Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

61

  Driving home from the jail Erin decided to stop for the most amount of comfort food with the least amount of thought. A Jack-in-the-Box was the ticket. She told herself she’d make up for this indulgence with an evening run.

  She ordered a bacon cheeseburger, curly fries, and a Coke, took her tray to a table by the window that gave her a lovely view of the Taco Bell across the road.

  She’d forgotten how good a bacon burger was. That first bite was love in Paris in the spring. Of course she knew it would soon be sitting in her stomach like a cinderblock. After all the healthy eating she’d done in the last ten years, this indulgence would carry its own punishment.

  But the journey over the tongue was worth it. The curly fries were more bits of transient heaven, and the pure Coke—not diet, not that Zero stuff—was the king of soft drinks.

  One of the female servers, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, dressed in her crisp uniform and wearing a customer-relations smile, placed a slice of cheesecake on Erin’s table.

  “Oh,” Erin said, “I didn’t order—”

  “Your boyfriend wanted to surprise you,” the server said. “He’s a sweetie, by the way.”

  “You got the wrong girl,” Erin said lightly.

  “And,” the server said, as if she hadn’t heard, “he said to give you this.”

  She handed Erin a large, square envelope. Hallmark size. The moment Erin touched it, a dread realization gripped her. She looked past the girl at the rest of the dining area. It was almost full. Families, couples, a group of retirees sipping inexpensive coffee.

  And in the farthest corner from where Erin sat, a man in sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low.

  It was a Cubs hat. A big red letter C with a white outline, on blue.

  Erin’s stomach tightened and she let out an audible gasp.

  The Cubs. Kyle’s team.

  The man was looking directly at her, leaning back comfortably in his booth, smiling.

  “Enjoy!” the server said, and off she went, leaving no sight buffer between Erin and the man.

  She was cold and hot at the same time. It was like the air conditioning in the place had fallen ten degrees in one second. Yet her insides burned like a fever.

  Mr. Cub made a gesture with his hands—opening a book.

  He wanted her to read what was in the envelope.

  For a long moment she didn’t move, trying to make sense of what was happening. Obviously, he had followed her to the jail and then to this place where she sought a little food comfort. He was violating her, toying with her. He wanted her frightened. He loved it.

  When she got her hands moving again, she dropped the envelope on the table. It hit the edge and fell to the ground. Involuntarily, she looked at the man and he wagged his finger at her—no, no, no.

  Her eruption of anger at that patronizing gesture almost had her leaping up and running at him, over tables and retirees both. But she knew he would be prepared for anything. And was dangerous.

  She met his shades with a stare of defiance.

  He shook his head slowly, then made the same gesture that she should read what was now on the floor.

  She hesitated, then bent down and picked up the envelope.

  It was not sealed.

  She pulled out a folded piece of paper, opened it.

  It had a juvenile scrawl, in black felt-tip marker.

  Mom, I want to see you again.

  62

  “How’d the visit go?” Rodriguez asked.

  Emilio Rodriguez was the name of the brownie-loving inmate who wanted the autographed picture of Jaquez Rollins.

  And, increasingly, it looked like, Dylan’s meal companion.

  Today’s lunch was a sumptuous fare of forest-green meat mixed with off-white rice, baked beans, two blocks of what appeared to be cornbread, a slice of something with powdered sugar on it, and a cup of red liquid described as a “vitamin beverage.”

  “You want my cornbread?” Dylan asked.

  “No, man, it’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean it,” Rodriguez said. “I know you saw your lady.”

  He really did seem sincere. But Dylan was not going to trust him —or anybody else—very far.

  Dylan said, “It’s hard to see someone on the other side of the window and you can’t be with them.”

  “Three ways to look at it, man.”

  “Only three?”

  “First way is the glass is half full. Second way is the glass is half empty.”

  “The third?”

  “Third way is, we’re the ones in the glass, bein’ watched.”

  “That’s cheery.”

  “They’re watchin’ to see if they can break you.”

  “We are in jail.”

  “Don’t matter. Long as I got three hots and a cot, I’m good. Can’t break my spirit. Which is what’s happening to you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “See it in your face. You ain’t somebody knows the inside of a place like this. You’re a first-time killer. You got to fight back.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “You just wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Wait.”

  “Thanks for the great advice,” Dylan said.

  Rodriguez smiled. “Always open for business. And yeah, if you don’t want that cornbread …”

  63

  Mom, I want to see you again.

  Erin stared at the writing, blurred now by brimming tears.

  It couldn’t be.

  She closed her eyes and felt the squeezed-out tears falling. She put her head in her palm. The stressors of the past week had played havoc with her brain. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight. But something had to be done now.

  Opening her eyes she looked past the tears and at the vague whiteness of the table top. For a moment she was lost in a vastness of white, like being stranded on an ice floe in some arctic wasteland. It both frightened her and exhilarated her. And then she knew what she would do.

  She gave herself another second, breathing in and out. She was going to approach him and shove the note in his face. Put up or shut up. She wanted to see Kyle and if he tried anything … well, they would just see, wouldn’t they?

