Ryan's Suffering

by Lloyd Paulson

  "Nope. Lemme guess. She lives on Fourth Street?"

  Joe Cool told me to shut the fuck up. I told him to blow me.

  "So, you say you don’t know her, but you know where she lives?"

  I sighed, closed my eyes, and clenched my jaw a few times. I felt my temples pound with each beat of my heart. Finally, I opened my eyes, and looked directly at the detective. "You asked me if I had been to Fourth Street the other night. Wouldn’t it be safe to assume that the two subjects were related?"

  The detective just nodded again. "So, you admit to resisting arrest, and admit to knowing where Sarah Winters lived. So tell me, where can we find Sarah at, then?"

  "How the fuck should I know?"

  The detective stood up. "Look, Ryan. We know you did it. We just need to find the kids. Are they still alive?"

  I sighed. "I don’t know anything about any of that. Now it's plural. As in multiple kids?"

  He leaned forward. "Is it?"

  I rolled my eyes. "I have no fucking idea. So, am I under arrest?"

  He smiled. "Of course. That’s why I read you you’re rights. You are under arrest for resisting arrest. We've already established that."

  "Now how the fuck can I be under arrest for resisting arrest without being arrested for something else?"

  He smiled, and shrugged. "That's where we are at, at the moment."

  "So, do I need a lawyer?"

  "Are you asking for one? What on earth would you need a lawyer for?"

  SOB muttered it was a good idea. Joe Cool reminded me that Deputy Doofus wasn't here to offer me advice. "Well, can I make a phone call?"

  He shook his head no.

  "Not even to call a lawyer?"

  He sighed, and then nodded. "So, you need a lawyer when you didn’t do anything wrong, eh?"

  I asked Joe if asking for a lawyer implied guilt. Joe told me I was the one who couldn’t keep his smart-ass mouth shut. I ignored him. "I’m done answering questions. Get me a lawyer."

  That ended the interview; and the detective left.

  I wanted to tear the room apart. Instead, I was stuck in this uncomfortable bed, wracked with pain and wrestling with my frustration. I had no choice but to sit there and wait. I knew how to do that.

  The Mystery Benefactor

  "What if I’m not as crazy as I thought I was?"

  JC revealed the horrid implied answer. "Then you’ve lost your wife and family for nothing."

  After a few arguments with nurses, and in turn with one of the guards, I managed to call my lawyer. However, Trish had retained him for a pending civil matter that he wasn't at liberty to discuss, fucking imagine that. It didn’t take a large intuitive leap of imagination to figure out what that pending civil matter may be in regards to.

  "Well, who should I retain, then?"

  "As Trish’s lawyer, I can’t give you advice."

  "Hey, fuck you Tim," I said. I wished I could beat him with the goddamned phone receiver, the fucking prick. Our kids play together, for Christ’s sake. Joe and SOB were keeping their mouth shut. They knew I was in a dangerous mood.

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "Look Tim. I don’t know what the fuck is going on. They won’t tell me single goddamned thing. All I know is I was pulled over for no apparent reason, and I got my ass beaten to a pulp by a couple of cops. Again, for no goddamned reason. So, I am still trying to figure out what the fuck this is about, and some smart-ass detective decides to come over and treat me like shit. After running me through the wringer, it is apparent that I need legal representation in a criminal capacity."

  "I can’t do that. I won’t. Not for…Not for this."

  "For what? Do you know? I sure the fuck don’t. They keep asking me where to find all those kids."

  "Look, you are all over the news. It’s bad enough I knew you before all this. Goodbye."

  "Tim, please. I am being fucked over. Come on. Help me. You’ve known me for years. At least give me something. Help me. Please."

  "I don’t know what to think."

  "Just give me a name of a good defense lawyer. I know you are representing Trish. So no, you can’t refer me to another lawyer to handle the civil matter with Trish—that would be unethical. I get that. Whatever. But you can give me a decent defense lawyer’s name since it has nothing to do with that. There’s no conflict of interest in that, is there?"

