by Chris Jordan
“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”
She sighs and stands up from the bunk. “Come on, Mrs. Bickford, our chariot awaits.” Leading me from the holding cell, she explains: “There are two kinds of defense attorneys. Those who want to bring it to the cameras and those who don’t. I never bring it to the cameras if I can help it. My opinion, it’s almost always the first sign of a weak defense, or a guilty client. That creep who chopped up his wife and his unborn child in California? His lawyers kept that front and center on the cable talk shows for months. Not because they were convinced their client was innocent, but because they were afraid he was guilty. Their only strategy was to try and taint a jury. Sow some doubt, muddy the waters. I don’t work like that. Just a personal preference, really. I’m much more comfortable working behind the scenes. Using my contacts, making my best case directly to the cops and the prosecutors without filtering it through Fox News.”
We come to a hallway in the rear of the station. There’s no sign of Terry Crebbin or any of his men, but Deputy Katz is waiting there in full uniform, a heavy, holstered revolver on her slender hip. She won’t meet my eyes, but she’s willing enough to look at my lawyer. Indeed, I get the impression they know and respect each other.
“We all set, Rita?” Ms. Savalo asks.
Deputy Katz nods, hands her a set of car keys.
“Thanks, Rita, I owe you one.”
The rear exit to which we’ve been guided connects directly to the employee parking facility. Police cruisers, civilian cars, a tow truck. And the beautiful thing, no access to civilians, including the media.
“Deputy Katz loaned you her car?” I ask, astonished, as we hurriedly head for a five-year-old Honda Civic purposefully positioned not far from the exit door.
“Offered her five hundred bucks. She wouldn’t take it.”
We get into the car and I hunker down instinctively, expecting to be assaulted by boomed microphones at any moment.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Is she a friend of yours?”
Ms. Savalo shakes her head as she fires up the engine. “Nope. Never met her before. I just explained the situation and asked for her help. She complied. Nice kid.”
I’m amazed, considering how lovely Rita had been treating me. As if firmly convinced of my guilt, and repulsed by my very existence. Makes me think that Arnie Dexel has steered me right, finding a defense attorney who can “explain the situation” and get the cops—or at least one cop—to cooperate. I start to babble something to that effect and Ms. Savalo cuts me off.
“Get down in the seat. Doubt any of these jackals know who I am yet, but you never can tell.”
I scrunch down, aware of the musty interior of the Honda, the coffee-stained upholstery. Never do see the TV vans congregated around the front of the station because Ms. Savalo has gotten directions that take her through an adjacent parking lot, and then onto a one-way street, avoiding the main access road altogether. A few minutes later she gives the all clear and I sit up, somewhat tentatively.
We’re on the street, in light traffic, and no one is paying us the least attention.
“If you’d wanted to speak to the press, I’d have helped you set it up, advised you on what not to say,” she says conversationally. “Then I would have arranged to get you other representation. Somebody you’ve seen on TV. Some glamour-puss like Roy Black or maybe even Alan Dershowitz. Both of them are terrific, by the way. It’s just not my scene.”
“Nor mine,” I confess, my voice shaky.
“Good, we’re on the same page. Lay low for a few days, they’ll be on to the next story.”
“You really think so?”
She nods. “It’s a game, Mrs. Bickford. An understanding between the hunter and the quarry. Once they get the message that we’re not playing the game, seeking the publicity to advance my career or yours, they’ll find another, more cooperative victim.”
We’ve merged onto a road that runs parallel to the highway, not far from the Bridgeport line. At the traffic circle Ms. Savalo checks the rearview mirror, appears satisfied, and then pulls in to an aging motel complex. She avoids the front office, which faces the traffic circle, and goes directly around to the rear parking lot, out of sight from the road or the traffic circle.
“Not exactly the Waldorf,” she says, shutting off the engine, “but it will have to do.”
“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”
“Good. Because you’ll need to save your money so you can afford my fee.”
