by Gideon, D.
Beside him, Fish turned to an angle that would let him see the men and the door behind Simon. He was grateful. Having someone sneak up behind him and add some lead to his blood would really be the cherry on his day.
Frank was the only one who didn’t raise his hands. He glared around him at the other men. “Put your damn hands down. You’re police officers,” he growled. The men started to lower their hands.
“Keep them up!” Simon yelled. “Take two steps back from Frank. That’s good. Y’all keep this up and we’ll all go home happy.”
“Simon why do you seem to be wedged head and shoulders up my backside lately?” Frank said.
Simon ignored the question. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“What the hell does it look like?” Frank shot back.
“Sure don’t look like police business. Looks like you’re assaulting a citizen.”
“I’m questioning a suspect,” Frank said.
“With your fists? Is that a new up-close-and-personal form of sign language?”
“He won’t talk,” Frank said. “Hasn’t said a damn word since we got here. And I know he’s not mute; he was talking at the Parker house. So we decided to use some incentive.”
“Warden, I’ve got multiple rifles leaning against that rolling toolbox,” Fish said, nodding towards them.
Shit. Missed those in my scan. Sloppy, Simon. Sloppy.
He had to get some food. This lack of focus was liable to get him killed.
“Secure them,” he said. Fish holstered his pistol and crossed the room, making sure to duck low to keep out of Simon’s line of fire. He gathered up the rifles and came back, duck-walking to keep them from slipping out of his arms.
“Pistol...workbench,” Preacher croaked.
“Now you talk?” One of the men said.
“Fish?” Simon said.
“On it.” Fish brought the rifles back and dropped them in a jarring crash of noise, making most of the men wince. Then he went for the workbench.
“You in the doorway,” Simon said. “I want you to lift that strap up over your head with one hand, and give it to the deputy when he comes for it.”
The man nodded quickly and complied. Fish found the pistol and carefully moved around the men to get the rifle. Once it was in his hands, he came scurrying back. He ducked down behind Simon, and after a minute Simon could hear the clicks and slides of magazines being removed and chambers emptied.
“Stop acting like you might shoot us, Simon. It’s a nice show of force, but we’re all police officers here. You’re not going to shoot a brother in blue.”
“These men aren’t police officers, as far as I’m concerned,” Simon said. He dropped his arm to hang loose by his side. Holding it up for too long built up lactic acid and caused a tremble. If he had to use it, he wanted his aim to be sure.
“I made them police officers,” Frank said.
“You’re not a police officer, either, Frank.”
“The City hired me-”
“Police officers don’t tie people up and beat the shit out of them until they talk, Stalls!” Simon yelled. “Police officers don’t let a thief walk free while they jail little old ladies for defending themselves!”
“That’s what this is about? I arrested your friend so now you’re getting revenge? She tried to kill a kid, Simon! His back is full of holes! He’s lucky she didn’t blow his head off!”
Simon shook his head. “The only way you could get that woman to fire a gun is if she thought she was in extreme danger. She had a stranger in her yard, with a gun-”
“He claims he wasn’t in her yard,” Frank said. “And she admitted to shooting him. I’m in the clear here, Sheriff.”
Simon gestured to Preacher’s swollen face. “This is being in the clear?”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Look at this guy, Simon. Really look at him. You think he’s some model of good behavior? His arms are covered in tattoos. He’s all roided out. Probably some kind of gang member. And he’s here in Teddy’s workshop, stealing hardware to make pipe bombs, from the looks of it.” He pointed to the rolling toolbox, and Simon glanced in that direction. His eyebrows went up. There was a neatly-arranged line of hardware next to a canvas bag. Small pipes, caps, nails and the like.
What the hell are you planning, Preacher?
“Yeah. See?” Frank said. “We caught him gathering the materials. Red-handed.”
“Do you have proof that he’s not permitted to be here?” Simon asked.
“Well conveniently enough, Teddy isn’t here to ask,” Frank said. “He’s missing. But there’s a nice deep grave over on that side of the property ready to be used.” He pointed in the general direction of the would-be outhouse and nearly smacked one of his men in the face.
“For god’s sake Frank, that’s an outhouse. Teddy hired him to dig an outhouse,” Simon said. “He’s got cause to be here. He’s not digging a grave. He’s not stealing anything. You, on the other hand…” Simon jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s not your truck.”
“I was wondering when we’d get to that,” Frank said. “I’ve legally commandeered that truck.”
“No. Only federal agents can commandeer things, Frank. You’re not a federal agent.”
“The Governor gave Wilhelm emergency powers-”
“You’re not Wilhelm, either.”
“Jesus christ Simon, stop it! Just stop it! Stop acting like you are the law! Friggin’ Judge Dredd or Buford Pusser or some shit! We’re in an emergency situation, and that requires emergency action!”
“The stealing cars and beating people up kind of emergency action?”
“Like you’ve never accidentally made a suspect face-plant into the concrete? You’re not some damned boy scout!”
Simon sighed and looked at Preacher. The big man was watching him carefully.
“You want to press charges?” Simon asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Frank said.
Preacher spit a wad of blood out of his mouth and cracked his neck. “If I press charges, you put him in a jail cell?”
