Everybody Loved Roger Harden

by Cecil Murphey

  “You haven’t talked with Jason about this, have you?” I asked.

  “No. He came upstairs before tea and said he and Roger hadn’t finished their conversation. I tried to get information from him, but he said, ‘Not now, Mom. I’m too confused to talk.’ ”

  “Just that?”

  “No. He turned around and said in a flat voice. ‘This isn’t over. Not yet. We haven’t settled it yet.’ ”

  “You’re a good woman,” I said. “You have a good heart.”

  “There is one other thing that you probably need to know. Jason did threaten to kill Roger once. I’m not sure, but I think it was maybe six months ago. We had guests here, and Wayne was one of them.” Amanda said she didn’t know what the argument had been about—something about school or grades. She had been weeding on the far side of the house. Just as she came in through the front door, Jason screamed at Roger, “I’ll kill you! I’ll do the world a big, big favor! I will kill you someday.”

  “So you thought he had kept that promise?”

  She started to cry and barely nodded. I hugged her and said, “It must be a big relief to know that Jason didn’t kill Roger.”

  “But if he didn’t do it, and I didn’t—”

  “That leaves seven suspects,” Julie said. “Wayne Holmestead, Jeffery Mark Dunn, Paulette White, Tonya Borders, Beth Wilson, Lenny Goss, and Reginald Ford.”

  “I can’t believe any of them would—”

  “Roger didn’t kill himself,” Julie said. “And we don’t think Elaine’s death was an accidental fall.”

  The three of us spoke together in hushed tones, but none of us came up with a solution.

  The clock struck five. “It will be sunrise soon,” I said. I debated whether to go upstairs to bed or just to have a long, hot shower. Julie and Amanda left the room. I turned the light off. As I debated what to do, I settled down into the sofa and went to sleep. I don’t even remember putting my head on the cushion.

  Twenty-One

  I don’t know how long I slept, but I awakened, unsure of what startled me. The dawn had just begun. Gray light seeped in around the drapes. It was too dim to reveal the details of the furniture, but it was bright enough to deepen the shadows and distort the shape of everything, so that the room seemed like an alien place.

  Julie unlocked the door and opened it only an inch or so and saw me sit up startled before she threw it fully open and snapped on the light. Simon stood next to her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Make coffee,” he said. “We talk.”

  “Are you trying to sound like the old Simon?”

  “I spotted Simon sneaking in the front door,” she said. “I tried to talk to him and he’s reverted to his bad English again.”

  “Sneaking in the front door? Why?”

  She shrugged, and this time I laughed. “You do that just like Simon.”

  “Glad you noticed. I’ve practiced a lot,” she said. “I think Simon was out all night. I didn’t think of it then, but he was the only person not present when we found the bullet in the doorpost.”

  “Make the coffee. I’ll be right there,” I said.

  My head felt rotten. I’m always grouchy until I’ve shaved. I’m not sure why, but my face always feels heavy, and this time it was also achy from lack of sleep. I tried to argue myself into getting off the sofa, going upstairs, and cleaning up before I confronted Simon. Instead, I closed my eyes.

  The aroma of coffee filled my nostrils, and I opened my eyes. Julie smiled. “You don’t snore when you sleep on your back.”

  Not sure where that conversation could lead, I looked at Simon, who held out a cup of coffee. I waved away the sugar and cream.

  “Caught,” he said. “Out all night.”

  “Oh, cut it out, Simon. We don’t want to listen to the pidgin English anymore,” I said. “I already have a headache.”

  “Sorry, habit.” Then he laughed.

  “So tell us.”

  “I was out all night, that’s true.”

  “What were you doing?” Julie asked.

  “That’s not important for you to know,” he said.

  “That answer isn’t good enough,” I said. “As soon as the telephone is working, we’ll call the police.”

  “The telephone is now working. I called the police. They will be here as soon as they can.”

  “How soon?”

  “Does it matter? This is a small island, and I have the only key to the Boston Whaler.” He pulled the key from his pocket. “So no one can leave before they arrive. The police know that. They will probably wait until the new shift goes on at 8:00, and then someone will come.”

  I looked at my watch. It was five minutes before six. “Seems like a long time.”

  “Does it matter?” Julie said. She held up a notebook. “I’ve written down everything we’ve learned so far, and I can tell the police. It also means that none of the other suspects can change his or her story.”

  “Back to you, Simon. You admit being out all night. What were you doing?”

  “Praying.”

  “What?” Julie asked.

  “I was on the beach. I prayed all night.”

  “All night? That must have been five or six hours. How long does it take to say a few prayers?”

  “Sometimes it takes hours.”

  Simon and I looked at each other, and he smiled as if to say, “Okay, I’ll try to explain.” He turned to her. “You see, it is more than repeating words. Prayer—the kind of prayer of which I speak—means to open my heart to God. It’s not so much words I speak, as that I feel such—such a heaviness—a burden that is so heavy it makes me—”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

  She obviously didn’t, so I said, “He was deeply troubled. He needed to get alone and talk to God. He wanted to find inner peace. For some of us, that’s how we do it—we pray. So, yes, I understand.”

