by John Grisham
anonymous phone call. Our kidnapping investigation will continue but will turn up nothing. Are we on the same page here, Rudd?”
“Yes, I’m with you.” I’ll agree to anything at this point.
“The story is that someone snatched your kid, got fed up with the brat because he probably acts a lot like you, and decided to ditch him at a truck stop. You got the story, Rudd?”
“Got it,” I manage to spit out as I bite my tongue to keep from unloading every vile word in the book.
The truck stop is awash with lights and crowded with rigs stacked in neat rows. We park by the pumps and I walk quickly inside. Partner stays in the van to watch for anyone who might be watching us. The restaurant is busy with the breakfast crowd. The smell of thick grease hangs in the air. The counter is lined with beefy truckers devouring pancakes and sausages. I turn a corner, see the booths, pass one, two, three, and there in the fourth booth, all alone, is little Starcher Whitly, grinning from behind a large bowl of chocolate ice cream.
I kiss him on top of his head, tousle his hair, and sit across from him. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He shrugs and says, “Sure, I guess.”
“Did anyone hurt you?”
He shakes his head. No.
“Tell me, Starcher. Did anyone do anything to hurt you?”
“No. They were very nice.”
“And who is they? Who has been with you since you left the park on Saturday?”
“Nancy and Joe.”
A waitress stops at the booth. I order some coffee and scrambled eggs. I ask her, “Who brought this kid in here?”
The waitress looks around, says, “I don’t know. Some woman was here just a minute ago, said the kid wanted a bowl of ice cream. She must’ve left or something. I guess you’re paying for the ice cream.”
“Gladly. Do you have surveillance cameras?”
She nods at the window. “Out there, but not in here. Something the matter?”
“No. Thanks.”
As soon as she leaves I ask Starcher, “Who brought you in here?”
“Nancy.” He takes a bite of ice cream.
“Look, Starcher, I want you to put the spoon down for a moment, and I want you to tell me what happened when you went into the restroom at the park. You were racing your boat, you had to pee, and you walked to the restroom. Now, tell me what happened.”
He slowly sticks the spoon into the ice cream and leaves it there. “Well, all of a sudden, this big man grabbed me. I thought he was a policeman because he was wearing a uniform.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“I don’t think so. He put me in a truck that was right behind the restroom. There was another man driving the truck and they drove away real fast. They said they were taking me to the hospital because something bad had happened to my grandmother. They said you would be at the hospital. So we drove and drove and then we were out of the City, way out in the country, and that’s where they left me with Nancy and Joe. The men left, and Nancy said my grandmother was going to be okay, and that you would stop by real soon to get me.”
“Okay. That was Saturday morning. What did you do the rest of Saturday, and all day yesterday, Sunday?”
“Well, we watched television, some old movies and stuff, and we played backgammon a lot.”
“Backgammon?”
“Uh-huh. Nancy asked me what games I liked to play and I said backgammon. They didn’t know what it was, so Joe went to the store and bought a backgammon board, a cheap one. I taught them how to play, and beat them too.”
“So they were nice to you?”
“Real nice. They kept telling me you were at the hospital and couldn’t leave.”
Partner finally comes inside. He is relieved to see Starcher and gives the kid a pat on the head. I tell him to find the manager of the truck stop and locate the surveillance cameras; inform the manager that the FBI will want the footage, so take care of it.
My eggs arrive and I ask Starcher if he’s hungry. No, he’s not. He’s been eating pizza and ice cream for the past two days. Anything he wanted.
3.
Since I’ve never been invited into Starcher’s home, I decide that I will not take him there. I don’t want the drama and theatrics. Half an hour from the City, I finally call Judith with the news that her son is safe. He’s sitting on my lap as we ride up the interstate. She is almost too stunned to speak, so I give Starcher my phone. He says, “Hi, Mom,” and I think she has a complete meltdown. I give them a few minutes, then take the phone back and explain that I got a call and was instructed to pick him up at the truck stop. No, he had not been harmed in any way, except maybe too much sugar.
The parking lot outside her office is still empty—it’s only 7:30—and we wait in peace before the storm. The black Jaguar slides into the lot and brakes hard next to the van. I step out with Starcher as Judith gets out and lunges for the kid. She grabs him, bawling and clawing, and right behind are her parents and Ava. They take turns squeezing the kid; everybody’s crying. I can’t stand these people, so I walk over to Starcher, tousle his hair again, and say, “I’ll see you later, bud.”
He’s being smothered and doesn’t respond. I ask Judith to step aside for a moment, and when we’re alone I say, “Can we meet here with the FBI later in the morning? There’s more to the story.”
