by Dave Daren
She didn’t say anything or approach the vehicle, but she didn’t seem to trust our presence, either. I couldn’t blame her for not being too keen on seeing two strange men in front of where I presumed she lived, but I offered her a smile anyway and a small nod of greeting as I stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind me.
I moved around to stand on the sidewalk as I waited for Brody and slipped my hands in my pockets.
Brody tipped his hat toward the group of children as they all turned to stare at us before he adjusted it on his head and turned his focus to me.
“Did you get an apartment number for Qualley?” he asked while we started up the sidewalk.
I sighed and shook my head while I took in the surroundings a little more.
The yardwork and landscaping for the property looked like it was severely behind schedule, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Greenview had a landscaper at all. The grass had clearly dried out in certain sections and turned more yellow than green.
“No, but there might be a front desk or a directory?” I suggested with a shrug as I pushed the front door of Greenview open with my shoulder. I held it open for Brody who stepped in after me.
The inside of the apartment complex wasn’t much different than the appearance of the outside. It didn’t look uncared for, but it looked like it had certainly seen better days.
Despite my hopes, there wasn’t any sort of front desk or even a directory on the wall. But there was a row of mailboxes embedded into the wall across from the elevator and stairwell.
I glanced at Brody and raised my eyebrows before I made my way over to the mailboxes. I bent down to get a better view at all the little slots.
Just like I had hoped, all of the doors had a tiny placard with a hastily scribbled last name and number to label them. I skimmed the first row, then the second, and half of the third before I finally stumbled across a label that read Qualley 8C.
“Got it,” I said with a grin before I straightened up and twisted to loosen the ache that had started to form in my lower back from the less than optimal position I’d just been in.
The mailboxes clearly had not been positioned to accomodate someone over six feet tall.
Brody gave me a hearty clap on the shoulder before we started over toward the elevator. I used my thumb to press the UP button and rocked back on my heels to wait.
The noises coming from the elevator shaft weren’t very reassuring, but before I could change my mind and opt for the stairs, the doors slid open, and Brody had already started to shuffle in.
I gave a silent prayer that I wasn’t about to find out what happened when you got stuck in an elevator and followed after him.
Brody pushed the button for the third floor with a thick finger, and the elevator doors gave a slow creak shut.
I gripped the railing like it would do anything if the elevator cables snapped while we shakily rode up to Jackson Qualley’s floor.
“Are you afraid of elevators?” Brody asked with a laugh in his tone as if he didn’t look just as pale as I’m sure I did.
“Apparently,” I joked in response and exhaled a deep breath of relief when the creaking elevator car rocked to a stop, and the doors slowly slid open.
I quickly stepped onto solid ground and smoothed out my shirt as if that would help me regain my composure.
Brody grinned at me and nudged my shoulder with his as he started off down the hall toward apartment number 8C.
“Let’s take the stairs on the way back,” I called after his back with a grin before I quickly caught up to him.
The hallway floors were a muddy-green color, and I had to wonder if the carpet had been installed that color or if that’s the sort of thing age, wear, and lack of cleaning did to it.
The lights overhead were a mercury-tinged yellow that cast everything in a strange, unflattering glow. Each floor of the building looked like it only had twelve apartments based on what I’d seen on the mailboxes, and I counted each door we passed as we continued on down the hall.
Despite our silence, the hallway was still filled with sounds that leaked out from under each doorway. I heard the sound of thumping reggae music blaring from under one door, a television playing some action movie from another, and through the thin door of apartment 7C, I heard what sounded like a man and a woman engaged in a heated argument.
Luckily, we didn’t have much farther to walk, and Brody and I slowed to a stop in front of 8C.
I leaned past Brody to rap on the door with my knuckles, and I hoped I’d been loud enough to be heard. I couldn’t hear anything coming from the apartment, but that didn’t reassure me much and so after a few dragging seconds passed, I knocked again.
This time, the door opened quickly with a soft rattling sound. It only opened a crack, and I caught sight of the sliding chain lock near the top of the door. Through the crack I could see half of a broad, seemingly well-built man with a closely shaved head.
A small tattoo I couldn’t quite make out crept up the side of his neck from under the collar of his shirt.
“Jackson Qualley?” I asked with a pleasant smile.
The man’s deep-set eyes flicked between Brody and I and then moved from our faces to our belts, as if he was looking for something. When he didn’t seem to find whatever it was he was he was looking for, the hard look in his eyes softened just a little.
“Who’s askin’?” He said instead of giving a real answer to the question, which, I supposed was answer enough.
No one asked “who was asking” unless they were the person being sought, in my experience.
“Archer Landon,” I said and gestured to myself before moving my hand to indicate Brody behind me.
The man I assumed to be Jackson Qualley had to peer around through the thin crack in his door to get a decent look at Brody.
“And this is Brody Lucas,” I added when the two men had stared at each other for a hard second. “We’re lawyers with Landon Legal, and we’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s alright with you?”
