“You believe the Hangmen could have influenced the prosecution.”
“No doubt. How do you prove it?”
Clint didn’t have an answer.
CHAPTER 17
One gray day after another ran together for Leah. The hardest month was August and the one-year anniversary of Brad’s death. Her father’s weekly visits helped steady her and, surprisingly, so did the rigid routine of prison. September and October passed in a blur. There was no opportunity to retreat and bury her head in the sand. The need for a sweatshirt in the recreation area reminded her that time was moving on and they were swiftly moving toward winter. She kept to herself but still stayed close to Nora. One day during recreation a woman approached her. She had the look of a speed freak: bad teeth, sallow skin.
“I’m Donna.” She held out a hand. “You the one who killed her husband ’cause he was beating you?”
Leah tensed. “Yes.”
“Good. ’Bout time we won a round. It’s always the man that kills the woman. I had a man beat me once or twice, wish I could have done the same as you.”
In her peripheral vision, Leah could see other women watching the exchange. She hesitated a second. She wasn’t proud of shooting Brad, far from it. And she certainly didn’t want it to be a win for feminists. Yet she understood this woman’s sentiment. Leah had seen her share of women victimized by men.
She took the extended hand. “Leah.”
“Glad to meet you.” Donna looked over at Nora. “I know your cellie. This is my third stay here. We met before. She’s a Jesus freak. Harmless and nice, though.” She sat down on the bench next to Leah and continued to talk.
“I was wondering . . . There’s a running program here in the prison, organized by a nonprofit, called Reason to Run. I enrolled. Tried everything else to keep me off drugs. Maybe this will do the trick,” she said. “You interested in joining up too?”
Leah had heard about the group. It was all about women encouraging one another to form healthy habits that they could continue once they were released. The women in the program trained together for a 5K run. It didn’t interest her in the least.
“No, jogging is really not my thing.”
“It might help. You’re depressed—I can tell. I was so depressed my first time in.”
Leah looked at Donna out of the corner of her eye, wondering who had put her up to this. “Sorry, not interested.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.” She got up and trotted off for the track. Leah watched her leave and then noticed for the first time that there was a basketball hoop in the yard. Maybe she needed exercise, just not jogging.
After recreation ended, on the way back to her cell, she asked Nora, “Will they give me a basketball?”
“Sure, you can sign one out.”
A few days later she did just that. As she rolled the ball around in her hands, the feel of the taut orange leather evoked long-forgotten memories. While basketball had dominated her early life, Leah had played very little since she graduated from college. Playing at the collegiate level spoiled the game for her. She loved having fun on the court, she liked to win, but the push to win at all costs left a sour taste in her mouth. And Brad hated the game. When she bounced the basketball for the first time in the recreation area, she couldn’t remember when she’d last played.
It felt awkward at first, but better with each bounce. To limber up, she just walked up and down the length of the blacktop, bouncing the ball. Memories flooded back: winning the state championship in high school. Her mother was alive then. She was killed two months after the championship game.
Leah started shifting the ball from hand to hand, stepping up her pace. Then she did some dribbling between the legs, snappy and quick down the length of the yard. Finally, breathing hard, she pivoted, turned, and shot her signature twenty-foot jumper. Air ball—she missed the basket by a mile.
Standing there, heart racing, Leah watched the ball bounce away. She could hear her mother’s encouragement from years ago when Leah was just starting to play. All the other girls were so much taller.
“Try again, Leah. Size doesn’t matter. Practice will level the playing field. It’s the only thing that will help you get better.”
Mom was right. Leah practiced hard and eventually made varsity squad, then all-American. Then college. She’d always been able to work hard and do better.
Now, what was the point?
Defeat set in and tears threatened. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Leah felt like she was the air ball, off target and useless.
“You want to play?”
Leah turned. Nora had been watching.
“Don’t think so.”
Nora picked up the basketball and walked toward Leah. “Some one-on-one? Might do us both a lot of good.”
Leah hiked a shoulder. “I’m too rusty.”
“Change your mind, let me know.” Nora tossed the ball back and walked away.
Later, back in their cell, listening to Nora snore, Leah curled up in her bunk, wishing she could close her eyes and make the nightmare go away.
Wouldn’t happen. Brad was dead and he would stay dead.
Another of her mother’s sayings floated through her thoughts. “With the wrong attitude, everything can look dark. Change your attitude and you change your circumstances.” Nora had said almost exactly the same thing.
Tears flowed. “I can’t, Mom. I can’t,” she whispered. “Things seem dark because they are dark. I’m in a pit I’ll never be able to climb out of.”
She saw the Bible on the floor in her corner where she’d tossed it. She’d scribbled a bit in the sketch pad her father had brought, and it was on the tiny portion of the desk area reserved for her use. But she had no interest in the Bible and had thrown it on the floor.
Just before lights-out, Leah got up and retrieved the Bible, careful not to wake Nora. She sat on the bed and opened it. Written on the inside cover was a note from her father.
Whether you like it or not, I’m praying for you. I always have, and I always will.
Leah stared at her father’s writing until the lights went out and she couldn’t see it any longer.