“Yeah, until we can get a judge to decide on bond,” Simon said.
“Then no,” Preacher said. He turned to look straight at Frank. “I want him out where I can get to him.”
“Is that a threat?” Frank said, his voice high.
The corner of Preacher’s mouth lifted a little bit.
“Fish, you want to press charges?”
Fish watched Preacher for a moment, considering. Then he smiled. “No,” he said. “I’m happy to just get my truck back unharmed. No need to put him in jail over a misunderstanding of federal law.”
Fish gave a nod to Preacher. Preacher dipped his chin once and looked back to Frank. His smirk got a little more pronounced.
“You heard them,” Simon said. “You’re free to go. And don’t touch the weapons; I’ll bring them to you later.”
“You can’t keep my gun,” one of the men said, pointing at the pile.
Simon tapped his pistol on his thigh. “I asked the man if he wanted to press charges against Frank. I didn’t ask him about you. If I were you, I’d escape while I could and get my gun from Frank some other time.”
The men took the hint and filed out, giving Simon and Fish a wide berth. Frank walked up to Simon and fixed him with a hard look.
“You and me, we’re going to have to come to some kind of an...understanding,” Frank said. “One way or another. I’m getting tired of this.”
“One way or another,” Simon agreed, nodding. “Get the hell out of my sight, Frank, before I make that choice.”
He watched them stomp across the yard and pile into the second pickup truck. The tires tore up the grass as they pulled back onto the drive. When he turned around, Fish had cut Preacher’s hands free and the big man was standing, rubbing his wrists.
“Did you have to come right out and threaten him?” Simon asked, holstering his pistol.
Preacher swiped the back
of his hand across his busted lip.
“Yeah,” he said. “I want him looking over his shoulder.”
Simon sighed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to Preacher. “You must have some plan, if you wanted me to come see you. Let’s hear it.”
Bill
Bill took a deep breath as he strode to the reception counter at the Rec Center and gave the lady there a big, friendly smile. He didn’t recognize this one.
“Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Dorothy Parker. This is Mr. Sorenson, her lawyer,” Bill gestured to the smartly-dressed man beside him, “and I’m Pastor Bill Flannigan, her religious counsel.”
The woman frowned at him. “If they’re in the shelter, I guess you can just go on back and talk to them.”
Bishop Sorenson shook his head. “It’s our understanding that Dorothy Parker is in your jail,” he said. Bill nodded.
“Jail?” The woman made a face. “What jail?” She waved a hand. “You know what? Hold on.” She slid off of a tall stool and disappeared around the corner. Bill could still hear as she off-loaded her issue onto the clerk.
“Got a couple of guys out here saying they want to see someone in our jail? Any idea what they’re talking about?”
“They mean the rooms where we’ve been putting people who misbehave,” the clerk said. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll handle it. Stay here.” In a moment, she appeared at the corner and crossed over to the counter.
“Oh! Father Bill. I wasn’t expecting it to be you.” Her smile was genuine. “I thought it would be some of those awful people I’ve heard about.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “No one’s allowed to go into the jail. We’ve got an actual prisoner in there now and she’s not allowed visitors.”
“By what law is a prisoner not permitted to discuss their rights with their counsel?” Sorenson asked.
The clerk blinked at Sorenson. “It’s...it’s just what Mayor Wilhelm said. No visitors.”
“That’s not going to work for me,” Sorenson said, shifting his briefcase to one hand so he could pull a pen from an inner pocket with the other. “Could I have your name, please?”
“Samantha...why?”
“And your last name?” Sorenson produced a small notepad from the same pocket. He dropped the pad on the counter and with a practiced one-handed efficiency, flipped it open to a blank page and started writing. He looked up expectantly.
“You don’t need my name,” she started, but he held up a finger.
“I need your full name so I can spell it properly on the lawsuit I’ll be bringing against you for not allowing me access to my client, which is required by law.”
“Lawsuit?”
“Lawsuit. Now. Samantha…?”
“Hold on a minute,” she said, and scurried away.
Bill and Sorenson shared a look. Sorenson lifted his briefcase to the counter and with a loud double-snap, flipped the latches and opened it up. “You might want to adjust that phone,” he whispered, and pulled out a slim stack of papers.
Bill looked down and saw that the cellphone peeking out of the top of his shirt pocket had tilted a bit. He straightened it, but it tilted over again.
“Here,” Sorenson said, and slid a pen into the pocket, clip side out. The phone leaned against it and stayed.
They heard Wilhelm’s voice boom down the hall and a few moments later, the rotund man hustled around the corner. When he saw them, he stopped and blinked in confusion.
“She said there were lawyers out here.”
“Nice to see you again, Mayor Wilhelm,” Sorenson said, stepping forward and offering a hand. “Although I hear you’re a judge now.”
“I...I am,” Wilhelm said, shaking hands. “Father Bill, what-”
“Excellent,” Sorenson said, stepping back and laying a hand on his papers. “Then perhaps you can inform me why legal and religious counsel are being denied to your prisoner, Mrs. Dorothy Parker?”
“Legal and religious counsel?”
