driving and walked carefully toward the Kia Soul. His demeanor was not arrogant, but certainly was cautious if I was reading it right. It is not easy to discern the emotions of a person on your first meeting. Perhaps I was relying too much on fictionalized depictions of law enforcement officers I had seen in motion pictures and on television.

  “Quick, figure out what we’re going to say,” Mike said quietly. “What do we tell this guy?”

  His question puzzled me. “The truth.”

  “No. I mean—” Then the officer was at the driver’s window standing next to me and gesturing, with a rolling motion of his hand, that I should lower the window. I wondered how to do that without removing my hands from the steering wheel. I did not move.

  Through the pane of glass I heard the officer say, “Go ahead. Put the window down.”

  I realized I would have to modulate my voice to be louder so it could be heard through the tempered glass. “I have to move my hand off the steering wheel!” I shouted. Perhaps I spoke a bit too loud, because I saw the officer take an involuntary step back and when I glanced at Mike his eyes were wide.

  “It’s okay,” the officer said. “Just do it.”

  I removed my left hand from its grip of the steering wheel and touched the control to lower the window. The officer looked at me as the power window lowered. His nametag read Crawford. “Put your hand back on the wheel,” he said. His voice was, I think, impassive.

  “Yes, Officer,” I said.

  “Get your license, registration, and insurance card,” he said. “It’s okay to move your hands.”

  “It’s a rental,” Mike said from the passenger seat. “The registration and agreement are in the glove.”

  “Get it,” the officer told him as I reached for my wallet and retrieved my license to drive.

  The officer took the documents from me after Mike had handed over the packet issued by the rental company. “Stay here,” he said. “Hands on the wheel.” He walked back toward his cruiser.

  The oppressive heat and humidity were streaming in through the open window but I did not dare raise it. I felt my head shaking. My hands were attached to the steering wheel so tightly it was difficult to believe they could ever be removed. I turned my head toward Mike with considerable effort.

  “What do you mean, tell him the truth?” Mike said. “We have only twenty five minutes to get to Janet. You want some member of CHiPs to lock us up for questioning and miss the deadline? Take the ticket for driving on the shoulder and get him to help us into traffic so we can keep going.”

  I heard what Mike said but shook my head. “Lying to a law officer can only create more trouble than we already have,” I said. My voice sounded hoarse and unsteady. “The officer will understand.”

  “Samuel, you don’t drive very much. I’m telling you, he’s going to hear what you say and think we’re both crazy and Janet will suffer for it.”

  I shuddered. That was not a thought I cared to pursue. But there was very little time left to ponder the question; the officer was returning to the driver side of the Kia Soul.

  “Think hard, Samuel,” Mike said quietly.

  The window remained open so there was no need to move my left hand from the steering wheel this time. The officer stopped at the door and looked into the vehicle. He handed me my license and the rental company packet.

  “You know it’s illegal to drive on the shoulder, right?” he asked.

  “Yes, Officer, I do.”

  I could try to comply with the officer without lying, as Mike had advised me to do. If I was asked no more questions I would be given a summons—which was terrifying enough for me—and that would be the end of the episode. Mike would somehow navigate us to Burbank in time to comply with George Kaplan’s arbitrary deadline. Perhaps it would be best for me to allow Mike, a professional driver, to take over from here. I kept my hands at the ten and two positions on the steering wheel and looked straight ahead, not making eye contact with the officer. Defying the stereotype, he was not wearing reflective sunglasses.

  “So was there a reason you were doing that?” the officer said.

  That was a slightly more difficult question to navigate, but I decided to try. “Yes.” That was true. I did have a reason
to drive on the highway shoulder.

  “What was it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What was the reason you had for driving on the shoulder? Just to get around everybody else?” The officer, I could see peripherally, had his hands on his hips in a posture that is generally considered oppositional.

  “I did want to get past the other drivers, yes,” I said. That was still true. I understood that it did not improve my standing with the officer or reduce my probability of punishment, but it was accurate.

