Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  Now, as Ernie waited in the darkness of the walk-in, he was once more fishing—though of a different sort. The true fish he sought—and that he always truly sought—was for communion, and whether it was from pity, respect, or a mystery known only as that “eternal something” that Ernie could never find the words for, there in the cold and dark of a walk-in refrigerator in Cottonwood, Colorado, Ernest Jules Martinelli Jr. caught something, and like a child’s heart races the first time their fishing pole bows down to the water to signal a fish is on the line, Ernie felt no different with his catch. He was giddy. His heart pounded. After the flash, which was exactly like the video had shown, he moved quickly to turn on the light inside the walk-in. No sooner had he flipped the switch and stared in awed disbelief at the new five-gallon container of milk on the shelf, when the door to the refrigerator opened, and Jenny Aaronson once more stood there.

  “You’re still in here?” she asked. “My shift is just about over, and I think you’ve been inside here for the last half of it.”

  Ernie glanced at her and then back to the milk, not attempting to answer her question.

  “Can you hand that to me?” she said, pointing to the container of milk. “We just ran out.”

  Still speechless, Ernie mechanically reached over, picked up the container, and handed it to her.

  “Well, who was it?” she asked. “You must know now—since this sure wasn’t here before.”

  Ernie shook his head and struggled for words. “I…” he began but then stopped.

  “You?” asked Jenny, not understanding his hesitation.

  “No…” mumbled Ernie, continuing to shake his head.

  “Well, who then?!”

  Ernie looked at her for a moment and then back to the once more empty shelf. “It’s…” he began and then stopped. “Please,” he said calmly and in a low tone, “just close the door.”

  “Whatever you say,” she said, backing up and complying, though with eyebrows raised, “but I can keep a secret, you know, so if you want to tell me who it is, I promise not to tell anyone.” Jenny gently closed the door, and Ernie stood once more in solitude, staring at the shelf.

  “Thank you,” Ernie said out loud, though he was not speaking to Jenny.

  Fifty-Eight

  Walking

  Over the course of their lives, Diane and Rebecca had taken many walks together along the tree-lined streets of Cottonwood. Walking seemed to be the universal cure for clearing the head and putting the day’s problems into a different perspective. It was a favorite time for honesty and sharing, and if there was ever a time they both felt the need to walk, this was the time.

  Though Rebecca seldom liked to talk too much about herself, today was an exception, as she’d been doing most of the talking, and Diane gladly played the role of a good listener. Her mother was one of the best genuine listeners that Rebecca knew—being both empathetic and responsive when called upon.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this correct,” said Diane as they turned the corner from Maplewood Street onto Fourth Street. “You took a sneak peek at Sparky’s computer when he left to go call the sheriff, and on the screen was a warrant for Matthew’s arrest from Washington State?”

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what I saw,” said Rebecca. “Though I guess I could be mistaken. I had to read pretty fast.”

  “Well, let me tell you something, honey,” said Diane as she stopped and touched her daughter’s sleeve, causing her to stop as well. “You were right in what you think you saw. Just before I met you outside the sheriff’s office, I came from a meeting with the Reynolds. The judge pretty much told me the same thing. Your husband is a wanted man. He escaped from prison up in Washington, and that’s why he was arrested.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes and rubbed them, and Diane gave her daughter a gentle hug.

  “I suppose I’m kind of glad you peeked at that computer screen,” said Diane. “I was going to have to be the first one to break the news to you. I’m so sorry.”

  “I knew about his time in prison,” said Rebecca. “He told me that’s where he’d been these past three years. He even told me why he was sent there. What he didn’t mention was that he’d escaped.”

  There was silence for a moment as Diane rested her arm on Rebecca’s shoulder. Rebecca stared down at the sidewalk. Finally, Diane asked, “Do you mind if I ask why he was sent to prison?”

  Rebecca looked up at her mother. “Manslaughter…though he told me he was totally innocent of the charge.”

  “Manslaughter!” gasped Diane. “As in killing someone? As in…murder?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “No, I kind of thought the same thing, but it’s not the same as murder at all. He was accused of causing the death of someone at a hospital where he was being treated. He told me he was innocent but was convicted anyway.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Diane.

  The two ladies turned from facing each other and continued walking. They had reached the eastern end of Fourth Street where it met the southern boundary of McCann Park. From that point, one could just hear the rushing waters of the Little Bear River. They rounded the corner onto Third Street and headed back toward the west.

  After several minutes of silent walking, Rebecca said, “I need to see my husband; I need to hear his explanation before I make any judgments about any of this.”

  “He’s lucky to have you for a wife,” replied Diane. “As lucky as I am to have you for a daughter.”

  Rebecca smiled, though meekly. “Thanks, but I think you’re biased. I hope you don’t think I’m going to let him play me for a fool, but I owe him my trust…at least for now.” Rebecca reached into her purse and pulled out the folded-up note Matthew had left for her at the house. “Let me read you something….”

