“No,” she said. “Don’t even think that.”
Ted opened his hands as he pleaded his case. “Look, you and I both know they were out that night. And that scavenger hunt story . . . C’mon, it was bullshit. We both know it was bullshit.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Kids today—who the hell has the interest or time to do scavenger hunts? They’d rather sit on their asses at home and text each other, or play World of Warcraft or Candy Crush or something stupid like that. And we both saw what the tracking software said. They were both in the same area where Sam was shot.”
“Their phones were there, at the murder scene,” she said. “You can’t say the kids were.”
Ted’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ, Jessica, if someone comes to your teller window with a check made out to them for a half-million dollars and no ID, are you going to slide that money over, just like that? Don’t be so gullible. You really think that the night Sam got murdered Emma and Craig went to the town common and hid their phones in plastic bags, and while they were out searching for old mailboxes and lawn furniture, some mysterious person took their phones, met up with Sam Warner, blew off his head, and then returned the phones? Really? Something weird went on that night, and we should tell the police it involved Craig and Emma.”
Jessica reached down and grabbed her leather purse. “Ted, you do this, you’ll be hurting Craig, not just Emma. Your son—he’s the one who’s had the fights with Sam Warner over the months. You tell the police that he might have been at the murder scene and you bring Emma into it.”
He said, “If that gets me out of here . . . well, Jessica, I’ve got to think about it. I need to tell Helen what happened with their phones.”
“But Craig—you’d do that to Craig?”
“He’s a juvenile, Jessica,” he said. “Once the word gets out about the bullying he put up with and—”
“No,” she said, voice rising. “No. You will not do that. I forbid it, Ted. If it was just Craig, fine, I could give a shit about your whacked son. But not my daughter. I won’t allow it. Not my daughter.”
“I might not have a choice.”
Jessica was on her feet. “You do have a choice, and you better make the right one. Leave my daughter out of this. Or else.”
He stood up as well. “Or else what, Jessica? You threatening me?”
As she turned to walk out, Jessica said, “No. I’m promising you.”
Craig saw the buildings and barbed wire fences of the Middlesex County House of Correction come into view late that Monday afternoon and started rubbing his hands on his pant legs, something he always did when he got nervous. Once he had tried to wear a rubber band around his wrist so he could snap it anytime the urge came over him, but he found he snapped it so much that the skin around his right wrist started turning red.
Ben Borman said, “You okay, Craig?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he lied.
The drive had taken less than a half hour and he was surprised to see where they were. Craig had had the idea that a jail was in some scummy neighborhood with lots of rundown buildings and trashy streets, but for the past ten minutes they had been going past open farmland, stone walls, and nice houses. Even the jail looked kinda nice, if you ignored the barbed wire and fences. It was mostly brick and even had a white steeple. Ben Borman noted that and said, “Looks like a goddamn church, now, doesn’t it?”
“I appreciate you bringing me here, Mr. Borman,” Craig said, and this time he didn’t lie. He did appreciate it. He knew that Jessica was also coming here today, but he didn’t want to be with her while he visited Dad.
“Not a problem, kid. Glad I could help out. Mark, you stay in the truck, okay?”
Craig’s bud Mark was sitting in the middle of the wide seat of the Ford F-150 pickup truck, and all the way down to North Billerica he’d been playing BattleBot IV on his iPhone while Craig just stared out the window.
Mark grunted and Craig got out, and so did Mr. Borman. He was about Craig’s dad’s age but was bulkier around the chest, had thick forearms and heavy hands, and his face was mostly hidden by a bushy black beard streaked with gray. He worked somewhere in Lawrence as a welder, did a lot of renovation work around his house, was an avid hunter, and he seemed amused by his geeky son. Mr. Borman had on dirty work boots, jeans, and a torn farmer’s coat, but Craig thought the guy had smarts. Not like Dad, who could run numbers and make real estate deals, but last year, when a small freezer in their basement seemed to crap out, Dad had made a big deal of buying a new one and hauling the old one to the dump. By the time he had gotten the new freezer up and running, he found out the problem was an open circuit breaker. Mr. Borman was the kind of guy who wouldn’t make that kind of mistake.
