Sophomores

by Sean Desmond

  Time to leave these lovebirds, Dan thought. He found a possibly used red Solo cup, which he washed out in the kitchen sink, and concocted a vodka and flat, warm Pepsi. Not great. The party was packed, and he had to swim through a bunch of assholes standing around with not a whole lot to do. As he bumped his way by, he ran into Lili, Rick’s girl number two.

  Lili Villeneuve was a French foreign exchange student at Ursuline. Beautiful, dark features, pouty lips, a short angled braid pulled into a sideways ponytail like Demi Moore’s in One Crazy Summer.

  “Oh, Dan-ee.” Her accent was thick as a milkshake chocolat. “Have you seen Rick?” Reek.

  “I think I saw him out front. He might have been leaving.”

  “D’accord. If you see him, tell him to find me. Okay, Dan-ee?”

  “Sure thing.” She didn’t seem like she was going to hunt for Rick herself. Which thankfully bought Dan time to warn him.

  “Merci.” Lili shot him a kittenish smile. And then Dan realized. She’s playing you, and probably playing him. The French have a word for this . . . yup, she’s a croquette. Dan took another sour gulp of Pepsi and vodka and tried to wade back through the crowd to warn Reek.

  Just then, Josh Barlow’s psycho younger brother, Jayson, threw a long string of Black Cats near the fridge, which exploded close enough for Dan to feel the sparks on his ankles.

  “Jesus Christ!” Dan turned and ducked through the sliding door to the backyard. Jayson thought this was the funniest thing ever, but it was soon trumped when senior linebacker and all-district dipshit Trevor Kowalski streaked. He came running around from the front of the house, hurdling the gate buck naked in a modified Fosbury. He rolled onto the grass and then ran straight at a gaggle of girls. The flock dispersed screaming, and Trevor raised his arm in victory like the happiest caveman rapist of the Pleistocene. He smacked a fleeing damsel on the ass and got a punch in the neck in return.

  “Someone throw me a towel.”

  “Kowalski, it’s not really cold outside,” his teammate Jamie Allred yelled, tipping his beer can toward his southern hemisphere to accentuate the point. But that was just bullshit teasing. As everyone gave the naked guy a wide berth, Dan found himself standing next to his old friend Emma Wesselman.

  “Hey, Dan.”

  “Hi, Emma.”

  Their eyes met, mortified in their mutual realization—Trevor had a huge dick, and he knew it as he went into Attic poses to “Sledgehammer.”

  “Uzfuck, bring that shit over here.” Putt Uzbug, another Mensa member of the class of 1988, held a bottle rocket, which he gave to Trevor. Then Trevor bent down into a three-point stance. His hand—and the rocket—slid behind his back.

  “Light that bitch.”

  Seconds later, Trevor Kowalski shot a bottle rocket out of his ass. Everyone howled with laughter as he patted out the shower of sparks that had landed on his hind side.

  “Unbelievable.” Emma shook her head. “Now it’s a party.”

  “Yeah, Caligula here almost set fire to his taint.” Dan stared down at his red Solo cup. Emma was not a drinker.

  “Crazy to see you here.”

  Emma—Again, not a surprise—looked good. Her hair teased in cute tortoiseshell barrettes, wet lip gloss, a careful smile.

  “I know, private school party.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “Rich kids, Highland Park douchebags . . .”

  “Stop, I wasn’t saying that.”

  “What are you saying, Dan Malone?”

  “I don’t know.” Dan felt this sudden surge of honesty. “Listen, I should apologize to you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Emma, I just wish . . .”

  And as Dan was about to pour out his Song of Songs to Emma Wesselman, Brady Bennison, the hotshot varsity wideout, came running out onto the patio.

  “Cops are here! Everyone get the fuck out of Dodge!”

