by Joel Pierson
“No.”
“You having me watched?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve never met you, and I have no interest in this apart from giving you this message.”
“Okay, what’s the message?”
“Don’t get in your car.”
Disbelief and annoyance visit his face. “What did you just say?”
“Don’t get in your car. It isn’t safe.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. It’s important that you move away from the car.”
“Fuck you,” he says. “What’s your fuckin’ problem? You trying to scare me?”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m trying to warn you.”
He looks simultaneously amused and angry. He calls out to anyone within earshot, in a mocking tone. “Hey, somebody call a cop. This guy’s threatening to kill me!”
“Please keep your voice down.”
This just invites him to speak louder. “Keep my voice down? You got some nerve. What are you gonna do, take a swing at me?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Well, let me tell you something, John Diamond or whoever the fuck you are: I ain’t scared of you or anybody in your piece-of-shit organization. So you can go right back to Wolfson or whoever sent you, and tell ‘em that they can kiss my fuckin’ ass if they think they’re gonna intimidate me. Go to hell and fuck you too, you little asshole errand boy.”
Without another word (thankfully, given the nature of the ones he’s already shared) he unlocks the doors to the Lexus, opens the driver’s door, and sits down behind the wheel. Instantly, the realization hits me: He’s going to start the car. I’ve failed.
In less than a heartbeat, I am turning on my heels. Almost unconsciously, I hear myself shouting, “Rebecca, take cover!” And as I run as fast as I can for the Sebring, I see her duck down as much as possible, while she activates the lever to raise the car’s top. At this point, I don’t look back, I can’t look back; I know exactly what is going to happen, what I couldn’t stop from happening.
Casner puts the key in the ignition and turns it. Though I am at least twenty feet from the Lexus at this moment, the shockwave from the explosion propels me forward, face first. I leave my feet and take to the air, putting my hands out in front of me instinctively. Flying, falling, flying, falling, falling, falling … nothing.
Yes, that’s correct—nothing. Unconsciousness comes to greet me like an unwelcome relative. Until this moment, I have never in my life lost consciousness through violent means. And from what I’m feeling, I don’t recommend it. It’s not like drifting off to a welcome slumber after a long, satisfying day. It’s more a swift progression along the lines of: shit, this hurts; hey, I’m flying; is that pavement? And then the aforementioned nothing. Now, I know that in detective novels, the hero is always getting knocked unconscious with some damn thing or other. And then a scene dissolve later, he wakes up with “Oh, my head” or something equally heroic.
For me, on that downtown Atlanta street, there is no dissolve, no heroic wake-up line. Just a face full of asphalt and a world of hurt. I honestly don’t know how long I was out, but I don’t think it could have been very long. When I am able to see and hear again, I am aware of emergency vehicles: a fire truck hosing down Casner and his car. Two police cars are between me and the Lexus, and two more block off the street from traffic.
Ever so slowly, I try to make my way to a standing position. Suddenly I feel something under my arm—a hand of someone assisting me to stand. At first, I think it is Rebecca, but I don’t see her. The Sebring is still parked where she left it, with the top up. I can only hope she’s inside. I look to my side and realize that it is an Atlanta police officer who has helped me up.
“It’s okay,” I say to him over the ringing that’s filling my ears. “I think I’m all right. I’m not hurt.”
Once I stand, he continues to hold on to my arm. I look him in the eyes, curious as to why he’s still holding me even after I’m on my feet. The answer I get is a million miles from anything I want or expect to hear. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jeffrey Casner.”
Chapter 7
“I’m under what?”
He puts my hands behind my back and informs me, “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at no cost to yourself. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Yes,” I say, quite annoyed. I know the Miranda rights; it’s not the first time I’ve been arrested. What shocks me is that they actually believe I killed Casner. Clearly, they weren’t on scene for what took place just minutes ago, or they would have seen me trying to warn him. Everything is happening so quickly, and it would do me no good to try to explain it to them here and now.
I look over at the Sebring. Still no sign of Rebecca, but she must be lying low in there. At the moment, I’m grateful, lest they think she’s an accomplice and arrest us both. I only hope she sees me being led off and remembers what I told her about my attorney’s information in my bag. Then I glance across the street and see two officers talking to a man in a parking lot. Did someone see the exchange? Is that why I was arrested?
I am unceremoniously stuffed in the back of a police car, head still swimming from the effects of the explosion, and driven to a nearby station house. Events take on a surreal quality, compounded by the mental exhaustion of the past two days. I am fingerprinted, photographed, moved about, talked to, talked at, and deposited in an interrogation room. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it feels like a lot. And the one thing missing is the phone call. I know enough to know that I’m entitled to my phone call, but they haven’t even entertained discussion of it. I can only hope, as I sit alone in an interrogation room (clearly intended to psych me out) that Rebecca has made the call and that Steven Atkinson, attorney-at-law, has the situation in hand.
