Family Values

by Ford, G. M.

  From the corner of my eye, a movement on the opposite sidewalk jerked at my attention. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like somebody was shadowing us from the other side of the street. The back of my neck began to tingle. Two guys. Dark hoodies. Before I could get a better read on them, they disappeared behind a dump truck. I kept watching as the two sets of feet motored along the sidewalk. And then they stopped walking, up by the front of the big rig, as if they wanted to keep the truck between us. That’s when Gabe’s legs gave out, nearly pulling me to the pavement.

  The only thing I kept from crashing into the pavement was Gabe’s head. The rest of the two hundred pounds went down like a stone.

  I was still deciding what to do next when Gabe’s eyes popped open and then looked around. “Huh? How . . .”

  I stood up and held out both hands. Had to put my back into it, but I got Gabe back up. I checked the other side of the street. No feet in sight.

  The forty yards to my car seemed more like a mile and a half, but, with a couple of fits and starts, we made it. I muscled Gabe into the passenger seat, fastened the seat belt, and walked around to the other side of the car, which was parked close up to one of the hundreds of concrete road dividers the crews were using to keep traffic at bay during seawall construction.

  I was still fumbling with my own seat belt when I heard the shout and looked up. It was one of those times when seeing something about to happen was way worse than being totally taken by surprise.

  A trio of dump truck drivers were sprinting down the sidewalk in our direction, waving their arms and screaming like their hair was on fire. I was staring at them, trying to figure out what the problem was, when I realized the nearest dump truck was roaring in our direction. Headlights ablaze. Big chrome grill. INTERNATIONAL across the front. I waited for the wheels to turn, for it to drive off up Alaskan Way to deliver its load, but that didn’t happen. It kept coming right at us.

  Any doubts I had as to what was going on evaporated the moment the driver shifted the big rig into second gear. I watched as the cab door flew open and whoever was behind the wheel leaped headlong from the cab. The last thing I remember seeing was a white Mercedes van skid to a halt next to the rolling dump truck driver.

  At that point, the big rig roared across the southbound lane and hit us broadside. It wasn’t going very fast. Twenty-five miles an hour, tops. But it was thirty tons of International steel and the forty-eight tons of gravel that were about to crush us like June bugs.

  Every window in the car exploded simultaneously. I was awash in safety glass. I could feel the Tahoe’s frame begin to collapse. Steel struts were coming up through the floorboards. I pulled up my feet. Gabe was moving my way inch by inch as the passenger compartment began to fold in half. It was like we were in a car crusher. Gabe’s shoulder touched mine. I bent forward to make more room. The dump truck’s tires chattered on the pavement as the engine kept forcing it forward.

  The screech of tearing metal assaulted my ears. I was pawing at my door handle when I felt the concrete road barrier begin to move. I threw a glance to my left. The chain-link fence had disappeared into Puget Sound. I watched in horror as the road barrier followed the fence into the inky water below.

  The roar of the engine, the popping of plastic, and the sound of metal being torn asunder became everything in the universe. I felt the car begin to tilt in the second before gravity threw me against the driver’s door. The Chevy rolled up on two wheels, balanced like a ballerina for the briefest of moments, then toppled over onto its side.

  The driverless truck kept pushing. In fits and starts, the Chevy began to skid across the pavement on its side. And then I felt the cold air on my ear, right before the pitted asphalt disappeared and there was nothing in my peripheral vision but the obsidian waters of Puget Sound.

  And then we were airborne. For about two seconds. The weight of the engine spun the Chevy a quarter turn. We hit the water pretty much nose first. With all the windows blown out, we bobbed on the surface for only an instant before the black water folded around us, and we headed for the bottom like a cobblestone.

  Wasn’t till I floated up to the headliner that I realized I’d never gotten my seat belt fastened. I took a couple of swimming strokes and reached for Gabe’s seat belt. Missed. The water was arctic. My muscles felt like I’d been flash frozen. I reached again and found the buckle. Pushed. Pushed again. And then Gabe floated free of the seat.