  “Okay, I really don’t understand,” Julie said, “but let that go. Why aren’t you soaked if you were out all night?”

  “I keep a small tent in my room, and it takes ninety seconds to set up. I often put it up at night and sleep near the edge of the island. It’s peaceful. But it’s more than that. It’s a place where I can be alone with my thoughts and with my prayers.”

  “Oh,” Julie said. “Now I have something else I want to ask you—something I think is important.”

  “Of course, just ask.”

  “What did Roger hold over you? What is your secret?”

  Shock registered in his eyes. “Why do you ask such a question?”

  “Everyone else has a secret of some kind. Why should you be different?”

  He smiled, and his face had a boyish look. “You’re correct. In my own way, I was a prisoner here like the others.” He paused to drink deeply from his coffee and poured himself a fresh cup.

  “I was a lawyer—a good lawyer as a matter of fact. By age twenty-four, I had earned more than six million dollars a year by representing pharmaceutical companies in court.”

  “And you killed somebody or stole money or—”

  He shook his head. “No. I sampled their products. That’s where I got into trouble. At first, it was only an occasional upper. It’s an old story, and thousands of other people have the same sad tale. A few pills on bad days. Before long, every day became a bad day. But, I reminded myself, it was only temporary until I got past this big case or until I could get my schedule down to normal. Eventually, I had to pop a couple of uppers to get going in the morning, another couple to handle the work of the day—I’m sure you know how the story goes.”

  “So the company found out that—”

  “Not exactly. I switched to meth.”

  “Methamphetamine?”

  “Right. It’s a form of speed, you know.”

  “I also know it’s cheap to make,” I said.

  “That’s the point. Cheap. Easy to get. I didn’t have to pilfer the company’s products.”

&
nbsp; “So what happened?”

  “At first I thought I was free. I never had to peep over my shoulder. I forgot one thing, however—”

  “Which is?”

  “Drugs are drugs. And most drugs, even the most benign ones, if taken regularly and over a long period of time, become addictive. Of course I was strong and I could always kick the habit.

  “Although we addicts lie to ourselves for a long time, and I did, eventually I faced a reality: I couldn’t function without meth. I couldn’t go to a business meeting without my own brand of insurance.”

  For several minutes, Simon told us his sad account of how he had wrecked his life. His wife divorced him and moved away. He had no idea where she was or where she had taken their two children. The police nabbed him one day after a high-speed chase up I-95. “I was lucky I didn’t kill somebody.”

  He received a seven-year prison sentence.

  “And you learned your lesson?” I asked.

  “No, I was still the tough guy. There were ways to get drugs and there were ways to make meth. The truth was that I didn’t want to kick the habit. I hated it when I was down, but when I had a hit—a good hit—there was nothing in my life that felt so good.”

  “You’re not on drugs now,” I said. “That seems obvious.”

  “You want to know why?” He pointed to a barely visible scar on the left side of his face. It ran from his temple to the top of his lip. “See this? This scar saved my life.”

  I must have looked startled, because Simon laughed.

  “You did that to shock me, right?” Julie asked.

  “Yes, I did, but it’s also true. I was a mess in prison. My entire first seven months were like a buzz of forgetfulness. As I said, there are ways to get the drugs we need.” Simon told us that his cell mate was a man named Michael Kamen. “If ever there was an innocent man in prison, it was Michael.” His cell mate had been accused of armed robbery. He did resemble the criminal (and the police caught the real one after Michael had served almost four years).

  The two men shared common interests and both were college grads—the only ones in the prison population. They were both bright and articulate and had been successful in the corporate world. Michael had been a contract lawyer. “Michael took no drugs, nor did he have any bad habits. He called himself a ‘born-again Christian.’ He cared about me and often talked to me about God. I didn’t want to listen, but he talked anyway. Some nights he’d read portions of the Bible aloud or tell me what he had read in religious books. He was my friend, so I couldn’t tell him to shut up.” Simon laughed. “Okay, I did tell him to shut up a few times, but he never gave up.

  “He was concerned about my drug habit and gently tried to talk to me about it. I tuned him out. He became stronger and more adamant. He was on my back constantly about quitting.”

  Michael started a Bible study group in the prison library. He successfully recruited two of Simon’s drug-addicted friends. Then others came. Soon there were about fifty regular attendees, and the gangs that had run the cell block were losing their power. One hardened criminal determined to put a stop to the religious fervor. He came after Michael with a shiv.

  Simon jumped into the melee, and the man with the knife attacked him. It ended when Simon broke the man’s wrist. That man was moved to another prison.

  “I had this cut on my cheek, but that wasn’t the worst. He also struck me in the kidneys. I was rushed to a civilian hospital. For two days no one knew if I would live. Somehow Michael received permission to be there with me. He sat at my bed. Most of that time he prayed.”

  Simon told us that he saw the reality of love and compassion in Michael. It was Michael who made him realize how he had wasted his life.

  “I was a slow learner, but Michael was patient with me. I joined his Bible study. You see, something powerful happened to me while I was in prison. I also became a born-again Christian.”

  “Oh yeah, like Jimmy Carter,” Julie said. “Or that healing evangelist on TV.”

