The Fury (2009)
Page 6
to you, but it damn sure meant something to him, and to
Helen Gaines. And it damn sure means something to
me.”
“What?” he said, lurching out of his chair, knocking
the bottle flying. I recognized that look. The look of
rage, the look that said he didn’t owe anybody anything.
“What does it mean to you? You never knew him. I
never knew him. He’s a fucking stranger. What, just
because you share some, like, microscopic strand of
DNA in common all of a sudden this matters to you?
Please. Spare me, Henry. Go back to New York. Go
back to your big city and do whatever you do there.” He
pointed at Amanda. “And take this …whatever… with
you.”
“This is Amanda,” I said. “And she’s given me more
in just a few years than you have in a lifetime.”
“Are you finished?” he asked, sitting back down.
“Because I have a league game tonight and I bowl like
crap when I’m not prepared.”
“Right,” I said. “Your bowling league. You cared
more about those pins than you did us.”
“Pins don’t talk back,” he said. “Pins don’t waste your
hard-earned money on books that don’t put food on the
table. Speaking of that, will you be joining us for dinner?”
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Jason Pinter
“I’d rather break bread with Bin Laden,” I said.
“How long were you sleeping with Helen Gaines while
you were with Mom?”
James sighed, leaned back, searched his memory. He
spoke as though this was a mere trifle to him, like I’d
asked what he had for lunch yesterday.
“Must have been about a year. Maybe a little more.
Who keeps track of these things?” he said. Who keeps
track of these things. Like it was a bowling score from
a few years ago.
Without warning, my father stood up, cracked his
back and went up the rickety stairs. Amanda and I sat
there unsure what to do. We heard some rummaging
around, and soon after, my father came back down. He
held something in his hand I couldn’t see. Then he gave
it to me.
It was a photograph of a young woman. It was worn,
faded, kept somewhere it was not removed from often.
The woman in the photo had pale skin, curly brown hair
and luminous green eyes. She was sitting on a grassy
hill, a blouse covering her knees. Her mouth was open
in a smile, the shot taken in the middle of a laugh.
Despite her young age she had deep laugh lines. She
looked like the kind of woman it would be easy to fall
in love with.
“You kept this?” I said. “Why?”
“I’m not keen on throwing things out. Never know
when you might need them.”
“Didn’t you worry Mom would find it?”
“She hasn’t yet.”
I handed the photo back to him. He hesitated, then
took it, slipping it into his pocket.
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59
“You didn’t care that you were married?” I asked.
His glare told me he didn’t.
“When did you first learn about Stephen? That you
had a son?”
“When Helen was about four months along. She told
me she wouldn’t have sex anymore. And that was the
reason. I thought she was going to get an abortion. That’s
what we both wanted, I thought. Then her belly keeps
getting bigger and bigger and…” James looked down at
his hands. “Then one day he’s there. This little kid.”
“What then?”
“She wanted to know where we stood. Whether she
was going to raise the boy on her own. I told her I
already had a wife, and she wanted her own kids. And
that I didn’t have the time or money for two families.”
“And then?”
“And then she left. One day she’s living a few streets
over, the next Helen’s moved out, packed up her stuff,
sold her crappy house and disappeared forever.”
“Forever,” I said. “You were never curious to see
how your other son was doing?”
“Didn’t much care how the son who lived with us
was doing, ungrateful as he was.”
Point made.
“When was the last you heard from Helen?” I asked.
My father looked down. His eyes twitched for a
moment. I tried to look past them, tried to see just what
this man was holding on to.
Then he said, “The day before she disappeared.
That’s all I know. That mother of his never took care of
Stephen. Maybe if she’d made some different choices
he’d still be alive.”
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Jason Pinter
“By different choices, do you mean never shacking
up with you?”
“Don’t get smart,” he said. “I guess that’s one of
those whaddaya callems, rhetorical statements.”
I bristled. “What do you mean, different choices?”
“She was always one of those wild women, doing
things to her mind and body. Tough to find a woman
who drinks more than you do. And that’s all I know. I
don’t wish the boy died. I’m not some monster. But he’s
no more my son than I was his father. Blood’s only as
thick as you make it.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said. Then I stood up. Amanda
did as well.
“I’d like to say it’s been a good visit, Dad, but there’s
been enough lying in this family. The buck’s gotta stop
somewhere. Say hi to Mom for me.”