  Ready or not, here I come.

  She raised her head and looked back at the man.

  He wasn’t there.

  Standing, she scanned the parking lot through the window.

  He was out there, running and jumping in a black car.

  Erin grabbed her phone and started for the exit.

  And plowed into an elderly woman holding a tray.

  The tray flew out of the woman’s hands. The woman squealed and dropped to the floor with a sickening thud.

  Erin stopped.

  The man in the black car was tearing out of the lot.

  Erin knelt and looked at the woman, whose face was a wince. Pitiful little sounds came out of her mouth.

  “I am so sorry,” Erin said, making a move to help the woman up.

  “Don’t touch her!” A severe-looking man with gray hair and wire-rim glasses stood over them. “I’m a doctor. Get out of the way.”

  64

  On Monday morning, Dylan was shipped by bus with a load of other inmates to the courthouse in San Fernando. They put him in the lockup with some other prisoners. A couple of them were chatty, but not in a let’s-have-a-party style. More like the walking dead talking about what it once felt like to be alive.

  At 9:35 a deputy sheriff called Dylan’s name and escorted him down a corridor and through the backdoor of a courtroom. He told Dylan to sit in the jury box and wait for his attorney to announce his readiness.

  Another arraignment was happening, a sad-looking woman sitting at counsel table with an equally sad-looking female lawyer. Both of them seemed defeated already.

  Sam Wyant was sitting in the front row of the gallery whispering to what look like another lawyer. They were both smiling.

  The sad woman
lawyer was now asking that her client be released without bail. The judge, according to the name sign, was LaToya Hartwell. She looked cool, calm, professional. Dylan would have liked to see a little milk of human kindness on her face. But apparently it wasn’t there this morning.

  The judge said, “Bail is set at five-thousand dollars, cash or bond.”

  The sad client sobbed.

  Dylan looked out at the people sitting in the courtroom. It looked like family members supporters. He had told Paige to stay at the office and watch things as best she could.

  He wondered how many people were here just to watch a show. He had heard that retirees and others who have time on their hands liked to come to court and watch the human drama. Terrific. He was part of some great soap opera. The viewers would look at him now, seated there, wondering what awful thing he had done.

  Then, for some reason, he looked at the far corner of the courtroom. The place farthest from where he himself sat. In the last seat in the last row was a guy in sunglasses and a baseball hat.

  A Cubs hat.

  Something crawled inside Dylan’s chest. Something with claws.

  He told himself a Cubs hat wasn’t a strange sight, especially since they won the series in ’16. The curse had been removed. But the sight of a Cubs hat always gave him a twinge, for obvious reasons.

  He heard his name called and turned toward the judge.

  “Ready to be heard on bail?” she said.

  The deputy DA, a skinny guy in a gray suit, looked like he was the captain of a high school debating team. He stood at his counsel table and said, “Your honor, the People would request defendant be remanded to custody. We’ve learned that he has significant connections with people of some wealth and celebrity. We don’t want him leaving the country.”

  “Who are these people you speak of, Mr. Garrett?” the judge asked.

  “We’d rather not say on the record,” DDA Garrett said.

  Judge Hartwell nodded. “Then I’d rather not consider it as a factor.”

  “All right,” said Garrett. “It’s certain members of the Los Angeles Lakers.”

  “And so what? Are they going to dribble him out of the country?”

  “He has the support of the team, especially one of the star players.”

  “Mr. Garrett,” said the judge, “I find this an odd argument. Are you a Golden State Warriors fan by any chance?”

  A wave of laughter rose up from the gallery.

  “Mr. Wyant?” the judge said.

  Sam Wyant stood. “Your honor, Mr. Reeve is no flight risk or danger to the community. He has an impeccable record, never been arrested, never been ticketed, even for jaywalking.”

  “Mr. Wyant, this is an arraignment court, not a trial court. While I appreciate the rhetoric, being an old trial lawyer myself, let’s keep this to be issue of what the bail schedule says.”

  “Quite right, your honor. It’s sometimes hard for me to step into a courtroom and not think I’m in front of a jury. Call it the old warhorse syndrome.”

  Charm offensive, Dylan thought.

  He looked again at the man in the Cubs hat. He seemed to be watching the proceedings with casual interest. It was impossible to see his eyes, of course, but his head was in the general direction of Dylan’s lawyer.

  “If I may, your honor, this is not a case, nor is it a case with compelling evidence. There is one witness, whose credibility has not been tested. In view of the fact that Mr. Reeve is an honored member of the community, with a professional practice that requires his attention, I would ask the court to consider bail be set at fifty thousand.”

  Garrett stood, a scornful smile on his face. “We might as well just let him go with lovely parting gifts.”

  “Make an argument, Mr. Garrett,” the judge said.

  “This is a murder,” Garrett said. “Brutal. The victim was hit with blunt force then smothered. Mr. Reeve had a semi-automatic pistol with him at the scene. The violence of the crime demands a bail that the community will not find inadequate. Fifty thousand is inadequate.”

  “The purpose of bail is to ensure the personal attendance of the defendant at all times when his or her attendance may be lawfully required,” the judge said. “It’s not to send messages. For that, try Twitter.”