  * * *

  And so the adolescent fire drill began. Folks threw their cups to the ground, and there was a surge toward the back gate. Emma ran into the house, and Dan was about to follow her when he heard the squawk of a cop siren and froze. Within seconds, a squad car had pulled into the alley. The Highland Park police, like those in any tony neighborhood, were particularly fascistic in their peacekeeping duties. A cop entered the backyard and first came across fellow sophomore Jason deMarini, who, to Dan’s surprise, was not doing anything wrong, and screamed at him to get on his knees, hands high.

  That set off a panic, and those left in the backyard scooted into the house to hide. But there were a couple of cops inside too, clearing out the kitchen. Dan had edged into the shadows of the backyard below a lone droopy pine. The backyard Gestapo kept yelling at people to get on their knees. Is this asshole actually going to arrest people? Dan started to freak out. He couldn’t get arrested, for two reasons. The first was these were just bullshit circumstances—he wasn’t even tipsy. The second was that he was more afraid of his mother than the Highland Park police department. He snuck behind the pine tree as the cop knocked wine coolers off tables and continued to harass the partygoers, shining his flashlight into various dilated pupils.

  “You know who called us, folks? Everyone. The whole goddamn neighborhood complained. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re officially done here.” The cop grabbed some drunk wiseass—Yep, that’s Tim Hebert from honors bio—by the collar. “Have something to say about that? Try me. All of you are in a shit-ton of trouble.”

  The cop turned away, and Dan hitched himself over the fence. As he swung his leg over the top, a spotlight fell on him.

  “You! Get down!”

  Dan swung his other leg around and fell into a row of hedges. He sprinted across the neighbor’s yard, the thick St. Augustine grass a strange and beautiful blue in the moonlight. He had seconds before a cop tried to cut him off in the alley. As luck would have it, the next fence over was chain link and only five feet high, and Dan hurdled it quick on both ends, putting him three houses down. He heard the squad car begin its crawl down the alley. The next fence was twelve feet high and it was facing in, with no good crossbeams to make purchase on. Dan scanned the far end of the chain link. The house across the alley didn’t have a fence at all and was an open run to the next street over.

  The cop car was rolling down the alley, its searchlight cast on the yard adjacent to the Barlows’. Dan scooted toward the chain link, hopped it in a loud jangle, and made his break for it, darting across the alley in front of the cop car. The spotlight followed, and he was now in a dead sprint as the cruiser pulled up behind him. He booked it around the side of the house, almost tripping on the knotted roots of an unpruned peach tree growing sideways and south.

  Around the corner, Dan veered left and stayed low as he scurried across several front lawns. There was a streetlight at the end of the block, which he avoided as he cut across. He looked over his shoulder—there was no spotlight following him yet. He kept running, hugging the hedges of the fancy houses and looking for another cut-through. Another block or two and I’ll be clear.

  And just then, the patrol car came roaring around the corner, full cherries lit. Dan ducked into the nearest side yard and hopped another fence. He wanted to hunker down, but something was moving in the backyard. Footsteps—no, it was something rushing toward him, huffing, panting.

  Shit.

  It was a dog, but not just any dog—a fucking red-eyed Rottweiler was on its hump careening straight toward him. Dan froze. The beast had him cornered. I’m so dead. The dog launched itself at Dan, who at the last second rolled to the side. The dog went flying and let out a bloodcurdling yelp as it slammed jaws-first into the fence. Dan took off across the yard as the dog shook off its concussion and growled. Now it was really riled. Dan sprinted ten steps and—Goddamn it—he almost went straight into a pool, which he tightroped and tiptoed around. The demon dog was bac
k on his tail, barking. The patio lights went on, which were sure to draw the cops’ attention. He hopped the next fence in two adrenalined steps and flew over onto the canvas cover of a Mercedes coupe. The car alarm went off, the Rottweiler howling while trying to hurdle the fence, and all the lights in the house went on. All Dan needed to make more noise was a spoon and a pot to bang on. The cops pulled up to the driveway of the house, and Dan rolled off the car and ran down the alley, back against the direction they were coming. Four doors down he found another yard without a fence and kept going, cutting over again and again until he was five or six blocks away. There he found a big ball of maiden grass and he rolled behind it, nearly hyperventilating, nearly vomiting. He wiped what felt like slobber from the dog off his face. It was that close.