Craig followed him up a pathway that had signs that said visitors, and he found that his mouth tasted funny. He couldn’t believe Dad was in here. Over the years Dad had taken him along—okay, dragged him along was a better word—to lots of different houses, trailers, and businesses, just to show Craig what it took to sell something. Craig thought Dad was trying to get him buzzed to join the real estate business at some point, but it sure did backfire. Meeting all those people? Trying to sell something? Getting shot down, day after day?
Nope. Just give him a computer and quiet time, and that’s all Craig wanted from life. Well, except for one other thing.
“Here we go, kid,” Mr. Borman said, opening the door, and they went into chaos.
There was a waiting area with scuffed and dirty chairs. The floor was scuffed, too. The place was practically full of women, young and old, and lots of kids. Besides feeling out of place as the youngest male in the waiting area, Craig felt really uncomfortable at being the only white kid in the room.
But he was pretty much ignored when Mr. Borman and he went up to a glass-enclosed area that looked like a bank drive-up station where a bored-looking young woman in a sheriff’s uniform said, “Have you filled out your paperwork yet?”
“Ah, no,” Mr. Borman said. “I just brought Craig here to see his father. Ted Donovan.”
The woman said, “Do you know where the inmate is?”
Mr. Borman leaned in so he could speak better through the grille. There was a lot of noise coming from the women and children patiently waiting in the plastic chairs. “Wait, what? Has he been transferred somewhere?”
She looked both bored and exasperated. “No, I meant where is he in the facility? Do you know which tier he’s in, or which pod? On Mondays we allow visitors in Pods A, C, and D, and in Dorm Two, Tiers A and B, along with J, K, and L.”
Craig felt the familiar panic of not knowing something important, like being asked to write an English essay with only twenty minutes to get it done. Damn it, maybe he should have come with Jessica instead of saying no so quickly.
The woman added, “Has he just been placed here?”
Mr. Borman said, “Yes, just a couple of days ago.”
The woman shook her head. “Well, he won’t be in the work-release area. What’s his name?”
Craig stepped forward. “Ted Donovan. He’s my dad.”
She stared at him. “And you want to see him?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
She looked to Mr. Borman. “Are you his legal guardian?”
He said, “No. He and my boy are friends.”
The woman shook her head. “Sorry. Nobody under eighteen is allowed to visit an inmate unless accompanied by a parent or a legal guardian.”
Craig couldn’t stand it. “But I want to see my dad! Please!”
Again the head shake. “Sorry, those are the regulations. I don’t make them. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Borman said, “Oh, come on, this is the man’s son. I’ll be there with him. What could go wrong?”
The officer said, “I’d lose my job, that’s what.”
Craig said, “Can I give him a note? Please?”
She hesitated.
/> Mr. Borman backed him up. “C’mon. A note. We drove all the way down here from Warner. What’s wrong with that?”
There was movement behind the barrier and a pen and a slip of paper appeared. “Make it quick. I shouldn’t be doing this, so make it quick.”
Mr. Borman said, “Thanks,” but Craig was too busy thinking of what he could write to say a word to anyone.
One way or another, he was going to get his dad out.
Transcript from Encrypted Chat Room 4554/YourPrivateChat.com
GRECO-GUY: Hey. Anybody here? Anybody?
GRECO-GUY: Hello?
GRECO-GUY: Craig, you there?
HOPPERHERO: I’m here
GRECO-GUY: Weird handle
HOPPERHERO: Whatever. We got a deal?
GRECO-GUY: What, you didn’t feel like chatting F2F? Or via email?
HOPPERHERO: Don’t want to see you. And email can be easily tracked
GRECO-GUY: LOL. Afraid your loser dad will find out? Or the NSA? LOL
HOPPERHERO: We got a deal?
HOPPERHERO: We got a deal?
HOPPERHERO: Sam?
GRECO-GUY: Yeah, we got a deal. Same date and place
HOPPERHERO: No, I want to do it tomorrow night
GRECO-GUY: ? Why?
HOPPERHERO: Look, let’s just get it done, okay?
GRECO-GUY: Okay. Tomorrow night. Time?
HOPPERHERO: Ten?
