by John Hart
“I don’t know. Dolf knows that Parks is here. And Parks is right. Even this sheriff knows better than to interrogate a suspect with his attorney cooling his heels in the lobby.” I looked at the lawyer. “What’s our recourse here? What can we do?”
Parks settled down, looked at his watch. “It’s after-hours, so we can’t go to the courts for relief. Not that they could do anything. The warrant looked solid. Other than barring my entry, the sheriff is acting within his authority.”
“What can you tell us about the warrant?” I asked.
“Short version? Dolf’s .38 fired the shot that killed Danny Faith. They seized the gun when they searched the house. Ballistics confirmed it as the murder weapon. According to the warrant, it has Dolf’s prints on it.”
“Dolf’s prints?” I asked.
Not mine?
“Dolf’s prints,” the lawyer confirmed. And then it hit me. Dolf was a meticulous man. He would have cleaned the gun before putting it back in the cabinet. He’d wiped off my prints and left his.
“They can’t make a case with just the murder weapon,” I said. “For trial, they’ll need more. Motive. Opportunity.”
“Opportunity won’t be a problem,” Parks said. “Danny worked part time for your father. Fourteen hundred acres. Dolf could have killed him anytime. Motive is another matter. The warrant is not specific in that regard.”
“So what?” my father asked. “We just sit here?”
“I’ll make some calls,” Parks said.
My father looked to me. “We wait,” I said. “We talk to the sheriff.”
We sat for hours. Parks rousted one of his assistants at home and instructed him to begin drafting a motion to suppress evidence based on the denial of right to counsel. That was all he could do, which was basically as good as doing nothing. At nine fifteen the sheriff walked through the security door. An armed deputy flanked him. He held up his hand and spoke before Parks could launch into a tirade.
“I’m not here to debate or discuss anything,” he said. “I’m well aware of your complaint.”
“Then you know that it is a constitutional violation to interrogate my client out of my presence.”
Color rose in the sheriff’s face. He stared the lawyer down. “I have nothing further to say to you,” he said, and paused a beat. “You are irrelevant.” He spoke to my father. “Before you get all riled, Jacob, you may as well hear what I have to say. Dolf Shepherd has been charged with the murder of Danny Faith. He has been advised of his right to counsel and has refused that right.” He looked at Parks and smiled. “You are not his attorney, Mr. Templeton. Therefore, there has been no constitutional violation. You will not be going further than this lobby.”
My father’s words exploded in a rush. “He doesn’t want a lawyer?”
A smile spread above the uniform. “Unlike some, Mr. Shepherd seems unwilling to hide behind lawyers and their tricks.” His eyes swiveled onto me.
My stomach churned. A familiar feeling.
“What are you saying?” Parks demanded. “That he’s confessed?”
“I’m not speaking to you,” the sheriff replied. “I thought I’d made that clear.”
“What are you saying?” my father asked.
The sheriff held my father’s gaze then turned slowly to me, the smile sliding into obscurity. There was no reading his face. “He wants to see you,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Parks interrupted. “And you’ll allow that?”
The sheriff ignored him. “I can take you back whenever you’re ready.”
“Just a minute, Adam,” Parks said. “You’re right. This doesn’t make sense.”
The sheriff shrugged. “You want to see him or not?”
Parks gripped my arm and pulled. He spoke in a whisper. “Dolf’s been in custody for what, three or four hours? He’s refused counsel, yet asked for you. Unusual, to say the least. Most troubling, though, is the sheriff’s willingness to go along with that request.” He skipped a beat, and I saw that he was deeply concerned. “Something is definitely wrong.”
“But what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I can’t see it.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” I said. “I can’t refuse.”
“You should, though. Legally speaking, I don’t see what can be gained.”
“It’s not always about the law.”
“I advise against it,” Parks stated.
“Dad?” I asked.
“He wants to see you.” Hands shoved deep into pockets, the implication was clear in his face. Refusal was not an option.
I walked back to the sheriff, studied his face for some kind of hint. Nothing. Dead eyes and a flat slash of mouth. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”
The sheriff turned, and something flickered on the face of the deputy beside him. I looked back at my father. He raised a hand, and Parks leaned toward me. “Listen to what he has to say, Adam, but keep your mouth shut. You have no friends in there. Not even Dolf.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“A murder charge has been known to turn friends against each other. It happens all the time. The first to deal is the first to walk. Every D.A. in the country plays that game. And every sheriff knows it.”
My voice was unforgiving. “Dolf’s not like that.”
“I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”
“Not this time.”
“Just watch yourself, Adam. You beat one of the biggest murder charges ever brought in this county. That’s been eating at the sheriff for five years. Politically, it hurt him, and I guarantee he’s lost sleep over it. He still wants a piece of you. That’s human nature. So, remember: without me in the room there’s no attorney-client privilege attached to your conversation. Assume that you’re being overheard, even recorded, no matter what they say to the contrary.”
It was a needless warning. I’d been through the door before, and I had no illusions. Two-way mirrors, microphones, hard questions. I remembered. The sheriff paused at the door. A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked open.
