The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  “I barely touched her, Dad.”

  “I know that. But you’ll still be in trouble. Bad trouble. Trouble I cannot help you with.”

  “What should I do, then?” Teddy asked, his voice getting weaker.

  “You’re going to have to tell one of your stories.”

  Teddy perked up at the sound of that.

  “Yeah. Cool.”

  “Make it so nobody thinks about you and Susan anymore.”

  “I could say I wasn’t there.”

  “No cigar, kiddo. Come on. Think.”

  “What, then?”

  Swope squatted, so that he was on his son’s level.

  “You’re going to have to say you saw somebody else do it.”

  “Yeah.” Teddy’s eyes widened. “I could make up this real bad mother. Some kind of demented hippie drifter. A cross between Manson and—”

  “Teddy.”

  His son stopped.

  “It has to be somebody who exists. Someone the cops can get their hands on. Otherwise the focus will wind up right back on you.”

  Teddy looked away, as if the words hurt him. He was getting it. The experts were right. The kid was no dummy.

  “Who?” he asked finally.

  “You know.”

  “Not Joel.”

  “Yes. Joel.”

  Teddy shook his head.

  “No way, Dad.”

  Swope moved closer to him, placing a hand on his son’s clammy forearm.

  “Listen to me, Edward. You are looking at a dose of trouble right now that will completely ruin your life. I know you didn’t mean to hurt that girl. I know it was an accident. But the law won’t recognize these things.”

  “But …”

  “Look around this office. I know the law. Better than anyone you will ever meet—even at Harvard. And that law will make you pay. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Teddy nodded dully.

  “You will go to jail for what you did. Jail, Teddy. Not Harvard. But prison. With killers and rapists who will take advantage of you in the worst possible ways. For years and years you will be tortured and enslaved and spat upon. And when you finally come out there will be nothing for you. No Harvard and certainly no law school. Nothing. You will wash dishes, young man. You’ll live alone in a cold-water flat above a Laundromat. There will be nothing left for you to do but count the days until they lower you into your grave, a forgotten, ignominious failure.”

  “But they might find me innocent. There’s a chance of that, right?”

  “Slim to none. But okay, let’s say they did. For argument’s sake. Even that wouldn’t be much better. Because then you will simply be the boy who killed Susan Truax and got away with it. People will hate you even more. What do you think Harvard will say? They don’t care about technical guilt at a place like that. They care about honor. Honor. That’s who you’ll be for the rest of your life—the kid who beat the rap.”

  Teddy said nothing.

  “There will only be one moment for you to get out of this. Now. Tomorrow morning or even an hour from now will be too late. And there’s only one way. You must say that someone else did it.”

  “But I can’t say that. He’s my friend. He’s … innocent.”

  Swope stood and walked back to his window, giving his head a sardonic shake.

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  “What?”

  Swope turned back to his son.

  “That the boy who used your goodwill to break the law—that this guy is innocent.”

  “Joel didn’t break the law.”

  “How old is Susan?”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  “Then she’s a minor, Teddy. If her parents say Joel can’t see her, that’s the law. Period. Jesus, even if this accident didn’t happen you could still get in trouble for doing what you did. The last time I checked, aiding and abetting someone in the commission of a crime was deemed felonious.”

  Which was bullshit, of course. No prosecutor in the world would go after his son for that. But Teddy had no way of knowing this. Not until he’d spent a few years in Cambridge.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Teddy stared down at his soggy shoes. Swope knew he still had a bit more to do to close this thing out. And he had to hurry.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said. “If you tell this story, then I’ll guarantee you that Joel gets a very light sentence. I’ll make sure they send him to one of those country club prisons. We’re talking months, not years. You know the kind of pull I have with Spivey and Chones. And I’ll also make sure he makes bail right away so he can stay at home while the grown-ups sort this mess out. He’ll be home within hours. And when he gets out, nothing will have changed for him. Not really. He can still go to college. Get a job with his dad. Teddy, listen to me. If we don’t fix this now, then your life will be over. The first story you tell is the only one they’ll believe. After that no one will be paying attention. I know about these things. I know.”

  “But Joel …” he protested, though without conviction this time.

  “It’d be no different if he got hit by a car or came down with cancer. Just the Fickle Finger of Fate.”

  Teddy stared at the desk for a long time. Swope could see that he was coming around.

  “He was going to run away,” he said, his voice justifying.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Joel and Susan were going to run away.”

  Swope didn’t understand the relevance of this. He nodded anyway. Anything to help his son over that last hurdle.

  “Edward, nothing will be gained by your taking the blame for this. Susan will still be gone.” It was time to play his trump. “And there’s one more thing. I don’t want to mention it because it seems selfish. But …”

  “What?”

  “What you’ve done will ruin me should it come to light.”

  Teddy winced.

  “Do you think I’ll be able to be city manager with a son in jail? Or even with a son suspected of murder? And your mother. Do you think she’ll be able to leave her bedroom, much less show her face in public?”

  Teddy looked at his filthy hands.

  “So what should I do?”

  “Just agree to say what I tell you to say. That’s all. A few dozen words and I swear to you no harm will come to any of us.”

