Returning home to search for a place to set up an office was routine. He figured he would hang a shingle, make a little vacation money and then be out of the legal business and back in school. He wanted a doctorate in political science.
About two and a half years after Hill opened his office in Red Knife, Mays County Judge-Executive Crit Collins broke his hip outside a Dairy Cheer. It was November and Collins slipped on a patch of three-inch thick ice and pulverized both crests of his ilia. That's all people talked about for a month, and just like that. Women were stopping in grocery stores, Did you hear about Crit? Doctors say he crushed both crests of his ilia. Everybody felt like a doctor using the medical terms. Both crests of his ilia. It was educating, at least.
It was three weeks in the hospital and another two months of bed rest after that for Judge Crit. When he finally got up and about, a former lawyer himself, he went to Hill. The Diary Cheer was nailed to the wall and that was that.
Hill was a personal injury lawyer. A good one, and Crit knew it. He also knew Bill Singleton, the owner of the ill-fated establishment, was soft. The combination was lethal. Singleton hired a suit out of Crestville who buckled quick and before long, Hill was in politics.
At first he worked for about a week after winning the case for Judge Crit helping get the judge's paperwork back in order before he returned. In his absence, the county had lost three grants and blew a chance to annex a section of land valued for its business location potential. It took Hill about three weeks to get things straightened out and when the dust cleared, he had thrown in a renegotiation of terms that would ensure the county got the land. A telephone headquarters was built on the land about six months later, and when Jones Food Service moved out not long after, the phone company became the county's fourth largest business concern.
Hill was pushed into the top list of the county's political figures, without even holding an office. The following year, Hill announced his candidacy for Mays County Attorney and won during the fall race. It was and remains the largest voter turnout in the county's history, with more than eighty percent of the people voting, and most of them for Hill and whoever else Judge Crit backed.
Hill once said he slid into his spot on a firm handshake, a good smile and a concrete-thick patch of ice. But there was hard work involved, and, most of all, a hunger for the truth. Hill would never admit to the last, he would say it sounded too melodramatic, but most people knew it was true. Most people even understand what caused his breakdown and eventual resignation, as well. What people couldn't understand was the path he took afterwards.
His breakdown came, melodramatically enough, during a trial. Not a Perry Mason trial, those rarely happen in the real world, Hill often said. This happened during a trial where a couple was trying to get their insurance company to pony up money they promised on their policy in the event of an accident. Bill and Jill Morgan had been hit from behind. They had told the guy who hit them they were fine and the guy drove off. After he left, Bill called the state police and filed a complaint. It was a hit and run case. They caught the guy and got him on some kind of charges, and the Morgans contacted their insurance company.
No can do, they said. That's when Bill and Jill went to see Hill and, of course, Crit.
Bill had worked a card game with Crit in the seventies. One of the major players in that game was a doctor named Royce Pennington, who was what Crit liked to call dead money, an easy kill, just like the restaurant owner.
Crit convinced Royce to see Bill and Jill as patients, which basically consisted of the two of them sitting in his waiting room watching a talk show and reading copies of Field & Stream for about ten minutes and then talking to Royce for about two minutes, mostly about fishing and which school Jill got her accounting degree from. In and out, just like hundreds of others.
On the day of the trial Royce took the stand and testified that the couple had suffered severe injuries to both neck and lower back areas in such a way that it had affected their lives horribly, he said, just horribly.
Bill and Jill were going to be heading home with a little over two-hundred thousand dollars, after Hill's fee. Hill knew he had done absolutely nothing but known Crit and was going home with more than what most people were making for a year's salary in Mays County based on that affiliation.
People in Mays County knew it, too.
In a succession of split-second thought patterns, Hill decided he wasn't going to go through with the setup, hell or high water. While the jury deliberated, Hill crept away from his desk, past the judge and into the back hallway where the jury room was located. He stood outside the door for awhile, aware that what he was about to do would change everything, then figured it would change things for the better and opened the door. Twelve faces stared blankly up at him. Where was the bailiff? How did you get in here? You have to leave now. Leave now, Hill, and we won't say a word.
That was it. It was the final twist of his arm, and so he came out with it. You poor, poor people are dumb as a sack of rocks. He said it again and then a third time, tossing his hand through his forty dollar haircut and tugging away at his silk raspberry and black striped tie from Corner Street.
What followed has been retold through the circuit court circles time and again, avoided in conversation by most family members and changed Hill forever. The outcome of the case wasn't the point. Hill had changed the face of the game for himself. He could never be viewed as credible again. He had allowed a witness to take the stand and purger himself, knowing what was happening.
But he didn't mind. He wanted out. He wanted to do what he did best.
"Run away. That's what I did, Paul. From the courtroom then and before then on that day at Harper's. It's the thing I'm best at, running away."
"Jesus, Uncle Hill. What about Harper's Tipple?”
"Well, you know, if you ain't got that story by now, I probably ought to leave it alone. That was something your dad should've told you about."