Bill smiled and pointed to himself. “Religious counsel.” He pointed to Sorenson. “Mr. Sorenson, criminal attorney.”
Sorenson nodded and patted his papers. “I trust I really don’t need to read all of the myriad laws you’d be breaking if you denied my client her right to an attorney. I brought them along just in case, but I’m expecting with you at the helm, things will be run legally and properly, yes?”
Wilhelm finally seemed to catch up. His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t going to change anything,” he said. “She confessed.”
“I’m not here to argue her guilt or innocence, Your Honor. I just want access to my client so I can advise her of her rights, as the law allows. Now either someone can take us to her, or-” he pulled out a larger stack of paperwork “-I can start filling out the lawsuits right here. Which would you prefer?”
Dotty didn’t look any worse for wear. Bill was thankful for that. Frank had taken her little canvas shoes that she wore in the summertime without socks, and the tiled floor was cold in the air conditioning. She’d been sitting with her feet tucked under her and a thin wool blanket wrapped around her when they came in.
After they’d finished hugging and she’d treated Sorenson to a bone-crushing hug of his own for his willingness to help, Bill had sat down on her cot and taken off his own footwear. He handed her his pair of socks and she took them, her bottom lip trembling.
“Never thought I’d be missing warm socks in the summertime,” she said, slipping them on. She visibly relaxed.
Sorenson got right down to business, dragging a second cot over and spreading his papers out on it. He asked rapid-fire questions and took extensive notes on a legal pad.
Bill had hoped that since this wasn’t an official jail and Wilhelm wasn’t used to actually incarcerating suspects, that they’d have skipped the worst parts of an arrest. Unfortunately, Frank was quite familiar with the process.
They’d made her strip down to her bra and panties in front of Frank and Stella, one of the women that had been present at the inventory search and a member of Bill’s church. Then Frank had turned around while she stripped down the rest of the way, and he instructed her through squatting and coughing while Stella watched.
“It was so humiliating,” Dotty whispered.
Bill wrapped an arm around her shoulders while Sorenson continued to scratch notes.
Frank had insisted on taking her bra, since it had underwires. They’d taken everything she’d had on her at the time other than her jeans, t-shirt, and underwear. She kept covering her chest with the blanket as she talked.
Bill couldn’t explain why, but for some reason the thought of Dotty’s bra being somewhere in this facility while she sat here trying to keep herself modestly covered made him seethe.
“They made me fill out a statement and sign it, saying I shot that boy,” Dotty said. “Made me sit in front of a cellphone and read it out loud while they video recorded it.”
“When they recorded it, did they read you your Miranda rights before they had you start speaking?” Sorenson asked.
Dotty thought for a moment and nodded. “Frank did. He must’ve repeated those lines to me three or four times, starting at the house.”
“Are they feeding you?” Bill asked. “Taking you to the facilities?”
Dotty grimaced. “They gave me one of those MRE things and a bottle of water last night. I haven’t had any food yet today. I haven’t left this bathroom since they brought me in here.” She lowered her voice, as if speaking of something shameful. “There’s a garbage bag in the toilet in that last stall. I have to use that.”
“What about fingerprints?” Sorenson said.
Dotty held out her hands, and the finger pads were stained with ink. “They found one of those little pads that you press stamps into,” she said. “Frank used that and some printer paper.”
Sorenson shook his head. “I was hoping this would’ve been less official. Looks like Chief Stalls was being painstakin
gly thorough.”
“That’s not good for us, right?” Dotty said.
“You let me worry about that,” Sorenson said. “It might actually help us. They’re establishing a precedent that this is going to be by the book, so any attempt at deviating from that saying it’s an emergency will be harder for them.”
He had many more questions, and Dotty answered them as best she could. Bill held her hand through it all. He’d sat through dozens of these sessions with other people, but he’d never been as invested. Sure, he’d felt for the people he was counseling, felt empathy for what they were going through and a certain level of anger on their behalf.
But right now he wanted to smash down Wilhelm’s door and beat the man senseless. Then he wanted to go find Frank.
“I’m done with the official interview,” Sorenson finally said. “If you two want to talk or anything, I do have to stay here for it. And I’d suggest you not discuss anything you don’t want anyone else hearing. I’m supposed to have confidentiality, but I can’t guarantee our discussion isn’t being listened to or recorded somehow.” He pointed to the door and raised his eyebrows.
Dotty looked up at Bill. “How are the children? Are they alright? Is Seth keeping an eye on the boys so they don’t do anything foolish?”
“The kids are all fine,” Bill reassured her. “They’re upset and angry, but they’re safe. I’ve talked to them. Don’t you worry about them.”
“And the girls?”
Bill smiled a little. “I think they’d be here breaking down that wall if they knew where to find keys to a bulldozer. Mel...err...the shorter one, especially.”
Dotty tried to smile. “You tell her that I said to behave, and that her Grams loves her. Tell them all that.”
“And…” she looked at the door, then shook her head and traced her finger across the back of her knuckles. “Him. You tell him to let this be. I can get through this. I confessed, and even if Frank had come for him instead of Thomas, I’d have still done it.”
“I don’t have the kind of influence over him that Simon does,” Bill started.