“I will,” he said, and I actually believed him. As I left
to go, all of a sudden Amanda spoke.
“Are you sorry?” she asked. She was staring right
into his eyes, not letting him go. In that moment I knew
just how strong this woman was.
James sat there, silent, for what must have been
several minutes. He looked back at her. She wouldn’t turn
away.
“No,” he finally said. And oddly enough, I didn’t
believe him.
I reached for the door. Took Amanda’s arm. Nodded
toward my father.
And just as I was about to turn the knob, there came
a loud knock at the door.
At first I thought it was my mother, but she wouldn’t
have bothered or needed to make that much noise.
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61
“James Parker?” came the male voice from outside.
My father stood up. Approached the door. He looked
through the peephole, then stepped back. A look of
concern and fear crossed his face.
“What is it?” I said. “Dad?”
“Sir, open up,” the voice said.
My father unlocked the bottom latch and opened the
door.
Three police officers—two men and one woman—
were standing on the front porch. One of them held a
piece of paper. The others held their hands at their hips.
Specifically by their guns.
Clearly, they were worried they might need to use
them.
“James Parker?” the lead officer said.
“Yuh…yes?”
The officer stepped
forward through the doorway.
He grabbed my father, spun him around until his chest
hit the wall with a thud. The other two cops swarmed in,
and within seconds my father was in handcuffs. I saw
his eyes go wide, this proud, arrogant man. And in those
eyes I saw emotion I’d never seen before in nearly thirty
years.
My father was afraid.
“What the hell is going on?” I shouted.
“James Parker,” the cop said, “You’re under arrest for
the murder of Stephen Gaines.”
8
Amanda and I sat on a small wooden bench in the
lobby of the Bend police department. After they’d taken
my father away in handcuffs, pressing his head down
as he climbed into the backseat of the car like some
common thug you’d see on COPS, we followed practi
cally bumper to bumper in our rental car.
Upon arriving at the station, I didn’t have a chance
to talk to my father before they led him into booking.
The City of Bend Police Department had two sections:
a two-level structure that sat next to a taller tower, both
with sloped, tiled roofs. The sign outside read City of
Bend Police and underneath that read Public Works.
I parked the car in a lot in back and we ran around
to the entrance. Inside we refused to leave, or sit down,
until we either spoke with my father or an officer who
could tell us just what the hell was going on. My
stomach was tied in knots. Though I’d long ago learned
to give up loving my father, I knew this man wasn’t,
couldn’t be a killer. Not to mention I couldn’t even
imagine what kind of evidence they had that would
enable a warrant to be issued so quickly.
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63
From everything Makhoulian and Binks told me, it
seemed as if Gaines was murdered. Not an impulse
killing, but exterminated. How could the cops be so
blind? How could they possibly connect my father to
this when he was in Bend the whole time?
For perhaps the first time in my life, I found myself
feeling sorry for the man. He was alone, scared,
accused of a crime beyond comprehension. It was all
bogus, though. No doubt there was some mistake and
he’d be released.
I tried to call my mother, but she didn’t have a cell
phone. I left a message at home, hoped she would find
it.
Finally after an hour of waiting, a cop approached
us where we stood. He was about forty, lean, with
salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and dark, tan skin.
His badge read Whalin. We stood up, desperate to
hear why they’d taken my father in for such a horren
dous crime.
“You must be Henry,” the cop said. He offered his
hand. I looked at him, then shook it grudgingly. “I’m
Captain Ted Whalin of the BPD. I’m in charge of the
criminal investigations division.”
“Where’s my father?” I demanded.
“Your father is in a holding cell. Tomorrow he’ll
have to go before a judge to be properly processed.
There is an outstanding warrant for his arrest in New
York City for the murder of Stephen Gaines.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. “First of all, Stephen
Gaines is his son. And second, my father’s never even
been to New York.”
Whalin looked confused. “I can’t go into specifics,”
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Jason Pinter
Whalin said, “but the warrant states that physical
evidence does exist that links James Parker to the
crime.”
“That’s impossible,” I said again. “I don’t think he’s
left the state in twenty years.”
“That’s not up to me to determine,” Whalin said.
“If he’s wanted for murder in New York,” Amanda
said, “won’t he be extradited?”
