Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel

by Neal Griffin

  THREE

  Harlan jumped with ease from the rear of the pickup and pulled his backpack higher on his shoulder. He banged his open hand against the sidewall and called out to the driver, “Obliged for the lift.”

  The truck sped out, leaving Harlan in a parking lot full of Ford trucks, Buick and Chevy muscle cars, and a half-dozen Harley motorcycles. There wasn’t an import in sight. I’ll be damned, he thought. The whole lot is American made.

  The Wisconsin evening remained stubbornly cold, and the fifty-mile ride in the open air left him with a shiver he worked hard to control. Harlan wore a heavy dark blue corduroy top that was really no more than a thick shirt, but he was glad to have it. A wool beanie was pulled down low to just above his eyebrows. The jeans and army boots were broken in and fit well. His trip to Goodwill represented a major portion of the $227 he had in his pocket when he walked out the front gate of Red Cliff State Penitentiary. Between the clothes, food, and a few incidentals, he was down to around a hundred bucks. That, after seventeen years of on-again, off-again prison work at twenty-seven cents an hour. But the used clothing was money well spent, and Harlan was glad to shed himself of the thin black slacks, plastic windbreaker, and hard-sole shoes that were his last physical reminder of prison.

  Country music poured out from inside the split-level structure located along a lonely stretch of the two-lane state highway. The building had been converted into a nightclub of sorts and was said to be the only watering hole for twenty miles in any direction. Neon signs of a half-dozen beers flashed from the windows, along with the name of the bar: Chicken Lips Saloon. Harlan walked toward the building, where a cluster of men and women stood under the lamplight, each with cigarette in hand. They looked up to watch as Harlan, a compact but muscular man with a bone-white complexion, approached. Harlan took note that as he drew close, the conversations faded away. One man in the group held a bottle down by his waist, with two fingers around the long neck and the rest of his hand buried in his pocket. The bottle dangled there, and Harlan realized at any second it could be called on as a weapon. The man’s chest and arms were swollen under a flannel shirt, and his eyes stared out from a chiseled face as if he was ready to challenge Harlan’s entry. Harlan slowed his step and met the man’s gaze with a well-practiced hard look of his own. He kept staring even after the man looked away and raised his bottle for a nervous swallow of beer. The group retreated in unison and gave Harlan a clear path to the door. Harlan passed by without a word and stepped inside.

  With all the interior walls removed, what once served as a family home was now a beer hall in every respect. Harlan saw the source of the music was a live band set off in one corner. They played a popular slow tune well enough that a crowd of men and women swayed in each other’s arms on the parquet dance floor under a spinning ball of mirrors and glass. Harlan stood in the doorway to give his eyes a minute to adjust to the low light. The heavy aroma of grilling sausage served as a reminder he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. A hundred droning voices filled his head with snippets of conversations, causing Harlan to feel unsettled and on the verge of aggravation. He set out to find the office he was told would be toward the back and marked PRIVATE.

  Harlan weaved through the crowded tables surrounded by working-class folks, many wearing uniform shirts from a tool-and-die plant in nearby Chippewa Falls. Most of the patrons were men, but Harlan did notice a few scantily dressed women hustling drinks and carrying plates heaped with bar food from the kitchen to the tables. Harlan made his way to the farthest isolated corner. He stood in front of the solid steel-framed door and gave three sharp knocks. As he had been instructed, he looked up and to the right. The camera turned his way, and he heard the sound of a sliding dead bolt on the other side. The door opened, and the familiar face of the slightly built man beamed at the sight of him. Harlan stepped inside the office, and the heavy spring-loaded door closed behind him. There was a leather couch to his right that struck him as new and expensive; a coffee table was covered with business papers and financial magazines. The flat-screen television that hung from the wall was tuned to a cable news show. The volume was low and the day’s closing stock prices ran across the bottom of the screen. The music faded to almost nothing, and it felt good to be out of the crowd.

  “I’ll be damned to hell. Harlan Lee. Out in the world.” He stood, shaking his head. “Seventeen years for killing a man? I swear, it’s like nobody does real time anymore.”

