“KPD has got their eyes on these kinds of clubs. You know, underage drinking violations. Sounded interesting. I don’t know anything about the hip hop culture, so I thought we’d tag along. Watch the action. Maybe learn something.”
“All that to catch underage drinkers? Sounds like a poor use of my taxes.” He leans forward and looks me in the eye. “My guess is that our little outing has something to do with Randy Spelling’s murder.”
I take a sip of wine. Hold my breath and then take another.
“Well, does it?” Frank is getting red in the face.
“They were looking for the missing homicide suspect.”
“And you could help how?”
“I’m an extra pair of eyes. Nothing more. I’ve seen him before at headquarters. If I had told you ahead of time, you wouldn’t have gone with me and you would have been mad at me if I went by myself.”
“Now I’m mad at you for lying.”
“I didn’t lie, I just didn’t give you the whole picture.”
“Now I’m mad because you manipulated me.”
“It was perfectly safe. The place was full of undercover cops. You said so yourself, we had a good time. If I had told you beforehand, you’d have been worried the whole evening.”
“You miss my point.”
“I really appreciate your going with me. Don’t be such a worrywart. Think of it as a little adventure. Nothing bad happened because we went and, I promise you, nothing will.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The projection screen in the staff room is pulled down and Pence is fiddling with a laptop as I take my seat.
“Well,” he says, “if it isn’t the famous Dr. Meyerhoff, our very own celebrity shrink. And, coincidentally, the first item on our agenda. Too bad the chief is going to miss this meeting. She’s taking a few hours of personal leave. Never fear, I’ll fill her in the minute she gets back.” He flips off the overhead lights. The computer hums softly as it wakes up.
“Buckle your seat belts,” Pence says. He aims the remote and clicks. “I hope everybody here is over eighteen, because this is an R-rated performance.” A lopsided video splays across the screen. “KPD presents Dr. Dot Meyerhoff shaking her booty at the Boom Room.” The camera moves haphazardly from floor to ceiling. The soundtrack is a blurry mix of metal on metal mixed with shouts and grunts. “Not only is she shaking her booty, she’s leading the line. And now we see her grinding her booty against a juvenile male identified as the leader of 1704T.”
“Stop it.” I jump to my feet. “Where did you get this?”
“Facebook. You’ve gone viral.”
“I don’t look at Facebook.”
“Well, my wife does. She loves this stuff, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. You remember my wife don’t you, Doctor? Jean Pence? The blond-haired woman you kicked out of the family meeting.”
“I didn’t kick her out. I asked her to leave because the meeting was for line-level families. She was only there because you sent her to spy on me. No one would have talked in front of her.”
“You are confused, Doctor. All in a snit about privacy one day and flaunting your booty all over Facebook the next.” He loves using the word booty, letting every letter roll off his tongue.
“I did not flaunt myself. I didn’t even know anyone was taking pictures of me.”
“What century do you live in? That’s all kids do anymore. Take pictures of themselves and each other and put them on the Internet.”
“Is that why you’re humiliating me? Because I asked your wife to leave a meeting she wasn’t invited to?”
“I don’t need to humiliate you, Doctor. You’re doing a bang-up job of it yourself.”
“That’s enough.” The chief has been standing quietly in back of the room. She looks at me. “What were you doing at the concert?”
“Looking for Darnell Taylor.”
“Did you find him?”
“No, and apparently neither did anyone else.”
Pence’s lips are puckered with rage. “We need to address this now,” he says. “The entire community and the police association are going to demand that you do something about her.” He points at me although next to the chief I’m the only other woman in the room. “She sent us on a wild-goose chase. Thousands of dollars wasted on overtime. We put officers in danger based on her bogus informants.”
“Then why didn’t you send someone who knows what they’re doing to interview them?”
“We didn’t know who they were. Remember? You couldn’t tell us. Wouldn’t tell us.”
“If you had, they would have told Darnell and scared him off.”
“Enough,” says the chief. “This is my responsibility. I made the decision to go with Dr. Meyerhoff’s information. And I made the decision to deploy officers to the concert. Second guessing my decisions, Captain Pence, is not helpful unless you’re trying to amass evidence about my incompetence.”
* * *
If no good deed goes unpunished, where’s my punishment? I wait three days to be summoned to chief’s office and fired. I’m not sleeping and I’m eating everything that isn’t nailed down. Now I know, or think I know, how Randy must have felt getting off with what seemed to her like a slap on the wrist. When the punishment doesn’t fit the crime, all a person is left with is self-punishment.
Nothing happens, no phone call, no letter, no email. It’s Thursday. I don’t think I can make it through the weekend without talking to the chief. I need to apologize again. Plead for my job. I put cops in jeopardy, I put the investigation in jeopardy, and I put Frank and myself in harm’s way.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I call her. She thanks me for calling and professes to understand that my intentions were well meaning if not well reasoned. She’s not going to punish me or fire me. All she asks is that I observe boundaries and never again interfere with police business. I’ve been going nuts with worry and her affect is so flat, it’s like talking to a carp. She wishes me a good weekend and we hang up. I sit in my office staring at my blank computer screen. I was expecting to be fired, but what I got was a slap on the wrist.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Frank and I are going to have dinner at my house Friday night. As usual, I have nothing in the refrigerator and at week’s end I’m too brain-dead to think about cooking, unlike Frank who’s always whipping up some last-minute fabulous meal from leftovers. The only leftovers in my refrigerator have long since passed the expiration date. I call Fran from my office and order one of her meatloaves, with mashed potatoes, salad, and pie. A perfect counterpoint to the dreary winter weather and the never-ending rain.