  "I can’t."

  "Yes, you can. Our kids played together. I’ve cooked you steaks on my grill. I’ve played poker with you for years. As a friend, I am asking you just to give me a referral to another lawyer. No harm in that."

  "Talk to Rob Stevens." He gave me the number.

  "Thanks, Tim." I was sincere.

  "Fuck you, Ryan." For what it was worth, Tim sounded sincere as well.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  I lay in the hospital bed, occasionally squirming. I was unable to move much, and unable to sleep.

  Joe and SOB were ignoring me.

  When they were around, I spent most of my time wishing they would shut their fucking mouths. Now they wouldn’t say jack shit.

  If I was all over the news, I had no way to verify it. I had no TV. Fuck, I had no cell phone or internet. There wasn't even a complimentary paper when you were a guest of the prison floor of the hospital, either. Fucking barbarians. I thought television was a right as a prisoner. Three hots, a cot, a free college education. It was cruel and inhumane to go without the boob tube and internet.

  I left a message for the lawyer, but had not heard back.

  I watched the clock tick away the minutes.

  I was afraid to sleep.

  In the last twenty-four hours, I conversed with a dead man, suffered through bizarre nightmares, been flipped off by an old lady, interrogated about my past, my wife left me and then I was beaten and arrested. Busiest goddamned day I’ve had in awhile.

  Joe Cool finally spoke up and said let’s talk about Fourth Street and Jessica Winters. I told him fine, let’s face it head on. Did we, or did we not go over there? Outside of the name and rough location, we have no confirmation that what happened in the dream happened on Fourth Street.

  Joe asked me about the photo of Sarah Winters. That matched too.

  I was stumped for a moment, and finally found a retort. "Yeah, well there are some weird problems in the memory, for one. How about the damned shoe tree and dear old grand pappy?"

  SOB responded, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

  I told SOB that wasn’t fucking funny, given current circumstances, and to knock it the fuck off.

  Inside my head, I said, "As long as we're discussing cuckoo land, here’s a real stumper for you two cumquats. Explain eleven years ago in some way that makes sense."

  Joe Cool asked, "Well, what if the memories are real?"

  I mulled that over a bit. "Joe, that would imply that I’m not crazy, and I’m not guilty of anything."

  Joe Cool pointed out that Ridenour and the D.A. had never charged me with anything.

  SOB retorted, "That doesn’t mean the scattered memories were true."

  I ignored them for a while, thinking. I had made a promise, in order to get out of the loony bin, to admit that what scattered memories I had were fabrications of a broken psyche and admit I needed treatment and therapy. Even then, it was a long and painful road back to reality and stability, and eventually, release.

  I wrestled with the idea for a bit, and finally told Joe he was proposing a binary solution set. Either I’m crazy and have done horrible things, or I’m not crazy and there are some serious flaws with reality. Probabilities would indicate that it’s more likely I’m stark raving mad.

  SOB pointed out that this ends the circular argument: The question remains, either you are nuts or you’re not.

  To which I said, "I’m talking to you two fucking retards inside my head, so that answers that question."

  Still, Joe had a point. "What if I’m not as crazy as I thought I was?"

  JC revealed the horrid implied answer. "
Then you’ve lost your wife and family for nothing."

  Shocked, I burst into tears, and told Joe to go fuck himself.

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  Rob Stevens was my shiny new lawyer. Weirdly, I kept wondering if he'd have a new car smell. I had just finished explaining what I knew up until this point—the truth, but a sanitized version. I started with the sanitized amnesiac version of that night eleven years ago, the hospitalization afterwards, the sealed name change, and moving across the state to start a new life with no associations with that unsolved and bizarre tragedy. He was taking notes furiously, and stopped me once to ask why I was telling him this.

  "It blew up in my face yesterday, and I was arrested shortly thereafter. It might be relevant. My wife’s talking to the cops, and not me. She’s probably filing for divorce, and I’m willing to bet she’s telling the detectives all about my previous life. I don’t know what details she does have, but she has the key name, Vischer. It’s not hard to find the rest. God knows there were enough fucking news stories about it."

