by Joe Clifford
“No, you’re not under arrest.”
I stood up.
Turley motioned for me to sit. My threat, like the one I’d leveled at the Olympic last night, purely for show. The Ashton Police Department was a long haul from truck stop grounds.
“How are you doing?” Turley asked.
“How am I doing?”
“Yes. How have you been?”
“What do you mean? Like personally? What do you care?” Like we were two old pals meeting for coffee.
Turley’s roly-poly face pinched up.
“You got something to say, man, say it.” My actions may have rung irrational, hopping a fence into a restricted area a dumb move, but I wasn’t playing heartfelt feels with Rob Fucking Turley.
“People talk.”
“I need to get to my truck,” I said. “Can you, or one of your deputies, officers, subordinates, whatever the fuck you call them, give me a ride to get it?”
“Yes,” Turley said. “Someone will give you a ride to get your truck. When you answer my questions.”
“Answer your questions? So you’re holding me hostage?”
“No one is being held.” He pointed at the door, calling my bluff. “You are free to leave anytime. I’m sure you know the way to the truck stop. Long walk. Need to use the phone for a taxi? No problem. Might be able to get a cab to show up in about four hours. Want to try Finn? Have at it. But you want my help getting your truck, yes, you need to answer some questions.”
“I’m only here because you drove me here.”
“Yeah. I did. After you were caught trespassing. On private property. Stop playing the victim.”
“I hopped a fence. Big deal. I didn’t touch anything. You stop playing ball-busting heavy. I know what you are.”
“And I know what you are, Jay.”
“Yeah? And what am I?”
“A Porter.” He let that sink in. “I seem to recall your brother breaking into a construction site last year, and me having to deal with the same bullshit. I’ve sat in this same seat and had your brother run that same smart-ass mouth. I sit here, I take it. I fake a smile because I am a nice guy. I’ve known you our whole lives. You think I’m a clown, don’t respect this office or job. No problem. I understand sometimes people are sick and make mistakes because they don’t know better. But I have better things to do than bail another one of the Porter boys out of another mess.”
I stood to leave. I didn’t care if I had to walk five miles in the ice and cold. This mouthbreather didn’t know me. I made for the door. Turley stood to block my path. On reflex, I jabbed a quick right. Not a real punch. More a shove for him to move out of my way. Didn’t hit square, more a glancing blow off his fat chin. In some tricky cop move they must teach at the academy, Turley let my motion carry me past, catching my arm. Planting an elbow in my back as he threw me into the table. He pressed me in place, twisting my shoulder behind my back. Huffing and out of breath, he pulled the handcuffs from his belt but didn’t slap them on.
“Have you lost your mind? Assaulting a police officer? What is wrong with you?”
“Let me go!”
“You know how long I can lock you up for that?”
“Do it then! But let my arm go. You’re hurting me!” Turley had my arm so wrenched, felt like the thing was about to snap off, tendons stretching past breaking points.
He snapped the cuffs back on his belt and let go of my arm.
“Sit,” he said.
I rotated my arm, wincing.
“I’m trying to help you,” Turley said.
“I don’t want your help.”
“You are acting crazy.”
“I’m sick of people saying that.”
“I’m gonna tell you something, Jay—and I know you ain’t gonna want to hear this right now—but I dealt with your brother a lot over the years. I got stuck plenty listening to his rambling junkie nonsense. But I could still communicate with him. Could still carry on a conversation, get an answer at least, however wacky. You—you’re—”
“What?”
“Everyone around here knows you ain’t been the same since Chris died.”
“Nice to know I’m still the talk of the town.”
“Okay, we’re all nuts. You’re the only one who sees what’s really going on. Let’s go with that. So tell me, Jay. What’s happening?”
“Don’t play me like I’m some paranoid schizo you have to placate.”
“No one is placating anyone,” Turley said, calm as my therapist used to be when she’d ask me to explain about the contract killer sent to bury my brother in the ice. “Just want to hear it. In your own words.”