  A long, still moment passed. There were no flashlights following and no cop car in pursuit. It was just him, panting in the ornamental grasses like an exhausted springbok on the veldt. He retched up the few sips of vodka that he had downed. Another quiet minute under the moonlight, and still no cops, no cars, and no idea where he was.

  Dan tried to fix his inner compass. He had run south from the Barlows’. So that means that Preston Road is still on my left, the tollway on my right. Calling his mom for a ride home would defeat the entire purpose of successfully winning a manhunt with the Highland Park police department. He was a fugitive from justice now. He decided to turn around, get to Preston, and start north. Maybe go back to the Barlow house? But that felt like exactly what the cops were waiting for him to do.

  After ten minutes of walking he made it to the corner of Preston and Lorraine, where he stared across the six lanes as the occasional car sheered past. There were no taxis and no buses that late. Hitchhiking was just asking to become a dire urban legend. It was coming up on midnight, and he was supposed to spend the night at Rick’s.

  Crap.

  Dan had no choice but to start walking home. He had escaped the worst trouble—getting caught drinking by the police—and could make up some story for his mother. We got separated at a party. Rick left me stranded because of some girl. He could work on that hard-luck tale as he tried to make it through North Dallas without getting killed or arrested. He trudged along Preston, the next block to a stoplight taking forever. He considered how Oglesby would rate his escape. Norwegian rat caliber? I doubt he’d be impressed with Trevor Kowalski shooting fireworks out of his ass. And now I’m lost out here. More suffering, more salao. Big-time salao. The gate for the country club came up across the street. Goddamn rich assholes and their asshole police force. He reached the light for Mockingbird.

  As he waited for the light to change, a red Toyota pulled up to the intersection. The car looked familiar, but the windows were tinted, and Dan didn’t want to invite eye contact.

  And then the window rolled down. It was Rick.

  “Jesus Christ, Malone.”

  “Oh thank God.”

  Dan climbed into the car. Beppe Ravioli was driving, and they had picked up Sticky, who looked at Dan like he was dealing crack.

  “Holy shit, Malone—what happened to you?”

  “The cops came, and I ran.”

  “Why?”

  “They were arresting people. How did you guys not get busted?”

  “We just stood there while they took all the booze and then made everyone leave the house.”

  “Oh.”

  “But they were chasing someone. They had three cruisers pull up and then started searching.”

  “Oh.”

  Sticky was about to have a cow. “Was that for you, Malone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You moron, why did you run?” Beppe snickered.

  “I thought . . .”

  Rick started to laugh. “More importantly, how did you escape the entire goddamn Highland Park police department?”

  “I’m just that good.”

  “We went to IHOP and were about to give up on you, but Rick said we should make one last pass by the Barlows’ in case you came back.”

  “Well, you found me.”

  “You’re an idiot.” Sticky looked out the window in disbelief.

  Rick turned and offered Dan a high five. “Seriously, how the fuck did you pull that off?”

  “Thanks for coming back for me.” Dan slapped Rick’s palm. “You two can go fuck yourselves.”

  “Fuckin’-a, Malone.” Rick smiled and shook his head. “I can’t believe you made it!”

  The light changed, and Beppe made the turn onto Preston for the long drive back to Plano. And with that, Dan sat back and let Rick herald the legend of his escape from the law.

  [ NOVEMBER 13 ]

  “Officer Bodel”—Douglas Blackburn stepped toward the witness stand—“can you describe the scene upon your arrival at the Raleigh residence?”

  The Dallas police officer consulted his incident log and recited the following: “We responded to an emergency dispatch at eleven forty-three p.m., and arrived at 9324 Credo Drive at eleven fifty-two p.m. The paramedics from Fire and Rescue were already on location. We proceeded around to the alleyway behind the residence and parked at the end of the driveway. The garage door was half raised, and within the garage the medics were attending to Mrs. Raleigh.”