Qualley’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper, and he scratched at his shaved head with a large hand.
“Why?” he asked with an edge to his tone. He didn’t seem like the type to trust authority figures, and apparently that’s what we came across as.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I tried a new approach.
Since he clearly had issues with those in power, I hoped he might respond better if we presented a less threatening presence. Not an easy feat at my height, so I relaxed my stance and smiled.
“We were directed here by Todd Carson,” Brody chimed in behind me. “About the issues you might have had with the sheriff’s department. Does any of that ring a bell?”
My fellow attorney’s tone was less careful than mine, and I shot him a warning look that he brushed off with an easy shrug.
Shockingly enough, his brusqueness seemed to work because after he spoke, Qualley’s hackles seemed to lower almost immediately.
“Oh shit, you two know Todd?” he asked in surprise.
Before I could respond, however, his front door slammed shut, and I nearly jerked at the sound. I blinked in disbelief as I tried to figure out why he’d just shut us out when I heard the chain rattle on the other side, and then Qualley yanked it open again.
Qualley offered us a slight smile and stepped aside as he pulled the door open.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you two knew Todd?”
His voice was slightly accusatory as if we should have known that Todd’s name would have been our secret password into a conversation.
“Come on in,” he added and nodded back toward the rest of his apartment.
I shot a look toward Brody to make sure he’d follow after me before I stepped into 8C. Brody seemed to debate whether stepping inside was such a good idea, but he finally shrugged and sighed.
“I’m Jackson,” the man introduced himself fully this time as he held the door open.
<
br /> Once Brody and I had cleared the doorway completely, Jackson shut the door behind us and slid the chain lock back into place. I heard Brody sigh again, and when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw him staring at the door in dismay.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I greeted as I turned back to our host.
I stood to the side of the hallway while I waited for Jackson to lead us inside, though from what I could see, he didn’t have much in the apartment.
There weren’t any pictures or decorations in the hallway or even a doormat in the entryway. But then again, from our incredibly brief encounter, Jackson didn’t strike me as the sort of person that would be too keen on interior design.
“Yeah, sure,” he replied as he waved us deeper into the apartment.
Without the door and chain in the way, I was able to see that Jackson was a few inches shorter than I was but nearly eye level with Brody. The thin tank top he wore showed off muscled arms that looked like they were for more than just vanity.
He reminded me of a pitbull with how he carried himself with his chest out and his head up on the alert. I had the sense that people often steered clear of him, and just like the dog, it was based on a quick assessment and not any real-life interaction.
I still wasn’t able to figure out what his tattoo was supposed to be, but I was able to see now that the snaking marks up his neck connected to a much larger piece that disappeared completely under the collar of his tank top and spilled out the sides toward his arms. Maybe it was a bird? A snake?
Whatever it was curved and curled in fascinating ways as he walked, and I got to watch it up close as he guided us into a tiny living room. The apartment wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination.
When we’d moved through the tiny entrance hallway, we’d walked past the entrance to a small kitchen that looked like it would have been more at home being labeled as a kitchenette in a hotel than in someone’s permanent home. The appliances all looked dated by at least a decade, and the color had faded to that off-white shade things became with time.
The living room wasn’t much different in that regard. The couch was the focal point of the room and sat pushed back against the wall. It was an oddly lumpy, wide brown thing that I’d have wagered hadn’t come to the apartment brand-new.
Aside from the couch, there were a set of television trays and a recliner that was in a slightly different shade of brown from the couch. I was startled to see that there wasn’t much else.
Across from the couch, a sheet of rickety, half-open plastic vertical blinds brushed with a thin layer of dust covered what I assumed to be the door to the apartment’s porch. The light that filtered in through the wide gaps in the blinds was enough to brighten the entire living room, though given how tiny the room was, that wasn’t saying much.
There was a short hallway off the living room that I guessed led to the bedroom and bathroom, and the door had been removed and replaced with one of the pull-up bars I’d always seen advertised on late-night television
The living room was as far as Jackson was apparently willing to take us. He retreated toward the recliner and threw himself back into its cushioned seat without bothering to lower the footrest first. The chair made a squeak of protest in response and rocked back just a little.
I exchanged a small look with Brody and tilted my head toward the only bit of open seating that remained.
My fellow lawyer gave an ill-disguised sigh and watched with obvious distaste as I lowered myself down onto the couch and rested my arm up on the armrest. He followed suit, though he had a slightly sour look as he dropped down next to me.
The couch was small enough and the cushions were uneven enough that the two of us were pressed thigh to thigh. I was sure it looked completely comical, but I brushed those thoughts aside as I looked up at Jackson.
“So, Todd sent you?” he asked in a voice that wavered between hopeful and suspicious.
I cleared my throat and shifted on the couch to lean forward just a little bit. I’d learned early in my career that people responded better if they thought you were genuinely interested in their story, and I needed Jackson to believe that if we were going to hear his whole story.