We haven’t discussed that yet, nothing about cost or fees, but I know enough about what lawyers charge to assume her retainer will be enormous. I start to quiz her on the subject, thinking she wants to get into it now, and once again she cuts me off.
“Let’s get you out of sight first,” she says, grabbing a small suitcase from the trunk of the little Honda.
Given what she’s accomplished so far, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with her. Walking more quickly than I would have been able to on heels that high, she leads me up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Produces a tagged motel key from her bag and quickly opens the door.
“Here we are, Mrs. Bickford. Your home away from home.”
Standard American motel, of the era Edward Hopper made famous in his melancholy paintings. Therefore dated, if not timeless. Sealed window with the curtains drawn, paneled walls, a queen-size bed that looks a little splayed. Formica-laminated bureau, table and chairs, sink area in the far corner, a poorly vented, windowless shower stall. Battered TV on the bureau, looks like it might tune in Leave it To Beaver or I Dream of Jeannie, and I don’t mean on the TV Land channel.
Ms. Savalo tosses the suitcase on the bed, sets down her briefcase and rubs her hands together. “There,” she announces, “mission accomplished! I put a couple of outfits together,” she explains, indicating the suitcase. “Nothing fancy. Jeans, tops and underwear from Target. You won’t have access to your own clothes for a couple of days. Also an inexpensive handbag.”
I’m so grateful I feel like blubbering. But something tells me not to blubber in the presence of my new, very feisty attorney. So I sit in one of the chairs provided, and fold my hands and wait.
“Coffee? They’ve got one of those little machines.”
“Coffee would be great.”
She busies herself by the sink and soon produces two cups of lukewarm, coffee-flavored liquid. I gulp it greedily, and Ms. Savalo settles into the chair opposite.
“You’re wondering what happens next.”
I nod, clutching the plastic cup.
“We put together a formal agreement, you sign it. Right now you’re being billed at my usual five hundred per hour. That’s on the high side for hourly billing, but I’m worth it. If you’re indicted, God forbid, there will be an additional fee, somewhere in the range of fifty grand. That will cover me, a research attorney and whatever fees we pay to the investigators. Expenses extra. If it goes to trial, God really forbid, be ready to pony up another hundred K.” She pauses, waits for my reaction. “Are you shocked yet?”
“I’m beyond being shocked, Ms. Savalo. Finding the body of a friend in my freezer, that shocked me.”
“So you’re okay with the money?”
I shrug. “I don’t have that kind of cash. The five hundred thousand in that account was Tommy’s inheritance. It wiped me out. But there’s plenty of equity in my house. Some in the business, too. I’ll cover it, one way or another.”
“Good. Then I’ll be taking a lien against your property. Standard procedure, I’m afraid.”
I get the impression she’s expecting me to argue about the fees and the lien, and that she has her counterarguments ready to go. I’d like to skip past all of that, and say so.
“Fine with me. Most people get freaked about the money,” she explains.
“I’ll get freaked about it later, if you don’t mind. Right now I want you to tell me what to do about my son. Can you
put me in contact with someone at the FBI? Maybe they already know about the man in the mask. I think he’s done this before.”
Ms. Savalo puts down her plastic cup, then places her briefcase on her knees and thumbs the lock open. “I took the liberty,” she says. “Put a call in to the local office in New Haven this morning, shortly after we first spoke. They haven’t got back to me yet, which is no surprise. I caution you not to expect much help from the feds.”
“Why is that?” I ask plaintively. “I just don’t get it. Terry Crebbin already told me they weren’t interested in helping me, but it doesn’t make sense. Isn’t that what the FBI does, handle abduction cases? Even if they think the police are right, and that I abducted my own son, wouldn’t they want to investigate?”
Ms. Savalo sighs. “Time was when they’d have been all over it. Pushing the locals out of the way, taking over. But they have other fish to fry now. Homeland security and all that. I’m not saying they won’t assign an agent or two, check it out, but like I say, don’t expect what you see on TV. This isn’t Without a Trace, or even Law & Order. Especially if the local cops are dumping on the idea, telling them it’s a custody case. Feds hate to waste manpower on custody abductions.”