I tried to explain. I started in the middle, and then traced back to the beginning, before I flashed forward, flashed back—I think I even flashed sideways at one point. I threw out everything I had. The thoughts coalesced in my head, but by the time the words escaped my mouth, logic had jumbled, timeframes eroded, and nothing made sense.
The entire time I talked about Judge Roberts, Brian Olisky, Andy DeSouza, Fisher’s girlfriend from high school, Gina, who I’d hooked up with—while Jenny and I were on a break—Turley nodded with compassion, sipping his own coffee, reserving commentary. He let me spew about the Lombardis, Gerry, his sons, Adam and Michael, Tomassi, the teenagers locked up in North River; the police who kicked my asshole up into my guts; Wendy, Seth, and Ken Shaw, reparation in exchange for incarceration; Nicki and the guilt I felt over nothing I’d done; Jenny and some soft-handed douchebag named Stephen; and lastly, my son, Aiden, who would surely grow up to hate his father because, after all this time, I still couldn’t get it right. I talked about drinking more than I should; about an ex-biker named Erik Bowman, a boogeyman who should exist only in meth-fueled nightmares but who had somehow crossed netherworlds into my waking, walking consciousness.
And the entire time, fifteen, twenty minutes of nonstop blathering, alternating between gesticulating wildly with rapid speech patterns and flailing arms, and then slamming brakes to catch my breath—calm, cool, collected—intense deceleration making me sound even more unstable, Turley’s expression never changed. I talked. He sat and listened.
Until, coffee gone, guts purged, we sat in silence. Of course he had no response to any of that. Hearing myself say these things aloud, jumbled, erratic, incoherent, I knew how preposterous I came across, how dangerous I sounded.
I’d learned a great deal from dealing with my junkie brother over the years. But no lesson greater than this: when authorities deem you a danger to yourself or others, they can—and will—lock you up. I needed to spin some serious damage control if I wanted to avoid a seventy-two-hour, court-mandated IEA in the local nut ward.
“Wow, Turley,” I said, manufacturing a smile. “Thank you.”
“Thank . . . me?”
“I didn’t realize how much I had bottled up. I think I just needed to get it out. You know I have a therapist now.”
“A therapist?”
“Yeah. Dr. Shapiro-Weiss. Over in Longmont. She prescribed me some anti-anxiety medication. I have the pills at home.”
“Jay, I’m not sure you should be getting behind the wheel—”
“You can call her. It’s . . . these outbursts are panic attacks.”
“Panic attacks?”
“That’s what happened, I think. Why I jumped the fence. Because of my brother. The pressure. All that shit I just said.”
“That was a . . . panic attack?”
“Yeah. Crazy, huh? Sorry about, y’know, pushing you.”
“You took a swing at me, Jay.”
“Panic attack,” I said.
Turley studied me a moment, before pushing himself up. “Wait here.”
He came back ten minutes later, and said he’d give me a ride back to my truck.
I didn’t know if he’d called my psychiatrist and she’d backed my play or what. I assumed so, because he wasn’t recommending I be committed. And I couldn’t think of any reason on God’s green e
arth why he should let me walk out of that station after I’d just tried to slug a cop.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BY THE TIME I got back to my truck, there was no way I’d make Burlington by dinnertime. I had no choice but to call Jenny and reschedule.
At first she was very accommodating.
“No, I understand, Jay,” she said. “These things happen.”
I hadn’t even offered an explanation.
“Is he there? Can I talk to him?”
“Of course. Hold on.” I heard her say, “It’s your Daddy.” And then rustling on the other end as my son dropped whatever toy he’d been playing with to talk to me. Feels good as a dad when you win out over a piece of plastic.
“Hi, Daddy,” Aiden said.
“I’m sorry, buddy. I wanted to come up and see you today. But I had to . . . work. We’ll do it tomorrow, okay? Just me and you. Something real special. Like pizza.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m eating pizza now.”
“You are? Is it super tasty or regular tasty?” The two markers by which my son judged all cuisine.