“Tell me now,” she hisses.
“I’ll tell you when I want to tell you, and that’s with the FBI listening. Okay?”
She hates it when she’s not in control. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and manages to say, “Sure.”
I walk away, refuse to acknowledge her parents, and get in the van. As we drive away, I look at Starcher and wonder when I’ll see him again.
4.
At 9:00 a.m., I’m in court for a preliminary hearing. By then, the news is out, courtesy of a leak by the police, that my son has been found and returned to his parents. The judge grants me a continuance and I hurry out of the courtroom. I have a handful of lawyer pals and several of them want to chat and offer congratulations. I’m just not in the mood.
Fango ambushes me in the hallway, just like he did three weeks ago. I keep walking and refuse to look at him. He falls in beside me and says, “Say, Rudd, Link is getting pretty anxious about the money. I told him about your kid and all, and, by the way, he sends his concerns.”
“Tell Link to worry about his own problems,” I snap as we march stride for stride.
“He is, and one of his problems just happens to be you and the money.”
“Too bad,” I say and walk even faster.
He labors to keep up with me, labors to think of something clever to say, and makes a big mistake with “You know, your kid just might not be that safe after all.”
I wheel around and throw a tight right cross that lands perfectly on his chin. He walks into it and doesn’t see it until it’s too late. His head jerks so violently that I hear the crunching of bones somewhere, and in the first split second I think I’ve broken his neck.
But his neck is fine; he’s been hit before, plenty of times, and has the scars to prove it.
Fango sprawls across the marble floor, and when he finally comes to rest he doesn’t move. Out cold. A perfect knockout punch that I could never replicate. I’m tempted to kick him in the head a few times for good measure, but out of the corner of my eye I see a sudden movement. Another thug is moving toward me and he’s reaching for a pocket and a weapon. Someone yells behind me.
The second thug goes down as hard as Fango when Partner whacks him over the head with a stainless steel baton he carries in his coat pocket. The baton is designed for just such occasions. When contracted it’s about six inches long, but when whipped out properly it extends to eighteen inches and is equipped with a steel knob at its tip. It can easily crack a skull, is in fact designed to do so. I tell Partner to give it to me and disappear. A security guard runs over and looks at the two unconscious thugs. I hand him my bar association ID card and say, “S
ebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. These two goons just tried to jump me.”
A crowd gathers. Fango wakes up first, mumbling and rubbing his jaw, then he tries to stand but can’t find his feet. Finally, with the help of the security guard, he gets up, still wobbly, and wants to leave. A cop makes him sit on a nearby bench while an EMT tends to his buddy. Eventually, the second guy wakes up, with a very large knot on the back of his head. They ice it for a few minutes, then put him on the same bench with Fango. I stand close and glare at them. They glare right back. The EMT gives me an ice pack for my right hand.
Getting punched is nothing for these two and they’re not about to press charges. That would require paperwork, a lot of questions, and no small amount of prying by the police. They work for Link Scanlon and they don’t answer questions. Right now they can’t wait to get out of the building and back on the streets, where they make the rules.
I tell the police that I, too, have no desire to press charges. As I walk away, I lean close to Fango and whisper, “Tell Link that if I hear one more word out of you, or him, I’m going to the FBI.”
Fango sneers as if he might spit in my face.
5.
I suppose some days are meant to be spent with the FBI. I walk into the lobby of Judith’s firm a few minutes after 11:00 a.m. The receptionist is smiling and chatting with a paralegal. They smile at me and gush with congratulations. I don’t realize it immediately, but they think I’m some sort of hero. A lawyer sticks her head out of her office door and says congratulations. The mood is almost jubilant, and why not? Starcher has been rescued and is safely at home, where he belongs. We were all numb, shell-shocked, terrified, and waiting for the nightmare to become a tragedy. Instead, we got lucky.
Judith is in a large, well-appointed conference room with two FBI agents, Beatty and Agnew. Though my right hand is swollen and throbbing, I manage to shake their hands without any evidence of pain. I nod at Judith, say no to coffee, and ask how Starcher is doing. Just fine. Everything is swell.
Beatty, the talker, explains that Judith called the FBI late Saturday afternoon, but they had not officially entered the investigation. Agnew, the note taker, scribbles away and nods his head; whatever Beatty says is exactly true. The FBI does not get involved in kidnappings until the local police invite them in, or there is evidence that the victim has been moved across state lines. He prattles on for a while, smug with his importance. I let him go.
“Now,” Beatty says, looking at me, “you wanted to meet?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I know exactly who kidnapped Starcher, and I know why.”