GRECO-GUY: Hah. Thought that’d be past your bedtime
HOPPERHERO: I’ve got to get her out there, too. Ten works for us
GRECO-GUY: Okay
HOPPERHERO: Okay
HOPPERHERO: Same place?
GRECO-GUY: Yah. Wooden footbridge, by Olson Trail
HOPPERHERO: Okay
HOPPERHERO: The deal tho. I need to make sure you know the deal
GRECO-GUY: Sure. Video of Emma. U give me 10 million bucks
HOPPERHERO: Not funny
GRECO-GUY: Yeah, but I’m laffing
HOPPERHERO: The deal
GRECO-GUY: Jesus Christ you fag. Yeah. Thumbdrive with Emma’s video. I give it to u and she finishes the job
HOPPERHERO: Only if thumbdrive has the only copy of video
GRECO-GUY: What? U no trust me?
HOPPERHERO: Thumbdrive has only copy. Or deal is off
GRECO-GUY: Okay promise double-promise triple-promise
HOPPERHERO: Don’t fuck with me, Sam. U know how good I am at computers. I can hack u and find it if you put it someplace else
GRECO-GUY: Ooh Im so fucking scared
HOPPERHERO: And then I’ll hack your Pop and Mum. Screw with their investments. Let them know what I did and why I did it. Tell them what kind of good boy u really are
HOPPERHERO: U there?
HOPPERHERO: U there?
GRECO-GUY: Yah I’m here.
HOPPERHERO: We got a deal?
GRECO-GUY: Fuck u. We got a deal. Thumbdrive with video and your slut sister finishes the job.
HopperGuy: She’s not my sister
GRECO-GUY: What?
HopperGuy: She’s my stepsister asshole
HopperGuy HAS SIGNED OUT
Greco-Guy HAS SIGNED OUT
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was Tuesday morning, and once again Jessica had called in sick. She lucked out once more and spoke with Amber Brooks, who seemed all sympathy and good wishes, but Jessica hung up without a word when Amber said that Rhonda wanted to talk to her.
Dear Rhonda. There were at least ten or twelve messages on her iPhone and landline from Rhonda, but she wasn’t going to let herself talk to Rhonda and go down a long series of conversations that could end up with something going awry. Rhonda was a sweetie, but years of experience dealing with all types of banking customers had left her with one suspicious attitude if she felt something was off. Jessica wasn’t about to give her or anybody else that opportunity. As much as she cherished her old friend.
Now she was at Powell & Sons Contractors, in front of the old yellow two-story house that had been converted into offices in what passed for a rundown neighborhood in Warner. Jessica slowed down her Sentra. There was a dirt driveway to the right and she took it. At the rear of the house, she parked next to an overflowing green dumpster, near two pickup trucks, a dump truck, and some yellow piece of earth-moving machinery—an excavator, a digger, she didn’t know the term—on a flatbed trailer. There was a row of distressed pine trees at the border and a fenced-in area holding various pieces of construction equipment, plus a thin-looking pit bull, who paced back and forth and barked at her.
Suddenly she thought, God, could Ted have called Ben Powell to screw things up? Would he do that? To get back at her?
No, she thought. Ted thought the money was going to pay for his defense. He wouldn’t jeopardize that. Oh, no, she thought, he’d turn in his son and ruin Emma’s life, all to get his ass out of jail, but he wouldn’t think of stiffing his attorney, the one who was trying to save him.
The inside of the house was cramped, with cubicles and offices and a scarecrow-thin woman wearing a red jumper out front who was Ben Powell’s wife, Monica. She picked up a phone from her cluttered desk and said, “Ben? Yeah, she’s here.” She hung up the phone, pointed down the corridor. “Last door on the left. Ben’s waiting for you.”
Jessica went down to the office, hearing phones ringing and people talking and smelling dirt and the scent of diesel fuel and asphalt. At the last door two large men in mud-splattered jeans, gray hoodies, and yellow work boots were standing in front of a metal desk where Ben Powell was rustling through a sheaf of papers. Jessica stood to one side and listened.
“You morons!” Powell said. “The address you were supposed to go to was 14 Forest Road, and you ended up at 14 Forest Lane.”