I want to weep in frustration, but manage to contain my tears. Determined not to break down or show weakness in front of this implacable woman. The thing is, I’m not sure if I actually like her or not—would we lunch together, in other circumstances? But one thing is abundantly clear: I need her help. Desperately.
“What can I do?” I plead. “If the FBI won’t help, what do I do next? How do I go about finding my son?”
From out of the briefcase Ms. Savalo produces a business card. “This is your man,” she says, handing me the card. “He’s a bit eccentric—hell, he’s a lot eccentric. But he’s the best in the business.”
“What business is that?” I ask, studying the card. All it shows is a name and a telephone number. No office indicated, not even an e-mail address.
“He finds lost children,” she explains. “Abducted children. That’s his specialty. That’s what he lives for. Sometimes I think that’s all he lives for.”
16
when his knuckles brush the ceiling
Shane. That’s the name on the card. Randall Shane. Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t think why.
Soon after giving me the card, Ms. Savalo locks her briefcase and prepares to leave, eager to return the borrowed Honda and, no doubt, to get on with her regular life, whatever that might be. I’ve no idea if she’s married (no ring, but that’s hardly conclusive) or if she has children of her own. She’s given no indication of any desire to share personal information, and I’m not inclined to pry. For all I know, she lives in a file cabinet and pops out when innocent clients are framed for horrible crimes. Which is fine by me, so long as she continues to pop up whenever I need her.
Last thing she does before leaving is promise to arrange a car rental for me. It seems my minivan has been impounded, and will not be released for several days, assuming they don’t find any evidence linking it to Fred Corso’s murder.
“You don’t want to be driving a vehicle with known plates anyhow, not for a few days,” she says. “The media folks aren’t geniuses, but they know how to run plate numbers.”
“I thought there was a law against that.”
“You’re joking, right? That’s good. When bad things happen to good people, you need a sense of humor.”
“So you think I’m a good person?” I ask, really wanting to know. “You believe I’m innocent?”
Ms. Savalo pauses at the door, looking up at me, considering my question. Even with her high heels, our height difference is a crucial inch or two. “It’s not important what I believe about a client’s guilt or innocence,” she says. “But in your case, actually, yes, I do believe you.”
I fumble in the purse that has been returned with my personal effects. “You’ll want a credit card,” I tell her. “For the car.”
She shakes her head. “We’ll take care of it and bill you later. The vehicle will be in someone else’s name, but will be valid for your driver’s license.”
“Oh.” I shut the purse.
“I always use Enterprise,” she says with a wry smile. “Because they deliver.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Standard procedure for keeping a low profile. Look, Mrs. Bickford, you’ve been through a lot in the last few days. Try to get some sleep and call Randall in the morning.”
I’m at the point of asking her to stay—the prospect of being left alone in this dreary motel is suddenly daunting—but realize that’s silly, not to mention inconsiderate. So I thank her yet again and then lock and chain the door when she’s gone.
I can always call a friend. It’s not as if I don’t have girlfriends galore, right? Okay, maybe not a go-to, call-in-the-middle-of-the-night best friend. But I’m on friendly terms with all the Little League moms—well, most of them—and there’s Connie, who runs the day-to-day operations for the catering business, and who must be totally flipped out by what she’s no doubt heard on the news. At the very least I should give Connie a call, tell her what has happened, my version. But I can’t bring myself to call her for the same reason I can’t call closer friends: because I’m ashamed to tell them what has happened. As if I’ve somehow brought this upon myself. As if part of me wants to take the blame.