Agnew’s pen stops in mid-stroke as everyone freezes. With her eyebrows arched, Judith says, “Do tell.”
So I tell the story, all of it.
6.
The elation Judith felt upon our son’s return dissipates halfway through my narrative. When it becomes apparent that the abduction was a direct result of another one of my notorious cases, her body language shifts dramatically and her mind starts racing away. Now, finally, she has clear proof that I am a danger to Starcher. She’ll probably file papers this afternoon.
I avoid eye contact with her, but the vibes are strong enough to spike the tension in the room.
When I finish, Beatty seems stunned. Agnew has burned through an entire legal pad with his chicken scratch.
Beatty says, “Well, I guess there’s a good reason the police didn’t want us involved.”
Agnew grunts his agreement. Judith asks, “How can you prove any of this?”
“I didn’t say I could prove it. Proof will be difficult, if not impossible. There may be surveillance footage of Nancy at the truck stop, taking the kid in, but I bet she’s disguised in some way. I doubt if Starcher could identify the guy who grabbed him at the park. I don’t know. You have any suggestions?”
She says, “It seems pretty far-fetched, the theory that the police would abduct a child.”
“So you don’t believe me?” I fire back.
The truth is that she wants to believe me. She wants my story to be true; because then she can use it as evidence against me when she drags me back to court. She won’t answer my question. “So what’s next?” I ask Beatty.
“Wow. I’m not sure. We’ll have a chat with our supervisor and go from there.”
I say, “I have a meeting this afternoon with an investigator with the police. They’ll seem concerned, ask a lot of questions, but it’s going nowhere. They’ll close the case by the end of the week and be happy with a good outcome.”
Beatty asks, “And you want us to open an investigation?”
I look at Judith and say, “Perhaps we should talk about it first. I’m inclined to pursue Kemp. What about you?”
She says, “Let’s talk.”
Beatty and Agnew take their cue and stand to leave. We thank them and Judith walks them to the front door. When she returns to the conference room, she sits across from me and says, “I don’t know what to do. I’m not thinking clearly right now.”
“We can’t allow the police to do this, Judith.”
“I know, but don’t you already have enough trouble with them? If Kemp is desperate enough to snatch a child, he might do anything. Now do you understand why I get nervous when Starcher is with you?”
I can’t really argue with this.
“Do you think Swanger killed the girl?” she asks.
“Yes, and he’s probably killed others.”
“Great. Another lunatic out there gunning for you. You’re a train wreck, Sebastian, and you’re going to get someone hurt. I just hope it’s not my child. We got lucky today, but maybe not tomorrow.”
There’s a knock on the door and Judith says, “Come in.” The receptionist tells her there is a reporter with a cameraman out front. Two more have called the office. “Get rid of them,” she says, glaring at me. What a mess I’ve created.
We finally agree to do nothing for a few hours. I’ll cancel the meeting with the police detective; the investigation is a sham anyway. As I leave I tell her I’m sorry, but she wants no part of an apology.
I sneak out a rear door.
7.
Reporters are looking for me, but I have had enough of the story. Others would like to find me: Link and his boys; Roy Kemp when he hears I’m talking to the FBI; perhaps even Arch Swanger, who’s likely to phone in at any moment and ask why I sang to the police.
Partner takes me to Ken’s Kars and I drive away in a dented Mazda with 200,000 miles on it. No lawyer, regardless of how impoverished, would be caught dead in such a vehicle. I know one who was leasing a Maserati when he was forced into bankruptcy.
I spend the rest of the day in my apartment, hiding and working on two cases. Around five o’clock, I call Judith to check on Starcher. He’s fine, she says, and the reporters have gone away. I check the local news where the “dramatic rescue” is the lead story. They use some old footage of me walking into the police station and make it sound like I risked my life to save my son. The fools are swallowing all the bait the police give them. This too shall pass.
Because I’ve slept about six hours out of the last seventy-two, I finally collapse on the sofa and fall into a coma. Just after 10:00 p.m., my cell phone rings. I check the caller ID, then grab it. It’s Naomi Tarrant, Starcher’s teacher, the gorgeous young thing I’ve been fantasizing about for months. I’ve asked her to dinner five times and have been hit with five noes. But, the rejections have been progressively softer. I have neither the talent nor the patience for the usual mating rituals—the stalking, the accidental encounters, the blind dates, the silly gifts, the awkward phone calls, the referrals from friends, the endless Internet chatting. Nor do I have the guts to go online and lie about myself to strange women. And, I fear I’m forever scorched and gun-shy from the Judith disaster. How can one human possess so much meanness?