“Look familiar?” the sheriff asked.
I ignored the smirk, and stepped through the door. After five long years, I was back inside.
I’d spent a lot of time here, and I knew it like I knew my own home: the smells, the blind corners, the guards with quick tempers and ready clubs. It still smelled of vomit, antiseptic, and black mold.
I’d sworn I would never come back to Rowan County; but I had. And now I was here, in the pit. But it was for Dolf; and I was not in custody. A big difference.
We passed prisoners in jumpsuits and flip-flops. Some moved freely; others traveled the halls in cuffs and under guard. Most kept their eyes down, but some stared, a challenge; and I stared back. I knew how it worked, the rules of engagement. I’d learned how to spot the predators. They’d come at me on day one. I was rich, I was white, and I refused to look away. That was really all it took, and they decided early on to beat me down.
I had three fights in the first week. It took a broken hand and a concussion to earn my place in the pecking order. I wasn’t at the top, not even close, but judgment had been made.
Tough enough to be left alone.
So, yeah. I remembered.
The sheriff led me to the largest interview room and stopped at the door. I saw a slice of Dolf through the small glass window, then the sheriff blocked the view. “Here’s how it works,” he said. “You go in alone and you get five minutes. I’ll be out here, and in spite of what your lawyer said, you’ll have your privacy.”
“That right?”
He leaned close and I saw the sweat on his face, the close-cropped gray hair and the sunburned scalp beneath it. “Yeah. That’s right. Hard thing to screw up. Even for you.”
I leaned left and peered through the glass. Dolf was bent, staring at the tabletop. “Why are you doing this?” I asked.
He twisted his lips and lowered fleshy eyelids.
He turned and shoved a key into the broad lock, twisted it with a practiced motion. The door swung free. “Five minutes,” he said, and stepped aside. Dolf did not look up.
My skin crawled when I walked into the room, and it seemed to burn when the door clanged shut. They’d grilled me for three days, same room, and I saw it like it was yesterday.
I took the chair opposite Dolf, the cop side of the table. It grated when I dragged it over the concrete floor. He sat immobile, and although the jumpsuit hung on him, his wrists still looked massive, his hands thick and competent. The light was brighter in here because the cops wanted no secrets, but the color still seemed off, and Dolf’s skin looked as yellow as the linoleum floor outside. His head was bent, and I saw the hump of his nose, the white eyebrows. Cigarettes and a foil ashtray sat on the table.
I said his name, and he finally looked up. I don’t know why, but I expected to see something distant in him, a barrier between us; but that’s not how it was. There was warmth and depth in him; a wry smile that surprised me.
“Hell of a thing, huh?” His hands moved. He looked at the mirror and rotated his neck. His fingers found the smokes and shook one out. He lit it with a match, leaned back, gestured at the room with a hand. “Is this how it was for you?”
“Pretty much.”
He nodded, pointed at the mirror. “How many back there, do you think?”
“Does it matter?”
No smile this time. “Guess not. Is your dad out there?”
“Yes.”
“Is he upset?”
“Parks is upset. My father is distraught. You’re his best friend. He’s scared for you.” I paused, waited for some hint of why he’d asked to speak with me. “I don’t understand why I’m here, Dolf. You should be talking to Parks. He’s one of the best lawyers in the state and he’s right out there.”
Dolf made a vague motion with the cigarette, causing pale smoke to dance. “Lawyers,” he said vaguely.
“You need him.”
Dolf waved the thought away, leaned back. “It’s a funny thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Life.”
“Meaning what?”
He ignored me, ground out the cigarette in the cheap foil tray. He leaned forward, and his eyes were very bright. “Would you like to know the most profound thing I’ve ever seen?”
“Are you okay, Dolf?” I asked. “You seem . . . I don’t know . . . scattered.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “The most profound thing. Would you like to know?”
“Sure.”
“You saw it, too, although I don’t think you fully appreciated it at the time.”
“What?”
“The day your father went into the river after Grace.”
I don’t know what was on my face. Blankness. Surprise. It was not what I’d expected to hear. The old man nodded.
“Any man would have done the same,” I said.
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Other than that day, have you ever seen your father in the river or in a pool? In the ocean, maybe?”
“What are you talking about, Dolf?”
“Your father can’t swim, Adam. Guess you never knew that about him.”
I was shocked. “No. I never knew.”
“He’s scared of water, terrified; been that way since we were boys. But he went in without hesitation, headfirst into a debris-choked river so swollen it was all but over its banks. It’s miracle they didn’t both drown.” He paused, nodded again. “The most profound thing I have ever seen. Unequivocal. Selfless.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “Because you’re like your father, Adam; and because I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
His eyes burned. “I need you to let it go.”
“Let what go?”
“Me. This. All of this.” New force moved into his words, a conviction. “Don’t try to save me. Don’t start digging. Don’t get your teeth into it.” He released my arm and I rocked back. “Just let it go.”
Then Dolf rose to his feet and took quick strides to the two-way mirror. He looked back with still bright eyes and a voice that broke. “And take care of Grace.” Sudden tears appeared in the seams of his face. “She needs you.”
