Brambleman

by Jonathan Grant

  The kids needed a parent, especially now. He wasn’t going to apologize for doing his job. Thank God the restraining order had been lifted. Or was a new one in place? Susan was so vindictive, he couldn’t keep track. Damn! The letter with his visitation rights was in the other car. He hit the steering wheel in frustration. He’d had problems with this babysitter back in October. Well, she’d just have to understand. He turned onto her street. At least he thought it was her street.

  But which house? They all looked the same to him. He parked in the driveway of a likely looking tan brick ranch. When he rang the bell, the woman opened the door a centimeter and said, “Her sister came and got them just a few minutes ago.”

  How did Susan get in touch with Sheila? “Why didn’t she call me?” Charlie asked.

  The woman closed the door in his face. Charlie stood on the porch feeling dumb and empty. From inside, a man said, “If you don’t leave, we’ll call the police.”

  “Ridiculous!” Charlie shouted over his shoulder as he stormed off. “I’m just trying to help!”

  * * *

  Northeast Regional Medical Center’s main building was white, modern, and square, with two large wings spreading east and west. Its windows shone golden against the evening sun. When Charlie rushed into the emergency entrance, a funky chemical smell filled his nostrils. He spotted a sign-in desk and quick-stepped toward it. “I need to know about Susan Sherman,” he said, slamming his palms on the counter. “She came in with a gunshot—”

  “She’s in surgery,” said an older white nurse standing behind the young black desk attendant.

  “Do you know—”

  The woman shook her head, wagging her double chin. “You can take a seat over there.” She pointed toward the waiting area.

  Charlie turned and saw Evangeline sitting on an orange plastic chair, clutching a black purse with both hands. His mother-in-law glared at him with dark eyes, her jaw clenched tight, face ready to explode: The very picture of hatred and rage, though it appeared that she’d survived the Steele show without any noticeable wounds.

  As Charlie approached her, she rose from her seat and walked stiffly away. He looked around for his father-in-law for a moment before recalling that Evangeline had left Saint Bradley.

  Evangeline returned, a white cop with a butch haircut in tow. He took one look at Charlie and a storm of worry crossed his face. “Holy smoke! You’re the guy who wrote the book about the in-laws!” He turned to Evangeline. “And you’re the in-law!” He spoke into the radio unit on his shoulder. “I’m at the ER waiting room and I need backup.”

  The officer’s radio crackled: “Gwinnett County advises suspect has implicated white male subject Charles Sherman in the carjacking.”

  “What?” Charlie asked, his face contorting in disbelief, even though he already had more than an inkling of what was going down. “That’s absurd!”

  “He’s in on this. I knew it,” Evangeline declared, her face a mask of grim satisfaction.

  “Ma’am, could you please take a seat over there?” The cop pointed to a chair by the wall. Evangeline stood ramrod straight for a moment before complying.

  “I’m taking you into custody,” the cop said, clamping his hand on Charlie’s wrist.

  “I don’t understand. What do they mean, the suspect has implicated me?”

  “Place your hands behind your back.” The officer pushed Charlie’s right hand into position as eh cuffed him. Charlie had been through this enough times to know it was counterproductive to struggle.

  “What’s going on? Just because she told you—”

  “Doesn’t have anything to do with her, all right?”

  Charlie found that impossible to believe. As he was perp-walked out of the hospital, he noticed that seeing him in handcuffs brought a smile to Evangeline’s troubled face.

  * * *

  Two detectives transported Charlie to the northeast precinct station and led him to a drab little interrogation room with pale green walls. It contained a gunmetal gray table, two chairs, and a mirror on the cinder block wall. They took off his cuffs and confiscated his cellphone.

  The first interview was short. Sergeant Foley, who was white, stood in the corner with his arms folded and watched while Detective Nance did the talking. Nance, a light-skinned black man with freckles, asked Charlie about his marriage. “Am I under arrest?” Charlie asked.

  “Not yet,” Nance said.

  “I want to talk to my attorney.”