“I’ll pick it up on my way home from the office,” I say.
“Hold on a minute. Eddie wants to talk to you, but first he has to dry his hands.”
“Yo, Doc,” he says. “I’ll deliver this for you. My treat.”
“No need. I drive right past Fran’s on my way home.”
“You may not have a need, Doc,” he says, “but I do.”
* * *
Frank lights a fire in my fireplace using some pressed-wood logs I bought at Home Depot.
“Why don’t you let me bring you some wood? I’m a remodeling contractor, remember? I have tons of scrap wood to burn. It’s not beautiful to look at, but neither are these phony things.” He pours me a glass of the pinot noir he brought and because he knows me, he’s also supplied cheese, crackers, and a bowl of olives. “Nothing fancy,” he says. “But we shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.” By the time Eddie knocks on my door, we’re halfway through the bottle of wine and I’m no longer hungry.
Eddie’s carrying enough food for six people. Frank takes the boxes into the kitchen. Eddie hangs his wet rain gear on a hook in the hallway and walks into the living in his stocking feet.
“Great night for a fire.” He sits down. “That your boyfriend?”
“Haven’t you met?”
“I don’t remember, but then I don’t remember a lot of stuff.”
Frank comes back into the room with a wine glass. He and Eddie shake hands and Frank starts to pour him some wine.
“Not for me, thanks,” Eddie says. “I’m off the sauce. Better for all of us if I stay that way. Okay to talk?” Eddie tilts his head toward Frank.
“Depends. What’s going on?”
“Maybe Rutgers’ girlfriend is on to something. I got friends at the sheriff’s department, so I asked them a few questions about this Rich Spelling.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “You’re going to get in trouble.”
“I’m already in trouble. I told you, I’m going bug nuts slinging burgers. People think I’m washed up. I’m not washed up. I still got what it takes. I just need to prove it to that damn chief.”
“And you think disregarding the terms of your administrative leave will put you on her good side?”
Frank pours Eddie a glass of water. “Do you guys need some privacy?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Eddie says at the same time. “I talk so loud you could hear me all the way to Timbuktu. So sit down, enjoy your wine. Sorry to interrupt.” He turns back to me. “Here’s what I know. Spelling has a temper. That’s no news. You saw what he did to Darnell Taylor. He said he didn’t do it; I say bullshit. Taylor just offed his wife. What do you expect?” He looks at Frank for some kind of confirmation, as though any man would understand Rich’s behavior. Frank’s face is hard to read. “Rumor has it that Spelling’s a skirt chaser. Either that or he blows a lot of steam in the locker room. Hard to tell. Guys lie to each other all the time.” He turns to Frank again and winks. “Fits half the COs I know.”
“What’s a CO?” Frank asks.
“Correctional officer, jailer, new jack, screw.”
“You’re talking about the same man I saw at the funeral? You think he murdered his wife?” Frank shakes his head. “That can’t be. He was devastated, falling apart.”
“You took your boyfriend to the funeral? What is that, your idea of date night?” Eddie shifts to face Frank. “Listen, buddy. The doc here is a BWB, but sometimes she’s unclear on the concept.”
“What’s a BWB?” I ask.
“Babe with brains. But just so you know, Frank, better be on your good behavior. The Doc swings a mean ten-pound weight.”
Frank looks at me. “Later,” I say.
He turns to Eddie. “Let me get this straight. Just because the man lost his temper with the person who killed his wife, and may or may not be unfaithful, doesn’t prove anything. Like you said, that description fits a lot of men.” I make note of this. Frank’s never given me reason to be afraid of him or worry that he would cheat behind my back. My girlfriends think he’s a real catch, but they also thought my ex was a catch and look how that turned out.
“What’ll I do next?” Eddie stands. “Darnell’s in the wind. You probably chased him off with that caper at the Boom Room. The video went viral.”
Frank’s eyebrows go way up and his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.
“What video?”
“Later for that, too,” I say.
“Doc, I need to get back on the job. Help me out here. Find me something to do before I lose my mind. What’s left of it.”
* * *
The minute Eddie leaves, Frank tells me to sit down. “What the hell is going on?”
“Something came up at the family night. Something that may indicate that maybe Rich Spelling played around.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I want to know about the video.”
I sigh. “Pour me another glass of wine first, please.” He does and I tell him about the video.
“Once again, you’re sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Only this time, you’ve dragged me into it. What if something bad had happened at that club? What if you actually ran into that Darnell guy who’s running from the police because he’s accused of murder?” Frank is almost shouting. “What if one of my clients saw me in that video?”