“That depends on him,” Whalin continued. “When
he goes before Judge Rawling tomorrow, he’ll have the
opportunity to sign what’s called a nonjudicial waiver
of expedition.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Whalin said, “It means that he agrees that he is in fact
the same James Parker wanted on this murder charge.
If he accepts the charge, he’ll be brought back to New
York City where he’ll be entered into their system.
Though that might be a problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“We believe that your father is the James Parker
referred to in this warrant. We know he has a relation
ship with Stephen Gaines…”
“That’s not true,” I said. “They didn’t actually know
each other at all.”
“Regardless,” Whalin said, “it’d be a mighty coinci
dence if the NYPD happens to be looking for a com
pletely different James Parker in regards to the murder
of Stephen Gaines. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I didn’t have to. The odds were pretty nonexistent.
“As of right now, your father is refusing to grant the
nonjudicial waiver.” Whalin said this with frustration
evident on his face.
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65
Amanda said, “And what happens if he refuses to
sign it?”
“Then it’s our job to prove that he is—or is not—the
James Parker referred to in this warrant. We’ll take fin
gerprints, blood samples, and confirm with one hundred
percent accuracy that he is James Parker. Of course, all
that testing takes an awful long time, which means…”
“He stays locked up in your jail until he’s extradited.”
“Consider it time not served. Not a second of time he
spends in prison here will be taken off any eventual
sentence. So if your father wants to contest his identity,
so be it. Not my ass sleeping every night on a metal
bench. And did I mention he refuses to consult with a
lawyer?”
“We need to see him,” I said. “Right away.”
“He’s with two detectives right now, but I think he
should be available in an hour or two.”
“Wait,” Amanda said. “Are they questioning him?”
“If they’re doing their job.”
“But you said he didn’t have a lawyer.”
“That’s right.”
“Then we demand to see him. I have a license to
practice law in New York State, where any legal
hearings pertaining to this case will occur. Right now
your police station is acting as nothing more than a glo
rified holding pen. So I can promise you that anything
James Parker says now will be disallowed in a court of
law under the assumption that your officers coerced
him into making a statement without legal counsel.”
“Listen,” Whalin said, “right now he isn’t even ad
mitting to being the right James Parker, so I doubt
we’ll get much—”
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Jason Pinter
“Now,” Amanda yelled.
Whalin looked her over, then said, “Follow me.”
He led us into the heart of the BPD station, down a
rooms, marked simply 1, 2 and 3. He took us to the
right, knocked on the reinforced-metal door.
A small slat opened at about eye level, then the door
opened. Inside were two cops, one in uniform and one
plainclothes. And sitting in a metal folding chair, his
wrists handcuffed to the table, was my father.
His eyes were red. I could tell he’d been crying. He
was still wearing the same clothes, but they were soaked
through with sweat. He was shaking, as though his body
was simply unable to process what was happening.
When he saw us, his mouth opened and his face lit up.
“Henry!” he exclaimed.
“His son,” Whalin told the cops. “And Parker’s
lawyer.” Whalin nodded at Amanda. She went to say
something, but I nudged her. She got the tip. This was
the only way we’d get to speak with him.
“You have half an hour,” Whalin said as the other
cops exited the room.
“We’ll take as much time as we damn well please,”
Amanda said, staring right into the captain’s eyes. He
frowned, told the cops to take a hike.
“We have to lock the door from the outside. Proce
dure. If you want to leave, just knock.”
Amanda pointed at the camera hung up in the upper
corner of the interrogation room. A small red light was
blinking on it.
“I want that turned off,” she said. Whalin looked at
it, then nodded, making a slicing motion across his
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67
throat, telling the cops to kill the feed. They walked
away, and a moment later the light went off.
“Thank you, Captain,” Amanda said. “We’ll be in
touch soon.”
We went in and closed the door. A metal snick
came from outside. The cops locking us in with the
alleged murderer.
We took two chairs and pulled them up to the table.
My father reached out to us, but the handcuffs held his
wrists firm. He looked dejected, then said, “Henry,
thank God you’re here. Did they tell you? They think I
killed Stephen.”
“I know, Dad. The question is why do they think
that?” My father leaned down, started to bite his nails,
his head comically close to the table. “Dad?”
James shrugged, but there was nothing behind it.
“Listen, Mr. Parker,” Amanda said. “Your best option
right now is to sign the nonjudicial review waiver. Once
you do that they’ll bring you back to New York and
begin actual legal proceedings. I’ll help you get a