  The officer took a moment and exhaled. I made the mistake of looking at him and saw eyes that were slits and a mouth that was a horizontal line. I’d seen that expression on social skills tools. He was angry.

  “Do you think you’re more important than everyone else?” he asked.

  That was a difficult question. In general terms I do not consider myself more or less important than any other person. That would be to assign rankings of merit to each other living human, something I do not feel qualified to do. However, in this case I felt that my role in trying to rescue Ms. Washburn did have a higher urgency than most of the reasons the other drivers were traveling on the highway. So one could say that my purpose was more important but that I personally was not, and that was the question I had been asked.

  “No, I do not,” I said.

  Another long exhalation of air came from the officer and his word had the tone of a last resort. “Then why?” he asked.

  Finally, that was the question I could not sidestep. “Because an associate of mine is being held against her will by a counterfeiter in an office on Magnolia Boulevard in Burbank and we have only twenty-two minutes left to meet his deadline or we cannot be held responsible for her safety.”

  Mike put his forehead down on the edge of the dashboard. “Samuel,” he said.

  The officer turned his head forty-three degrees to his left and looked at me with a skeptical expression. “Your friend is being held by a kidnapper in Burbank and you have twenty-two minutes to get there?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re taking the One-Oh-One? You’ll never get there in time. You need an escort. Turn the car around and just follow me.” Without another word the officer walked purposefully back to his unit. I looked at Mike, who had raised his head and stared when the officer had spoken.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “You heard the man. Turn your car around and follow him.”

  twenty-seven

  Turning a Kia Soul 180 degrees on the shoulder of a crowded highway with concrete barriers to my right was not easy. Mike had offered to perform the maneuver but we decided he would get out of the vehicle and direct my efforts. Within a minute the Kia Soul was pointed in the other direction and I was following quickly behind the California Highway Patrol cruiser, which the officer was driving back toward the ramp that led to the nearest freeway entrance.

  Mimicking his every move we were bypassing traffic in the oncoming direction, but driving against the traffic was fraying my nerves. I heard myself breathing more heavily than usual. I felt perspiration streaming down my cheeks. That was partially due to my inability to move my left hand off the steering wheel to raise the window and fully utilize the vehicle’s air conditioning.

  “Take it easy, Samuel.” Mike could no doubt sense my tension. “The cop isn’t going to let you get into an accident. Just do whatever he does.”

  I did not speak. I do not speak when driving unless it is unavoidable.

  The officer in the California Highway Patrol vehicle must have communicated with his base. Two other cars from the same agency met him at the top of the ramp when he had cleared away oncoming cars and ushered the Kia Soul back onto the city streets. One fell into formation behind me and the other took a position to my left.

  “They’re protecting us the whole way,” Mike said. “We’ll get there for sure now.”

  But I was aware of the sixteen minutes that had passed since the last time I had checked our progress. “How much time does the Global Positioning System device indicate we will need to arrive at the address in Burbank?” I asked Mike.

  I barely saw his head movement because I was attending to the road but he looked down at the instrument in his hand. “Fourteen minutes,” Mike said.

  He was lying. I was certain of it but had no doubt Mike knew he was underestimating the remaining time because it would upset me to know we would not hit George Kaplan’s deadline for no harm to come to Ms. Washburn. I asked Mike to call Kaplan on my phone and put the call on the speaker feature because it was not connected to the Bluetooth system in the Kia Soul.

  “You have eleven minutes.” Kaplan wasted no time with niceties.

  “We are in heavy traffic,” I said. “We will be there but we will not be there in time.”

  “That’s too bad for you. It’s too bad for your friend, too.”

  I felt bile rise in my throat. “Mr. Kaplan, you must understand the kind of obstacles that Los Angeles traffic represents. I should not be talking to you at all now but I am because I want you to understand that we are on our way and will be only a few minutes late.”

  “Get here on time,” he said. “That’s the deal. Now—”

  There was a commotion I could not decipher and then the call was disconnected. That was the last thing I had hoped to hear.

