“Simon, it’s Dad.”
Still no response.
“Remember this, pal?” I pulled out my ears and inflated my upper lip, imitating a monkey. Simon used to love the monkey face.
He blinked at me. His upper lip started to quiver.
Gina rushed over. “I’m sorry, Garrison, but he’s about to cry.” The window started rolling up.
“Wait, stop, please.”
The window kept going, so I grabbed the glass with my fingers and held it back. The motor whirred and screeched, then made a clicking sound.
“Stop,” Gina snapped.
I leaned in. “I miss you, pal.”
“You’re breaking the window,” Gina said. “And you’re scaring him half to death.”
I was. Simon’s eyes were bugged out. I let go and watched the window continue its ascent, but a second later found myself latched onto it again.
“You do remember me, right? I’m your dad, Simon.”
He backed away as far as he could in the car seat. The window’s motor made a crunching sound. The smell of burning rubber filled the car.
“You’re breaking the damn window, Gary. STOP. NOW.”
I stopped. As the window closed, I looked at my son and said, “I love you, buddy, and I miss you, more than you could ever know.”
Gina ran around the hood. Before she climbed into the driver’s seat, she glared at me. “I have to get away from you, but I’ll be back to file that restraining order. If that window’s broken, you’re going to pay for it. You’re going to pay for all this. I should’ve never let you see him.”
She got into the driver’s seat, dropped the gear shift into drive, and squealed off.
I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the Infiniti as it roared down the street, but I couldn’t really see the car. All I could see was the vision of my son cowering in his car seat, afraid of his own father. A tear welled in my right eye, then burned a track down my cheek.
I quickly wiped it away and looked around to see if anybody was looking my direction.
To my recollection, I’ve cried three times in my life. Once when I was six I slid down the tallest slide in our local park on my stomach. I face planted in gravel and still have the scars on my face to prove it. The second time was three years ago, while holding Simon in the delivery room. The third was this moment outside the police station.
Another tear bubbled in the same eye and rolled down my cheek.
This time I didn’t bother wiping it away.
I lost track of time after that.
CHAPTER 3
I wasn’t sure how long I stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Long enough for a tear to dry up, that was all I could say for sure.
As I stood there, I wanted to hate on Gina more than anything. I wanted to think about how awful and unfair she was being, but my mind didn’t go there. Instead, I thought about how right she was. How could Simon move back in with me if a professional was trying to burn down my house, and also possibly trying to kill me? A good father wouldn’t put his son in a dangerous position like that. Right?
I took another deep breath of ocean air. I had to figure out what was going on before the custody hearing in three days. I absolutely had to.
“You’re taking up most of the sidewalk,” a voice said.
I snapped out of my daze and looked up. A homeless lady was bearing down on me with her overloaded bicycle. I stepped out of her way just in time.
Leaning against the parking meter, I replayed the encounter with Gina in my mind. What was I thinking? I couldn’t believe I may have broken her car window. I envisioned her marching to the judge’s bench in a few days. No doubt she’d enter the damages to her car window as Exhibit A in the case against Garrison Chase, worst father in Southern California. Then she’d tell the judge all about my arrest. Then she’d pull out the restraining order.
I turned and kicked the parking meter.
“You’d better hope it doesn’t press charges.”
It was Kowalski’s voice. I looked over at the cruiser idling in the street. Kowalski sat in the passenger seat. The window was down.
“Get in the back,” he said.
I put my head down and climbed into the cruiser; the second time I'd been back there in two hours. The smell of fresh coffee permeated the vehicle. I had a caffeine headache starting, so I tried to focus my mind on that, and not on how screwed I was at the custody hearing. Unfortunately, the pounding in my head reminded me of a judge’s gavel banging. I envisioned the judge thumping it down and announcing his decision to deny me visitation, stating that I couldn’t provide a safe environment for Simon. Good thing the back doors couldn't be opened from the inside. I wanted to roll out and meet the pavement.