  The Tahoe plowed into the bottom with a muted thud, and even in the deep-space dark, I could see a mushroom cloud of mud roiling around the car. I fought my feet and then the rest of me out through the driver’s window, then reached back in, grabbed Gabe by the shoulders, and started to pull.

  Hypothermia was starting to kick in. My lungs were on fire. My vision was getting screwy. I could barely force my muscles to move. I had Gabe’s head and shoulders out of the car when a flash of light streaked across my field of vision. I looked up, saw the dump truck’s headlights, and nearly screamed in terror. The truck was still coming. The cab was now hanging over the edge of the seawall, tumbling down through the water to crush us.

  I heaved Gabe with all I had, pulling on the coat collar until we were both outside the car, floating free, and then I started swimming blind, flailing for all I was worth, pulling Gabe along beside me. I had no idea what direction I was swimming in. All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be underneath when that friggin’ dump truck hit the bottom.

  That’s when my lungs decided they’d had enough abuse for today. Wasn’t like I intended to take a breath of salt water. It just happened, and it paralyzed me. I’d like to be able to tell you that I had the presence of mind to relax and let our natural buoyancy take us to the surface. Truth was, I couldn’t move. Matter of fact, I thought I might be dead. For some odd reason, I found the notion comforting.

  I arrived at the surface as a choking, puking pile of shit. My lungs were spasming in my chest. Felt like my eyes were going to pop out of the sockets. I gulped air, barfed salt water all over the front of myself, and gulped some more air. My hand hit something solid. In desperation, I groped for it. A seaweed-and-barnacle-encrusted piling met my flailing fingers. I hugged the piling like a long-lost brother, then used my other hand to pull Gabe to my side. Same deal. Gabe gasped and coughed up enough to water to float a canoe. The forehead knot had begun to seep blood.

  Five feet behind us, the dump truck hit the water. Three seconds later, the rest of the load arrived. The wake from seventy tons washed both Gabe and I off the pole like sand fleas. Gabe went under. I waited. Still gone.

  I sucked in a deep breath and went under. Groping around, finding nothing. Had to go back up for air. Gabe was back up when I surfaced, clinging to the piling. Gabe’s eyes were focused now. Amazing what a little brush with eternity will do.

  “Don’t let go of that pole,” I shouted. “People saw what happened. They’ll be on their way to get us. Just hang in there.”

  Gabe nodded and hugged the pole like it was Santa. Above the lapping of waves and the rumble of traffic, I could hear Gabe’s teeth chattering like castanets. My body began to shake uncontrollably. I wrapped my legs around the pole. The barnacles were tearing my hands. Every time a piece of kelp brushed against my legs, I’d hear snippets of Robert Shaw’s Indianapolis speech from Jaws, about how seven hundred souls had gone into the water when the ship went down and how the sharks had methodically torn them to shreds. I made a serious effort not to whimper.

  I don’t know exactly how long it took the water cops to get to us. Seemed like an hour but probably wasn’t. I had to boost Gabe back onto the piling a couple of times. All I recall is seeing the pulsing blue light from the police boat bouncing around on the surface of the water, and then the spotlight shining in my eyes. I willed myself to reach for the light, but my muscles wouldn’t work. After that, it’s pretty much a blank slate until I opened my eyes again in the Harborview Emergency Room and saw the Virgin Mary staring down at me. Turned out
to be Rebecca.

  “What are you going to tell the cops?” Rebecca asked.

  “With the SPD, it’s more of a matter of what they want to hear.”

  “Are you certain about what you saw?”

  I thought about it. “No,” I said. “Things were really out of hand at the time. And even if I was right, the cops don’t seem to believe anything I tell them, and I can’t think of a single reason they’re gonna to believe this either.”

