lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones.”
“I don’t want to leave here,” my father said softly.
“Dad, jail isn’t exactly comfortable,” I said.
“I mean, I don’t want to leave Bend,” he said more
forcefully. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t kill Stephen.
They can’t just take me wherever they want.”
I looked atAmanda. She said, “Mr. Parker, if you don’t
sign the waiver you’ll stay in Bend, but you’ll be in prison
until they prove your identity. It could be weeks, months.
And that’s before any sort of trial.And trust me, you won’t
be doing yourself any favors with the judge assigned to
the case. They will take you if you make them.”
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“This can’t be right,” James said. “Goddamn it I
shouldn’t be here! Henry, you know me, you know this
isn’t right.”
I knew him, but I didn’t. I’d seen the depths of his
anger, his rage. It was up to me to believe he wasn’t
capable of reaching another level.
“Dad…” I began. “Why do they suspect you?”
Without hesitating, James said, “They told me there’s
evidence linking me to the crime. They said they found
it in Stephen’s apartment.”
“In New York?” I said. “How is that possible?”
He looked down at the floor, his whole body seeming
to sag into nothing. “They said they found my finger
prints on the gun that killed him.”
9
“Wait, step back,” I said. It took me a moment to
regroup, to process what my father had just said. “How
could they possibly have found your fingerprints on the
gun that killed Stephen?”
“I don’t know,” my father said. He said it unconvinc
ingly. There was more to this. Amanda looked at him
with incredible frustration. She had a great legal mind,
but I could already tell that she was thinking about
James Parker’s chances during a murder trial. Even if
he was innocent—which he had to be—this man would
never do himself any favors with his lawyer or a judge.
He was already refusing easy extradition, and he was
lying—or at least hiding the truth—from the only
people here who gave a damn.
Sadly, I knew what it felt like to be accused of a
terrible crime you didn’t commit. I knew just how
lonely it could be, and how much a friendly hand
meant. Amanda had been that for me. If not for her,
I’d either be dead or in prison. She’d reached out,
offered a hand, and I’d smartly accepted. My father,
meanwhile, was dangling from the edge of a cliff,
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slapping our hands away in the misguided belief that
he couldn’t fall.
“Mr. Parker,” Amanda said. “You need to tell us what
happened. All of it. You know why they arrested you.
Even if you’re innocent, you don’t seem surprised.
Shocked, maybe, but not surprised. I can see it in your
eyes. You’re thinking about the circumstances that led
to this. How events could have been misconstrued. We
need to know this so we can understand what hap
pened.”
My father looked at Amanda, confused. She’d il
luminated a path for him and his reluctance to see it
was waning.
“I was in New York,” James finally said, the words
coming out in a rush like air that had been compressed.
“The day Stephen died. I was there.”
“You were in the city?” I asked, incredulous.
“Why?”
James looked at me, then Amanda. He stayed quiet.
I got the picture. He wanted to talk to her. She was im
partial. A lawyer. I was his son. And I would judge.
“Mr. Parker,” she said. “Why were you in New
York?”
“I saw him,” James said. His eyes had grown wide,
for the first time fully beginning to piece together the
circumstances. There was terror in those eyes. They
ripped a hole through me because right then I knew he
understood why he’d been accused of the crime. “Helen
called me.”
“Helen Gaines?” Amanda said. “Stephen’s mother?”
James nodded. “I hadn’t spoken to her in, God,
almost thirty years. After she had Stephen, I wanted
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nothing to do with either of them. I had a family. A wife.
I told her that,” he said, slamming his fist on the table.
“From the beginning, I told her this won’t go anywhere.
It wasn’t my fault the crazy bitch lied about being on
the pill.”
“How did she get your number?” Amanda said.
“It’s called the phone book,” James said drily. “Last
I checked I’m not the president.”
“Why did she call you after so long?”
James leaned over again, chewed his thumbnail. He
ripped off a ragged piece of white, spat it across the
room. I saw a small line of blood well up from where
he’d ripped.
“She said she was in trouble. That she needed money.
That Stephen was in trouble.”
“Did she say what kind of trouble?”
“She said Stephen had a drug problem. She needed
to get him help before it was too late. She couldn’t
afford treatment.”
“So why did you come all the way to New York?”
“I hung up on her. She called back. She said if I didn’t
help them, she would sue me for child support and make
sure my name was in every newspaper as one of those
deadbeat dads. She said technically I owed her thirty
years’ of payments, and that if she hadn’t wrecked my
marriage thirty years ago she’d make it her mission to do
it now. I couldn’t afford thirty years back payments for
the life of me. I told her I could give her some money, a
little, but that’s it. She said she needed to see me. That
maybe meeting his father would snap some sense into
Stephen.”
“And you agreed to go?”
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“Not at first,” James said. “I told her I could send it
Western Union. She said those two words again, ‘child
support,’ and I was on a plane the next day.” He looked
at me and grinned. “Sorry I didn’t call.”
“Where did you tell mom you were going?” I asked.
“I don’t know, just said I was going fishing or some
shit. She didn’t ask many questions.”
“They say your fingerprints ended up on the gun
that killed Stephen,” Amanda said. “That means two
things. One, they found the murder weapon. And two,
your prints were on it. Can you explain how that
happened?”
“Helen,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “When I
got to their apartment—a real rats’ nest. Ugh, just dis
gusting. Cockroaches everywhere, food left out.
Anyway, I hadn’t seen Helen in almost thirty years. I
had some money with me. Not much, I ain’t Ted Turner
&nbs
p; in case you haven’t noticed. Stephen wasn’t there.