Totally absurd. But that’s how it feels. Deeply shameful and humiliating. What it boils right down to is, the only person I really want to talk to is Ted, and he’s no longer available, at least not for a normal two-way conversation. I still tell him things in my head—surely everyone who has lost a loved one does that—but if anything, it only makes me feel more alone. And I’ve never felt so alone in all my life, not even in the empty-bed days that followed Ted’s passing. Of course, I had Tommy to hold and comfort, and that helped. My son who may have a birth mother out there after all, one who wants him back. What would he think of such a thing? Would he want to see her? Or, and here’s a terrifying thought, has he already met her and decided to abandon life in the suburbs with boring old Mom?
The line of thought is so painful I attempt to banish it from my mind. And fail, of course. Thinking that a distraction might help, I turn on the television but find I can’t focus on the images. I see them clearly enough, heads yakking, cars crashing, more heads yakking, but can’t make sense of the story, if there is one.
Switching off the TV, I take a quick shower in the mildewed stall. After toweling my hair more or less dry—I look like a water rat, no doubt, but lack the courage to check the steamy mirror—I lay back on the ruptured bed and close my eyes. And keep seeing my son in his uniform, and the frost-burned face of poor Fred Corso, the two blurring together until I want to scream myself unconscious.
Sleep is out of the question. I have to do something.
Randall Shane. What is it about that name?
One way to find out. These are hardly normal business hours, but recovering abducted children isn’t a normal business, is it? Anyhow, that’s my excuse for dialing the number on the card.
Rings three times. Answering machine with three words, Leave a message. I hang up and then decide to try again, having formulated a message to leave on the machine.
This time, much to my surprise, an actual voice responds.
“Randall Shane. State your business.”
Now I’m really flustered, and therefore speaking too fast, rushing the words. “Um, Mr. Shane? My name is Kate Bickford. My son, Tommy, has been kidnapped. Tomas, really, that’s what he prefers, but I can’t seem to stop calling him Tommy.”
“Who gave you my number?” he responds, making it sound like an accusation.
“My lawyer, Ms. Savalo. Maria Savalo. She, um, said you could help me.”
“Address,” he says abruptly.
“Excuse me?”
“Where are you, Mrs. Bickford?”
Lions have kinder gro
wls. He sounds like he wants to come right over and rip the phone out of my hands. I’m trying to make my hand hang up the receiver when he snarls, “Tell me where you are, lady! How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know where you are?”
I search around for something that will give me the motel address, can’t seem to find anything relevant. No pens, notepaper, or matchbooks. Feeling helpless and intimidated by the rudeness in his voice, I manage to describe the motel, its location near the traffic circle.
“I’ll find it,” he says. “What room?”
That much I do know.
“Ninety minutes,” he snaps, and hangs up.
For the next hour or so I contemplate going down to the front desk and asking to change my room. At about the same time, my brain solves the riddle of the familiar name. Shane happened to be one of Ted’s favorite movies. You know, mysterious gunslinger protects a boy and his homesteader family from a hired killer, mostly seen from the boy’s point of view. Alan Ladd and Jack Palance. In the end, having gunned down the really creepy bad guy, Shane rides off into the sunset, mortally wounded perhaps, but not wanting to let the boy see him hurting.
I never connected with the story quite the way Ted did, but I loved to watch him watch it, if only to glimpse the ten-year-old boy inside the man I loved.
I’m not sure what to expect of Randall Shane, but after being a victim of his rude and abrupt phone manner, I’m not expecting a hero in a white hat, that’s for sure.
An hour crawls by. Sixty seconds to the minute, sixty minutes to the hour. No wonder it takes so long to get through an hour. We pass ninety minutes and head toward two hours. The son of a bitch has stood me up. How dare he?
One hundred and four very long minutes after the abrupt hang-up, a fist rat-a-tats the motel-room door, causing me to jump about a foot in the air, my heart slamming. Scared and angry, I undo the chain and yank the door open. Ready to give him hell if he so much as raises his voice.
Standing in the doorway, looking more sheepish than intimidating, is a tall, rangy, slope-shouldered man in his midforties. Before I can speak—not that I know what to say—he removes a Red Sox baseball cap, revealing close-cropped gray hair, and apologizes profusely.