“Your resident agency is at One World Trade Center, right?” Officer Palmer adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see me.
I nodded. To refocus my mind, I stared at Palmer. He was twice Kowalski’s age and the complete opposite body shape. Palmer was lean and rigid with square shoulders. No doubt he swam in college. In fact, he looked like an older version of Michael Phelps, but not totally like Phelps since Palmer had normal sized ears tucked in close to his head.
Palmer broke eye contact. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the seat. My mood quickly turned as dark as my vision, so I opened my eyes and looked out the window.
As I watched the ugliness of Long Beach, California roll by, I thought about the federal agent. Why was he sent to question me, and by whom? How did he get there so fast? And why did he have a classified file on me? Unfortunately, I couldn’t think because Kowalski kept glancing back at me.
On his third time turning back, I addressed him. “What is it, Officer Kowalski?”
He smiled. His big, red cheeks puffed out even more. “That video. It’s outstanding. I just watched it on YouTube with a few other cops at the station. I thought I recognized you when you opened your front door this morning, but I couldn’t place where from. I can’t believe that was you.” He held his hand over the seat for a high five.
I don’t high five. It’s a rule I follow. Besides, I had absolutely nothing to celebrate.
“Come on. Don’t leave me hanging.” He pressed his hand closer.
“How old are you, Kowalski?” I asked.
“Thirty-one. What does that matter?”
“Guys over thirty don’t high five.”
Kowalski quickly removed his hand, then he turned and nudged Palmer. “You saw the TV show or the video, didn’t you?”
“Nope, haven’t seen it.”
“Oh, it’s great,” Kowalski said, smiling. “Such an awesome story.”
“Let me hear it,” Palmer said.
Kowalski swiveled around. “You mind?”
I shrugged. I didn’t care at this point.
He turned back to Palmer. “Did you ever watch that TV show, To Catch a Pervert?”
“I think once,” Palmer said. “My wife watched the show, I know that. It was basically a sting operation, right?”
“It was definitely a sting operation,” Kowalski said. “The producers enticed these creepy internet perverts by pretending to be a young girl and inviting the pervs over for a good time. Sometimes the men traveled across state lines to visit these young girls, which triggered the feds’ involvement. As soon as the men would allude to sex with these minors, the cops would storm in and arrest them. Most suspects would break down and beg for mercy, but not this one eighteen-year-old Marine on a show from about a year ago now. He stonewalled the host, wouldn’t say a word, the kid was a real entitled prick, so they turned the interview over to the feds.”
Kowalski had a solid recollection of the events.
“The feds sent in Chase,” Kowalski thumbed over his shoulder, “to get some answers, but Chase wasn’t getting any answers, which really ticked him off.” Kowalski looked over his shoulder. “That fair to say?”
“What do you think?”
“Right. So Chase grabbed the kid by
the throat—”
“And this was on live TV?” Palmer interrupted.
“Totally, it’s awesome. And the video of it went viral on You Tube. Anyway, Chase held his right hand up, palm open, about a foot to the left of the kid’s face. He yelled, ‘BEATING, soldier’. Then he swung his hand, so the back of it faced the kid. ‘OR DISCIPLINE? Your choice, soldier’.”
Kowalski mimicked my infamous movements for Palmer’s amusement. The beating/discipline thing was courtesy of my father. He rarely talked to me growing up. Most of our conversations ended with his gracious offer of a beating or discipline. He was a tough man, to say the least. After being honorably discharged from the Marines, my father became a survivalist. He led groups of people into the wilderness and taught them survival skills. He loved his job; in fact, he loved being outdoors with strangers more than being with his family.
“So what happened?” Palmer said.
“This Marine perv still didn’t talk. I’m not sure if he was too terrified to talk or if he was just being stubborn.” Kowalski looked at me. “What do you think?”
I sighed.