  “I heard a couple cops talking,” she said. “The truck drivers are saying somebody tried to hijack one of their trucks and that you and Gabe were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Seems to be happening to me with an alarming frequency.”

  “Always has.”

  I pretended not to hear. “How’s Gabe?”

  “Semicompressed skull fracture. Non-life-threatening. But Gabe’s not going anywhere for a few days, while they run the concussion protocol.”

  I lifted my head and looked down along my body. “And me?”

  “You lost about a half inch off your left elbow, which is why they put that arm in a splint. They say it’s going to be real sore for a while.” She took a deep breath. “They spent about an hour picking safety glass out of you, and then gave you a dose of antibiotics big enough for a rhino with the clap, in case the water you swallowed contains anything toxic, which everybody around here with a triple-digit IQ knows it does. Other than that, I’m free to take you back to your place whenever you feel good enough to go.”

  “I’m not even gonna ask about my car.”

  “From what I understand, it’s under the dump truck, forty feet under the surface of Elliott Bay. Tomorrow, they’re calling in a Matson barge crane to raise the truck.”

  “My insurance company is gonna go ratshit.”

  “How many wrecked cars is this?”

  I pretended I needed to think about it. “Three total losses in the past four years.”

  “I think maybe you should expect a significant rate hike.”

  “I want to see Gabe.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  I fell into a full sulk, before Rebecca piped up and ruined my pity party. She leaned in close. “What were you guys doing down there, anyway?”

  “Having a little chat with Willard Frost,” I whispered.

  “Chat about what?”

  I told her, at length, after which she lassoed her lower lip and stepped back from the bed. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “So this new piece of evidence that supposedly links Lamar Hudson to Tracy Harrington’s murder, assuming it’s DNA—it . . . theoretically . . . it could belong to any of them.”

  “Yeah. And since Lamar was actually convicted of her murder, they’re probably still using that original DNA sample for comparison.”

  “No reason to take another,” Rebecca said.

  “How we gonna figure out who it really belongs to?” I asked.

  She took a minute to answer. “We’d have to retest all of them.”

  “One of them’s dead. One of them’s crazy. Another likes to pretend he’s a Pekingese.” She looked blank. “Puppy play,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t want to know, honey. Trust me.”

  “Any of them been convicted of a felony since that time?”

  “A real good bet.”

  “Then their DNA profiles will be on file with the state. All convicted felons give up a sample. It’s part of the state sentencing document.”

  “Can you check?”

  She shrugged.

  “Under the radar,” I added. “Way under the radar.”

  She gave me a brief, nearly imperceptible nod. “It can’t show up in the departmental budget,” she said. “I’ll have to work that part out—but yes, unless any of it’s sealed for some reason or other.” She held up a finger. “We’ll need another sample from Lamar too. The more verified profiles, the closer we get to a simple process of elimination.”

  “I’ll talk to his lawyers.”

  She looked around disgustedly. “Why do we always wind up here?”

  “Send in the cops,” I said. “Then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  Took four days before I started feeling human again. Rebecca was still trying to clear the body bag backlog created by her suspension and hadn’t had a chance to locate anybody’s DNA. So, assuming you could still call it a case . . . the case was going nowhere.

  She called me a couple of times a day but was up to her elbows in entrails, working double shifts, trying to get back to the normal level of carnage, so our communication was all very love ya, love ya, see ya later.

  Late in the morning of the fourth day, I took an Uber downtown and rented myself a car. Another silver Tahoe, just like the one at the bottom of the bay. Consistency is my middle name.

  After I drove home, I called Angela St. Jean at the Innocence Project.

  “Can you get a fresh DNA sample from Lamar Hudson?” I asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “Leo Waterman. You remember . . . you came to my—”

  “Of course I remember, Mr. Waterman. New profiles are always one of the first things we ask for when we take on a case . . . and most often the first thing they turn down. Always citing fiscal responsibility, of course.”

  “What if Lamar volunteers and pays for it himself?”

