John Hart - Down River

“Nevertheless…”

“What are we missing?” my father asked.

I faced him, saw that he was close to the edge. Dolf may as well have been his brother.

“I don’t know. Dolf knows that Parks is here. And Parks is right. Even this sheriff knows better than to interrogate a suspect with his attorney cooling his heels in the lobby.” I looked at the lawyer. “What’s our recourse here? What can we do?”

Parks settled down, looked at his watch. “It’s after-hours, so we can’t go to the courts for relief. Not that they could do anything. The warrant looked solid. Other than barring my entry, the sheriff is acting within his authority.”

“What can you tell us about the warrant?” I asked.

“Short version? Dolf’s.38 fired the shot that killed Danny Faith. They seized the gun when they searched the house. Ballistics confirmed it as the murder weapon. According to the warrant, it has Dolf’s prints on it.”

“Dolf’s prints?” I asked.

Not mine?

“Dolf’s prints,” the lawyer confirmed. And then it hit me. Dolf was a meticulous man. He would have cleaned the gun before putting it back in the cabinet. He’d wiped off my prints and left his.

“They can’t make a case with just the murder weapon,” I said. “For trial, they’ll need more. Motive. Opportunity.”

“Opportunity won’t be a problem,” Parks said. “Danny worked part time for your father. Fourteen hundred acres. Dolf could have killed him anytime. Motive is another matter. The warrant is not specific in that regard.”

“So what?” my father asked. “We just sit here?”

“I’ll make some calls,” Parks said.

My father looked to me. “We wait,” I said. “We talk to the sheriff.”

We sat for hours. Parks rousted one of his assistants at home and instructed him to begin drafting a motion to suppress evidence based on the denial of right to counsel. That was all he could do, which was basically as good as doing nothing. At nine fifteen the sheriff walked through the security door. An armed deputy flanked him. He held up his hand and spoke before Parks could launch into a tirade.

“I’m not here to debate or discuss anything,” he said. “I’m well aware of your complaint.”

“Then you know that it is a constitutional violation to interrogate my client out of my presence.”

Color rose in the sheriff’s face. He stared the lawyer down. “I have nothing further to say to you,” he said, and paused a beat. “You are irrelevant.” He spoke to my father. “Before you get all riled, Jacob, you may as well hear what I have to say. Dolf Shepherd has been charged with the murder of Danny Faith. He has been advised of his right to counsel and has refused that right.” He looked at Parks and smiled. “You are not his attorney, Mr. Templeton. Therefore, there has been no constitutional violation. You will not be going further than this lobby.”

My father’s words exploded in a rush. “He doesn’t want a lawyer?”

A smile spread above the uniform. “Unlike some, Mr. Shepherd seems unwilling to hide behind lawyers and their tricks.” His eyes swiveled onto me.

My stomach churned. A familiar feeling.

“What are you saying?” Parks demanded. “That he’s confessed?”

“I’m not speaking to you,” the sheriff replied. “I thought I’d made that clear.”

“What are you saying?” my father asked.

The sheriff held my father’s gaze then turned slowly to me, the smile sliding into obscurity. There was no reading his face. “He wants to see you,” he said.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Parks interrupted. “And you’ll allow that?”

The sheriff ignored him. “I can take you back whenever you’re ready.”

“Just a minute, Adam,” Parks said. “You’re right. This doesn’t make sense.”

The sheriff shrugged. “You want to see him or not?”

Parks gripped my arm and pulled. He spoke in a whisper. “Dolf’s been in custody for what, three or four hours? He’s refused counsel, yet asked for you. Unusual, to say the least. Most troubling, though, is the sheriff’s willingness to go along with that request.” He skipped a beat, and I saw that he was deeply concerned. “Something is definitely wrong.”

“But what?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t see it.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” I said. “I can’t refuse.”

“You should, though. Legally speaking, I don’t see what can be gained.”

“It’s not always about the law.”

“I advise against it,” Parks stated.

“Dad?” I asked.

“He wants to see you.” Hands shoved deep into pockets, the implication was clear in his face. Refusal was not an option.

I walked back to the sheriff, studied his face for some kind of hint. Nothing. Dead eyes and a flat slash of mouth. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The sheriff turned, and something flickered on the face of the deputy beside him. I looked back at my father. He raised a hand, and Parks leaned toward me. “Listen to what he has to say, Adam, but keep your mouth shut. You have no friends in there. Not even Dolf.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“A murder charge has been known to turn friends against each other. It happens all the time. The first to deal is the first to walk. Every D.A. in the country plays that game. And every sheriff knows it.”

My voice was unforgiving. “Dolf’s not like that.”

“I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Not this time.”

“Just watch yourself, Adam. You beat one of the biggest murder charges ever brought in this county. That’s been eating at the sheriff for five years. Politically, it hurt him, and I guarantee he’s lost sleep over it. He still wants a piece of you. That’s human nature. So, remember: without me in the room there’s no attorney-client privilege attached to your conversation. Assume that you’re being overheard, even recorded, no matter what they say to the contrary.”

It was a needless warning. I’d been through the door before, and I had no illusions. Two-way mirrors, microphones, hard questions. I remembered. The sheriff paused at the door. A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked open.

“Look familiar?” the sheriff asked.

I ignored the smirk, and stepped through the door. After five long years, I was back inside.

I’d spent a lot of time here, and I knew it like I knew my own home: the smells, the blind corners, the guards with quick tempers and ready clubs. It still smelled of vomit, antiseptic, and black mold.

I’d sworn I would never come back to Rowan County; but I had. And now I was here, in the pit. But it was for Dolf; and I was not in custody. A big difference.

We passed prisoners in jumpsuits and flip-flops. Some moved freely; others traveled the halls in cuffs and under guard. Most kept their eyes down, but some stared, a challenge; and I stared back. I knew how it worked, the rules of engagement. I’d learned how to spot the predators. They’d come at me on day one. I was rich, I was white, and I refused to look away. That was really all it took, and they decided early on to beat me down.

I had three fights in the first week. It took a broken hand and a concussion to earn my place in the pecking order. I wasn’t at the top, not even close, but judgment had been made.

Tough enough to be left alone.

So, yeah. I remembered.

The sheriff led me to the largest interview room and stopped at the door. I saw a slice of Dolf through the small glass window, then the sheriff blocked the view. “Here’s how it works,” he said. “You go in alone and you get five minutes. I’ll be out here, and in spite of what your lawyer said, you’ll have your privacy.”

“That right?”