by John Hart
“I have always loved you,” I said. “From the very first time I saw you. And I have never stopped loving you, not even for an instant.”
She began to tremble and the façade that she’d carved onto her face crumbled as if made of sand. Tears filled her eyes, and I knew that I could hold nothing back; but emotion closed my throat, and in silence her tremors grew, until she tilted forward and leaned into me. She shook, and I armored her with my body; then the dam of her resolve burst and she began to cry, so that when she spoke, there was a distance between her words, as if they traveled from a deep place and required all the fuel of her breath to make themselves heard. I almost missed what she said.
“I told myself,” she began, and then had to start over. “I told myself that I would not cry.”
I held her tighter. I could not think clearly, so I murmured to her as I would to a child. “It’s okay,” I told her. “Everything will be okay.”
I wanted to believe the words, so I repeated them. I did so time and again, like that long-ago day in the barn at Stolen Farm, when words and body heat seared our souls into something resplendent. It could be like that again, and so I told her: “Everything will be okay.”
I did not hear the door open. I neither saw my wife nor heard her, not until she spoke.
“Well,” she said, and her voice sundered the paper home I’d built with my words. “Isn’t this cozy.”
It was not a question.
Vanessa pulled away, turned to the door and the voice that could not have sounded crueler. Barbara stood ten feet away, flowers in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.
“I must say, Work, I’m a little surprised.” She tossed the flowers in a wastebasket and placed the wine on a side table.
“What are you doing here, Barbara?” There was no mistaking the anger in my voice. Vanessa backed away, but Barbara went on as if she had not heard me.
“The way you talk about this little slut at home, I thought you’d used her up.” Barbara’s eyes moved over Vanessa as if they could focus heat and char flesh at will. “I guess you wanted one more fling for the road.” I saw Vanessa wilt, and felt my heart break. “For old time’s sake.” Barbara stepped closer, her eyes still hot on Vanessa. “I guess I was wrong.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “None of it.” But already Vanessa was heading for the door. Her name passed my lips, but my feet were slow. She passed Barbara before I could reach her, and my wife’s words slipped through the thin armor of her exposed back.
“Did you really think you could compete with me?”
Vanessa turned, caught my eye one time, then slammed the door shut behind her. Barbara yelled at the silent door.
“Stay away from my husband, you white trash whore!”
Suddenly, I did not know myself. Rage carried me to Barbara’s side and tightened my hand on her arm. Rage spun her around. Rage lifted my hand. But I brought it down. I slapped her so hard, I knocked her to the floor. Then rage filled me again, threatened to kick her, to crush her into utter and silent submission. Rage wanted blood. Rage wanted payback. And the rage was strong.
I had to fight it down, crush it through sheer will. Otherwise, I might have killed her.
Barbara must have seen it burn in my eyes, for she did not say a word until the killing light dimmed. In its absence, she saw what she expected to see, the man she’d been married to for ten years. The empty man. The shell.
If she’d seen the truth, she would have never opened her mouth to me again.
“Are you finished?” she asked. “Finished acting like what you think a man should be?”
“Is that supposed to hurt?”
“Truth sometimes does.”
“Listen, Barbara. I told you before. We’re finished.”
She smoothed the back of her hand against her cheek. “We’re through when I say we’re through. I’ll not be made a laughingstock. Not by that woman and not by you.”
“You are so like my father,” I said, and put my hand on the door. She smiled, and I stared, amazed that I’d not seen it sooner. She was like my father. Same values. Same detachment.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, climbing to her feet, straightening her clothing with a contemptuous air.
“It wasn’t meant as one.”
She breathed deeply through her nose. Her face was flushed, her eyes as shiny and hard as new dimes. “One of us has to be strong,” she said. “And we both know who that is.”
I paused halfway out of the office. “Don’t kid yourself. You can call a lunatic a genius, but at the end of the day he’s still crazy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that an obsession for control is not the same thing as strength; it’s just obsession.” I thought of Vanessa. “I know what strength looks like,” I said.
I don’t know what she saw on my face: disgust, maybe pity. And the truth was this: My wife has never been strong, just angry, and there’s a huge difference. Deep down she knew this.
“You need me, Work. Whether you know it or not, you will always need me.”
As I passed down the empty hall in pursuit of Vanessa, I heard Barbara’s final words. They rang with her confidence and I told myself that it was false. This time, she was wrong.
“You know where to find me,” she screamed, and I walked faster. “You’ll come back.” I broke into a run. “You always do!”
I hit the exterior door with my shoulder. It flew open and the afternoon light blinded me. I squinted, shaded my eyes, and saw Vanessa behind the wheel of her truck. She reversed out of her parking spot and sped toward the exit. She slowed at the street but didn’t stop, then turned right and accelerated, blue smoke spewing from the exhaust. I ran behind her, called her name. I smelled burned oil, heard my breath and my beating heart. People stared, but I didn’t care. I sprinted down the yellow line and I called Vanessa’s name.