The man on the left said, “Ben, look, the GPS, it took us there, and—”
Powell threw down the papers. “And if the GPS took you to Walden Pond, would you sink one of my dump trucks trying to drop a load of gravel in the center? Jesus. Thank God the property owner stopped you before you got too far on tearing down his garage. Christ. I’ve got insurance, but you better believe you guys are going to help pay for the deductible. Now, you two morons, get out of here.”
The two men bumbled and stumbled out as if they were junior high boys being dismissed from the principal’s office. Powell leaned to the side and said, “Jess? You there? Come on in.”
Jessica went into the office, which contained bookcases filled with rolled-up blueprints and designs, filing cabinets, and toy models of construction equipment. She sat down and Powell said, “You doing okay, Jess?”
“Reasonable, I guess,” she said.
Powell shook his head. He had on a blue button-down oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up over his beefy forearms, which bore faded tattoos of anchors and waves from his time in the Seabees.
“Jesus, Ted—I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It’s a real shock.”
“And poor Sam Warner. And his parents. My boy Paul, he was on the wrestling team when Sam was just a freshman. Even back then, that Sam was a special kid. Everybody knew he’d go far, maybe even the goddamn Olympics if it all worked out. Hard to believe somebody wanted to kill him. Just a kid!”
Jessica nodded. “It is unbelievable, isn’t it? I mean, in Warner, of all places.”
Powell nodded. “How’s your running girl?”
“Staying with friends for a couple of days,” Jessica said. “The news media—TV, photographers, reporters—they’re gone now but who knows if they’ll come back or not. And the Daily News. Imagine seeing your spouse’s photo on the front page. It’s awful.”
“And Craig?”
“Ah, he’s staying with friends, too. I hope we can get them both back home in a day or two.”
“And Ted?”
“He’s holding up.”
Powell’s bushy eyebrows lifted up. “Really? When he called me at home on Sunday he seemed pretty rattled. H
e could barely get a sentence out without having to catch his breath.”
Jessica said, “Well, I just saw him yesterday. He’s got a good lawyer. She thinks the case against him is weak, and . . .”
She thought, C’mon, c’mon, I’ve got to get back on the road and meet up with Gary Talbot, give him the payoff. What’s the holdup?
Powell spread both of his hands on the desktop. “Jess, I’ve done a lot of projects with Ted. He’s a good guy. You don’t need a contract with him, just a handshake.”
Jessica kept quiet. What the hell?
“This Concord project—both of us were counting on it. It was a lifeline—no, it was a lifeboat. I know Ted was counting on the subdivision work to put his real estate agency back in the black, and me . . . Shit, Jess, we’ve been scraping around here and there, trying to get projects lined up to keep us afloat. The building business is barely moving, and we get undercut on lots of bids ’cause we don’t have illegals working on our crews.”
“Ben, please, I don’t have much time.” She checked the clock on Powell’s desk. Christ, if she didn’t get moving, and if traffic was heavy . . .
Powell said, “On Sunday I told Ted that yeah, I’d spot him the money he needs to pay for his lawyer. Christ, I should have been a JAG in the navy instead of building things, I’d be in a hell of a lot better shape. But I’ve slept on it, Jess. I’m sorry. I can’t give you the money.”
She kept it together. Breathed in. Breathed out. Time was slipping away. If she didn’t show up to see Gary Talbot, how would he take it? As an insult? A broken promise? Would he go back to Portland and call Grace Thornton, tell her that yes, there was now solid evidence that her former sister-in-law had done things that had led to her brother being killed, even if it had been an accident?
And that trust fund—as a trustee, what would Grace Thornton do? Would she work on Emma’s behalf? Or in her continued quest for revenge, would she ruin Jessica, ruin her daughter?
“That’s quite a shock, Ben,” she said, gently choosing the words. “I’m sure Ted is going to be very, very disappointed.”
Powell nodded. “I’m sure. But things are tough all around. We’ve got to look out for our own interests, and my company . . . I hate to say this, Jess, but I’m not going to let this Concord subdivision project go belly-up because Ted’s in jail. I might have to find another partner, and I’m still going to need the funds we received. Eventually I’ll make it right for Ted, but right now, I don’t see what else I can do.”
You Will Never Know Page 20