  I finished the background story of how I came to Dark Harbor, and then I told him about the visit from this bizarre asshole Tom Burkes from Bloomfield hills who was asking questions about eleven years ago on behalf of the Harmon Group, and I didn't know why. I explained that he had obviously visited my wife, and filled her in on some details I had kept from her. She called me a liar, and left. I assumed she had gone to her mother’s, and I left to go after her. I was pulled over, and gave him my recollection of the arrest. I then told him about the detective’s visit.

  "You should have talked to me before you talked to the detective."

  "Well, why? I didn’t do anything wrong, and asked me why I needed a lawyer if I didn't do anything wrong."

  Rob said, "Cops love that scare tactic, but it's bullshit bullying tactic. Lawyers are a right that everyone has, especially after they're arrested. They can't use that against you in court. They can't put you up on a stand, and say I asked him where he was at such and such a time, and then he clammed up and asked for his lawyer. That's highly prejudicial to a jury; it may mean nothing, but it would make someone look guilty as hell, even if he did nothing wrong. That's why that stunt's not allowed in a trial. They can’t tell the jury that you asked for a lawyer at such and such a time."

  "For what it is worth, it appears at this point that the two cops who worked you over have a paper thin story about what happened on the side of the road. However, the detective is sticking to his guns about you resisting arrest and knowing where the Winters’ house was. Combined with the parking ticket, what your wife said, and the physical evidence in your car, the DA is pushing for a quick trial."

  "What parking ticket and a plea deal for what, exactly?"

  Rob sighed, and grabbed a notebook. He fidgeted for a few moments. "Listen, I have to ask. I need to know the truth. I’m bound by attorney client privilege, and I can’t reveal anything without your permission. I’ll still defend you if you are guilty, even the guilty have the right to a lawyer. I don’t believe in that high-minded bullshit about only representing the innocent; as I said, even the guilty need proper representation to keep from getting screwed, but I have to know the truth in order to do defend you effectively. You can lie to me now, if you want to. Full DNA testing won’t be ready for a few months at the earliest, probably more like a year. State is backlogged on it, despite TV making it look like a quick and simple test. So, if you lie to me now, I won’t necessarily drop you as a client, but I will be pissed if I have to redo a bunch of work and I will bill you out the ass for it. This is a job, and I have to get paid for my work. Like anyone else, I hate doing shit twice. Don’t double my workload. Tell me the truth, and I will defend you the best I can for you."

  I felt my temper rising. I clenched my teeth and hissed, "Nice speech. You practice it this morning? First and foremost, though, I need to know what they are accusing me of."

  Rob looked at me for a moment. "You honestly don’t know? Then how did you know it was on Fourth Street?"

  I wanted to kick his teeth in. I wanted to strangle Joe and SOB. I wanted to leap from the bed and throw shit at the wall. However, as a veteran of the School of Infinite Patience and Control, instead, I said, "The cop asked me about Fourth Street first. Then he asked me if I knew a Jessica Winters. He was pushing my buttons, so like a smart ass, I said let me guess, she lives on Fourth."

  "Well, that wasn’t too bright of you, was it?"

  I looked at him blankly. My temper was boiling, but it clearly would do me no good to lose control. I kept it in check. He was right, and I accepted the rebuke on a conditional basis.

  He tapped his pencil against a clipboard, staring at the floor. Finally, he looked at me. "You really have no idea what they’re calling you."

  I sighed. "I have no clue. Tell me."

  "They have you cold. Do you know anything about the missing kids?"

  "I still have no clue. You mean the ones they’ve been talking about in the news, the murders, and the missing kids?"

  "Ryan, if you know something about that, tell me. We can use it to try to push for a plea deal, even though they're pushing for a trial. You’ve got nothing to gain by not telling."