“Right,” Kowalski said. “I’m not sure either. Anyway, Chase asked one more time, but this time he said it calmly: ‘Beating or discipline?’ The kid stammered, but didn’t actually answer the question. So Chase unloaded. ‘DISCIPLINE IT IS’. Then he backhanded the kid a bunch of times.”
“Really?” Palmer said. “How many?”
“Six, I think.”
“Five,” I corrected.
“I can still hear the backhands on the Marine’s face.” Kowalski laughed. “Sounded like a paddle smacking the water. It was awesome.”
Most men who met me had the same reaction as Kowalski. Most women kept their distance. Naturally there was a select group of people who wanted me arrested and fired over the incident, but the FBI didn't want to admit they'd hired an out-of-control agent. Their main PR argument was that I never made a fist. I was suspended and given a year of court-ordered therapy. As I said before, what hurt the most was losing visitation rights for Simon.
“So how did it end?” Palmer asked.
“Three other agents rushed in,” Kowalski said. “Tackled Chase and dragged him to another room.”
Palmer looked at me through the rearview mirror. “So what’s your exact status now?”
“Paid leave, basically suspended.”
“But that was like a year ago,” Kowalski said.
“It’s complicated, gentlemen,” I said.
After the video of me ‘disciplining’ the Marine went viral, Frank took my badge and service piece and told me an investigation was imminent. A year later I was still awaiting the outcome of that investigation. Since I’d been receiving a paycheck for the past year, I hadn’t pushed the issue. I figured if I pushed, things may go the wrong direction for me.
“Here we are,” Palmer said. The cruiser slowed to a stop in front of my work.
Before I got out, I asked Kowalski, “What’s the name of the agent who questioned me? Do you know that much?”
Kowalski shrugged.
Palmer said, “Agent Gates. His first name is Anfernee, something odd like that.”
I addressed Palmer. “Do you know what agency he works for?”
Palmer shook his head.
After thanking the officers, I got out and thought about Agent Gates. I was currently dating a woman, Eva O’Connor, who worked for another law enforcement agency. I wondered if she knew who Gates was.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time to call her. Instead, I hurried into the building. The Long Beach Resident Agency was one of ten field offices in Southern California. Our offices occupied the fourteenth floor of One World Trade Center. Before my television appearance and subsequent fallout, I had an outside office with windows and a view of the Pacific Ocean. Now I was stuck in a former janitorial closet deep in the basement. When Frank called a few days ago to offer me the protection detail, he told me I could use the basement office. He didn’t want me hanging around the fourteenth floor, since I wasn’t officially off suspension. Yesterday I came in and set up the office. It took less than ten minutes.
As I approached my makeshift office, I thought about Stanley. He was my lifeline to everything that happened this morning. If I smoothed things over with him, and did a good job protecting him, perhaps I could lobby the governor to help with my custody hearing. And I needed all the help I could get. It was a long shot, I knew, but I didn’t have any other options. It was worth a go.
I gave a quick knock and entered my office. Nobody was there. I saw a yellow sticky note on the desk and quickly rushed over to it. Stanley, I assumed, had scribbled: ‘Went to Long Beach State coffee shop’.
I crumpled the note and pounded on the desk. After a deep breath, I grabbed my backup service piece, a Sig Sauer P226, from the bottom drawer of my desk and tucked it into the back of my shorts. I also grabbed my beeper. I hated cellphones. Didn’t like being reached at the push of a button. The only communication equipment I embraced was my office phone. Frank made me carry a beeper, however, in case he needed to get in touch. Only a few people had my actual beeper number.
I looked at my office phone and wondered if I should call Frank to update him. After a moment, I decided against it. He’d lay into me, and I had had a rough enough morning. Next time I communicated with Frank it’d be best to be in the presence of a safe and sound Stanley Tuchek.
I rushed outside and hailed a cab. It took a little over five minutes to reach the campus coffee shop. The place was bustling with over-caffeinated college kids. On a positive note, the place smelled fantastic, like freshly-roasted coffee beans and steamed milk. I could see Stanley sitting by himself at a table on the patio.