If nothing else, the time to myself is allowing me to recuperate, both physically and mentally, from the explosion that killed Jeffrey Casner. I failed my assignment; he didn’t listen to me and it cost him his life. And while he wasn’t going to win any awards for congeniality or humanitarian efforts, I can’t help but feel that I’m at least partly responsible for his death. Not nearly as responsible as the son of a bitch who put a bomb in his car, but nonetheless.
Tell that to the police, Tristan old boy, because right now, they think that son of a bitch is you.
My situation is grim, but it’s not the first time. I’ve had a couple of arrests before, minor things like trespassing and disturbing the peace—both related to the assignments I was on, of course. But Steven Atkinson managed to get charges dropped both times. Whether he can do so this time, with a charge of murder looming, is another story.
I can’t believe what a crock of shit this charge is. Murder? Really? Yes, yes, to an impartial observer, I was the last person to have words with the deceased. At the crime scene. Seconds before it happened. And the words were heated and pertained to the deceased’s impending demise.
I may actually be fucked on this one, come to think of it.
The door to the interrogation room opens, and a man in his late forties enters. He’s wearing Dockers and a long-sleeve dress shirt, with a tie ugly enough to suggest that someone bought it for him and he wears it out of politeness, rather than actual fondness for it. He is dressed, it seems, just formally enough to conform to department regulations, and his posture tells of a man who would much rather be in a pair of jeans and an old, well-worn sweatshirt. I feel weariness on him, the mark of a man who had great enthusiasm for his chosen career when he entered it some twenty or more years ago, but has since been brought bac
k to earth by day after day of mundane reality and bureaucratic oppression.
All this before he even opens his mouth to say a word to me. Once the words come, I feel my assessment is right. “You’re a complicated man, Mr. Shays,” he says.
“So I’ve been told,” I respond, trying to sound cooperative and not wiseass.
“I’m Lieutenant Fogle. I’m the detective in charge of this case, such as it is.”
So are you good cop or bad cop? I wonder silently.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or some water?” he asks me.
Ah, good cop. I can live with that.
“I’m fine on that front,” I tell him, “but I’d really appreciate a chance to call my attorney. I think once we all sit down together, we’ll realize that there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Your legal advisor is already here,” he answers.
This is news to me. How could Steven already be here, coming from as far away as he did? It’s possible that he was on the road and just happened to be near Atlanta when Rebecca called him, but …
“She’s talking with the desk sergeant now,” Fogle continues. “She’ll be in here momentarily.”
“Wait … She? But …”
Before I can inquire further about his pronoun choice, the door to the room opens, and in walks my legal advisor. I try not to do an actual cartoon-worthy double take when I see Rebecca enter, dressed in the most formal outfit she has brought with her—which amounts to slacks and a white blouse—and carrying a briefcase … my briefcase from the trunk of the Sebring. Without thinking, I stand up quickly.
“Sit down,” Fogle and Rebecca say simultaneously. So I sit.
With an air of confidence I have yet to encounter from her, she strides in and owns the room. Hand outstretched, she introduces herself to my interrogator. “Rebecca Traeger, legal advisor to Mr. Shays.”
“Detective Lieutenant Eric Fogle. Good to meet you, Ms. Traeger.”
She sits next to me. I’m sure I look astonished.
“I’m a bit surprised you were able to be here so quickly,” Fogle says to her, “seeing as how Mr. Shays isn’t from Atlanta.”
“Fortunately, I was in the area. It’s a good thing, too,” she adds, looking at a single typewritten page she brought in with her. “I’d like to get Mr. Shays released this evening, as I happen to know that he has some important matters to see to.”
Fogle seems put off by her boldness. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Ms. Traeger. There’s a charge of first-degree murder …”
“Simple?” she says with an icy look at him. “I think we’re swimming in a sea of oversimplification here, Detective. I’ve read through this arrest report, and I’m shaking my head at why my client is even here. Last time I checked, habeas corpus does still apply in Georgia, does it not?”
It’s a fascinating performance, I have to admit. If I weren’t the star of the grisly state-sponsored execution to follow, I would be on my feet and applauding.
Fogle’s patience, meanwhile, is starting to wear thin. “Now, see here, Ms. Traeger. There’s compelling evidence. I have an eyewitness at the scene who saw Mr. Shays talking heatedly with Jeffrey Casner just before the explosion. This eyewitness saw your client running away from the vehicle seconds before it blew up. Now, we’re still putting together all the pieces, but with all due respect to your habeas corpus, in my jurisdiction, that’s called prima facie evidence, and it’s enough to hold Mr. Shays—without bail—until a preliminary hearing can be held.”
He’s good; I’ll give him that.
She switches tactics. “Detective, I apologize. I meant no disrespect to you or your department. It’s been a long day, and the news of Mr. Shays’s arrest came as a surprise to me. I want what you want: the capture and prosecution of Jeffrey Casner’s killers. I just need to spend a little time with you this evening to help you see that there’s no way Mr. Shays could have committed this crime. If you’re willing to work with me tonight, I’m hoping we can rule him out as a suspect and clear the slate to find who did this.”
