The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  “I got four inches more in the waist now than back then.”

  In the day, Holman had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed banks. Fat with fast cash, he hoovered up crystal meth for breakfast and Maker’s Mark for lunch, so jittery from dope and hung over from booze he rarely bothered to eat. He had gained weight in prison.

  Wally refolded the pants.

  “Was me, I’d keep’m. You’ll get yourself in shape again. Give yourself something to shoot for, gettin’ back in these pants.”

  Holman tossed them to Wally. Wally was smaller.

  “Better to leave the past behind.”

  Wally admired the slacks, then looked sadly at Holman.

  “You know I can’t. We can’t accept anything from the residents. I’ll pass’m along to one of the other guys, you want. Or give’m to Goodwill.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You got a preference, who I should give’m to?”

  “No, whoever.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  Holman went back to staring at his clothes. His suitcase was an Albertsons grocery bag. Technically, Max Holman was still incarcerated, but in another hour he would be a free man. You finish a federal stretch, they don’t just cross off the last X and cut you loose; being released from federal custody happened in stages. They started you off with six months in an Intensive Confinement Center where you got field trips into the outside world, behavioral counseling, additional drug counseling if you needed it, that kind of thing, after which you graduated to a Community Correctional Center where they let you live and work in a community with real live civilians. In the final stages of his release program, Holman had spent the past three months at the CCC in Venice, California, a beach community sandwiched between Santa Monica and Marina del Rey, preparing himself for his release. As of today, Holman would be released from full-time federal custody into what was known as supervised release—he would be a free man for the first time in ten years.

  Wally said, “Well, okay, I’m gonna go get the papers together. I’m proud of you, Max. This is a big day. I’m really happy for you.”

  Holman layered his clothes in the bag. With the help of his Bureau of Prisons release supervisor, Gail Manelli, he had secured a room in a resident motel and a job; the room would cost sixty dollars a week, the job would pay a hundred seventy-two fifty after taxes. A big day.

  Wally clapped him on the back.

  “I’ll be in the office whenever you’re ready to go. Hey, you know what I did, kind of a going-away present?”

  Holman glanced at him.

  “What?”

  Wally slipped a business card from his pocket and gave it to Holman. The card showed a picture of an antique timepiece. Salvadore Jimenez, repairs, fine watches bought and sold, Culver City, California. Wally explained as Holman read the card.

  “My wife’s cousin has this little place. He fixes watches. I figured maybe you havin’ a job and all, you’d want to get your old man’s watch fixed. You want to see Sally, you lemme know, I’ll make sure he gives you a price.”

  Holman slipped the card into his pocket. He wore a cheap Timex with an expandable band that hadn’t worked in twenty years. In the day, Holman had worn an eighteen-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe he stole from a car fence named Oscar Reyes. Reyes had tried to short him on a stolen Carrera, so Holman had choked the sonofabitch until he passed out. But that was then. Now, Holman wore the Timex even though its hands were frozen. The Timex had belonged to his father.

  “Thanks, Wally, thanks a lot. I was going to do that.”

  “A watch that don’t keep time ain’t much good to you.”

  “I have something in mind for it, so this will help.”

  “You let me know. I’ll make sure he gives you a price.”

  “Sure. Thanks. Let me get packed up here, okay?”

  Wally left as Holman returned to his packing. He had the clothes, three hundred twelve dollars that he had earned during his incarceration, and his father’s watch. He did not have a car or a driver’s license or friends or family to pick him up upon his release. Wally was going to give him a ride to his motel. After that, Holman would be on his own with the Los Angeles public transportation system and a watch that didn’t work.

  Holman went to his bureau for the picture of his son. Richie’s picture was the first thing he had put in the room here at the CCC, and it would be the last thing he packed when he left. It showed his son at the age of eight, a gap-toothed kid with a buzz cut, dark skin, and serious eyes; his child’s body already thickening with Holman’s neck and shoulders. The last time Holman actually saw the boy was his son’s twelfth birthday, Holman flush with cash from flipping two stolen Corvettes in San Diego, showing up blind drunk a day too late, the boy’s mother, Donna, taking the two thousand he offered too little too late by way of the child support he never paid and on which he was always behind. Donna had sent him the old picture during his second year of incarceration, a guilty spasm because she wouldn’t bring the boy to visit Holman in prison, wouldn’t let the boy speak to Holman on the phone, and wouldn’t pass on Holman’s letters, such as they were, however few and far between, keeping the boy out of Holman’s life. Holman no longer blamed her for that. She had done all right by the boy with no help from him. His son had made something of himself, and Holman was goddamned proud of that.

  Holman placed the picture flat into the bag, then covered it with the remaining clothes to keep it safe. He glanced around the room. It didn’t look so very different than it had an hour ago before he started.