CHAPTER 18
New Year’s Day, Clint sat in church and barely heard the message. He’d told Leah to trust a system that was likely rigged against her. He’d wanted to give her hope, not mislead her. But the first anniversary of Brad’s death had come and gone, and Clint knew he’d soon wake up one day to the realization that Leah had been in prison for a year. Yet they were no closer to seeing her freed. The appeals process was on a snail’s pace. Where was God?
The question stabbed at him. Almost immediately an answer stabbed back—God was right with her, every step of the way. He remembered when Randy had shared that Leah asked to be moved to general population and Clint almost lost it. Reliving that moment helped him to focus and calmed the turbulence in his soul. God had provided for Leah then when no one else could; there was no reason to think he wouldn’t keep providing.
“Why take her out of segregation?” he’d asked at the time.
“She wanted out, said she didn’t like being by herself,” Randy told him. “They did give her a cellmate I’ve heard of, Leonora Lyons. She played basketball too. I’m praying that it’s a good, safe change for Leah.”
Clint had researched Lyons and discovered that he couldn’t have picked a better cellmate for Leah. Lyons was genuinely repentant and apologetic. She also claimed to have found God in prison. Clint grudgingly gave thanks for that. He went from “maybe God is working” to acknowledging that “yes, of course God is working.” In spite of that knowledge, the New Year had him back in struggle mode. Why hadn’t she been cleared yet?
And when he met Randy for lunch after church, things were worse than he thought.
“I had to let the attorney go,” Randy told him over coffee. “While he charged less than the POA attorney, it was stretching my resources. As far as the pending appeal goes, he said it could take u
p to eighteen months to be heard. I have time to search for a new lawyer.”
Clint bit his tongue when a bitter, impatient comment threatened. Taking a deep breath, he searched for something positive to say. Randy had become a good friend; Clint needed to help any way he could.
“We’ll start a GoFundMe page or find an attorney to work pro bono. My parents are familiar with a lot of Christian firms that might take the case,” Clint offered.
“Leah’s conviction was not about religion; it was pure injustice. Maybe we need to look toward those organizations that look into criminal justice wrongs.”
Clint nodded. “That’s an idea, but let me exhaust all my avenues first. Maybe my folks can give me some recommendations.”
“Thank you for all you’re doing, Clint. At least my fears about Leah leaving isolation never came to pass. She is doing good despite the move.”
“How is Leah getting along with her cellmate?”
Randy shrugged. “I’ll say good, because she doesn’t complain about her. Still, she looks so lost.”
Clint wondered if Lyons was the problem or if it was simply being in jail. When he looked in Randy’s eyes, he saw the uncertainty there and knew he had to offer some encouragement, even if he didn’t feel it.
“I researched Leonora Lyons on the Internet. I remembered her name from basketball.”
“What did you find out?”
“That she was truly repentant after the accident. She asked the family and God to forgive her for what happened.”
“Repentant?”
“Yeah, Randy. Think about it: we’re all worried, but God is there watching over her while we can’t.” After he made the statement, Clint prayed that the confidence would infuse his own heart.
For the first time Clint could remember, Randy smiled. “Why, thanks for that. I know it, but I needed to be reminded. Bless you for reminding me.”
“No problem, Randy. I wish I could do more.”
As they ate breakfast, Randy told Clint all about the latest visit. Clint didn’t tell Randy about the Hangmen; he was still working out how to deal with the clandestine organization. Cops enforced laws; they didn’t make up their own set and ignore what they didn’t like. Depending on how widespread the Hangmen really were, it would be a scandal that could tear his department apart.
He also decided it was time to promote. The sergeant’s test was going to be given soon, and Clint felt confident that he was ready to take the next step in his career. The administration was considering starting up a new smuggling task force, and Clint wanted to be part of it, hopefully as supervisor.
When he returned to work on Monday, there was another note in his box from IA. This time it was a formal complaint. In disbelief Clint saw that a woman he’d arrested a month ago filed a complaint that he’d sexually molested her. He reread the name and remembered the arrest. It was of a meth addict. Her family had paid for her to spend the weekend in a Motel 6, to clean up and eat well for a change. The addict repaid their kindness by trashing the room and then threatening the manger with a knife when he tried to throw her out. Clint arrested her as she started to come down off her high. She fell asleep two minutes after he left the hotel parking lot. That she would make such a claim was outrageous.
He could feel his face redden with anger, and his first inclination was to storm the IA offices and choke the life out of Racer. This was bogus on steroids. And a serious IA complaint would definitely derail his chances at promotion.
“You okay?”
Clint looked up from the paper. Marvin Sapp stood in front of him.
Clint swallowed, working to tamp down his temper. “Fine.” He waved the paper. “IA.”
“Anything to do with Leah?” Sapp asked.
Clint shook his head. Sapp continued on his way.
The complaint said Clint was to report to Racer at 3 p.m. It was only 9 a.m., so he had the whole day to stew over the false charge. Taking a deep, calming breath, he walked out to the lot, climbed into his patrol car, and went to work.