He thinks about it for a moment. “All right. I’m willing to listen.”
“Do you have the witness statement?” she asks.
“I imagine it’ll be done by now. I’ll have to go get it. Wait here, please.”
He gets up and leaves Rebecca alone with me in the room. She smiles broadly at me. “Hi,” she says pleasantly.
“Hi? You’re giving me hi? What are you doing here?”
“Representing you, obviously.”
I suddenly remember where we are, a room known for a lack of privacy. “Wait a second. We shouldn’t be talking in here. Someone could be watching.”
“I checked the room that looks in on this one. No one’s in there. Fogle is the only one here who’s working on the case at the moment.”
“I see. And you’re representing me?”
“Yep.”
“Are you out of your mind? I’ve been arrested for murder!”
She holds up the arrest report in front of me. “Duh.”
“I asked you to call my attorney …”
“I did call your attorney. He’s in the Bahamas right now, and will be for the next week. I kinda figured you didn’t want a public defender, so I hid in the car until the cops left, then drove over here after a reasonable amount of time had passed, and here I am.”
“Here you are.” I lower my voice to an emphatic whisper. “Might I remind you that you’re not an attorney!”
“Relax,” she says, “relax. Before I left school, I was pre-law. I’ve taken a bunch of criminal justice and criminal procedure classes. I know what I’m doing. Besides, this case is so open-and-shut, you don’t need your expensive attorney. I can get you out of here. And just so you know, I didn’t tell them I was your attorney; I told them I’m your legal advisor, which I am. I couldn’t represent you in court, but I’m allowed to counsel you in this situation. So chill. I’ve got it covered.”
I’m stunned by how calm she is and how reasonable her explanation sounds. If it’s an act, it’s a hell of a good one. “You really know what you’re doing?” I ask her.
“Completely.”
I pause in acceptance of her aid. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I say quietly.
“I’m glad you’re okay too. That explosion was scary. And kinda cool. But mostly scary.”
“I fucked up,” I say to her. “I couldn’t save him.”
“You tried. That’s what matters. You tried to save him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
At this inopportune moment, Detective Fogle returns with the typed witness statement and hands it to Rebecca. She thanks him and begins reading. Though she tries hard to keep a poker face, I know her body language well enough to know by now that this document is good news for us. She finishes reading and looks over at Fogle, who is still standing opposite us on his side of the table.
“This is it?” she asks. “This is all?”
“You can see that the witness was on the same block, and swore that he saw Mr. Shays having a heated argument with Jeffrey Casner, then running away from the vehicle right before it exploded.”
“What I’m missing here, Detective, is the substance of that argument. Nowhere in this report does the witness state what was said by either Mr. Shays or Mr. Casner.”
Fogle looks less than pleased at this. “Yeah, I asked about that. He was too far away to hear what was said.”
“And you’re accepting this as a valid witness statement?”
“Absent any other eyewitnesses with information to the contrary, he’s what we have. He saw the exchange. He saw Mr. Shays running from the scene before the car blew up.”
“Which would be consistent with Mr. Shays’s statement,” Rebecca says, “that he was warning Jeffrey Casner not to get into
his car. He knew that someone had planted an explosive device, and he was acting as a Samaritan to try to save Casner’s life.”
“Then how did he know about the bomb?” Fogle asks her. “Knowledge suggests complicity. An accessory before the fact.”
“His knowledge of the circumstances is not key to the chain of evidence,” she argues. “Where’s the means? Where’s the motive? My client will swear under oath that he had no prior relationship with Jeffrey Casner before tonight, eliminating any suggestion of motive.”
“You know, I’m right here,” I remind them both. “You might consider asking me some of these questions.”
Fogle nods a little. “All right, Mr. Shays. As you said, you’re right here. Let’s assume for a moment that you didn’t plant that bomb.”
“Great,” I say, “can I go?”
That elicits a little laugh from him. “Humor me. Stick around. If you didn’t plant it and you aren’t working with the people who did, how did you know it was there?”
I look at him, then at Rebecca. She less-than-discreetly makes a head gesture that screams tell him, and I have to agree that I don’t have much choice.
“For the past two years, I have been gifted with foreknowledge of some events,” I tell him. “And with that foreknowledge comes an obligation to prevent certain tragedies from happening. One of those tragedies was the murder of Jeffrey Casner. I learned about it early this afternoon, and I hurried here to try to stop it from happening. I got here just in time to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen to my warning, and he got in the car anyway. The heated argument we had was him telling me he didn’t want to listen to my warning. I was running away from there because I knew I’d failed, and I was trying to get to safety.”
There is a long pause as he takes this in, which doesn’t bode well for me. The look on his face is pure disbelief, and after a few seconds, his words confirm it. “That’s it?” he says. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
Rebecca tries to stop him. “Detective …”