  “Then they’ll have to comply, but they’ll make it take as long as they possibly can.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because in cases such as this, people in power have their careers and egos tied up in Mr. Hudson being guilty of what they convicted him of and are loath to do anything that might suggest they made a mistake. Convicting innocent people is bad for the résumé.”

  “Start the process.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  I told her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough to pay for a new DNA profile myself, if I have to.”

  “Done,” she said. “And we’ll pick up the tab. It’ll look better that way.”

  I hung up and wandered out into the front parlor. I was standing there, trying to make sense of things, spacing out and looking out over the lawn toward the front gate, when I saw a yellow cab pull up and Gabe get out.

  I walked over to the front closet, pushed the gate button, and then pulled open the front door. A black-and-white SPD SUV drove by. Gabe was halfway to the front door and the gate was mostly closed when another police cruiser rolled by the opening.

  Gabe had found a knit watch cap and had it pulled way down over the ears. I walked down the front steps and met Gabe out in the driveway.

  “Good to see you up and around,” I said.

  We embraced as ardently as somebody with a severe concussion and a guy with one arm in a splint could manage.

  “That little bastard made a dent in my skull,” Gabe said.

  Another police car crept by. Gabe jerked a thumb toward the road. “Assholes on parade. The heat’s been up my butt from the second I walked out of Harborview. Two or three cars switching off, all the way up here.”

  “You punch anybody?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shoot anybody?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fuck ’em, then,” I said with a grin, as I threw an arm around Gabe’s shoulders and kicked the front door closed. We started down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “You know, Leo,” Gabe said, “color me with a curious crayon, but getting my head stove in just naturally makes me wonder what the fuck is going on here, even more than I did before. You find out anything useful from that little shit?”

  “Oh yeah.” I told Gabe what Willard had told me about the DNA switching.

  “No shit,” Gabe said. “So . . . you know . . . is there a next?”

  “Coffee. I just made a pot.”

  “Hell of an idea,” Gabe said.

  We go
t three steps closer to the kitchen when the gate speaker went off.

  “THIS IS THE SEATTLE POLICE DEPARTMENT. OPEN THE GATE OR WE WILL BREAK IT DOWN. OPEN THE GATE NOW.”

  I walked back to the front of the house, pushed the button, and then pulled the door open. Like Yogi said, it was like déjà vu all over again. The storm troopers of the status quo were coming down the driveway at a lope. Black visors, helmets, and assault weapons. Four of them. Couple of plainclothes and K-9 unit guys bringing up the rear.

  “PUT YOUR HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD,” one of the storm troopers yelled.

  I did. The dog was straining at the lead and barking his brains out, slobbering all over my asphalt.

  “GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES. NOW!”

  Seemed excessive, so I didn’t. The dog seemed to take offense and redoubled his barking and snarling efforts.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” I said, without moving a muscle.

  Apparently, they didn’t. They rushed me instead. Washed over me like a wave. Next thing I knew, both Gabe and I were handcuffed, lying facedown on the floor.

  “Get ’em up,” somebody said.

  A pair of beefy cops grabbed each of us by the elbows and sat us down on the big brocade couch in the front room.

  The dog was hot to trot. I could hear his feet scratching on the stone floor of the entranceway.

  “Get that flea-bitten drool factory out of my house,” I yelled at the cops.

  One of the plainclothes guys stepped forward with a fistful of paperwork. “Leo Waterman, Gabriella Funicello, you are under arrest for aggravated murder.” Needless to say, I was a mite nonplussed. Took me a minute to process.

  “Who is it exactly we’re supposed to have murdered?” I asked.

  “Willard Stephen Frost,” the cop said.

  She slapped the crime scene photos down onto the table one at a time, like she was dealing blackjack. Somebody had beaten on Willard Frost to the point where I was having trouble deciding which way was up in the photographs because whatever was lying on the floor bore such scant resemblance to anything human.

  I pointed at the one on the left. “A bit out of focus,” I said.