  Harlan thought that an odd thing coming from someone who served three years of a seven-year sentence. Harlan, never prone to engage in good-natured ribbing or idle conversation, ignored the comment. But the satisfaction of seeing the familiar face was undeniable.

  “How goes it, Virgil?”

  Virgil Anderson had entered Red Cliff just as Harlan began his twelfth year behind bars. A first-rate outlaw and con man by trade, Virgil was a computer hacker extraordinaire and one of the most prolific identity thieves the Midwest had ever produced. Over a period of several years, Virgil managed to access the computer records of over a thousand people in a dozen different countries. He had methodically bilked them for over a million dollars without anyone batting an eye and all from the comfort of his own living room. Virgil might have kept the con going for years longer if he hadn’t inadvertently tapped into the credit line of a sitting congressman. The man’s wife watched the family credit statements like a hawk to be sure her husband wasn’t enjoying himself a bit too much on his trips back and forth to the nation’s capital, and her vigilance marked the end of Virgil’s long run of financial success.

  “I can’t complain,” Virgil said as he pulled a chair up for Harlan and then took a seat behind the desk that filled a good portion of the room. The man had never had the look of a hard-core crook. Small in stature, with a handsome face and white-blond hair, Virgil had a natural ability to win the confidence of most any everyday citizen. Of course, what served him well on the outside had been a serious liability in Red Cliff. More than once, it almost proved deadly.

  “Two years out now. No reason to think I won’t make three. If my luck holds, maybe a bit longer.” The man looked Harlan over. “How ’bout you? You settling in okay? How’s your newfound freedom?”

  Harlan took a seat in the chair but ignored the inquiry. He pointed toward a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker that sat on the desktop.

  “You mind? It was a cold ride.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Harlan did, pouring three fingers of the dark amber liquid into a glass. Harlan ignored the ice bucket and tossed it back neat. A warmth spread through his body and rigid muscles as he took a look around, enjoying the privacy of the office. “Big crowd out there. Seems like you’re doing okay for yourself.”

  “This?” Virgil looked around. “It’s profitable, but it’s got nothing to do with Virgil Anderson. Check the records. You’ll see this establishment is owned and operated by Mr. Steven Miller. Married. Two kids. A law-abiding citizen who pays his taxes on time and bears a disturbingly similar appearance to a trashy white convict who lives in the next town over.”

  Harlan’s eyes went to the cherrywood desktop covered with credit card and bank statements. There was a pile of receipts from different stores and restaurants. Most of the papers were crumpled and dirt stained. On a legal pad there was a long list of social security numbers scrawled in pencil. Virgil pushed the papers off to the side.

  “Never ceases to amaze me,” Virgil said. “The stuff folks just throw in the trash.”

  “Still running those same identity scams?”

  Virgil shrugged. “Just doing what comes natural, Harlan. Feels like what was intended for me. I could hook you up if you want. Get you out from under all that convict baggage.”

  “Nah. I’m good with who I am,” Harlan said, then went on to a new subject. “That thing we talked about. We ready to go?”

  Virgil answered with an even tone of assurance. “I did what you asked. Everything is set.”

  Harlan s
tared back at his old cell mate and gave an approving nod. When Harlan had learned of his impending release, he had managed to get a visitation with Virgil. Convicts weren’t typically allowed to meet with men who were paroled, but Virgil was able to grease the right palm, and the two men had an hour of private conversation that got logged in as a legal consult. It was there Harlan called on Virgil for the use of his unique skills.

  Virgil refilled Harlan’s glass with another double shot of scotch, then made a drink for himself, but a single on the rocks with an equal portion of bottled water. Harlan emptied his glass in a single swallow. He watched as Virgil sipped his drink like a man who had the whole night to enjoy it.

  “If everything is ready, then let’s make it happen,” Harlan said. “You need something from me?”

  “Just say ‘go.’ Then all you need to do is sit back and watch.”

  Harlan shook his head. “I don’t follow ya.”