“Yes, right,” I began. “We spoke to Todd earlier today about the troubles he’s had with the sheriff’s department, and your name was the first on a list he gave to us.”
Jackson’s dark eyebrows furrowed together, and for a moment, I thought he would actually shut down.
“A list for what?” he asked with a cautious edge to his tone.
He cocked his head to the side as he stared at me, and I was once again reminded of a pitbull, specifically the rescue pitbull my neighbor had owned when I was a kid. She would always drool on your leg whenever you scratched her ears. The pitbull, not the neighbor. I think her name was Muffin, or maybe it had been Strudel.
“Other people that have had similar experiences with the sheriff,” I explained as I shifted on the couch again to try and fish the list out of my pocket.
I managed to wrestle the damn thing out and made quick work of unfolding the sheet. I smoothed it out along my leg with both of my hands before I extended the list toward Jackson.
The room was just small enough that when he leaned all the way forward in the armchair and straddled his legs over the footrest, he was able to snag it from my fingers.
I watched as his eyes darted over the names scribbled on the paper a few times. If I had to guess, I’d say he had the same amount of trouble deciphering Todd’s chicken scrawl that I’d had.
When he’d translated all of the names, or simply given up, Jackson shifted forward on the chair again to extend the list back toward me.
Instead of matching his precarious pose, I simply stood and crossed the miniscule distance between us to take the list back. I folded it along the creases I’d been unable to smooth out from the paper and returned it to its place in my pocket as I went back to my seat.
As I sat down, Brody shifted toward me involuntarily thanks to the uneven cushions, and I bit back a laugh at the agitated look on his face as he resituated himself.
“I recognize a couple of the names,” Jackson said. “I’ve never met them, not in person, at least, but Todd’s told me about them. Dude’s a little crazy, but I appreciate what he’s doing.”
Our host shifted forward slightly so he could rest his elbows on his knees. This left his arms free to hang loosely in front of him.
“So, you’ve had a similar experience to Todd,” I said with just the faintest bit of a question in my tone.
To my surprise, Jackson gave a loud snort and followed it up with a sharp laugh, but the laugh wasn’t a particularly happy sound.
“Something like that,” he replied and then tilted his head from side to side to work out an audible crack in his neck. “I’m an ex-con, which you could probably guess by lookin’ at me.”
He gestured to himself with a slight uptick to the corners of his lips, and I found myself staring at the tattoo again. I nodded slightly and wondered how I’d missed that before. I suppose I just didn’t judge people’s character based on their appearances, but he did carry himself like someone that had seen time behind bars.
To my left, Brody gave a sound of agreement, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he’d properly pegged Jackson as a former convict, or if he just wanted Jackson to think he had.
Jackson dropped his hand back down to his lap and gave the two of us a small grin.
“It wasn’t for murder or anything, before you get all worried,” he said in a way that made it obvious it was a joke he’d performed before. “I got mixed up in some shit when I was a kid, fell in with the wrong crowd, that whole sob story, you know? And a little over a year ago, I got out on parole for my good behavior.”
He put a certain emphasis on ‘good behavior’ and gave a small shake of his hands in a poor imitation of jazz hands.
“Anyway,” he continued and heaved a deep sigh as he shifted in his chair. “I’d been out
a couple of months, and I missed a meeting with my P.O..”
“Parole officer?” Brody asked to clarify what he meant.
Jackson gave a nod and reached up to scratch the back of his head.
“Yeah, some uptight little guy named Jerry,” said Jackson.
“Really?” Brody asked.
“He was cool most of the time, but I ended up missing a meeting because I got stuck down at the train tracks, you know the ones on the edge of town?” he asked but didn’t wait for an answer before he continued his story. “I don’t even know who the fuck runs those things. Hell, I didn’t even think anybody used trains anymore, but some dipshit with a choo-choo train made it so I couldn’t get to my meeting in time.”
As he spoke, I could see a muscle in his jaw twitching, and it was easy to see that despite how long ago this had happened, Jackson still hadn’t quite gotten over it.
“Well, thanks to that shit, Jerry had to tell the fuckin’ sheriff and his goons,” he muttered and huffed out an agitated breath. “And they came busting into my place waving around a warrant that they wouldn’t even let me read, and I know my damn rights!”
I had no doubts that Jackson knew his rights. In my experience, the two groups of people that knew the law better than anyone else were lawyers and criminals. It just came with the territory.
“So you never found out what the warrant was for?” I asked without bothering to hide the concern from my tone.
Jackson huffed out another breath and pushed himself up from the chair.
He stalked over to the little bartop that extended from the kitchen and into the living room through what was probably supposed to be a quaint little window over the sink to ‘open up the space’ or whatever it was that interior designers always said.
He grabbed a crumpled pack of cigarettes and tapped one from the box and into his waiting palm before he placed it between his lips.