Someone knocked at the door and Hill shifted gears. He went from the serious tone he had kept with Paul back to the jovial junk dealer when he saw a familiar face staring through the screen door.
“Hey, James, it'll be a couple more hours. Just get yourself a seat there and I'll get back on it. Talking to my nephew here. You remember Paul."
Paul didn't know James and James obviously didn't know Paul or have any urge to correct that as he flopped down where Hill had just moved from.
"I’m gonna head on out," Paul said, and patted his uncle on the back.
Back up the dirt road he kicked loose gravel and picked weeds from the side of the road. He had to wonder what he was even doing here. He hadn't called work in two days and the last time he spoke with them, the best he could tell them was that it would be a little while longer. Somehow he doubted it would be enough to get them to forget about two days without a word. He had probably lost his job.
13
It was a Marlin .22 rifle. Simple, nothing special. Brown wood and black steel. Paul held it in his hands like a newborn and waited on the porch for his dad. Beside him was a box of shells. He plucked two out and rolled them across the palm of his hand.
His dad came through the front door and motioned for him and he followed. They piled into a dented pickup truck and rumbled toward Dealer's Field without talking. His dad looked sleepy, and kept reaching across the seat while driving and adjusting the gun so that the long black barrel pointed out the window instead of to the roof of the cab. Just before pulling into the field, his dad turned to him.
"Always point the end away from you or anything else. Point it in the air, away from other things. Guns can turn on you. Guns will bite you if you give them half a chance."
They left the truck on the edge of the field and made two sets of slick tracks through the frosted grass. His dad pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and handed them to Paul.
"When I entered the military, they gave me an M16 assault rifle,” he said. "They told me to keep it with me.
I did. I kept it outside my shower and beside me when I went to sleep. I cleaned it every day, each evening. I learned that gun like the back of my hand. When I left the military, the last thing they took from me was that M16.”
Paul looked across the field and spotted the wood rail they had put up yesterday evening. They had lost sunlight then, but today was different. It was warmer today, brighter. Rays of sun spiked through thin winter clouds, and Paul tracked across the field to place sixteen ounce pop bottles across the rail. He then paced the ten steps back to where his dad sat on the ground.
"We're gonna lose light if we don't get started," his dad said, and reached his hand out for the gun.
Paul handed it over and in fluid motions his dad popped the small black magazine clip into the palm of his hand and dropped it in his jacket pocket. He then pulled out another clip, a yellow clip that was much longer than the other.
"This is a banana clip. It holds more rounds," his dad said.
He handed the clip to Paul and watched him slide the copper shells in one at a time. Paul handled them like tiny sticks of dynamite, pressing down softly on each one until it clicked into place.
"I was what they call a high marksman in the military," his dad said and pulled the gun from Paul. He lifted it to his shoulder, aimed for the briefest second and then squeezed the trigger. Instantly one of the bottles exploded in a flash of sound. Shards of glass spun away. Layered clumps shifted and then dropped beneath the rail.
The cold and calculated accuracy of his father's shot stayed like a sunflash in Paul’s mind. He closed his eyes and remembered the stance. Head tilted slightly forward, eyes lowered to the sites, left arm relaxed and bent, right hand -- the critical right hand -- tense and locked.
"Don't forget to keep your right hand gripped just a little. But remember, the trigger finger should be the most relaxed part of your body. You're gonna squeeze the trigger, not pull it. That's very critical. Okay?"
Paul nodded and took the gun back in his hands. It felt heavier now, and the smell of gunpowder was coming off it in waves. There were four bottles left.
"You'll just need four shots for this," his dad said. "Take each one out at the neck. That's what we'll call our head shot. Understand? Get that shot and you'll just need one bullet."
He raised the gun to his shoulder. At once his vision became blurry. In focus, out of focus. It felt like the gun had been pushed against his shoulder for an hour. The bottles looked like smudges across a dirty window.
“Jesus Christ, Paul.” He snatched the gun out of his hands. It happened so fast Paul was left standing with his arms still in position, his legs still perfectly poised. He sucked in a fast breath and felt his heart start banging against the inside of his chest.
"Jesus! You'd done had your head took off. End of game! Understand!"
Paul muttered and nodded slowly.
"It's gotta be like this!"
Four shots rang out in quick order. The bottle necks split in half and toppled domino style onto the ground.
"What are you thinking about? They're just bottles. No pressure. And even when there's pressure, you've got to maintain. You can't lose it. Can't afford to.” He grabbed Paul's arm. "Here, I'll show you pressure."
Paul was suddenly about to urinate and his bottom lip quivered. He hated that it quivered, and tried to stiffen it, only to make things worse. He felt his dad’s powerful grip take hold of his arm and his body tingled at the touch. Marching him across the field, he positioned him in front of the rail. When he had him standing to his satisfaction, he turned and marched back the distance where they had been shooting. He paused, and took two more steps for added distance.
Paul could hear himself pleading, but the sound was low and pathetic and blended with other sounds, natural sounds coming from the nearby hillside and some place over the ridge where the lively hum of a car engine throttled up and down. Paul's voice was weaved into this, moving up and then down and then breaking.
