Shame

by Alan Russell

  The condemned man noticed his son staring at his shackles. He shook the chains. “Like my bracelets?” he asked with one of his old smiles.

  Prison hadn’t changed his father’s large, snow-white teeth. Nor had it taken the seductive wattage out of his smile. His light blue eyes were almost opaque, as if you could take an eraser and wipe away the color. His mama said the two of them looked just alike. Caleb didn’t want to believe that.

  “Almost fifteen, aren’t you?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “We don’t have much time to talk, son. You’re my last wish. I figured there were some things between us we needed to discuss.”

  His father kept rubbing his newly shaved head. He was nervous, acting much like an uncomfortable father faced with telling his son the facts of life. Or death.

  “We all have regrets, son. We all do things we wish we hadn’t. Sometimes that’s all it seems like life is, one regret after another.”

  He tried to smile for Caleb again but gave it up. “You can’t always look back. It’s not healthy. You have to look ahead. You understand what I’m getting at?”

  Ever so slightly, Caleb nodded.

  “I haven’t been much of a father,” he said. “I know you felt shortchanged.”

  Caleb didn’t respond. Since his father’s arrest he had learned to be guarded, to keep his expression blank and give little or nothing away. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening.

  “Lots of things about my life I wish I could change. I have a list of regrets, but even at your young age I suspect you’ve done things you wish you hadn’t.”

  They looked at each other, and his father found something to nod at once more.

  “They say a leopard can’t change his spots. I’ve always had lots of spots, Gray. I couldn’t change them, though Lord knows I tried.”

  He knew his father wanted him to talk, but Caleb couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He was still afraid.

  “I wish I could leave you something besides regrets, son. I wish I could tell you everything’s going to be all right, but I don’t want to give you any false hopes. Someday you might have a son, and you might have better things to tell him than I’ve had to tell you. My daddy never told me much either. About the only thing he ever impressed upon me was that when I had a firstborn boy, it was my obligation to name him Gray.

  “You’re a son of the South, boy. That’s how you got your name. That’s how I got it. That’s how your granddad got it, and your great-granddad. I told you about your great-great-granddad Caleb. That’s where you got your middle name. Caleb hated Yankees through and through. He killed plenty in the War Between the States, but that was the kind of killing that makes a man a hero. They say ol’ Caleb came home with half an arm and one leg, but that didn’t stop him from having a passel of kids. He named his oldest boy Gray. We all did. The Gray and the Blue, you understand?

  “Your name’s the family legacy, son, such as it is.”

  The lights overhead started flickering again. “Old goddamn Sparky,” his father whispered.

  The large guard, the one called Sarge, looked at his watch and announced, “Time’s up,” but there was some leeway built into his pronouncement.

  His father stopped noticing the lights. “There are so many things I wanted to tell you, Gray,” he said, “so many things I wanted to explain. But we don’t need to explain anything to one another. What happened previously is past, you understand? Water under the bridge. It doesn’t do any good to get all caught up with things we should have done, and things we shouldn’t have done. You taking any of this in?”

  Caleb offered a nod.

  “You’re going to be the man in the family now,” he said. “You’re going to have to look after your mama.”

  His father shook his head and sighed. “I’ve been a bad father, but I was a worse husband. I wasn’t home much, and when I was I always managed to set your mama to crying. But that’s nothing you don’t already know.”

  “Time’s up, inmate,” Sarge said.

  Sarge’s second pronouncement was made with a little more conviction, but Caleb’s father didn’t look at Sarge or acknowledge his words in any way. Instead, he stared off into the distance as if he could see through the prison walls. Sighing, he turned back to Caleb, then shook his head.

  “It won’t be easy for you,” he said.

  His father’s sad tone struck Caleb much more than the words. Caleb already knew it wouldn’t be easy.

  “Crazy world, son. You look for answers, and sometimes there just aren’t any. Don’t beat yourself up trying to find them. There are enough others out there that’ll be more than willing to do the beating on you, so there’s no reason to do it to yourself. Choose your battles, boy. And make sure you’re not fighting yourself. That’s not a battle you can win.”

  His father looked embarrassed, as if he wasn’t used to giving advice, or not worthy of offering it. But Caleb could see his need to talk was greater than his reluctance to counsel.

  “When you wake up tomorrow, Gray, I want you to look at it like your life has just begun. Don’t take my baggage with you. Can you do that?”

  Caleb wasn’t sure how to answer that. Finally, he just nodded.

  “For your sake,” his father whispered, “I wish it were as easy as all that.”

  “Time’s up, inmate,” Sarge announced. He put enough emphasis in his voice to show that he meant business this time.

  His father motioned for just a little more time, his shackled hands held out like those of a supplicant. With his eyes he silently implored the guard, and in them Caleb saw a desperation he had never seen before.

  “Another minute,” Sarge said. His tone made it clear he would begrudge every one of those sixty seconds.

  With the extra moments, Gray Parker Sr. tried to figure out what to say to his son for the last time.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “You never disappointed me, Son. Never.”

  His declaration surprised Caleb. Tears pooled in his eyes. He felt like a fish, with his mouth opening, and closing, then opening again.

