John Hart - Down River

“Just do me one favor, Adam.” I waited, said nothing. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

A pause. “Don’t resist.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it. Don’t antagonize him.”

“Jesus.”

“Okay. I’m rolling.”

I closed the phone, rattled a vase on a side table as I passed down the hall. I walked into the sudden warmth of sunset and saw Parks Templeton climbing the steps. I pointed at him and then at my father. “I need to see you two inside, right now.”

“Where’s your mother?” my father asked.

“Stepmother,” I said automatically. “This is not about her.”

“What is it?” Parks asked.

I looked around the porch. Every eye was on me, and I realized that discretion was irrelevant. It would happen soon and it would happen right here. I put my eyes on the horizon one more time, and saw just how few seconds were actually left.

It looked like three cars. Lights on, sirens off.

I met the lawyer’s eyes. “You’re going to earn your money today,” I said. He looked perplexed and I pointed. The lights flashed brighter as the day darkened around us. They were close; two hundred yards. Engine noise reached out and touched us. It swelled as my family came to its feet around me, and I heard the sound of rocks being thrown against metal, the dull clank and bang of cars moving too fast on gravel. Ten seconds out the lead car killed its lights; the others followed suit. “They’re here to serve an arrest warrant,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Let me do the talking,” the lawyer replied, but I knew that he would be useless. Grantham would not care about subtleties. He had his warrant, and it was enough. I felt a hand on my shoulder; my father. He squeezed hard, but I did not turn around; and no words found their way past his lips. “It’s going to be all right,” I said, and his fingers tightened.

That’s how Grantham found us-an unbroken line. His hands settled on his hips, and his deputies formed up around him, a wall of brown polyester and black belts that angled low on one side.

Parks stepped into the yard, and I followed him down. Dolf and my father joined us. The lawyer spoke first. “What can I do for you, Detective Grantham?”

Grantham dipped his chin to peer across the tops of his glasses. “Afternoon, Mr. Templeton.” He shifted slightly. “Mr. Chase.”

“What is it that you want?” my father asked.

I looked at Grantham, whose eyes shone intently behind the same thick and dirty glasses. There were four men, not a single expression between them, and I knew then that there was no stopping it.

“I’m here lawfully, Mr. Chase, warrant in hand.” His eyes found mine and his fingers spread out. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’d like to see the warrant,” Parks said.

“Momentarily,” Grantham replied, his eyes still on me. He’d not once looked away.

“Can you stop this?” my father asked the lawyer in a low voice.

“No.”

“Goddamn it, Parks.” Louder.

“We’ll have our moment, Jacob. Be patient.” He spoke to Grantham. “Your warrant had best be in perfect order.”

“It is.”

I stepped forward. “Then get on with it,” I said.

“Very well,” Grantham replied. He turned to my left, the cuffs coming out. “Dolf Shepherd, you are under arrest for the murder of Danny Faith.”

Light flashed on steel, and when it circled his wrists, the old man bent under the weight of it.

This was wrong. In almost thirty years I’d never seen Dolf raise his hand or his voice in anger. I pushed toward him and deputies drove me back. I called Dolf’s name, and the batons came out. I heard my name; my father yelling for me to calm down, to not give them an excuse. When his hands, thick and speckled, finally gripped my shoulders, I allowed him to pull me back. And I watched as Dolf was stuffed into one of the marked cars.

The door slammed, lights pulsed on the roof, and I closed my eyes as a sudden roar filled my head.

When it died, Dolf was gone.

He’d never once looked up.

I called Robin from the car and told her what had happened. She wanted to meet us at the jail but I told her no. She was already in this thing too deep. She fought me about it, and the more we argued the more convinced I became. She’d made her choice-me-and I wasn’t going to let that choice hurt her. We agreed to meet the next day, once I had some idea just what the hell was going on.

We went downtown to the Rowan County Detention Center; Parks, Dad, and me. Jamie said he couldn’t handle it, and I knew what he meant. The bars, the smells. The fact of it. Nobody tried to talk him out of it. He’d been sullen all afternoon and there was little love lost between him and Dolf. The building loomed against the descending sky. We crossed against traffic, mounted broad steps, and passed through security. The front room smelled of hot glue and floor cleaner. The door fell shut behind us, a crash of metal, and lukewarm air sighed out from ceiling vents. Four people sat in orange plastic chairs along the wall, and I took them in at a glance: two Hispanics in grass-stained clothes, an old woman in expensive shoes, and a young man biting his nails bloody.

Parks stood out in his immaculate suit, but no one was impressed, least of all the sergeant who sat behind the scuffed bulletproof glass. Parks drew himself up and played the lawyer card and asked to see Dolf Shepherd.

“No.” The response was unequivocal, offered with the tired indifference of long practice.

“I beg your pardon?” The lawyer appeared truly offended.

“He’s in interrogation. Nobody sees him.”

“But I am his lawyer,” Parks said.

The sergeant pointed to the long row of molded chairs. “Help yourself to a seat. It’ll be a while.”

“I demand to see my client now.”

The sergeant leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Age had put its mark on the man: deep frown lines and a belly like a suitcase. “Raise your voice to me one more time and I will personally put you out of this building,” he said. “Until I hear otherwise, no one sees him. That’s the word from the sheriff himself. Now, sit down or leave.”

The lawyer settled back onto his heels, but the hard edge did not leave his mouth. “This is not over,” he said.

“Yes, it is.” The officer rose from his chair, walked to the back of the room, and poured a cup of coffee. He leaned on a counter and stared at us through the bulletproof glass. My father put a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder.

“Sit down, Parks.”

The lawyer stalked to a far corner and my father tapped on the glass. The sergeant put down his coffee and came over. He was more respectful to my father. “Yes, Mr. Chase?”

“May I speak with the sheriff?”

The man’s features relaxed. In spite of everything that had happened in recent years, my father was still a force in this county and respected by many. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” he said. “No promises.”

“All I’m asking for.”

My father moved away and the sergeant lifted a phone off its cradle. His lips moved minutely, and he hung up. He looked at my father. “He knows you’re here,” he said.

We gathered in the corner. Parks spoke in a low whisper. “This is intolerable, Jacob. They cannot keep an attorney from his client. Even your sheriff should know that.”

“Something’s off,” I said.

“Meaning what?”

I read the frustration in the lawyer’s eyes. My father was paying him three bills an hour and he could not get past the front desk.

“We’re missing something,” I said.

Parks paled. “That’s not much help, Adam.”