  Nance left the room and returned with Charlie’s cellphone. Charlie called Muncie’s cell number and left a message. Nance took the phone and left. Foley followed him out.

  Charlie spent the next hour drumming the table and walking around the room, which was so small he kept brushing against the wall.

  The detectives returned. “Sit down,” said Nance. “No word back from your lawyer. Sure you want to wait, or would you rather talk? We found out a few things we can share.”

  As far as Charlie was concerned, the cops didn’t need his help. They had their suspects in custody. Only stupid people in situations like this talked to police without a lawyer present. But this was beyond stupid. He needed to know about Susan. “Is my wife alive?”

  “As far as we know,” Nance said. “But we want to talk about you. What am I sayin’? Everyone wants to talk about you. You’re famous. Your name’s been in the news every day this past week.”

  “None of it good,” Foley added.

  “I’ve had better weeks,” Charlie admitted.

  “How’d you know about the carjacking?” Foley asked.

  “I saw it on TV. I knew it was Susan because Channel Six interviewed a coworker who said they shot her. Plus, she has a silver Mercedes.”

  “Nice car. How can she afford it?”

  “She’s a banker, duh. Plus I give her a couple grand a month child support.”

  “Only a couple grand a month?” Foley scoffed. “Rich as you are?”

  “It’s going up soon. She wants ten grand a month.”

  “Does she?” Nance interjected, making a note. “Interesting.”

  Damn. Where was that lawyer?

  “When you heard, did you try to call her, just to see, you know …”

  “She blocked my number,” Charlie said.

  “Ouch,” said Foley. “Not on good terms, eh?”

  “A pending divorce,” Nance told his partner. “Rather nasty, I hear.”

  “And they said they were taking her to the hospital,” Charlie said.

  “So you rushed right to the hospital,” Foley said.

  “First I went to check on the kids, but her sister had picked them up. I don’t know what happened there. She must have gotten in touch with Sheila, or had somebody call her. That’s a good sign, that she was able to do that,” Charlie said, trying to sound hopeful.

  “So you didn’t know this would be happening?” Foley asked.

  Charlie looked at him with a mixture of contempt and disbelief, calculated for maximum effect. “If I had, I would have done something to stop it.”

  “Un-huh,” said Foley.

  “Un-huh,” said Nance.

  “You know the guys who did it,” Foley said.

  Foley and Nance both gave him piercing stares.

  No way would Charlie admit he knew the carjackers unless he had to. “I heard in the hospital that somebody knows my name. Obviously, they’re trying to blame me. Look, I’ve been the victim of hit jobs more than once. I don’t know who did it, OK?” Charlie threw up his hands in exasperation.

  “Got any ideas?”

  “You tell me.”

  “OK. You know Kwame Taylor?”

  “Never heard of him.” Charlie felt relieved. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe—

  “How about P-Dog?”

  Charlie gulped. “Yeah. I’ve heard of him. Didn’t know his real name.”

  “He’s the shooter, by the way. How do you know him?”

  “I’d like to try calling my lawyer again.”


  “Sure. Detective Foley.”

  Foley pulled Charlie’s cell out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. Charlie dialed but got no answer. He left another message, his voice tinged with desperation. The cops found this amusing. When he was finished, he put the phone on the table.

  “How about Demetrious Warner?” Nance asked. “Nickname D.”

  Charlie knew it was leading to this, but it was still a jolt to hear the name. “Yeah. I wrote about him in a book. P-Dog is the one who got shot, right?”

  “The book,” Nance said, looking at Foley. “We gotta get a copy.” Nance sat down across the table from Charlie and looked him in the eye. “So how you know Demetrious Warner?”

  “Through his grandmother. The book’s about … something that happened to his family.”

  “Did you know today’s his birthday?” Nance said.

  “Must have wanted a present,” Foley cracked.

  “His eighteenth, to be precise,” Nance said. “He’s looking at the death penalty.”

  Charlie rose out of his chair, his heart in his throat. “You told me Susan was alive!”