  “Was the light on in the garage?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then how could you see all of this?”

  “Reverend Raleigh’s car was still parked in the driveway; the headlights were on.”

  “Okay, and as you approached the garage, what did you see?”

  “Mrs. Raleigh was lying on the ground.”

  “Did you notice signs of a struggle?”

  “No, the garage and the house were tidy.”

  “Would you say someone had cleaned up?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Withdrawn. What was the state of Margaret Raleigh at this point?”

  Juror number six, Anne Malone, perked up at this latest volley. She scrutinized the district attorney, who was almost too cool and composed. With the defense attorney Haynes Whiteside ready to pounce at the slightest, Douglas Blackburn took the quick rebuke in stride. In fact, he had already scored the point without needing the cop’s testimony as to whether the crime scene looked too clean. No struggle could mean she knew the attacker, Anne speculated, and let him get close.

  “Mrs. Raleigh was not breathing. She was unconscious. Her face was swollen, her neck covered in a series of red welts. The way she was lying on the ground, her head angled from her body, indicated that her neck had been broken.”

  “Was there a belt or a rope, or anything in the garage by which Peggy Raleigh could have choked herself?”

  “No, sir. Not that we came across.”

  His hands. He had to be close. Very close.

  “During the time you were at the Credo Drive residence, how long did the paramedics work on Mrs. Raleigh?”

  “I would say ten minutes before they took her away in the ambulance.”

  “And in that ten minutes, what was Reverend Raleigh doing?”

  “He paced back and forth between the house and the garage.”

  “Did he hold his wife’s hand?”

  “No.”

  “Did he kneel next to her?”

  “No.”

  “Did he whisper a prayer in her ear?”

  “No.”

  “Did he touch her? Stroke her hair or her arm?”

  “No, he stayed clear. He said nothing and did nothing.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  * * *

  Day one of the Standing Raleigh trial. After jury selection there had been a series of delays. Whiteside had asked for more time to prepare, and that sparked rumors in the papers (which Anne was not supposed to read but did anyway). The first was that Raleigh was going to confess. But the case was
too high-profile for the district attorney to offer a plea deal. The second story—no doubt started by Whiteside—was the DPD were looking into another suspect.

  Both of these juristic rabbit holes kept moving the start of the trial back until it landed on that Friday. That morning the jury had heard opening statements. Blackburn was heavy-handed and Miltonic—Reverend Raleigh had fallen like Lucifer himself. Whiteside was more nuanced, Anne thought, admitting Raleigh was a man of frailties and sins, but that didn’t make him evil or capable of attempted murder. Benefit of the doubt. Be aware of your own bias, she reminded herself. Judge the facts, not the history of the Christian church and its clergy.

  After lunch, the prosecution presented the medical evidence, and Anne’s stoic approach crumbled. The chief examiner described in detail how grisly it was to strangle Mrs. Raleigh and how hypoxia to her brain had led to her current comatose state. It was completely abominable, and Anne kept sneaking looks at Standing Raleigh but couldn’t get a read on him. He sat there emotionless through it all. He wore a very expensive tailored blue suit with a pocket square, his thinning sandstone-gray hair perfectly combed.

  Inscrutable. Distant. And well coached, Anne surmised.

  * * *

  “Your Honor, I’d like to call Detective Hume to the stand.”

  Detective James Hume had a shaved bald head like Mr. Clean. He wore a gray pinstripe suit and a silver silk tie, the knot hanging below a collar cheater. With a lineman frame filled out over years on the force, he was still imposing as the hard soles of his black boots announced each step across the courtroom floor. Blackburn gave Hume an assuring nod and began.

  “Detective, can you tell the court how long you’ve been a member of the Dallas Police Department?”

  “Eighteen years.”

  “And how long have you been an investigative officer?”

  “Five years.”

  “Detective, when did you first meet Reverend Raleigh?”