  “Your honor—”

  “Bail is set at three hundred thousand dollars, cash or bond,” said the judge. “Mr. Reeve, you will not travel outside the county of Los Angeles, will not have contact with any witness or potential witness, and you may not possess firearms. What happened to the gun Mr. Garret mentioned?”

  “Your honor,” Sam Wyant said, “Mr. Reeve’s gun is in the possession of the police.”

  “Any other weapons, Mr. Reeve?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said. “One.”

  Sam Wyant looked at him with unwelcome surprise.

  “What kind?” the judge said.

  “It’s a Derringer.”

  “A Derringer? That’s the little thing riverboat gamblers used to carry around, right?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “But up close it can do some damage.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “Where is that weapon now?”

  “I keep it in a gun safe.”

  “At your home?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Any other firearms?”

  “No, your honor.”

  “All right. I will give you twenty-four hours after your release to turn that Derringer over to Mr. Wyant. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said.

  “Anything else from counsel?”

  The two lawyers answered in the negative.

  “Next case,” the judge said.

  Sam Wyant said he would begin the arrangements with Sonny’s Bail Bond, and that in a few hours, Dylan would be out of custody.

  Dylan wondered what Rodriguez would do for his extra dessert.

  65

  At lunchtime, Erin drove out to the Henry Mayo hospital in Newhall. It was a bit of a trek, but she wanted to check in on Abigail Strickland, the eighty-five-year-old woman she’d bashed into at Jack-in-the-Box.

  She got a visitor’s tag at the front desk then went to the gift shop and bought a multi-colored bouquet of flowers.

  When she got to room she saw the woman in the first bed of a duo, with a curtain dividing the two beds.

  A man sat by the bed. He had glasses and a brush haircut and wore a short-sleeved white shirt.

  They both turned their heads at her presence.

  “Hi,” Erin said. “I hope I’m not disturbing …”

  “And you would be?” the man said.

  “The over-anxious pile driver,” Abigail Strickland said. Despite discoloration on the right side of her face, her eyes gave a little twinkle.

  Erin went with the vibe and smiled. “You are so right, and I am so sorry. I brought these.”

  She held up the flowers.

  “Wait a minute,” the man said, rising from his chair. “Who invited you here?”

  “Oh, stop it, Milton,” Abigail Strickland said. “This is my son. He’s a little protective.”

  “Somebody has to be,” he said.

  “Take the flowers and do something nice with them,” Abigail said.

  “I just wanted to apologize again and make sure everything is all right,” Erin said.

  “Not all right,” Milton said. “You could be sued, you know.”

  “Milton,” Abigail said.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Be quiet. No one is going to sue anybody. Go ask the nurse to put those in water.”

  “I’m just looking out for her,” Milton said as he walked by Erin, taking the flowers from her with a firm swipe.

  “He’s always been a worrywart,” Abigail Strickland said.

  “I understand completely,” Erin said. “Again, I am so sorry.”

  “Nothing of it.”

  Abigail raised her left hand for Erin to take. Which she did. It felt dry and delicate. />
  “I was watching you, you know,” Abigail said. “At the Jack-in-the-Box.”

  “You were?”

  “You seemed troubled.”

  “Well, kind of.”

  “Have you taken it to the Lord in prayer?”

  “I light candles sometimes.”

  The woman squeezed Erin’s hand in a surprisingly firm way. “Let me tell you a little something. The two best prayers are ‘Help me, help me, help me’ and ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ Not hard to remember, is it?”

  “I think I can remember that much.”

  Abigail Strickland’s eyes were earnest. “You do that, young lady. What is your name anyways?”

  “Erin.”

  “Just one other thing, Erin.”

  “Yes?”

  Abigail Strickland said, “Don’t go jumping around like a jack-in-the-box at the Jack-in-the-Box, all right?”

  66

  Dylan Reeve was a free man.

  For the moment, at least.

  Outside the courthouse in the afternoon sun he felt like he was in some science-fiction story from an old pulp magazine, about an astronaut being taken to another world, one that mirrored his own yet was foreign to him. Where the people resembled humans but were only copies. He would soon realize this and start screaming in horror as the life forms closed in on him.

  He didn’t scream at Sam Wyant’s driver, though. While Wyant stayed at the courthouse to attend to another matter, the young man named Pete Parris drove Wyant’s silver Cadillac CTS-V with Dylan in the back like an important client.

  Which he was, for a whopping big price tag.

  They had a pleasant conversation about the Dodgers and the Lakers and then Pete dropped the info that he was an actor working on a screenplay.

  “I’m shocked,” Dylan said.

  Pete Parris took the rest of the ride to give him the scene-by-scene breakdown of a movie about a super intelligent chimpanzee who is trained as a hit man. “Sort of John Wick meets Planet of the Apes,” he said. “But with a heart.”

  And just as KiKi the chimp kills the evil scientist who made him and finds security and understanding with a UCLA anthropology grad student—“I hope Jennifer Lawrence is available!”—they pulled up in front of Dylan’s home.