  Shaking with frustration and fear I pressed harder on the accelerator. The California Highway Patrol vehicles had already been moving at a speed higher than the posted limit and I had reluctantly kept pace because they were officers of the law and had no doubt sanctioned my violation. But now we needed to go faster and I was going to take control of our speed.

  The police officers did not hesitate; they matched my pace but continued to lead the vehicles. Within seven minutes we had passed the posted Burbank city limit. My mind racing, I noted the sirens and flashing lights of the California Highway Patrol vehicles. If George Kaplan knew I had brought the authorities with me, Ms. Washburn would undoubtedly be in considerably more danger.

  But I did not have a telephone number for any of the officers in the other vehicles so I could not discuss the situation with them. I bit my lips as I considered options.

  “You have to pull over, Samuel.” Mike clearly knew what I was thinking about. “Stop on the side of the street and they’ll stop and you can talk to them then. Hurry.”

  His analysis was perceptive; there was no other efficient way to complete the task. I very carefully moved the Kia Soul to the curb and slowed it to a stop. The first California Highway Patrol officer, the one who had approached us on Highway 101, immediately drove far ahead of the Kia Soul, not anticipating my maneuver. Once I had stopped, however, he had realized what I was doing and both escort vehicles came to a halt near me, lights still flashing.

  The officer walked to my side of the vehicle. “What are you doing?” he asked. “We only have a couple of minutes to get there.”

  “Your sirens, your flashing lights,” I noted. “If the man in the office building hears or sees you, my associate will be in greater danger.”

  He half smiled. “We’re aware of that,” he said. “We were going to cut the sirens and lights when we were close. Come on. We’ll turn them off now unless we hit traffic. Let’s get you there.” He turned and ran back to his vehicle.

  “California police officers are very polite,” I noted as we started moving, even more swiftly than before.

  “Most of the time,” Mike said. I did not ask him what that observation meant.

  We arrived at the building on Magnolia Boulevard with one minute to spare. Three other cars, not marked with insignia but clearly belonging to law enforcement agencies, were parked in front of the building. Three men and a woman in business clothing, but with visible weapons inside their jackets, approached the lead officer as we exited our vehicles.

  I head
ed directly for the building entrance, knowing I would have to climb stairs to the second floor and had only seconds left. But one of the men in business clothing stopped me at the door.

  “You’re not authorized to go in there,” he said.

  My iPhone rang. George Kaplan’s number was showing in the Caller ID display. I needed to be in his office right now.

  “I don’t care,” I said and pushed my way through the door.

  Behind me I heard Mike protesting but the door did not open again and I did not wait. I found the staircase and ran up, three stairs at a time, until I reached the second floor. Once there I searched for the proper suite number and found a door marked Kaplan Enterprises LLC.

  I stood momentarily at the door and considered my options. The counterfeit money was in a pocket of my cargo shorts. I could easily hand it over to Kaplan, but I had severe reservations that he would honor our agreement, largely because he had been given many opportunities to do so and had refused each time. I still needed to talk to Reuben Hoenig in order to complete my business in Southern California, and had no assurance he would even be present in the room once I opened that door.

  None of that seemed important, even as the iPhone in my pocket continued to vibrate with Kaplan’s call. At least his attempt to contact me could be seen as a sign that he was not in some way mistreating Ms. Washburn yet.

  That was the only thing that mattered. I needed to envision myself bursting through the door and readying myself for any possibility that would protect Ms. Washburn, even if it meant placing myself in some peril. Ms. Washburn’s welfare was obviously more important than my own now.

  It was the first time I had ever truly believed that about anyone.

  There was no time to consider any implications of that thought. Kaplan had set the deadline and it was passing at exactly this second.

  Visualizing myself as confident and triumphant I banished any thoughts of Ms. Washburn in peril. The iPhone in my pocket buzzed once again but I could talk to Kaplan right now, I decided. I turned the knob on the office door and pushed it into the room hard to create a forceful entrance.