She didn’t stop.
But I wasn’t going to let her go, not this time, so I ran back for my truck. I’d catch her on the road or at home. Somewhere. And we’d finish what we’d begun.
I was out of shape and breathing hard when I hit the grass strip that separated the parking lot from the road. I stumbled, caught myself before I went down, then fumbled for my keys. I found the right one, shoved it into the lock, and turned it. She couldn’t be too far away, no more than a mile.
I looked up as I opened the door and saw Barbara standing by the rear entrance of the building. Her face was expressionless as she watched me. I, for one, had nothing to say. My eyes probably said it all.
Then I was inside the truck, the engine hot, my foot on the gas. I backed out of the spot, pointed the truck toward the exit. And just like that, my universe changed. Suddenly, there were cars everywhere, pouring into the parking lot. Flashing lights. Uniforms. I was blocked in, surrounded by vehicles.
Nobody drew weapons, but I saw the guns and my heart stuttered. I found it hard to breathe; I knew what was happening. Then Mills was at my door, and she knocked on my window, her face surprisingly empty.
I’d created this scene in my mind on countless occasions: lying awake at night, feeling the wheels turn, so grinding and relentless. Somehow I’d thought that it would never happen, but I’d pictured Mills, and always, without fail, I’d imagined a fierce glee. Somehow, this nothingness was worse.
I rolled down the window, not really feeling my arms.
“Would you turn off the engine and step out of the car, please?” A stranger’s voice.
I did what she asked, and the ground felt rubbery beneath my feet.
Mills closed the truck door behind me, and I was very conscious of the sound it made, a metal door slamming shut. Uniformed officers flanked me; I didn’t recognize them, and I realized that Mills must have chosen them personally.
Mills continued, and as she spoke, I felt hands turn me, bend me over the hood of my own vehicle.
“Jackson Pickens, you are under arrest for the m
urder of Ezra Pickens. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
The metal was hard, unforgiving. I saw rust I’d never seen before. I smelled my own breath. I heard a grunt and realized it was mine.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .”
I looked up and saw Barbara. She was still against the building and I sought her face. It was almost as empty as Mills’s had been, but something bent her features and it looked like anger.
I felt the cuffs cinched tight around my wrists. Somebody pulled me upright by the back of my shirt. People had collected on the sidewalk and they stared. I stared back as Mills finished reading me my Miranda rights from a card.
“You are entitled to an attorney.” Here she looked up and met my eyes. “If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to represent you.”
I didn’t want to look at her face, so I tilted my face to the sky, suddenly thinking of the hawk I’d seen from the bridge. But this sky was empty, and if redemption moved in it, it did so in a place that I could not see.
“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
Finally, I looked at her. “Yes. I understand them.” Another stranger’s voice, this one from my own mouth.
“Search him,” Mills said, and again the hands were upon me. They patted me down, ran up my legs, groped my crotch and my armpits. They took my wallet and my pocketknife. Under the public eye, they took my belt. I was not a person anymore. I was part of the system.
I knew how it worked.
I was escorted to one of the patrol cars and placed in the backseat. Again, my ears resonated with the metallic clang of a slammed door. The sound lasted a long time; when it was gone, I saw that the crowd had grown, and saw also that Barbara was gone. She would not want to be seen, but I imagined her in one of the windows, one eye on me and one on the crowd. She would need to know who had personally witnessed my public disgrace.
Outside, Mills spoke to several of the uniformed officers. My truck would be impounded and searched. I would be taken to the Rowan County Jail and processed. I knew the drill.
I would be stripped, subjected to a cavity search, and dressed in a loose orange jumpsuit. I would be given a blanket, a toothbrush, a roll of toilet paper, and a pair of used flip-flops. I would be given a number. Then I would be given a cell.
Sooner rather than later, I would be questioned, and I knew that I had to prepare for that.
But right now, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t see it. Instead, I saw Vanessa, and how she would hurt when I failed to come after her.
How long would she wait before she closed the door on me forever?
The answer was unavoidable.
Not long, I thought.
If at all.
I thought of Jean and tried to remain calm. Reasons, I told myself. There are reasons for this. Good ones. If not me, then Jean. I focused on that, and it kept me grounded. This was just the first step. They were taking me to jail, not prison. No one had convicted me yet.
But I couldn’t fool myself for long, and as we drove away, I waited for the fear sweats to find me.
CHAPTER 24
The room was square and had wire cages over the lightbulbs; it smelled of feet. Time-bent black linoleum tiles rippled across the floor and gave the room a warped feel, like giant hands had twisted it, and I wondered if it was bad construction or my state of mind. The room was at the back of the police station, and like similar rooms at the jail, this one had green walls, a metal table, and two chairs. It also had a mirror, and I knew that Mills was behind it. She knew that I knew she was behind it, and that just made it silly.
In spite of everything, I felt a strange smile cross my face. Maybe it was because I knew that I had an alibi. If I broke, I had an out, and that made everything surreal. Maybe I was closer to the edge than I realized. Whatever the case, the feeling persisted.