  Foley put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder and forced him down. “She is, as far as we know. But see, the way the law works, he can be charged with a capital crime for his partner’s death.”

  “Is that the deal that’s going down?”

  “Yeah,” Nance said. “Looks like it.”

  “That’s cold,” Charlie said.

  “You should be feeling a little chilly yourself, right now.”

  “Yeah, wait’ll ya get a load of this.” Foley glanced at his notepad. “Party to a crime. Everybody who did the crime is responsible. His partner, anyone who participated. You know, like, say, paying them to do it.”

  “Who paid them to do it?’

  “This guy and his questions,” Nance told his partner. “He cracks me up.”

  Nance said, “We have info says you gave money to D. That’s who.”

  This was ridiculously dangerous, and Charlie realized that he was the guy the cops would not want to cut a deal with: The Great White Defendant. Especially if the GBI and governor’s office got involved. “Bullshit,” he said.

  Nance pulled a fax sheet out of his pocket. “What’s this, then, that we just got in from Gwinnett County? ‘Demetrious, I have a lucrative proposition for you.’ That your signature?”

  Charlie stared at the note he’d written months ago about the DNA test. “Ha … Jeez … hmm … yeah, like I said, I’m gonna need my attorney.”

  “I figured you’d say that.”

  The cops got up with looks of disgust on their faces. “Make your friggin’ call,” Foley said.

  He handed Charlie’s cellphone to him, then both detectives left the room. Charlie autodialed Muncie and again left a message. As soon as he was done, Nance came back into the room and retrieved the phone, then exited, leaving Charlie alone with his thoughts.

  Nearly two hours later, Foley burst into the interrogation room holding Charlie’s cellphone like it was a dead rat. “Call.”

  “Hello, Sherman here,” Charlie said, feeling a sudden and strange hope that Susan was calling to tell him it was all a mistake, and she was doing just fine.

  “Charlie,” Muncie said. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Susan was shot in a carjacking, and I’m being held as a suspect. Northeast DeKalb precinct.”

  “Shit. Have you been talking?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Double shit. What the—don’t say another word. I’m on my way. … Charlie. Charlie.” A long pause. “OK. Good. Just keep doing that until I get there.”

  * * *

  Muncie arrived at 11:05 p.m. and huddled with his client. Whispering, with a legal pad blocking the view from the mirror, Charlie told Muncie what he knew of the carjacking, including the incriminating information about paying Demetrious for his blood sample—a piece of information he’d neglected to include in American Monster. Another instance of sandbagging he now regretted. He also mentioned Demetrious’s demand for $20,000.

  “Do you know if that’s why he targeted her?” Muncie asked.

  Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know much. I just know him.”

  “Did you tell him where she worked?”

  “No. I never talked to him about my family, but she wouldn’t have been hard to find. She was on TV last night denouncing me, standing in front of the Hanover clock tower.”

  “Well, due to the divorce, they’ve got a motive for you,” Muncie said. “They’ll say chickens have come home to roost.”

  “It’s bullshit, though. What do we do?”

  “We don’t talk to them. Nothing to gain. Make them prove everything.”

  “They could arrest me.”

  “Then we’ll get you out on bond.”

  “I was hoping for something less … stressful than that.”

  “What can I say? You lead an interesting life. Looks like you’ll have a sequel to your book.”

  “I don’t want it to be a jailhouse memoir.”

  “I hear ya.” Muncie looked into the mirror and smiled broadly. “We’re ready.”

  A few minutes later, Nance entered the room alone, hitched up his pants, and stared at Charlie for a moment, then switched his gaze to Muncie. “He’s free to go.”

  “Why?” Charlie asked, which was, he had to admit, a very stupid question. Muncie was already pulling him out of his chair.

  Nance sneered at him. “Because you’re rich and famous. But don’t leave town.”

  “Come on,” Muncie said. “Let’s go.”

  Once outside, Charlie said, “What just happened?”

  “Well, they don’t have much on you, despite what they said. And for all I know, they bugged the room and heard everything we said.”