  “Shhh,” his father told him. “There’s no need.”

  “Time,” Sarge said.

  His father’s last words to him were, “Be a good boy.”

  Caleb watched his father being taken away. Four hours later the state of Florida executed him.

  9

  LOCKING THE DOOR behind them, they heard a man shouting, “Pepper, come here, Pepper.”

  They could see him standing on the outskirts of the parking lot, leash in hand, whistling for his wayward dog.

  Brandy and Joe said their good-nights at the door. Joe’s friends had a keg, and he was hoping they hadn’t finished off all of the beer. He loped over to his van.

  “Pepper. Come on, Pepper.”

  The parking lot was quiet, with only a few cars in the lot. Cardiff by the Sea was a quiet beach community that lived up to its tranquil name, closing down early on weeknights.

  “Pe-Pe-Pepper.” The man’s tone was equal parts chastising and affectionate. He had spotted his wayward dog.

  Brandy continued walking toward her car. Joe’s van started up. He pulled away quickly, spurred on by the thought of suds.

  “Come on out from under there, Pepper. Come on, boy.”

  The man was walking in the same direction as Brandy. He was hunched over, peering so as to be able to see under the car.

  “Bad dog,” he said. “Come here right now.”

  “He obeys about as well as my boyfriend,” Brandy said, laughing.

  “Is that your car?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” said Brandy.

  “I’m afraid Pepper’s taken refuge under it. I think he’s eating some trash that he knows I wouldn’t approve of. Give that dog a choice between a T-bone steak and two-day-old garbage, and he’ll take the garbage every time.”

  He closed the distance between them.

  “You’re describing my boyfriend again,” Brandy sai
d, laughing some more.

  The man yelled out, with some impatience, “Get out of there, Pepper.”

  Brandy bent down, tried to catch a glimpse of the dog. “I can’t see him.”

  “He’s hunkered down near your left front tire, chewing on something. Probably something I don’t want to know. He’s hard to make out, because he lives up to his name. Pepper. He’s dark, very dark. I suppose you’re going to tell me like your boyfriend.”

  Brandy laughed but just a little. She tried to get a better glimpse of the man’s face, but the way he kept bending over and moving, it was hard to see.

  “Weren’t you in tonight?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  Her head tilted back to the doughnut shop. “D. G.’s.”

  “Not me.”

  He turned his head toward her for a moment before looking back to his dog. “You look familiar as well. I think I’ve seen you in class.”

  “You go to Mira Costa?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer her question, instead seemed intent on getting his dog. He got down on his knees and stuck his head under her front bumper.

  “Bad dog, Pepper” she heard him say, his voice muffled.

  Brandy opened her car door and listened as the man carried on a dialogue with his dog under her car.

  “What have you got there, Pepper? Give me that. Give.”

  What did the dog have, she wondered?

  “My God,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  “What is it?” Brandy asked, hurrying to the front of her car.

  The man eased his way from under her car. He was shaking his head and breathing hard.

  “Should I call the police?” Brandy asked.

  The man nodded.

  “What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them there’s a dead woman under your car.”

  “What?”

  As her face showed its horror, he threw the leash around her neck, twisted the loose ends in opposite directions, and pulled tight.

  10

  “ANOTHER COKE, CAL?” asked the taller of the two sheriff’s homicide investigators, Detective Holt.

  “Yes,” Caleb said. “Please.”

  Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Alvarez stood up. “I’ll get it,” he said. But before fetching the soft drink he made the observation, “Sweating a lot, aren’t you, Cal?”

  Alvarez didn’t wait for an answer, and Caleb didn’t offer one. Though the two detectives didn’t look anything alike, Caleb thought they could have been brothers. Holt was fair complexioned, with light, thinning brown hair, while Alvarez was Hispanic with a bushy head of black, curly hair. They both had mustaches, but that wasn’t what made them alike. It was their eyes. They looked at him with the same intensity, Holt with his blue eyes and Alvarez with his brown.

  “I’m beginning to think I should have a lawyer,” Caleb said.

  “That’s certainly your right, Cal,” said Holt, “but it seems to me when your writer friend talked with the sheriff she was adamant about keeping this talk out of the news. The fewer people we bring in, the fewer will know what’s going on. It’ll be hard to maintain your anonymity and keep your relationship with your father out of the news if you bring in a bunch of outsiders.”

  The threat was veiled but implicit. “You still okay with our talking, Cal?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Is that a yes or a no, Caleb?”

  “Yes.”

  But it wasn’t. The interview hadn’t been what he expected. At the best of times law enforcement frightened him. Now he was doubly scared. Caleb felt as if he had been ambushed. It was clear the Sheriff’s Office had worked all morning and early afternoon finding out all that they could about him. They knew things, personal things. He hadn’t expected that. Somehow he had thought he could just explain to them. He wished he’d taken Elizabeth’s advice about bringing a lawyer.