  Virgil put his small girl-like feet up on the desk and explained. “The old man usually goes online from his office down at the car dealership somewhere around seven o’clock every morning. Hits a few sports sites, usually some porn shit but all legit adult skin. What he don’t know is that for the last three weeks, every time he logs on, he’s been sending out an e-mail blast with thumbnail attachments to a hundred and fifty IP addresses in sixteen different countries. All of ’em black market kiddie-porn exchange sites. We’re talking about the real degenerate stuff. Nasty shit.” Virgil shook his body in disgust. “Hard to imagine there’s a market for that sort of filth, but as you and I know all too well, there’re some twisted bastards out there walking around in the world.”

  Virgil stopped and sipped his scotch until Harlan urged him on. “Keep talking.”

  “The sites he’s currently hooked into are pretty damn sophisticated. All of ’em well hidden and none monitored by the cops or any of those watchdog groups.” Virgil raised his eyebrows and went on. “The sorts of places only a real pro would know about. Trust me, they weren’t easy to find or get into. But when you give the word, I’ll add one particular recipient. A shell account owned, operated, and closely monitored by our European friends.”

  Harlan sat in silence and shrugged his shoulders in confusion.

  “Interpol.” Virgil paused in what struck Harlan as a moment of admiration, then went on. “Those crafty sons of bitches … They really go after kiddie-porn freaks. Draw them in with an offer to trade pics, then they snatch the transmission right out of thin air. From there they follow it all the way back to the source. Don’t ever let anybody talk to you about cybersecurity. There ain’t no such thing.”

  “So then what?”

  “It might take a day or so, but before too long he’ll have agents from the FBI field office over in Minneapolis assigned to his case. Even if he gets a couple of clowns right out of the academy, his trail will be impossible to miss.”

  “What’s to keep him from getting spooked? Start shutting everything down?”

  “Brother, he ain’t got a clue. It’s all buried a couple layers down, but he’s probably got over a thousand illegal images embedded in his hard drive right now. He’s mailed out somewhere in the neighborhood of ten times that many. Add in a few hundred e-mails with all his personal info and a dozen or so suspicious international purchases with his credit card. The kind of stuff cops call ‘dominion and control.’ He’ll be bagged and tagged an hour after the Feds power up that computer and crack it open.”

  “What kind of time is he looking at?”

  “Time? You know better than that, Harlan. Officially it’ll be something in the neighborhood of forty years, but it’ll work out to a lot less than that.”

  Harlan understood the reference. As a former cop coming in with papers that say he trades kiddie porn, a man would be lucky to survive six months. Maybe a year.

  “They can put him in whatever isolation cell they want, but the fellas will make sport out of who gets to put a shank in his fat ass. Course that won’t come till he’s been properly cornholed and wore out.” Virgil’s voice turned quiet. “Believe me, he won’t be sorry to see the end come.”

  Virgil paused for a moment, then went on. “Is that pretty much what you had in mind for the good sheriff of Florence County?”

  “Former sheriff and yeah, Virgil. That was the idea.”

  “So I guess you’re really going through with it? I take it that was your work up in Hayward. That was some drastic shit you pulled.”

  Harlan’s voice carried an edge. “You know better than that, Virgil. Let’s restrict ourselves to the business at hand.”

  “Suit yourself, but you’ve chosen a dangerous course, my friend. You’re a convicted killer who busted parole. They’re gonna come looking for you. The state tends to keep your type on a short leash.”

  “The only leash they had on me was on the inside.”

  “No doubt about that. Harlan Lee is not known to be a man to put up with a lot of meddling by the state.”

  Virgil opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope.

  “Take this. I’d give you some good plastic, but with all the goddamn cameras these days, everything gets filmed.” Virgil winked. “It’s like nobody trusts anybody anymore.”

  “I ain’t gonna take your money, Virgil. If a man can’t figure out a way to make his own stake, he oughta just stay locked up.”

  “I wish there was something more I could do,” Virgil said. “Hell, Harlan, I’d have never made it out of Red Cliff if it weren’t for you. There were a couple of times … Anyway. I’m grateful. I just want you to know that.”

  Harlan hesitated and thought back to their years in prison. On more than one occasion, Harlan had protected the man from the primitive reality of life on the inside. Never once had Harlan asked for a favor of any sort in return.

  Harlan pulled his own thin wad of cash from the pocket of his shirt. “I could use some new iron. I’ll be sure it never comes back on ya. I’d prefer a revolver. Less to go wrong.”