Sapp’s question rang in his head. “Anything to do with Leah?” The more he thought about the complaint, the more he realized that maybe it did have to do with Leah indirectly. He’d probably gotten on the wrong side of the Hangmen. He prayed for the truth to prevail as he drove. He’d learned after the beating he’d received as a teen never to wade into fights when he was overmatched. Racer had him by rank and position. Clint needed the Lord to fight this battle.
About halfway into his shift on this subdued January day, he cruised past the 7-Eleven on Manor Avenue and noticed something off. Making a left turn, he drove around to the back and parked his car. He radioed his location and then turned down his radio, wanting to scope out the store, not really sure what the problem was. As he reached the front, he peered into the window.
He almost didn’t believe his eyes. It was like a scene out of a movie. People were on the ground, and there was a masked gunman.
Clint’s heart rate spiked. “Boy-87, I have a robbery in progress.” He asked for a code red to keep radio traffic at a minimum while he waited for backup.
Drawing his weapon, Clint saw movement from the corner of his eye. He inched forward to gain a better view inside the store, holding his breath that the crooks did not look his way. There were two armed men he could see. One was waving a pistol around like a crackhead while the second had a young woman by the hair, dragging her toward the back of the store.
This was bad. His backup hadn’t arrived, but they must be close. Clint had to act; he’d never forgive himself if someone died while he waited.
He did a quick survey of the parking lot, looking for a layoff man, but saw no one.
Stepping forward, he kept his eyes on the gunmen, who were looking at each other, not toward him. Gun in a two-handed grip, he took three long steps and shouldered the front door open.
“Police! Freeze!” He raised his gun, targeting the man who had the woman, keeping the second man in his peripheral vision. Time slowed.
Both thugs did freeze for a split second, staring at him. Number one flinched first, releasing the woman to bring his gun up.
Clint fired two shots in rapid succession, ducked to his right, and turned the gun on the second man. Thug two moved backward and fired, but so did Clint. The window behind Clint shattered with a loud booming crash even as the second thug fell, knocking over a display rack and sending candy and chips everywhere.
The aftermath of an officer-involved shooting is controlled chaos. Backup arrived seconds after Clint had fired and helped him get a handle on things. The thug who’d had the girl was dead on scene; the second thug was alive when the medics picked him up, but he died at the hospital.
The only other seriously injured party was the store clerk. Before Clint’s arrival one of the criminals had pistol-whipped the man into unconsciousness. He was found behind the counter bleeding and unconscious.
“He wanted to rape me,” the girl sobbed as soon as Clint reached her. Eyes red from crying, hair completely disheveled, she clung to Clint.
“What’s your name?”
“Christie.”
He barely understood what she said. Christie was on the verge of hyperventilating. He did his best to console her as officers dealt with the bloody crime scene around them. Vicki Henderson came to his aid, pulling Christie away to calm her down and take her statement. Marvin Sapp grabbed Clint.
“Wow.” He pulled Clint aside. “Good job, but you need to take a break. The shooting team will want to talk to you. How are you holding up?”
Ears still ringing from the gunfire, pulse jumping, Clint took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’m okay, really. They gave me no choice.”
And he spoke truth. The people who’d been in danger were safe now—he’d done his job. That was the most satisfying thing to know.
CHAPTER 19
It was early morning before Clint got home. He was tired but his mind wouldn’t shut down. He took a shower, closing his eyes as hot
water ran down his head and over his whole body. He wanted to drown out the images of the shooting that kept replaying over and over in his mind. Clint had hoped he’d never have to shoot anyone. He knew he might have to, and he was ready, but deep down he was one of those cops who prayed that in his entire career he’d never have to fire his duty weapon. Now he knew he’d have to get a handle on this, or it would be an issue that haunted him.
After the shower, he made some coffee and sat down at his desk, checking the time. It was 5 a.m. here in Oregon, so that meant the time in Indonesia was 8 p.m. He turned on his computer, hoping he’d be able to catch his aunt GiGi for some Skype time. She was more technologically savvy than his parents, and he really felt the need to talk to her.
He’d lived with her from age fifteen to nineteen. Once he was accepted to college, she quit her job and threw in lock, stock, and barrel with Doctors Without Borders. Indonesia was a good base for her. From there she was flown to poorer countries that needed a doctor.
“You can take of yourself,” she’d told him, “or at least I know that God will take care of you. It’s time for me to go where I’m really needed.”
Clint understood. GiGi was a general practitioner whose heart bled for people in third world nations. He knew that as soon as she’d paid off her college loans, Doctors Without Borders was what she wanted. His coming to the States had delayed her dream by a couple of years. At the time, she insisted Clint’s parents stay where they were, and she gladly took Clint in. He loved GiGi as much as he loved his mom and dad and was glad for the time they’d had together.
Since she’d left, Clint could count on one hand the number of times she’d been back to the States. His parents had returned more, though they now considered Kyrgyzstan their home. GiGi flew all over the world at first, wherever doctors were needed. Recently she’d been more stable, spending long periods of time in Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, and many of the islands in that area of the world. Clint hoped he’d catch her at one of the rare times she was seated and taking a rest. He scored when she answered immediately.
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