  After Rebecca had finished reading the note to her mother, Diane said, “Well, that’s certainly a very unusual note. It almost sounds as if he knew he was going to be arrested.”

  “That’s exactly how it sounds,” said Rebecca, “yet he still took the time to do the laundry yesterday and even write this note. He could have run off and hidden in the hills or something like that. I think there must be more to this story of his escape that I haven’t heard. I need to speak with him, so my only goal right now is doing whatever it takes to do that before the State of Washington comes down here to pick him up. There’s got to be some way to get around the sheriff’s roadblocks.”

  “I’m sure Judge Reynolds might be able to help,” said Diane.

  Later, as they turned and were walking in the direction of the Reynolds’ house, Rebecca took her wedding ring from her purse and slipped it onto her finger.

  Diane glanced down at the ring and then up at her daughter and smiled as she said, “I forgot how beautiful your ring is, but what will you tell people? Aren’t you still trying to keep your marriage a secret?”

  “I just need to have this on,” Rebecca said, holding up her hand and admiring the brilliant stone. “I’m not planning on betraying our secret, but wearing this makes me feel closer and more connected to him. I’m not going to hide it anymore. I’ll worry about what to tell people when the time comes.”

  Fifty-Nine

  Dinner in Jail

  Deputy Sparky couldn’t remember a time when he’d been in charge of such an important prisoner; for the great majority of the time, the jail remained empty. Sometimes it was even used for overflow storage for office supplies or boxes of old traffic tickets. Cottonwood often went for months without any arrests. The few prisoners they saw each year tended to be drunks needing to dry out overnight, or sometimes it held a husband—or the occasional wife—who had struck or threatened to strike their spouse and needed a place to cool off.

  The most famous prisoner that Sparky had ever attended to—prior to their current detainee—had been a ranch-hand who had beaten up a ranch owner pretty badly over some money he claimed to have been cheated out of. The man was released after several days when the ranch owner dropped the charges, pa
id the man the money due him, and the ranch-hand returned to work. Such was the nature of how disputes were still often settled in this part of the country, though just a century prior, it more likely would have involved a gunfight and someone getting shot. With Matthew Duncan’s arrest, the jail now housed an actual “wanted man,” and Sparky’s heart swelled with great pride in thinking that he had played a role in identifying and then apprehending this criminal.

  Sparky often wished he was part of a larger police force where there would be marshals or other lower-ranking employees who could tend to the little details that go along with detaining individuals. One of those details was the feeding of prisoners. It was up to Sparky to make sure that Matthew had three meals a day and was able to use the shower and other facilities to take care of personal hygiene needs.

  When the time came for Sunday dinner, Sparky was in no mood to tolerate the kind of picky eating his prisoner had displayed during the earlier meals of the day. He had refused breakfast and lunch altogether, saying he wanted to fast, and then at dinner, rather than accepting the Tasty Burger and large order of french fries that Sparky had brought him, Matthew Duncan asked if he could have a chef salad or “something light” from Ernie’s instead. Sparky was ready to refuse and was going to toss the already purchased burger and fries on the small table in Matthew’s cell and walk out, but at the last moment, he changed his mind and made the trip down to Ernie’s, eating the Tasty Burger himself along the way.

  When Sparky got back with the chef salad, Matthew greeted him in the cell with a big smile. “Thanks, that’s incredibly kind of you, Sparky,” said Matthew, taking the salad and sitting at the table with it. “It tells me a lot about you.”

  Sparky stared blankly at Matthew. “All it should just tell you,” he said, “is that we don’t want to have any complaints about you being mistreated while you were our guest here. Don’t read anything more into it than that.”

  Sparky turned to leave the room when Matthew said, “Oh, and by the way, Sparky…don’t let the sheriff come down too hard on you in the next few days, okay?”

  Sparky turned around. “Now, why would he do that?” he asked.

  “Well, circumstances will probably arise that could make the sheriff a very angry man, and he might decide to take his anger out on you. It won’t be your fault—but he’ll want someone to blame.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you—I don’t think there’s any reason that the sheriff will be getting angry at me.”

  “What if a prisoner were to escape?”

  Sparky looked at Matthew and managed a shallow smile. “You? Are you planning to escape?” He chuckled. “You may have done that up in Washington, but don’t even think of trying it here.”

  “You’ve got some pretty good security here, eh?” Matthew smiled after he said this and took the lid off his salad.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’ve got no problem shooting you—really.”

  “Really?” asked Matthew, starting to eat some of his salad. “I wonder about that, Sparky. We grew up together here in Cottonwood. I don’t think you’d shoot me—besides, I’m an innocent man.”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” replied Sparky, no longer smiling. “If you try to escape from this jail—you’re no longer innocent. I’d shoot you.”

  “What if I was innocent of the crime that I was sent to prison for in the first place? Is an innocent man guilty of anything if he escapes from a place he should not have been sent?”

  “Spare me. You were sent to prison, and you escaped from prison—it’s that simple. All the other details make no difference to me.”