The death threats on Stanley’s life had turned into a pretty big news story in California, which made sense since his father was the governor. The governor was well liked and respected because of how quickly he turned the state around since the recession. It was important to ensure his only son, Stanley, was well protected.
I ordered a coffee called Full Throttle. It had twice the caffeine, which I needed. Since Kowalski took the coffee I brewed for myself this morning, it was now three hours past my usual first cup. My head felt like someone was inside it, trying to pound out the curves with a jackhammer.
I took my coffee and weaved through a maze of small tables and comfy chairs, toward a door that led to an outdoor patio. When I reached Stanley, I held out my hand.
“Stanley, I’m Garrison Chase. I’m so sorry about missing pick up this morning.”
Stanley sprang to his feet and pumped my hand. “No problem, Agent Chase.”
“You can call me Chase, by the way.”
“That may be hard for me, Agent Chase,” he said, nodding quickly. Stanley’s short, spiky dark hair didn’t move at all. The kid had bulging, round eyes. His eye sockets protruded from his head like a cartoon character, seriously.
“I can see that,” I said, smiling.
He blinked fast. So far every movement he made was quick, which made him look slightly nervous, and also thirsty.
“You need some water, Stanley? I can get you some.”
He plopped into his seat and turned his attention to his laptop. “I’m fine, Agent Chase. Just give me a minute to finish this spreadsheet. I’m right in the middle of something.”
While Stanley typed away, I took a seat across from him. Now that I was looking at the kid straight on, I couldn’t help but notice how narrow his face was. It looked like his head had been squeezed in a vice at a young age. In fact, his whole upper body was narrow and small, everything but his eyes. I glanced at his feet underneath the table. They were unusually large for his petite frame. The kid would’ve been a shoe-in for a hobbit part in The Lord of the Rings.
“Sorry again about this morning,” I said after a minute. “I won’t bore you with the details about what happened. Rest assured it won’t happen again. I promise you that.”
“
Not to worry, Agent Chase. When you didn’t show up this morning, I figured there was a problem. So I drove my vehicle to your work and went to see Agent Lemming. He set me up in your office and told me it wouldn’t be long. After a productive hour there, I relocated to this shop. I come here almost every morning.”
“Did you go to college here? Finish when you were sixteen or something crazy like that? Rumor has it you’re super smart.”
“Actually, I haven’t attended college.” He pushed up his glasses.
I leaned forward and put my forearms on the tiny round table. “Really?”
“Really,” he said, nodding fast. “I’ve deferred acceptance to MIT.”
“Didn’t you finish high school a while ago?”
“When I was fifteen.”
“So what have you been doing since?”
He sniffed, looked around, then smiled. “It’s classified, Agent Chase.”
“Good one, kid.” I leaned back. “I won’t press. No big deal. You almost done here?”
“A little bit longer.” He whipped out his phone and started texting.
“Who are you texting?”
He ignored my question, so I went to top up my bad coffee. My headache wasn’t completely gone and I had time to kill. When I returned, I sat at the table next to Stanley. “Just in case one of these pretty college girls wants to chat with you.” I motioned to the empty chair at his table.
“Funny, Agent Chase.”
I worked on my cup of coffee and thought about the federal agent Anfernee Gates. The man must’ve been lying. He must’ve been working for the governor. That had to be it. The governor likely had connections in other agencies, so maybe the governor reached out to them for help as well. Maybe he took the death threats to Stanley seriously, unlike the rest of us. Perhaps the governor was concerned about my questionable vigilante acts and wanted another agent to keep tabs on me because I was protecting his son. That was plausible. I mean, I would do anything to protect Simon, so it made some sense. The problem with that theory is, if the governor was concerned about me and my past, why have me on protection in the first place? Why would he let that happen? It didn’t add up, not at all.
The Greatest Good Page 3