  “But what if the sheriff—”

  “Ralph Chones will not come near you unless I’m sitting right by your side. If he tries any rough stuff I will cut off his balls with a rusty razor blade and shove them down his throat. Ditto for that pencil-neck piece of shit Lon Spivey.” Swope was speaking very quietly now, thrilling at the sound of his own words. “This is my city, Teddy. No one will fuck with what is mine here. No one.”

  Teddy’s eyes had slowly closed during the speech. Swope waited for the answer upon which their lives now depended.

  “I buried Paul,” he murmured after a long moment.

  “What?”

  Teddy’s eyes snapped open.

  “Okay. It’s cool. I’ll do it.”

  Swope felt as if some passageway that had been clogged with a vile plaque suddenly disgorged deep within him. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the back of his son’s neck. His skin was so cold. The water. The fear. He began to rub it, trying to knead in some warmth.

  “I won’t let you get hurt, Teddy. You know that, don’t you?”

  Teddy sniffled and nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  They honed the story as they drove to the lake. Anticipating questions. Cutting away extraneous details. Making sure of the sequence.

  Getting it just right.

  “Are you clear on all this?” Swope asked as Newton Plaza came into view.

  “Sure. I mean, it’s almost like the truth.”

  “That it is,” Swope said. “That it is.”

  His relief deepened as they pulled into the lot. It was quiet and empty. No sirens. No cro
wds. Swope’s eyes traveled down to the darkened pier as he pulled into his space.

  “Could Joel still be there?”

  Teddy shook his head.

  “I told him if we didn’t show by ten to go back home and wait for me to come by.”

  “All right. You stay here. If you see anybody, don’t panic. Tell them I’m here. I’ll explain what’s going on. Just don’t say anything, all right? That’s the cornerstone to this entire operation—sticking to the story. No improvising. No fine-tuning.”

  Teddy snorted.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Swope got his cell-battery flashlight from the trunk and made his way down to the waterfront. That dangling brass apple on the Gravity Tree never looked more imperiled. The only sounds were his footsteps and negligible waves lapping against the pilings. As he drew closer to the damaged pier he knew that this was it. The pivotal moment of his life. If he pulled it off, then everything would be fine. Teddy would be safe and their future intact.

  If not, then it was all over.

  Getting over the fence was a pain in the ass. That pile of dead fish stank to high heaven, casting a pall over the whole scene. As he moved along the pier he looked at the Pavilion’s cloudlike canopy rising above the north shore’s trees. He remembered authorizing some OT for the crew there, though there was no way the workers could have seen or heard anything. The pier began to angle to the left, forcing him to lean into the slope and modify his gait so he wouldn’t slip. He stopped when he reached the point above the boat platform where Teddy said it happened. He stared down into the dark lake. The reality of the situation suddenly struck him, provoking an uprising of panic it took him several seconds to quell. He could feel it now. The death. His son’s crime. It lingered in the air like the stink of those rotting fish. He thought about that dumb, pretty girl lying on the wet clay, all that water holding her down. He thought about John Truax, out there working for him. He thought about Irma, teetering unknowingly on the brink of a nightmare. And Wooten. About to be punished for his betrayal.

  He thumbed on his light. The brown water was perfectly still, its smooth surface interrupted by a single dead fish, its silver skin as brilliant as chipped quartz. The flashlight caught its eye and, for a moment, it seemed to wink back up at him. He moved the beam around the surrounding pier, just to get the scene in his mind before the people came.

  This was all right, he thought. This will work.

  He jogged back to the lobby of Newton Plaza, pausing for a moment at the car to tell Teddy that everything was going according to plan. His son simply stared at him. The guard was at his desk, thumbing through a copy of Hustler. He hadn’t seen anything unusual that night—except for Earl Wooten’s son heading back toward Mystic Hills about an hour ago. He’d stopped him, thinking he might be one of those punks that had been running wild down here.

  “How did he seem?” Swope asked.

  The guard shrugged.

  “Kind of distracted. When I found out he was Mr. Wooten’s kid I cut him loose.”

  Perfect, Swope thought.

  “All right.”

  “Something wrong?” the guard asked, nervous now.

  Swope didn’t answer. He took his small address book from a coat pocket and looked up Chones’s home number. He used the courtesy phone to make the call. The sheriff’s voice was sleepy.

  “Ralph, this is Austin. Look, there’s been some trouble at the lake.”

  The guard watched Swope with astonishment as he told Chones the story. After hanging up, Swope silenced the man’s attempt at self-explanation with a raised finger. He had one more call to make.

  The phone was answered before the first ring had even stopped.

  “Irma, this is Austin Swope. Is John there?”

  “John? Yes. I thought you were … here he is.”

  Truax was on the phone immediately. He’d been standing right there.

  “John, I need you to come down to Newton Plaza.”

  There was a pause.

  “Is something wrong with Susan?” Truax asked.

  Irma was speaking German in the background.

  “John, please, just come. Right away.”