  He said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”

  He told himself to leave, but didn’t. He sat on the side of the bed instead. It was a big day, but the weight of it left him feeling heavy. He was going to get settled in his new room, check in with his release supervisor, then try to find Donna. It had been two years since her last note, not that she had ever written all that much anyway, but the five letters he had written to her since had all been returned, no longer at this address. Holman figured she had gotten married, and the new guy probably didn’t want her convicted-felon boyfriend messing in their life. Holman didn’t blame her for that, either. They had never married, but they did have the boy together and that had to be worth something even if she hated him. Holman wanted to apologize and let her know he had changed. If she had a new life, he wanted to wish her well with it, then get on with his. Eight or nine years ago when he thought about this day he saw himself running out the goddamned door, but now he just sat on the bed. Holman was still sitting when Wally came back.

  “Max?”

  Wally stood in the door like he was scared to come in. His face was pale and he kept wetting his lips.

  Holman said, “What’s wrong? Wally, you having a heart attack, what?”

  Wally closed the door. He glanced at a little notepad like something was on it he didn’t have right. He was visibly shaken.

  “Wally, what?”

  “You have a son, right? Richie?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Richard Dale Holman.”

  Holman stood. He didn’t like the way Wally was fidgeting and licking his lips.

  “You know I have a boy. You’ve seen his picture.”

  “He’s a kid.”

  “He’d be twenty-three now. He’s twenty-three. Why you want to know about this?”

  “Max, listen, is he a police officer? Here in L.A.?”

  “That’s right.”

  Wally came over and touched Holman’s arm with fingers as light as a breath.

  “It’s bad, Max. I have some bad news now and I want you to get ready for it.”

  Wally searched Holman’s eyes as if he wanted a sign, so Holman nodded.

  “Okay, Wally. What?”

  “He was killed last night. I’m sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry.”

  Holman heard the words; he saw the pain in Wally’s eyes and felt the concern in Wa
lly’s touch, but Wally and the room and the world left Holman behind like one car pulling away from another on a flat desert highway, Holman hitting the brakes, Wally hitting the gas, Holman watching the world race away.

  Then he caught up and fought down an empty, terrible ache.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, Max. There was a call from the Bureau of Prisons when I went for your papers. They didn’t have much to say. They wasn’t even sure it was you or if you were still here.”

  Holman sat down again and this time Wally sat beside him. Holman had wanted to look up his son after he spoke with Donna. That last time he saw the boy, just two months before Holman was pinched in the bank gig, the boy had told him to fuck off, running alongside the car as Holman drove away, eyes wet and bulging, screaming that Holman was a loser, screaming fuck off, you loser. Holman still dreamed about it. Now here they were and Holman was left with the empty sense that everything he had been moving to for the past ten years had come to a drifting stop like a ship that had lost its way.

  Wally said, “You want to cry, it’s okay.”

  Holman didn’t cry. He wanted to know who did it.

  Dear Max,

  I am writing because I want you to know that Richard has made something of himself despite your bad blood. Richard has joined the police department. This past Sunday he graduated at the police academy by Dodger stadium and it was really something. The mayor spoke and helicopters flew so low. Richard is now a police officer. He is strong and good and not like you. I am so proud of him. He looked so handsome. I think this is his way of proving there is no truth to that old saying “like father like son.”

  Donna

  This was the last letter Holman received, back when he was still at Lompoc. Holman remembered getting to the part where she wrote there was no truth about being like father like son, and what he felt when he read those words wasn’t embarrassment or shame; he felt relief. He remembered thinking, thank God, thank God.

  He wrote back, but the letters were returned. He wrote to his son care of the Los Angeles Police Department, just a short note to congratulate the boy, but never received an answer. He didn’t know if Richie received the letter or not. He didn’t want to force himself on the boy. He had not written again.

  2

  “WHAT SHOULD I DO?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what to do about this. Is there someone I’m supposed to see? Something I’m supposed to do?”

  Holman had served a total of nine months juvenile time before he was seventeen years old. His first adult time came when he was eighteen—six months for grand theft auto. This was followed by sixteen months of state time for burglary, then three years for a stacked count of robbery and breaking and entering. Altogether, Holman had spent one-third of his adult life in state and federal facilities. He was used to people telling him what to do and where to do it. Wally seemed to read his confusion.

  “You go on with what you were doing, I guess. He was a policeman. Jesus, you never said he was a policeman. That’s intense.”

  “What about the arrangements?”

  “I don’t know. I guess the police do that.”

  Holman tried to imagine what responsible people did at times like this, but he had no experience. His mother had died when he was young and his father had died when Holman was serving the first burglary stretch. He had nothing to do with burying them.

  “They sure it’s the same Richie Holman?”

  “You want to see one of the counselors? We could get someone in here.”

  “I don’t need a counselor, Wally. I want to know what happened. You tell me my boy was killed, I want to know things. You can’t just tell a man his boy was killed and let it go with that. Jesus Christ.”

  Wally made a patting gesture with his hands, trying to keep Holman calm, but Holman didn’t feel upset. He didn’t know what else to do or what to say or have anyone to say it to except Wally.

  Holman said, “Jesus, Donna must be devastated. I’d better talk to her.”

  “Okay. Can I help with that?”