  The two detectives had taken turns asking him questions in the interview room. That had made Caleb feel trapped and claustrophobic. The interview room had a whiteboard that both of the detectives wrote on. Sometimes they’d take one of Caleb’s words, or a phrase he used, and write it up on the board as if it had special significance. The walls of the interview room were lined with blue carpeting, which not only absorbed the noise but gave the room the feel of a padded cell. Caleb suspected he was being filmed, though there was no camera visible.

  Lita Jennings’s name didn’t surface until well into the third hour of questioning. Both detectives had been upbeat and friendly the entire time, prefacing any tough questions with apologies, with phrases like “Just to clarify matters” and “I’m having a little trouble understanding.”

  Holt was the one who had said her name first. He was a nodder, always nodding at whatever Caleb had to say. “Do you watch the news, Cal? Or read the newspaper?”

  He waited for Caleb to nod, then gave him a triple return on that investment.

  “It’s enough to make you sick. Did you hear about that college girl who died about a month ago? She had her whole life ahead of her. She was pretty, too. What was her name?”

  Caleb didn’t offer it. His silence lost him a nod.

  “Lita something or other,” said Holt, then pretended suddenly to remember. “Lita Jennings. It probably sounds like a stupid question, but you wouldn’t happen to know her, would you, Cal?”

  Caleb opened his mouth. His hands tried to orchestrate his words, but there were a lot more hand movements than there were words. “My wife’s a nurse....”

  Holt was nodding nonstop, offering “Uh-huh” with every one of Caleb’s halting words.

  “She knew her. The girl’s father is a doctor.” Caleb’s hands kept trying to explain, trying to show the connection. “My wife’s at Scripps, and that’s the hospital her father works out of.”

  “Lita Jennings’s father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not really. I guess I’ve met him and his wife at a few parties.”

  “What about Lita?”

  “It’s possible I saw her a few times.”

  “Possible?”

  “Probable. I just don’t remember.”

  Lots more nodding and understanding. “But your wife knew her well?”

  “I don’t know if well is the right word.”

  “But she knows Dr. Jennings well?”

  Caleb’s hands stopped moving. “Yes.”

  Holt backed off, changed subjects, but both of them knew the subject was far from closed.

  “We’re trying to get a handle on a lot of things, Cal,” said Alvarez.

  Holt, ever affable, nodded at that assessment.

  “And we were wondering if you could help us along with this whole matter.”

  “What do you mean?” Caleb asked.

  “I think it’d make it easier on you and us both if you’d consent to a polygraph.”

  “You mean a lie detector?”

  “It’s no big thing,” Holt said. “A guy asks you questions, just like we’ve been asking you.”

  Alvarez chimed in, “And this way you tell us, ‘Hey, I was catching some Zs with my wife when that happened,’ or ‘I was at such and such a place at that time,’ and this thing’s able to corroborate what you say.”

  “Think of it as insurance for you,” said Holt.

  “’Course it’s all voluntary,” Alvarez said.

  “You mean do it now?” asked Caleb.

  “Good a time as any,” said Alvarez.

  Holt nodded, his head willing Cal’s to follow the same route.

  “It won’t take very long,” said Alvarez. “Got a guy who’s all set up to come in and do it right now.”

  “Everything goes right,” Holt said, “and we’ll all be home for dinner.”

  Elizabeth looked at her watch again. Seven o’clock. More than once she had thought about suggesting that Caleb’s interview session be terminated for
the night, but to do that might jeopardize her newfound position of trust at the Sheriff’s Department. At the moment, she was the golden girl. The inner circle credited her for bringing Caleb to them. They thought she was on their side, which meant they were much more receptive to sharing information with her. They assumed she was there for the same reason they were—to be in on the kill. Still, they didn’t totally trust her. She had been asked to remain in a vacant office, had been kept away from the recording room where Caleb’s interview was being monitored by other sheriff’s homicide detectives.

  Detective Alvarez decided to throw her a bone. His eyes were shining, reflecting an ebullience that had been noticeably lacking among the investigators. He didn’t walk into her office so much as strut in. “We got him,” he said.

  Her eyes asked for more. Alvarez stopped his strutting long enough to give it to her: “Parker’s been talking to the box. BB—Barry Brooks—is working him. We called Barry this morning and had him waiting here in the hope that Cal might consent to the box. During break time BB offered us some preliminary results. Apparently our Mr. Parker is a liar. But that’s the least of his sins. According to the polygraph, he’s also a murderer.”

  Alvarez pointed his index finger at her, smiled, and started to walk out of the room.

  “Hey,” said Elizabeth. “You’re leaving me on that note?”

  “Our bird’s still wired and singing.”

  “Then how about giving me a few more notes?”

  Alvarez hesitated, then finally decided to offer a little more. “It was textbook,” he said. “BB’s going along all smooth, finessing him, and then out of the blue he asks, ‘Have you ever murdered anyone, Mr. Parker?’ And our boy Cal sort of gulps and then says, ‘No.’ According to BB, at that moment the polygraph all but went tilt.”

  Elizabeth did her best to match Alvarez’s broad smile. It inspired him to talk a little more.

  “Not only that,” he said, “we’ve even got motive on one of the murders. We did some checking this morning. Apparently Cal’s wife was involved with a certain Dr. Donald Jennings, father of Lita Jennings.”