“Super tasty.”
“Pepperoni?”
“No,” my son said. “Seeven doesn’t eat peppewoni. He’s a wedgatarian.”
I heard the phone ripped from my son’s hand.
“Okay,” Jenny said. “Let me know when you want to come up. We’ll talk soon.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re having a late lunch.”
“Who’s we?”
“Don’t, Jay.” My wife’s voice hushed to a stern whisper.
“Who are you with?”
“I told you, he’s just a friend. I’m allowed to have friends.”
“Yeah, Jenny. We all need friends.”
* * *
I was filling up the tank at the Qwik Stop when she returned my call.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Um, sleeping,” Nicki said. “We were up half the night. When I dropped you off, I was a zombie. Surprised I didn’t crash into a tree.”
I jammed the nozzle in the hole. “Well, you’re awake now.”
“Yeah. Thanks to you. What’s up?”
“I was thinking. We should check out some other names on that list. Find some kids who graduated the program. Other parents. The names we got from Fisher at the diner.” I explained about Seth Shaw’s call and Erik Bowman dropping off the bag of cash.
“What do you think it means?”
“My guess? The parents who don’t initially sign off on North River receive an extra incentive. It’s an investment.”
“By whom?”
“Lombardi. The more kids get locked up in North River, the greater the demand for a private facility. That’s what you said, right? Roberts is a patsy. We need to tie these bribes back to Lombardi.” I told her about my morning poking around the Internet, how the juvie would house all of New England’s least desirable. “A prison like that would rake in a fortune.” I left out the crazier parts about my afternoon—the Tomassi construction site, Fisher’s wrath, my assault of a cop. “And private is nothing but profit.”
“So, you want some company while you go knocking door to door?”
“Something like that.”
Nicki met me at my place. We spent the next several hours driving around northern New Hampshire in my truck, visiting houses on both sides of the mountain. Most, like the Shaws, were in the middle of major renovations. Hardly anyone was home to answer questions. The few times they were, nobody itched to talk. One couple told us to fuck off; another that it was none of our business, they didn’t appreciate being told how to parent, and then they told us to fuck off.
Clouds hung heavy as night started to fall, evening as bruised as an eggplant in the bargain bin.
“What next?” Nicki asked, as we pulled out of yet another rural driveway. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Want to check out North River? Maybe someone would be willing to talk to us. Let us tour the facility. We could say we’re interested in sending our child there.”
“I doubt it. You don’t look quite old enough to have a teenager.”
“Good point,” Nicki said. “You could say you’re my dad.” She smirked.
“Very funny. But we wouldn’t get far. I was up there the other night. They aren’t looking to roll out any red carpets.”
“Okay,” Nicki said, brushing the black hair out of her eyes, making sure to catch mine. “I’m up for anything.”
I pointed at the glove compartment. “Pull the map out of there.”
Nicki held up her phone. “Ever hear of GPS?”
“Not where we’re going.”
“Which is?”
“Look for Saint Thomas Place, Libby Brook.”
Took me a while to find the two silos and broken-down plow in the brooding countryside night. I parked next to the sparkling SUV with restored steering column and new coat of paint shimmering in the porch light. Nicki followed me up the steps to the front door. The house was a different color. Canary yellow. A happy, inviting hue.
Donna Olisky didn’t greet me as warmly this time. Like her son had the other day, she tried to shut the door in my face, but I pushed back. I think Nicki was shocked that I barged inside like I did. But, fuck it, I knew there was no one else home.
“Get out of my house!” Donna screamed.
“Or what?” I said.
Donna made for her landline. I cut her off, yanking the cradle and ripping the cord out of the wall. I didn’t mean to pull it so hard.
Donna Olisky gasped. So did Nicki. I knew I was coming on too strong, but I was tired of getting dicked around.
“Sorry.” I pulled my wallet. I’d withdrawn cash at the gas station, planning on buying Nicki dinner first. I didn’t want to explain the credit card charges to my wife. I placed forty bucks on the table. “That should fix that. Now, I want some answers, Mrs. Olisky.”