  “I don’t know. The police gotta know how to reach her. If they called me they would’ve called her.”

  “Let me see what I can find out. I told Gail I’d get back to her after I saw you. She was the one got the call from the police.”

  Gail Manelli was a businesslike young woman with no sense of humor, but Holman liked her.

  “Okay, Wally,” Holman said. “Sure.”

  Wally spoke with Gail, who told them Holman could obtain additional information from Richie’s commander at the Devonshire Station up in Chatsworth, where Richie worked. Twenty minutes later Wally drove Holman north out of Venice on the 405 and into the San Fernando Valley. The trip took almost thirty minutes. They parked outside a clean, flat building that looked more like a modern suburban library than a police station. The air tasted like pencil lead. Holman had resided at the CCC for twelve weeks, but had not been outside of Venice, which always had great air because it was on the water. Living on a short leash like that, cons in transition called it being on the farm. Cons in transition were called transitionary inmates. There were names for everything when you were in the system.

  Wally got out of the car like he was stepping into soup.

  “Jesus, it’s hotter’n hell up here.”

  Holman didn’t say anything. He liked the heat, enjoying the way it warmed his skin.

  They identified themselves at the reception desk and asked for Captain Levy. Levy, Gail said, had been Richie’s commanding officer. Holman had been arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department on a dozen occasions, but had never seen the Devonshire Station before. The institutional lighting and austere government decor left him with the sense that he had been here before and would be again. Police stations, courts, and penal institutions had been a part of Holman’s life since he was fourteen years old. They felt normal. His counselors in prison had drummed it home that career criminals like Holman had difficulty going straight because crime and the penalties of crime were a normal part of their lives—the criminal lost his fear of the penalties of his actions. Holman knew this to be true. Here he was surrounded by people with guns and badges, and he didn’t feel a thing. He was disappointed. He thought he might feel afraid or at least apprehensive, but he might as well have been standing in a Ralphs market.

  A uniformed officer about Holman’s age came out, and the desk officer waved them over. He had short silvery hair and stars on his shoulders, so Holman took him for Levy. He looked at Wally.

  “Mr. Holman?”

  “No, I’m Walter Figg, with the CCC.”

  “I’m Holman.”

  “Chip Levy. I was Richard’s commander. If you’ll come with me I’ll tell you what I can.”

  Levy was a short, compact guy who looked like an aging gymnast. He shook Holman’s hand, and it was then Holman noticed he was wearing a black armband. So were the two officers seated behind the desk and another officer who was push-pinning flyers into a bulletin board: Summer Sports Camp!! Sign up your kids!!

  “I just want to know what happened. I need to find out about the arrangements, I guess.”

  “Here, step around through the gate. We’ll have some privacy.”

  Wally waited in the reception area. Holman went through the metal detector, then followed Levy along a hall and into an interview room. Another uniformed officer was already waiting inside, this one wearing sergeant’s stripes. He stood when they entered.

  Levy said, “This is Dale Clark. Dale, this is Richard’s father.”

  Clark took Holman’s hand in a firm grip, and held on longer than Holman found comfortable. Unlike Levy, Clark seemed to study him.

  “I was Richard’s shift supervisor. He was an outstanding young man. The best.”

  Holman muttered a thanks, but didn’t know what to say past that; it occurred to him that these men had known and worked with his son, while he knew absolutely nothing about th
e boy. Realizing this left him feeling uncertain how to act, and he wished Wally was with him.

  Levy asked him to take a seat at a small table. Every police officer who ever questioned Holman had hidden behind a veneer of distance, as if whatever Holman said was of no importance. Holman had long ago realized their eyes appeared distant because they were thinking; they were trying to figure out how to play him in order to get at the truth. Levy looked no different.

  “Can we get you some coffee?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Water or a soft drink?”

  “No, uh-uh.”

  Levy settled across from him and folded his hands together on the table. Clark took a seat to the side on Holman’s left. Where Levy tipped forward to rest his forearms on the table, Clark leaned back with his arms crossed.

  Levy said, “All right. Before we proceed I need to see some identification.”

  Right away, Holman felt they were jacking him up. The Bureau of Prisons had told them he was coming, and here they were asking for his ID.

  “Didn’t Ms. Manelli talk to you?”

  “It’s just a formality. When something like this happens, we have people walking in off the street claiming to be related. They’re usually trying to float some kind of insurance scam.”

  Holman felt himself redden even as he reached for his papers.

  “I’m not looking for anything.”

  Levy said, “It’s just a formality. Please.”

  Holman showed them his release document and his government-issued identity card. Realizing that many inmates had no form of identification upon release, the government provided a picture ID similar to a driver’s license. Levy glanced at the card, then returned it.

  “Okay, fine. I’m sorry you had to find out the way you did—through the Bureau of Prisons—but we didn’t know about you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You weren’t listed in the officer’s personnel file. Where it says ‘father,’ Richard had written ‘unknown.’”

  Holman felt himself redden even more deeply, but stared back at Clark. Clark was pissing him off. It was guys like Clark who had been busting his balls for most of his life.