"Grab the bottom half of the bottle in the middle, right there behind you, and put it on your left shoulder."
He grabbed the thick bottom half of the bottle, craned it above his head, and settled it into place on his shoulder. He then watched quietly while his dad gave the Marlin a shake, pulled the butt against his chest and steadied the barrel. At the moment Paul was able to steady his breathing a little, the bottle exploded on his shoulder, vibrating bone against muscle in a way that brought bile to the back of his throat. He could feel glass, small pieces, hanging from the side of his face. And there was an immense pain there. He slumped to the ground, removed his glove and ran his fingertips across the side of his face. His fingers came away warm and slick and the pieces of glass, the largest about the size of an aspirin, fell onto his coat. They were the smooth color of new raspberries.
14
"Hey it’s Paul. Ronnie there?"
"Can you hold?" The voice on the other end of the phone was the classic example of bored obligation. He recognized it immediately.
More than a couple of minutes passed while Paul stood in the kitchen of his grandparents' home. His grandfather was gone, wasting the day somewhere at a gas station or outside a hardware store.
"Sir, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here, Ed. Jesus. How long we worked together? Four years? Think you could at least call me Paul?” He stopped before saying anything else. No need taking out his anger on Ed, the receptionist.
"Okay, Mr. Shannon. Paul. Shit, this is weird. I'm patching you through to Ronnie. If he wants you treated like a leper, then he can do it. I wasn't hired to fire people.”
It seemed his face had went numb. This despite his suspicions he was going to be fired. Confirmation from Ed was more than he could handle without some part of him going numb.
"Paul?"
"Ronnie, uh, listen, man."
"Save it, Paul. I don't know what you expect me to say, but we gotta let you go. This thing's not up to me. But even if it were, I'd probably do the same thing. I know your dad died, and I know that sucks, but, hell, man, what do you expect?”
Paul was sure Ronnie was still talking, even after he cleared the front porch and was standing in front of Cramer's station. Ronnie might have continued talking even while Paul was walking into Cramer's station. Cramer was busy changing a balding tire. The replacement tire looked just as threadbare.
"Paul Shannon," Cramer said without looking up. "What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me one thing, Cramer."
"What's that, Paul?"
The feel of his knuckles slamming into Cramer's teeth hurt at first and then his hand was only tingling.
"Holy hell!” It was two of Cramer's dope-addled station attendants, Bill Jack and Caddy, calling out in unison. They dropped their tools on top of the car they were working on when Cramer staggered up from his crouched position.
Paul turned then and started back to his grandparents' house. It would be nearly a half hour before the police knocked on the door.
15
The first thing Paul thought about when they took him up the back entrance elevator was that he was about to use the bathroom. Instantly he realized the difference of being at home and about to piss and being in jail and about to piss.
So just like in first grade, Paul decided to ask.
"I need to use the bathroom," he said once they were at the front desk. The cop, who had been holding onto his upper bicep had moved across the open floor and was laughing with someone near what must have been a drop box of some kind.
"No you can't," an emotionless woman said from behind the counter. She was prepping a camera. "Stand over here in front of this blue square."
Mugshot.
Signature.
Holding cell.
No phone call, and his bladder hurt.
"There's a bathroom right over there," a guard wearing surgical gloves said. In his left hand was a mat, the kind kindergarten students used for nap time. It had seen better days. He tossed it in the middle of t
he holding cell, a ten foot by ten foot room, and snapped the gloves off. "There you go."
In the cell with him were eight other men. He counted from the corner of his eye while studying the toilet just off to the side of the far end of the room. These eight guys, one of whom was wearing only a pair of thin running shorts, feet black from pacing across the dirty floor, were going to watch him piss. There was just no way around it.
In plain view, with Blackfoot watching on, he pissed. For at least forty-five seconds that seemed more like ten minutes, he pissed with his hand guarding himself the best he could, considering a couple other inmates had joined Blackfoot in a rubbernecking routine that made his stomach curl. As he used the bathroom, Paul recalled that Larry hadn’t been at his grandparents’ house when he made it back from Hill’s. Could be he already had a place to stay and had only dropped by to call on David. When he found out the bad news, he had decided to stay a couple nights. Could be he’d went back to wherever he’d come from. Paul suddenly felt ashamed for trying to pawn Larry off on Hill, for not standing up to his grandfather. He hoped Larry was still around. There was still the matter of offering proper thanks for what he’d done for him at Cramer’s.
When he finished using the bathroom, Paul decided to initiate conversation. "Any of you guys got a phone call yet?” He was curious. He figured at least fifteen minutes had passed and still no mention of a call.
"Got a cigarette?” Blackfoot said.
"No I don't, man. Sorry."
"Dammit to HELL!"
Just like that the door to the cell swings open hard enough to make the single Plexiglas window breath inward.
"Got a problem, Sammy?” It was the guard with the gloves and the mat from earlier.
Paul decided to fade into a corner and wait for them to knock on the door and tell him he could make a phone call.
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