  “Okay, if you want to say it that way,” Simon said with no defensiveness in his voice. “My life changed. Truly changed. It wasn’t that I didn’t have yearnings for meth. I did, but I also had God in my life, and I knew I would never go back.”

  “And did it last—that—that change?” Julie asked.

  He smiled at Julie and nodded slowly before he said, “On my thirtieth birthday I was baptized. That was five years ago. I still believe. And you know, you could—”

  “And Michael? What happened to him?” Julie asked, and I was sure it was more out of her discomfort than truly wanting to know the answer.

  “Three months after I was baptized, Michael’s sentence was overthrown, and they released him from prison.”

  “Ever seen him again?” Julie said. “I’ve heard that former convicts don’t like to visit.”

  “Michael never forgot me. He wrote regularly. Every week he visited me. He brought me books. He spoke with the chaplains about me and asked them to encourage me. Eventually I took over Michael’s Bible studies.”

  “Oh,” she said. She still wasn’t comfortable, but for once Julie West didn’t know what to say next.

  “You’ve stared at my scar several times,” Simon said to her.

  “I didn’t intend to stare—”

  “It’s all right.” He pointed at his scar. “I could have had it removed. Roger was willing to pay for it, but I refused. It’s a constant reminder that my life is different. That scar is there to tell me who I used to be and who I am now.”

  “Are you still in contact with Michael?” I asked.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. “He died in an automobile accident just before I was released from prison.”

  “I am sorry—”

  “I miss him every day, but I’m grateful he stayed alive long enough to share his faith and friendship with me. Sometimes I think of him as an angel from God—like Michael the archangel, you know. I know people aren’t angels, but he seemed like an angel from on high to me. After I surrendered myself to God, I had a long time to think and to get my life in order. I got out of prison after four years because I didn’t cause any more trouble and the parole board agreed that I had been rehabilitated. I kicked the habit in prison and began to get my life in some kind of order.”

  “So Roger held your past over you?” Julie asked.

  “No, no, not that. I served my sentence, and I could hold up my head. No, Roger got involved because I violated my parole.”

  “That was stupid,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “But you did violate it, huh?” Julie asked. “And in the process, you went back to drugs?”

  “Oh no. Never.” Simon stared at Julie in surprise. “I told you, I would never do that.”

  “Okay, how did you violate your parole?”

  “That’s where I was stupid.”

  “There are a lot of ways to be stupid,” Julie said.

  “I visited some of my old friends. They refer to them as ‘known criminals.’ They were guys I had done business with—felons—and some of them had been in prison two or three times.”

  “Why in the world would you go to see them if you weren’t back into drugs?”

  Simon turned and looked at me. “You’re a preacher, you can understand this part. Something powerful had happened to me while I was incarcerated. My life had changed, and I discovered something I had never known before.”

  “What was that?” Julie asked.

  “Peace,” he said simply. “I’ve always been a hustler. I was one of those people who rushed, pushed, and never stopped. I graduated at the top of my college class at age twenty and had my master’s degree and passed the bar before I was twenty-two.” He paused and played with his hands before he continued. “I guess deep inside I knew something was missing in my life, but I had no idea what it was. It took prison to slow me down enough to face myself.”

  “Can we skip forward to the parole violation?” Julie asked.

  “Ar
e you afraid to hear about God at work in my life?”

  “Afraid? Of course not. It’s only—”

  “It’s only that you are probably running too, aren’t you?”

  “Okay, Simon, don’t push it,” I said. “Julie doesn’t want that part of the story. I’d love to hear it, and perhaps you’ll tell me more later.”

  “Yes, sir, I’d like that. Well, one of the things that Michael kept saying, and I think he was correct, was that it wasn’t enough for me to find inner peace. My responsibility—and my privilege—was to pass it on. That’s how he constantly said it. Responsibility and privilege. So two weeks after my parole, I learned where several of my old friends lived.”

  “So you went to their home?”

  He shook his head. “I learned the name of the bar where they went regularly. Part of my parole was that I was not to go inside any drinking establishment and not to socialize with any known felons. I went to see my friends anyway. That’s when the police caught me. You know, one of those random checks when they were looking for something else—I never did learn what—and they found me with four known felons. To make it worse, one of them had two kilos of hash with him. Get the picture?”

  Both of us nodded.

  “I pleaded with the arresting officer. I asked him for a chance. The others also told him I had come to talk to them and that I was clean.”

  “He wouldn’t listen but took me to jail to book me. On the way I talked to him some more.” Simon laughed self-consciously. “The officer stopped the car and told me to sit tight—as if I could get out of the car. With five of us handcuffed together in the backseat and the two smallest sitting on our laps, I wasn’t going anyplace. Besides, the lock was on the outside of the door. The officer got out of the vehicle, walked several feet away, and used his cell phone. A couple of minutes later he got back inside. He turned around in the front seat and said, ‘Presswood, this must be your lucky day.’ He took me to Mr. Harden’s office first, let me out, and booked the others.”

  “He just took you there and left you?” Julie asked.

  “That’s it. I met Roger Harden standing in front of his office building. I spent twenty minutes with him, and we made a deal.”