  “That’s illegal! They can’t do that!”

  Muncie shrugged. “Whatever. I’m sure they’d say they didn’t. Good thing you didn’t confess. By the way, when the cops tell you you’re free to go, don’t ask why. Just go. Come on. I’ll give you a ride. I guess I’ll have to include taxi fare as part of my fee. Where to?”

  “Northeast Regional. Susan’s there.” Muncie gave him a questioning look. “So’s my car.”

  “Just don’t do anything we’ll regret while you’re there.”

  They climbed into Muncie’s black Porsche and roared away. Charlie checked his cellphone’s voicemail: “You have twenty-eight unheard messages.” He played through the voicemails, skipping as soon as he heard who they were from: reporters, mainly. He erased them all.

  “I still don’t know how she’s doing. The divorce—”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just do what you can to help her. Wouldn’t hurt to pray.”

  “I kinda think that’s dangerous, right now.”

  Muncie gave him a peeved look. “You’re one weird dude, you know.” After a minute, he said, “Look, even if they don’t have enough to hold you on right now, they’re probably going to try to get an indictment. I’ll put my investigator on this case. If we have a package to give the DA, we may be able to avoid an indictment. We have two jurisdictions to worry about.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with this. I just want you to understand that.”

  “Good. That will help.”

  Muncie turned into the hospital entrance. “We’ll beat this rap,” he said. “Not bad for a divorce lawyer, eh?”

  “You were bound to turn into a criminal lawyer dealing with the family I’m tangled up with,” Charlie said. “And speaking of your PI, what did he find out about … uh, Harold?”

  “Some other time.” Muncie’s tone was curt.

  He pulled to a stop at the parking lot gate and let out his passenger. As the lawyer drove away, a siren wailed in the distance. It was past midnight and most of the hospital windows were dark. Charlie looked at the streetlamp, then at the waxing moon, partially hidden behind a cloud. He walked slowly toward the main entrance. He passed through the
sliding doors and approached a woman in a suit sitting behind the information desk.

  “Visiting hours are over, sir,” she said.

  “I just need to know—”

  A uniformed guard appeared at Charlie’s side.

  “She’s in the ICU. There’s nothing you can do now. Get some rest, Mr. Sherman.”

  Charlie looked perplexed. “Do you know me?”

  “Everyone knows you.”

  Regretting this unfortunate fact, Charlie turned and walked out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As Charlie drove to the hospital early Wednesday morning, the thoughts that had kept him up all night continued to hammer his burned-out brain. First: this was Susan’s fault. By going on TV, she had willingly participated in the Cutchins family’s evil scheme to defame him and defraud Minerva Doe, thus exposing herself to the wrath of God. It was so obvious. Second: Of course, Charlie would do everything he could for his stricken wife. Third: If the unthinkable occurred, he would take Beck and Ben and flee this accursed place.

  These audacious thoughts did not comfort him. Instead, they made him increasingly nervous. When he arrived at Northeast Regional, his throat was so dry he could barely swallow. His sneakers squeaked on the ICU’s polished floor as nurses popped in and out of rooms. The piped-in music sounded inappropriately perky. When he came to 332, he opened the door and spied Bradley Roy in the corner of the private room, his head lolled back on the cushion of an aqua-colored armchair. Charlie’s father-in-law looked like he’d aged a decade in the year and a half since they had last seen each other. The old man’s dark hair had turned steel gray; his face was careworn and wrinkled. This was alarming, since it contradicted Charlie’s belief that leaving Evangeline would have had the opposite effect on a man.

  Sunshine came in spots through loose-weave drapes, dappling Susan, who lay in the bed breathing in rhythm with the respirator’s slow, steady pock. On a monitor, a line blipped relentlessly; her heartbeat was now mathematical. Charlie tiptoed to her side, grimacing at the tubes and wires sticking out of her. Her left elbow was bandaged. There was an abrasion on her forehead. Her hair was matted and disheveled. She wore the slightest of frowns.