I try to say something and he tells me to shut up. Frank has never spoken to me like that before. I don’t like it. My first impulse is to fight back; my second impulse is to burst into tears.
“What if we got into a fight and I had to protect you? Look at me. How well do you think I’d do fighting a bunch of teen aged ninjas, probably all armed.”
“I told you,” I say. “There were undercover cops everywhere, they would have helped us. I felt safe.”
“Bullshit. That place was so crowded we would’ve been dead before they got to us.”
“Second of all, Randy Spelling was my client. The police aren’t getting anywhere. I want to know what happened to her.”
“It would be nice if you cared as much about the living as you do about the dead.” We sit silently for a moment breathing heavily. Arguing can be aerobic. Outside the wind and the rain slap against the living room window.
“As for the video, you’re not in it. Just me. I’ve seen it twice now.”
“You don’t know that. There were a dozen kids, maybe more, with their cell phones out. All of them taking pictures and videos. I have a business and a reputation to uphold. Do you think my clients would trust me after seeing me on Facebook hanging out with a bunch of juvenile hip hoppers? How comfortable would they be letting me have the keys to their houses, allowing me to be there when their teenage daughters come home from school?”
“But you weren’t in the video.”
“I could have been and that’s my point. You only think about yourself and your goddamn cops. I don’t even come up on your radar.”
“That’s not true, Frank. I love you. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
“The next time. If there is one. Think first, then maybe you won’t have anything to be sorry for.” He stands up. “I’m going home.”
“But we have meatloaf.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The county jail is a testimony to eyesore architecture. It looks more like an air conditioner than a building designed to house human beings. Once it was surrounded by walnut orchards and citrus groves. Now it’s the crown jewel of a dizzying sprawl of cheesy sub-developments and strip malls. A public bus stops in front, transporting school children and sex offenders to their destinations. I park behind the bus stop and watch as a small group of weary women slowly dismount, carefully breaching the gap between the bus and the sidewalk. They heft shopping bags over their shoulders and, without looking up, turn toward the well-worn front walk.
I line up at security and wait impatiently to pass through the metal detector. Bright red signs posted on the wall warn me that I am subject to being searched and not permitted to bring weapons beyond this point. There’s an argument at the head of the line between a guard and a gray-haired woman who appears to be someone’s mother. A second guard intervenes, speaking Spanish, and pulls the woman aside. As I pass he is emptying the contents of her parcel on top of a steel table, shaking his head and pointing to a sign that says inmates may not receive food, packages, or reading material from visitors. The woman starts to cry.
We move slowly forward, me, the sorry women beside me, and an occasional briefcase-carrying attorney. I show the deadpan guard at the end of the line my KPD security badge and ask if I might have a tour of the facility. He looks at me like I’ve just landed from Mars, points to a wooden chair that’s shoved up against the wall and picks up the phone. “Wait here,” he says and goes back to stand at his station.
Jail tours are evidently low priority. I wait twenty minutes before a door to my left opens and a uniformed guard steps out into the hall. “Tour bus starting now, tickets please,” she says. I stand up. “Welcome to the fun house.” She presses a large black button that is anchored to a metal wall plaque and turns to face one of the many cameras that are mounted on the ceiling. The nearest camera rotates with a low buzz until it fixes on us. “Central control wants to see my smiling face before they let us in.”
> “I thought people want to break out of the jail, not in,” I say.
There’s a loud click and she pulls open a heavy metal door that leads into a long hallway. Once on the other side of the door she turns and shakes my hand. Her name tag reads Foster, but she prefers to be called Jackie. She’s an enormous woman with short, blunt-cut gray hair, sixty extra pounds straining the seams of her uniform and bulging over the top of her duty belt. She looks mannish, despite a beautiful face that’s all dimples. I wonder what it’s like to be a woman working in a man’s jail. Maybe she wants to be as big as her charges. No doubt safety trumps fashion and skinny women with long hair are at risk for being grabbed and overpowered.
“So, what brings you here today and what do you want to see?”
I explain who I am and that even though I’ve been consulting with KPD for over a year I’ve never had the opportunity to visit the jail. Since booking suspects into jail is a routine part of everyday life at KPD, I thought I’d benefit from getting to know what the place was like.
We walk down the long hall to yet another locked door. The concrete block walls are painted a sunny yellow and there are office doors on either side. “Mahogany row,” she says using the familiar slang for the administrative wing.
Once again we go through the ritual buzzing and security clearing. “Central control is on the second floor. Staffed two at a time, always. They got two cameras aimed at every door. We can go there first if you want. It’s pretty interesting.”
“Randy Spelling worked at KPD,” I say. “I understand her husband works here at the jail.” She stops, turns, and looks at me over the top of her glasses.
“Yeah, so?”
“Do you know him?”
“Not really. He works another shift on a different floor from mine. Why are you asking?”
I can hear people yelling in the distance. Now that we’ve passed over the border between administration and detention, the air smells of sweat, disinfectant, and human waste.
“I did know Randy though. We were in WIES together.” She pronounces the word “wise.” “She was a cute kid. Wet behind the ears, but she tried hard.”
The Right Wrong Thing Page 18