  Matthew looked directly at Sparky and smiled. “But details should make a difference to you, Sparky. Some people say the devil is in the details—but that’s not really accurate. It’s not the devil that’s there—but the truth—and that truth makes all the difference.” Using his fingers, Matthew picked up a cherry tomato from his salad and studied it closely for a second, as though it were a whole tiny world. He looked at Sparky. “This tomato is a small detail in this salad,” he continued, “but it makes a big difference to what the salad is as a whole; just as you bringing me this salad—when you easily could have refused—is a detail that makes a difference to who you are as a whole.” Matthew popped the tomato into his mouth. “The smallest of details are all connected to the whole and say something important and true—but many people miss those details.”

  Sparky stared for a moment, as if trying to comprehend what Matthew was saying. He finally shook his head. “The sheriff is right about you—you’re nuts.” He turned to leave, but before the deputy had turned fully around, Matthew replied:

  “I will be walking right out the front door of this building. I’m just telling you this detail to prepare you. There will be nothing you can do about it—but more importantly, don’t let the sheriff give you any grief about it. Even he could not prevent my leaving here when the time comes.”

  Sparky faced Matthew once more. “The only way you’re going to be walking out of here is in handcuffs—headed back to Washington State. It’s that simple. But even more simple is this—if you try to escape from here, I will shoot you. Now, you have a nice evening—Mr. Duncan.”

  Sparky turned and left the cell, slamming the door behind him. There was a loud, metallic clicking as the locks were set.

  Matthew stared for a moment at the closed door. “You won’t shoot me, Sparky,” said Matthew to the closed door. Matthew picked up another cherry tomato, studied it for a moment, smiled, and ate it.

  Back in the main office, Sparky sat at his desk, motionless for a moment, staring blankly at nothing in particular and lost in thought. He finally took his Glock 17 pistol from its holster and checked the magazine—it had its full compliment of seventeen rounds. He clipped the magazine back into the pistol and spun around in his chair, staring at the door of the hallway leading to Matthew’s cell.

  Sparky became quiet and held the gun pointing toward the door for a moment, searching inside himself for the certainty that when and if the time came, his willpower would actually match those words. He finally lowered the gun and carefully put it back in the holster.

  Gerald Sparks had never shot anybody, nor even at anybody, but in searching his feelings, he’d found what he’d been looking for—he knew beyond all doubt that, if necessary, he could pull the trigger and shoot someone he’d known all his life. He assumed this meant his prisoner was either a liar, a fool, or perhaps both. He hadn’t yet understood how his own newfound conviction was not necessarily contradictory to what Matthew had said.

  Sixty

  A Little Help from the Judge

  It seemed no matter what time a visitor arrived at her door, day or night, Gayle Reynolds would have a pot of coffee brewed and ready within minutes. Some visitors jokingly insisted that she must have the coffee pot connected to the doorbell so that once it rang, the coffee began brewing automatically. Whenever she answered the door to greet a friend, she would say, “I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Would you care for a cup?”

  Sitting together in the Reynolds’ living room, Diane D’Arcy and the judge both nodded yes to Gayle’s question, while Rebecca declined. Gayle left the room to get the coffee.

  “Judge Reynolds,” said Rebecca, “first of all, I wanted to thank you for the message you left on my answering machine. I might have still been sitting at home wondering where my husband was, if it were not for you.”

  “You know you don’t need to thank me, Rebecca. I’ve known you since you were born, and I think of you practically as my own daughter. You deserve to be treated fairly and with respect in these matters.”

  “Well, thank you, Judge,” said Rebecca. She then turned and glanced at her mother for a moment and then back at the judge. “Related to what you just said—about being treated fairly—I hope that applies to Matthew, my husband, as well.”

  The judge cleared his throat. “Of course, it does. He’s now part of y
our life. I’ll do whatever I can to help him as well—though it seems he’s got himself some real problems right now.”

  “Thank you,” said Rebecca. “I know he’s facing some trouble…and that’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  Gayle came back into the room with the coffee on a tray and set it down on the coffee table.

  “Rebecca,” began the judge, pouring some cream into his coffee, “I don’t know how much you know about the situation Matthew is facing, but I hope you know that there’s not much I can do to help him legally. His problems are from outside the area—outside of Colorado. This is a matter for the State of Washington to handle. I have no persuasion or authority in the matter at all.”

  “Oh, no, I understand that,” said Rebecca. “I know that Matthew’s legal troubles, whatever they may be, are beyond the scope of your authority. I was actually going to ask you about something that I hope is within your authority. You see, Sheriff O’Neil has refused to give permission for me to see Matthew.”

  “Why?” asked the judge, interrupting a sip of coffee.

  “He said that Matthew was not being held as a suspect in any crime but as an escaped prisoner from another state. He therefore wasn’t entitled to visitation rights.”

  The judge stared at Rebecca and then shook his head slightly, side to side. “John can be an odd fellow at times. I’m not certain what his intentions are here…and, of course, he doesn’t know you are Matthew’s wife. That could make a difference—”