  “Put your goddamn money away.”

  Virgil bent down to a floor safe behind the desk. He spun the dial while he spoke. “It’s probably too late for you to just go back up to Florence and live the life of the landed gentry, huh? I mean, I know your old man left you the homestead, didn’t he?”

  Harlan’s tone was matter-of-fact. “What the government didn’t steal away from him. Few acres. Farmhouse. Ain’t nothing up there for me anymore.”

  Virgil opened the safe. He took out a patch of green felt and laid it across his desk. Harlan watched as Virgil’s delicate hands went back and forth inside the safe until he had removed a half-dozen revolvers and set them out in a display. The guns ranged from a single-shot twenty-two derringer to a forty-four-caliber hand cannon. Each gun looked brand-new with a light coating of oil and a custom grip.

  “Take your pick, although I must say I’m partial to the Ruger.”

  Harlan eyed them all but, yeah. He picked up the stainless snub-nosed three-eighty five-shot revolver and balanced it in his hand. It had a good feel. Nice heft to it. Substantial grip for his large hand. He dry-fired toward the wall to test the trigger pull while Virgil went on, sounding every bit like a nagging wife.

  “Then get out of Wisconsin. Find someplace you want to settle. Anywhere you want. Just let me know where you land. I’ll work you up a clean bill of health. Get you a stake in a place like this.”

  Harlan ignored Virgil’s comments and held up the Ruger to signify his choice. Virgil went back to the safe and pulled out a box of ammo and a black nylon holster, pushing the hardware across the desk. Harlan picked up the box and broke out five rounds, loading each cylinder. He shoved it all in his pack and stood to leave.

  “Good seeing you, Virgil. I’m glad things are working out for you.” Harlan held out his pack containing the new gun. “I owe ya.”

  “No you don’t.” Virgil stood from the desk. “It’s gratis. And the offer stands. I’d hook you up to a life that might not be
entirely legit, but I’ll be damned if you wouldn’t be able to see legit from your front porch. Give it some thought, Harlan. The life of a con on the run? Never tried it myself. Can’t say as I’m interested.”

  “I don’t plan on runnin’ from nobody. If there’s a cop out there who figures this shit out, I won’t be hard to find.” Harlan paused, aware this exchange could be their last. His voice was solemn. “I’m in your debt, Virgil. I’m glad to have known you.”

  “Likewise, Harlan,” Virgil said. “So then. Are we a ‘go’?”

  Harlan thought back, and in his mind he saw an image of Sheriff Henry Lipinski from seventeen years ago. “Damn right. Burn that son of a bitch to the ground.”

  Minutes later Harlan was back on the road, the new weight in the pack pulling on his shoulder. It brought some comfort to know he once again had a gun within reach, but he wondered, Should I have taken the cash? And what about Virgil’s other offer? A chance to walk away clean. Start a new life. The idea hung in his mind as he walked on in the darkness, but he was quick to dismiss it. Harlan Lee lived by an outlaw code. Part of that code required pride and self-reliance. Adopting a bogus name and making a living as a con man wasn’t the Lee way. That same code also allowed for avenging wrongs committed against family.

  A vehicle approached from behind, and Harlan turned to face it. He jammed out this thumb and squinted his eyes, doused in bright light as the driver slowed. It came as no surprise when the engine revved and the truck sped by. Undeterred, Harlan turned back and continued his walk. No reason to hurry, he told himself. Someone would be along eventually. In the meantime he took solace in the Midwestern night sounds and the crisp air against his skin. Content, he occupied his mind with the names and faces of all those folks who were once again an important part of his life.

  FOUR

  Tia Suarez made her way through the parking lot of the Newberg PD in four-inch stiletto heels, pausing for a moment to pull down the hem of her short, form-fitting skirt. It had a tendency to ride up pretty high, but in her line of work that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The cheap waist-length jacket with the faux fur collar that she’d picked up at Goodwill turned out to be worth the ten bucks she’d spent. It helped keep the chill off her slender body but still let her show off the wares. The weather was a little on the cool side for this get-up, she thought, but that’s how you reel them in. Come summertime, I’ll be unstoppable.