  After ordering the guard to remain at his post, Swope went back out to the Town Car. He lit a Tiparillo and leaned against the hood, looking everywhere but at that damaged pier. Teddy stayed in the passenger seat. Neither said a word. They avoided each other’s eyes until sirens began to sound in the distance. Teddy looked up in near panic. Swope nodded.

  “This is part of it,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  As the sirens drew closer, he ran over the whole grisly mess in his mind. Everything had been accounted for. And even if there were some rough edges, he doubted anyone would be examining them too closely. A white girl was dead. The respected son of a prominent lawyer witnessed her murder by a black boy who’d been forbidden from seeing her following a pants-down confrontation with her parents. He didn’t imagine the authorities would be looking for nuances on this one.

  Two prowlers arrived, one after the other. Swope told the deputies Teddy’s story. They wanted to question the boy but Swope explained that Chones was coming. They didn’t press it. They knew who they were talking to. Swope led them down to the pier, the three of them clambering noisily over the fence. Teddy stayed in the car. One of the cops cracked a flare, planting it in the moist earth beside the pier’s mouth. The cops stared wordlessly at the mound of dead fish for a moment, as if this might have some bearing on matters, then followed Swope down to the end of the pier. They lifted their arms for balance as they reached the sloped section, like pedestrians hitting a patch of unexpected ice.

  “So this is where it happened?” the first cop asked, staring down at the boat platform.

  “Yes, it is,” Swope said.

  “Damn,” the second cop opined.

  Chones arrived at the same time as the engine from the Cannon County VFD. They didn’t have to climb the fence—a fireman snipped off its chain with some heavy-duty wire cutters. Swope and one of the deputies met Chones at the pier’s mouth. The deputy gave him the canned version of the story. Swope let him talk without interruption—the story sounded more objective coming from the uniform. As he spoke the volunteers rolled aside the fifty-five-gallon drums, causing one of them to fall into the water beneath the deck. Everybody winced at the sound.

  “Where’s the boy?” Chones asked.

  “Back up in my car. I thought it better that he wasn’t here for …”

  Swope let the sentence finish itself.

  “We might need him to point out where she’s at.”

  “I know.”

  Chones nodded sourly.

  “Well, let’s see what we got, then.”

  He led everyone along the pier. With their hats and coats and big boots, the firemen looked outsized, bigger than ordinary men. Chones wore a black windbreaker with the word SHERIFF stenciled across its back. Everybody stared at him when they reached the end. For the moment, he seemed more interested in the slanted wood beneath him than the lake’s still water.

  “This thing ain’t gonna fall down beneath us, is it?”

  “No,” Swope said. “It’s stabilized. You could drive a truck on it.”

  “In that case let’s get this deal done.”

  Swope lit a Tiparillo and stepped aside, letting it happen. One of the firemen went for a rental rowboat. Others toted portable arc lamps and generator down from their engine. They attached the lights to the jutting support beams spaced at ten-foot intervals along the pier. Wires soon connected them to the generator. Someone cranked it up by pulling the cord, just like a Saturday-morning lawn mower. The lake quickly filled with its sound. The lights sputtered on, their beams angled down at the boat platform and the murky water surrounding it. Big police flashlights and the traffic flare added to the maelstrom of light.

  A fireman with a pencil-thin mustache changed into diving gear that he pulled from a huge duffel bag on the boat platform. A
fter donning the suit he slid into the lake as quietly as someone entering a hot bath. A few seconds later the fireman in the rowboat arrived. He’d stripped to his T-shirt and suspenders, his thick arms laden with vivid tattoos. The frogman gripped the side of the boat, fixed something to his mouth, and then went under.

  Nothing happened for the next few minutes. Swope looked at Chones—he stared at the boat with the neutral expression of a man watching his dog piss on public land. Diesel fumes leaked from the chugging generator, creating a cloud that hung just above the arc lights. Finally, the diver’s slick, snorkeled head burst through the filmy surface. He grabbed the boat’s aluminum hull and looked up at Chones, shaking his head tersely. Chones nodded to the man on the boat, who gently dipped his oars, pulling the diver to a new location, this one closer to the water-level platform. When the boat had come to a rest the diver slid back beneath the water.

  Swope saw John and Irma Truax arrive just after he went under. He met them halfway along the pier and explained that the search was just a precaution. There was no reason for panic.

  “No reason?” Irma asked, her voice shrill and bewildered.

  “I’m taking care of this,” Swope said, meeting her eye. “I promise you.”

  They moved to the crowded end of the pier, joining the small crowd of firemen and cops who stood bracing themselves against the pitch. Chones saw them coming. He looked at Swope, raising his eyebrows slightly. Swope nodded. Irma’s face was now drawn back into a frozen silent shriek. She held tightly to the sleeve of her husband’s windbreaker, as if she were suddenly afraid of sliding off the tilted wood. Truax was as impassive as ever, his gloved hand hanging limply at his side. There was no question of him slipping.

  There was a commotion in the lake. The diver emerged, more noisily than he had the first time, brown water streaming off his cowl. He held up his right thumb. Chones sighed and stared down at his shoe, which he kicked idly at the pier for a moment, as if trying to dislodge a piece of it. Finally, he looked at the Truaxes.