They’d brought me in the back, through the parking garage, then down a concrete hall to this place that smelled like feet. They’d removed my cuffs and left. I’d been sitting there for an hour but had not touched the water pitcher on the table. I’d heard cops joke about the technique. Suspects with full bladders often spoke too freely, just to get it over with and get to the john. The wait was also common. They liked for the reality to settle in; they liked the fear sweats.
So I sat still and tried to prepare myself, but what I really wanted was a cigarette. I thought of all the clients who had been in this room before me.
When Mills came in, she brought the ripe-peach smell with her. Another detective followed her in, and I knew his face but not his name. Mills sat opposite me and he leaned against the wall, next to the mirror. He had big hands and a small head; he hooked his thumbs in his pockets and watched me without blinking.
Mills put the usual things on the table—pad, pen, tape recorder, manila file folder. Then she put a piece of paper in front of me and I recognized the Miranda waiver form. She turned on the tape recorder and announced the date and the time. She identified everyone present, and then she met my eyes.
“Mr. Pickens, you have previously been advised of your Miranda rights. Is that correct?”
“May I have a cigarette?” I asked.
Mills glanced at Detective Small Head and he produced a pack of Marlboro Lights. I took one from his hand, slipped it between my lips. He leaned across the table, lit it with a cheap pink lighter, and retreated to his place against the wall.
Mills repeated the question. “Have you previously been advised of your Miranda rights?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand those rights?”
“I do.”
“Before you is the standard North Carolina Miranda waiver form. It explains your rights. Will you please read the form out loud?”
I picked up the paper and read it for the benefit of the tape recorder and any judge who might be asked to scrutinize the legality of this interrogation.
“Do you understand these rights?” Mills was taking no chances.
“I do.”
“If you are willing to speak to us at this point, I’d ask you to indicate your willingness on the waiver form, then date and sign it.”
All such waiver forms have a box you can check if you’re willing to proceed with the interrogation. Under the law, once a suspect is in custody and requests the presence of counsel, the police are required to suspend the interrogation immediately. Anything said after that time is inadmissible in court; in theory, so is any evidence the cops find based on such statement.
I told all my clients the same thing: “Don’t ever sign that damn waiver. Ask for a lawyer and keep your mouth shut. Nothing you say will help you.”
I ignored my own advice, signed the waiver, and passed it over. If Mills was surprised, she hid it well. She slipped the signed form into her manila folder, as if afraid I might change my mind and tear it up. For a moment, she appeared uncertain, and it occurred to me that she’d never anticipated that I’d cooperate. But I needed information, and I wouldn’t get it without playing along. They’d found something. I wanted to know what it was. It was a dangerous game.
I took the initiative. “Have I been indicted?”
“This is my interrogation.” Her demeanor remained calm; she was still the detached professional, but it wouldn’t last long.
“I can always retract my waiver,” I said.
Few people realize this. You can sign a waiver in blood, answer questions all day, and then still change your mind. They then have to stop the interrogation, a thing that no cop wants to do until he’s ready. I saw a muscle twitch in Mills’s jaw. The deck is stacked in the cops’ favor, and they often benefit from people’s ignorance of the system.
“No. There’s no indictment.”
“But you have an arrest warrant?”
She hesitated again, but then answered. “Yes.”
“What time did you get it?”
Her mouth constricted into a narrow pu
cker, and I saw Detective Small Head straighten against the wall.
“That’s not important.”
I could see the struggle on her face. Her answer would piss me off, but so would her silence. And I knew Mills; she wanted me to talk, wanted it so badly, she could taste it. If I talked, she could trip me up, score an early victory. If I exercised my right to remain silent, she would be denied that pleasure. But she wanted the early hit. She wanted blood, and had faith in her ability to get it.
“One o’clock,” she finally said.
“Yet you waited until after five to arrest me.”
Mills looked down at her pad, embarrassed to have this conversation as part of the official interrogation tape. Cops have rules, too. Don’t let suspects take control of an interrogation.
“I just want to make sure we understand each other,” I continued. “I know why you waited.” And I did. By arresting me after five, I had no chance to go before a judge on a bail motion, not that day. That meant at least one night in jail, and that was personal, like the newspaper she’d left on my kitchen table. She wanted me to feel the noose, plain and simple.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
“Just so we understand each other.”
“Then let’s get on with this.” She began systematically, and I had to admit that she was good. She established my identity, my relationship to the deceased, and my occupation with minimum dialogue. She wanted a clean, crisp transcript. She questioned me about the night my father died, and she was thorough. She wanted every moment accounted for, and I gave her the same story I’d given before. Mother’s accident. The hospital. Ezra’s house. The phone call. His sudden departure. I played down the severity of his argument with Jean, and I confirmed once again that after I’d left Ezra’s house, I was at home for the rest of the night. “No,” I told her. “I never saw my father again.”
“What about his gun?” she asked.
“What about it?”