“About what?”
Out the corner of my eye, I saw the shrine to her dead son. I turned my shoulder to block the view. I needed to stay focused on the task at hand.
“I see your SUV got fixed.”
“What concern is that of yours? Your company declined my policy—a policy that I paid thousands into over the years, so that when I needed it, I could make a claim. But you rejected that claim, Mr. Porter.”
“Yeah. Insurance sucks. They like to take your money. Don’t like to pay it out. But I don’t make the laws.”
“No. You just break them, busting into homes uninvited.”
“How did you get the money to fix the SUV?” I pointed outside. “The house has a new paint job, too.” I glanced around the interior. Holes spackled over, new wallpaper. The grandfather clock’s pendulum swung with renewed vigor.
“Not that it is any of your business, but I applied for government assistance with home repairs. The state has programs to help people like me.”
“Like you?”
“Single parent homeowners, yes. You can look it up. There are a variety of state-assistance options and programs available. I was approved.”
“When?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because your son was sent to North River. And then you get money. I find the timing strange.”
Donna took leave and went to a drawer, where she extracted a piece of paper, returning to shove it in my face. The official seal of New Hampshire, stamped and signed. Formal approval of the HUD request and a receipt for a ten-thousand-dollar check.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
I studied the amount. “When did you apply for this program?”
“When my husband left last year. What’s it to you?”
“And the money shows up after Brian goes to North River?
After you agree to Judge Roberts’ recommendation that he be sent there?”
“Brian was caught with drugs—”
“Pot.”
“Drugs!” Donna started sobbing, po
inting at the shrine. “I watched one boy die because of drugs. I wasn’t standing by and losing another!”
“So someone called and said if you signed off on North River you’d get the money?”
“Get out of my house!”
Nicki tugged at my sleeve. “Jay, I think we should go.”
Donna Olisky kept sobbing, shoulders heaving, pouring on the histrionics.
“Answer me! Did someone tell you this request would get approved if you agreed to North River? Yes. Or no.”
“My son needs help!”
“Answer me! Was that the deal?”
“Yes! Someone from the State called and said to go along with the recommendation for a diversion program. I didn’t do anything wrong! I love my son! He needs help! I am not losing another boy!” Donna Olisky dropped into a chair, cradling her head in her hands, weeping.
Maybe she hadn’t been acting. I reached out to soothe her. Nicki caught my hand before I could do any more damage, pulling me away, toward the door, which was the right move, even if it meant leaving behind a mother brokenhearted and bawling and me feeling like a bully.
Back on the road, I checked my rearview, waiting for the cops Donna Olisky surely called once she found a working phone. There had to be another in the house, or enough spotty cell reception to report a home invasion, if someone wanted to get creative. No lights ever appeared. A mother too grief-stricken? Or too guilt-ridden? Relieved, I still felt like an asshole, and, worse, I didn’t care. If you’re going to be the bad guy, might as well embrace it. Go big or go home.
I didn’t ask Nicki inside when we got back to my house. She just followed me in. That was the reason I’d taken her along tonight. She knew it. We both did.
I went through the pretense of asking if she wanted a beer, and cracked the last pair.
Being at my house wasn’t the smoothest move or smartest bet. Nicki’s place made more sense. But her car was here, and if they were coming for me, they were coming for me. What could I do about it?
“You want to talk about what happened back there?” Nicki asked.
“Not really. More of what we already knew. Someone—I’m wagering Lombardi—is greasing the skids, bribing parents to sign off on these diversion programs, cooking books, running up the numbers. Maybe they push an assistance claim through. Fast-track HUD. Drop off an envelope stuffed with cash when that isn’t enough. Sure as fuck have Judge Roberts in their pocket. Most of these parents are so hyped up over the drug hysteria up here, they don’t need much convincing. Roberts gets his piece. The Lombardi brothers get their way. That new prison gets built, and the rich get richer.”