  "Rob, I the only thing I know is what I saw in the news. That has nothing to do with me." SOB called me a liar. I pointed out to SOB that even if that’s true, we still don’t know where the kids are or what happened to them. I shrugged. "I’m sorry Rob; I just don’t know anything about the missing kids."

  Rob stared at me curiously for a few moments. "Are you under psychiatric treatment right now?"

  I glared at him.

  He chewed on the end of the pencil thoughtfully, staring at me. "You are, aren’t you?"

  "So tell me what’s going on."

  He stared out the window for several minutes. I waited.

  He stood up, and turned to face me. "No. Let’s not discuss this now. I want you evaluated first by a psychologist. DA will probably agree."

  I felt my temper rising again. I leaned forward, and the pain forced me to lie back again, but did nothing to quell my temper. I glared at him instead. It was a sham, but I had to play the part.

  He nodded. I wanted to beat him with his clipboard. "You’ll have to trust me on this. I want you to talk to a psychologist first. It may be your only hope."

  "Rob…there’s another problem. Your fee."

  He smiled. "Already taken care of."

  I stared, genuinely surprised. "By who? Trish? I doubt it."

  He shook his head. "Not Trish. They wish to remain anonymous. Just relax, it’s handled."

  Joe and SOB were still keeping their mouths shut. I felt lost and helpless. I shrugged. "I’m not Ok with this, but we’ll let this slide for the moment. As long as it’s not the Harmon Group. Just help me, ok?"

  He nodded, staring at me thoughtfully. "No, it’s not the Harmon Group. You know, I almost didn’t return your call, Ryan. I almost didn’t want a part in this."

  I shrugged. "What changed your mind?"

  "Your benefactor." He stared at me for a moment and then reached in his pocket. "Oh, I almost forgot." He handed me a playing card. On the back was one word written in black marker. "Liar." The front was the two of diamonds.

  He turned, and left.

  It’s not the Harmon Group?

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  After the lawyer left, they had left the phone. Maybe Rob had apparently arranged that concession, somehow. Maybe it was an oversight. However, there was no phone book.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted my wife to hug me, to hush me and tell me to settle down and that everything was going to be just fine. I wanted to crawl into bed, and sleep next to her, snuggled up. Pile your wishes in one hand, and shit in the other. See which fills up first.

  I couldn’t call her.

  I sighed, and stared at the wall.

  I felt helpless and alone.

  I tried to call Mike, the womanizing asshole. He hung up on me.


  I called into work. The receptionist suggested that my continued employment was not in their best interests. I asked to talk to my boss, and I waited several minutes before he picked up the phone. He was eloquent, and straight to the point. It summed up my position perfectly. With my friends. My family. My job. "You ever set foot on this property again; I will personally slit your fucking throat." He then promptly slammed the phone down.

  I gently hung up the phone, and stared at the wall.

  They discovered their mistake and took the phone away. Along with some harsh words about abusing a privilege I shouldn’t have had. Well, fuck them. They’re the ones who left it.

  I almost wished I were bent over in the closet, touching my toes right now. The best part about pissing on the floor uncontrollably is that will be over soon, at least for a little while. Endurance, baby. That's the only thing that matters, right?

  ~~~~~~ *LP* ~~~~~~

  When I turned ten, it became my job to maintain the yard. Mowing, raking, trimming, weeding, pruning, shoveling, and snow blowing the driveway all became my problem. These chores, of course, provided him with yet other reasons to stain the carpet in my closet with urine. Oh, the pure joy of those memories. Those screams will haunt me to the grave.

  In early December, as a freshman in high school, it snowed heavily one evening. Before I went to bed, my father called me into the living room.

  "You’ll have that snow cleared before you go to school tomorrow, right?"

  I turned and headed towards the bedroom. "Yep."

  "Better set your alarm early. I don’t want any excuses."

  "Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it."

  I headed for bed.

  The next morning, I got up, donned my snow bibs, hat, gloves, and boots, and headed out towards the shed. Snow crews had worked through the night, and the school buses were running on time.

  As I walked out towards the shed, I saw a set of footprints in the snow leading to and from the shed.