He rapped on the glass, and turned away, tilted his face to the floor. I found my feet, reaching for words and failing. The door opened with clang. The sheriff came in; deputies filled the space behind him. I held up my hand. “Wait a second,” I said.
Some emotion moved in the sheriff. Color flooded his face. Grantham appeared over his shoulder, paler, more distant.
“That’s it,” the sheriff said. “Time to go.”
I studied Dolf: the straight back and the bent neck; a sudden, racking cough and his arm in that orange sleeve wiping across his mouth. He spread his fingers on the mirror and lifted his head so that he could see my reflection. His lips moved, and I could barely hear him.
“Just go,” he said.
“Come on, Chase.” The sheriff reached out with his hand, as if he could pull me from the room.
Too many questions, no answers; and Dolf’s plea a clatter inside my head.
I heard a plastic rattle, and two deputies rolled in a video recorder on a tripod.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The sheriff took my arm, pulled me through the door. The pressure eased when the door clanged shut; I shrugged my arm out of his grip. He let me watch through the narrow glass as deputies aimed the camera. Dolf moved to the table, looked once in my direction, and sat. He lifted his face to the camera as the sheriff turned the key and dropped the bolt.
“What is this?” I asked.
He waited until I looked at him. “A confession,” the sheriff said.
“No.”
“For the murder of Danny Faith.” The sheriff paused for full effect. “And all I had to do was let him talk to you.”
I stared.
“That was his one condition.”
I understood. The sheriff knew how much Dolf meant to me and he wanted me to see it: the camera, the old man in front of it, the sudden complacence in his collapsed frame. Parks had been right.
“You fucking bastard,” I said.
The sheriff smiled, stepped closer. “Welcome back to Rowan County, you murdering piece of shit.”
CHAPTER 20
We left the detention center and stood in wind that brought the smell of distant rain. Lightning flashed silent heat and went dark before the thunder rolled over us like cannon fire. They wanted to know about Dolf, so I stripped my voice down and told them almost everything. I did not mention his plea to me because I could not leave Dolf Shepherd to rot. No way in hell. I told them that the last thing I saw was Dolf sitting in front of a video camera.
“It doesn’t make sense,” my father finally said. “Dolf took you to the knob, Adam. He all but held the rope. You’d have never found the body without him.”
“Your father’s right,” Parks said, and paused. “Unless he wanted the body to be found.”
“Don’t be absurd!” my father exclaimed.
“Guilt does strange things to people, Jacob. I’ve seen it happen. Mass murderers suddenly confess. Serial rapists ask the court for castration. People twenty years in the clear suddenly own up to killing a spouse decades earlier in a jealous rage. It happens.”
I heard Dolf’s voice in my head; what he’d said to me at the hospital: Sinners usually pay for their sins.
“Bullshit,” my father said, and the attorney shrugged.
The wind gusted harder, and I held out my hand as the first raindrops clattered down. They were cold, hard, and hit the steps with a sound like fingers snapping. In seconds, the drops multiplied until the concrete hissed.
My father spoke. “Go on, Parks. We’ll talk later.”
“I’ll be at the hotel if you need me.” He dashed for his
car, and we watched him go. There was a covered area behind us and we moved out of the rain. The storm was fully engaged. Rain hit hard enough to float a cold mist under the shelter.
“We’re all guilty of something,” I said, and my father looked at me. “But there is no way that Dolf murdered Danny.”
My father studied the rain as if it held a message. “Parks is gone,” he said, turning to face me. “So, why don’t you tell me the rest?”
“There’s nothing else to say.”
He ran both hands over his hair, squeezing the water away from his face. “He wanted to talk to you for a reason. So far, you haven’t said what that reason is. With Parks here, I could understand that. But he’s gone, so tell me.”
Part of me wanted to keep it locked up, but another part thought that maybe the old man could shed some light. “He told me to let it go.”
“Meaning what?”
“Don’t dig. He’s worried that I’ll look for the truth of what really happened. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want me to do that.”
My father turned from me and took three steps to the edge of the shelter. One more step and the rain would swallow him whole. I straightened and waited for him to look at me; I needed to see his reaction. Thunder clawed the air as I spoke, and I raised my voice. “I saw his face when we found Danny’s body. He didn’t do it.” The thunder abated. “He’s protecting someone,” I said.
Nothing else made sense.
My father spoke over his shoulder, and the words he cast at me may as well have been stones. “He’s dying, son.” He showed me his face. “He’s eaten up with cancer.”
I could barely process the words. I thought of what Dolf had told me about his bout with prostate cancer. “That was years ago,” I said.
“That was just the start. It’s all in him now. Lungs. Bones. Spleen. He won’t make it another six months.”
Pain struck so hard it felt physical. “He should be in treatment.”
“For what? To win another month? It’s incurable, Adam. Every doctor says the same thing. When I told him that he should fight, he said that there was no need to make a stink of it. Death with dignity, as God intends. That’s what he wants.”