Helen told me he was working. It was late, and I didn’t
care much. I’d gone that long without seeing the boy.”
“The gun, Dad,” I said.
“I’m getting to that. So I give her some money, two
grand. It’s all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of
course, Helen tells me it’s not enough. Rehab centers
cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses
my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in
there.”
“And then what?” Amanda said.
“Then…Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what
she’s doing. And suddenly out she comes holding
this…this cannon. Then she pointed that thing at me
and told me she needed money. Of course I’ve handled
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a gun or two, and I notice the safety’s off. But she’s
holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn’t
think she’d shoot me on purpose, the way she was
holding it—both hands on the butt, two fingers in the
trigger guard—that thing could have gone off by
accident and blown my head off.”
I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing
I was. If Helen Gaines didn’t know how to handle a gun,
chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged
to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my
father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the
gun? And who did kill him?
“So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move
I grab it out of her hands.”
“Slick, Pop,” I said.
“How did you take it from her?” Amanda asked.
“Just like this, I guess.” My father mimicked
grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the
chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual
demonstration.
“The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder
weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not
on the trigger, they wouldn’t immediately think you
killed her.” Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he
looked down. We both knew he was lying.
“So I might have held it normal,” he said.
“Come on, Dad, we’re trying to help you. Nobody
else will, trust me.”
“I might have pointed it at her,” he said.
“You might have or you did?” Amanda demanded.
“I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my
hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points
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a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted
to scare her, is all. Just scare her.”
“Did you fire that gun?” Amanda said.
“Absolutely not,” James replied. “I pointed it at her
once.”
“Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,”
Amanda said. “If it wasn’t you, someone was able to
kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact.”
“The killer must have used gloves,” I said. “Some
thing that didn’t disturb fingerprints that were already
on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that’s what leaves
the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would
leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.
Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms
to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough
to shoot him in the back of the head from close range,
and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after
blowing his brains all over the wall.”
“They say keep your friends close but your enemies
closer,” Amanda said. “Stephen’s killer must have been
somebody he knew.”
I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking
older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was
waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of
advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The
story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be
proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian
had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right
now she was the only person who could corroborate my
father’s story. And she was a woman who certainly
owed him nothing.
“Sign the waiver, Dad,” I said grimly, gritting my
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75
teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option
would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the
more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. “Go
to New York. We can do more for you there than we can
here.”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” my father said. His words
were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my
heart might have bled for this man, it was now.
“Mr. Parker,” Amanda said. “James. All we can do
right now is try to prove your innocence. We can’t do that
here. Henry’s right. We’ll find you a lawyer. We’ll help
you.”
He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying
to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,
James Parker simply nodded and said, “I’ll sign it.”
Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn’t show that
emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me
his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time
mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I’d
hoped someone would lock him up for one of his
crimes. As a young boy I’d wished I was strong enough
to stand up to him. It didn’t matter how far I went, how
much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher
ever I went.
Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop
opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left
the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed
officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his
arms across his chest.
“Well?” he said.
“He’ll sign the waiver,” I said. “Let’s get this over
with and get him back to New York.”
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Jason Pinter
Whalin let out a pleased sigh. “I’m glad to hear that.
Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell
we can’t spare. He still needs to appear before the judge
tomorrow morning, but that’s a formality. I’ll call the
NYPD. We’ll have the waiver ready for him to sign at
tomorrow’s hearing, and they’ll send officers to escort
him back to New York. Then he’s all yours. Thanks for
talking some sense into him.”
Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted
my father out of his hair, it would help the process move
faster. I felt Amanda’s hand loop through my arm. I put
my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.
As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting
in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as
though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She
had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was
teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were
wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering
her
mouth. She looked like she was debating between
falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles
poked out from her handbag. Memories came flooding
back. The more he raged, the more she knit. Losing
herself in stitches and patterns.
“Mom?” I said, approaching nervously. I hadn’t seen
her in a long time. That pale, thin body turned around,
hand still at her mouth. She cocked her head to one side,
trying to determine whether she knew the man standing
in front of her.
“Is that…oh my God, is that you, Henry?”
Suddenly she righted herself, ran over as fast as her
sensible shoes could carry her. She flung her arms
around me and I found myself nearly supporting her
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entire body weight. She sobbed onto my shoulder as I
bit my lip, did everything I could not to break down as
well.
“The police…they called me at Spano’s house….
What have they done to him?” she wailed. My mother
pulled away, looked at me, hoping for some answer,
some assurance that this might have been a terrible joke.
“He’s going to be okay, Mom,” I said, trying to inject
belief into that line when deep down there was none.
“It’s a big misunderstanding.”
“When are they going to let him out? I bought
chicken breasts for dinner.”
“Mom,” I said, “I don’t think he’ll be back in time
for dinner.”
“Then when will he be back?”
I looked at Amanda. Her eyes said, What do you
want me to do? My mother looked so lost, confused. It
wasn’t that I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth
about my father and Stephen Gaines, it was that for
whatever reason, she’d lost the ability to truly under
stand just how many wrongs this man had committed
toward her. Over the years her defenses had rusted.
Nothing allowed in, no anger, hostility or resentment
out. I wondered, now, if my attitude toward him, my
anger, was compounded by the lack of hers.
“I don’t know when,” I said. I took her hand. Held
it. She held on to mine, but her eyes were far off, distant,
trying to process the situation but clearly failing. To her,
the notion of my father being arrested was like him
being sent into outer space.
“Well, what do I do?” she said. “Should I wait at
home for him to be released?”
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“Home is a good idea, Mom,” I said. “Do you have
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