"Well, at least there's that."
Crocker's wife, Meredith, wandered into the kitchen, her hair in curlers, tugging a lavender housecoat over her breasts. Like his grandmother in the ‘fifties. Crocker cringed. What was wrong with her? Since she'd gone through menopause, she'd become nervous and flighty, reading her Bible at all hours, quoting scripture, scurrying around the edges of the house like a mouse. Better she know as little as possible.
"Did something happen, honey?” Meredith asked.
"I'm on the phone,” he snapped, turning away. He couldn't bear to look at her.
She shuffled over to the coffee maker, back into his line of vision, where she poured coffee into a Hannah Montana mug she had bought for their granddaughter. Why couldn't she use a normal mug? She picked up a pencil by the telephone, turned to the entertainment page without looking at the headlines, and settled down at the kitchen table to do the Sudoku.
Crocker left the room continuing his conversation. “I'll call Palmer Tharpe,” he said into the phone. “He owes me."
A half-hour later, Sophie Brinkmeyer charged down the back stairs into the kitchen, sneakers in one hand, hockey stick in the other. Her mother said she didn't have to go to school because of the crash, but she felt excited, as if she had burst through some kind of cocoon, no longer a child, ready to take flight.
She dumped her things on the table and went to the cabinet by the microwave for a box of cereal. She'd have to eat it dry in the car—Cindy's mom was picking her up in two minutes. She plopped down in the chair to lace up her shoes when she heard angry voices coming from the living room.
"Did you have your back end sticking into the street?” Her father sounded like he was about to blow a gasket.
"No, of course not, Tom."
"Then how could he crash into you?"
"I don't know. We were just sitting there."
"You let them leave without giving you a name? Are you stupid?"
"They said they'd call today and arrange to fix everything. I asked for a name, but they wouldn't tell me."
Sophie hated it when her mother's voice got whiny. She quickly wrote a note telling her that she had field hockey practice—in case she'd forgotten—and asked her to pick her up at five. She grabbed her gym bag, stuffed two apples in a side pocket, picked up her stick, tucked the cereal box under her arm, and opened the back door. The last thing she heard her father say—in an angry, rising voice—was, “I'd like to know what son-of-a-bitch thinks he can hit you and just drive away.” She closed the door on the rest.
"Tom,” Donna pleaded, “it's my car, I'll take care of it."
"What if our insurance rates go up? Someone's got to pay for that. I want to know who did this! I want him fired."
"Tom, please."
He brushed past her and picked up the phone. He called his friend Roger, who had a lift in his barn where he changed oil and fixed cars. Tom asked if he knew where the sheriff's department got their fleet worked on. “Up in Capitol City at Star Chevrolet, last I heard,” said Roger. “I know a guy there. What's this about?” Tom told Roger the story. “I need to know if any of the sheriff's cars came in last night."
Within ten minutes, Roger called back. “The sheriff's Escalade was there on the lot this morning, the front passenger door all scraped up, a dented front fender and broken mirror. About three thousand dollars’ worth of damage."
"You get the license number?"
"The plates were off, but he gave me the VIN.” Tom thanked Roger and hung up.
"What are you going to do?” Donna asked worriedly. “It's just the fender. And the taillight. They said they'd pay for it."
"It looks like the sheriff hit you, honey. The sheriff hit you and took off.” Tom calmly picked up his mug of coffee, sat down in front of the television set, and turned it on. “We're gonna call a lawyer. That's what we're gonna to do."
* * * *
"I wish I could do something about the reporters, Bill. Life would be a whole lot simpler around here."
State Attorney General Palmer Tharpe looked up as the boat lift gently lowered his twenty-seven-foot Pro-Line powerboat into the warm Gulf water. He had been looking forward to an entire day of grouper fishing with no distractions. Unfortunately for him, he wasn't out on the water yet and his cell phone still worked.
"I suppose we've got to charge you with something,” he chuckled. “If more reporters call, just say the state attorney general has opened an investigation. No comment. I gotta go. Don't worry about. I'll handle it."
"What about the drinking?"
"No breathalyzer test, no urine test, no proof. Don't worry about it."
Sheriff Crocker was not reassured.
* * * *
The news spread like a virus.
FHP Officer Randy Rutkowski, who had left the scene in a huff, and who, like many FHP Officers, nursed an intense dislike for the sheriff's department, told his wife Patti, who then called her brother, Alfred Lowrey, a retired airline pilot, who, because his property taxes were three times that of a lot next-door owned by Sheriff Crocker, hated the man, and spent the night e-mailing his friends, many of whom had campaigned for Sam Sweeney, Crocker's rival for sheriff, and had long e-mail lists, one of which, compiled by the Coast Guard Auxiliary for hurricane emergencies, included nearly everyone within ten miles of the Gulf.
By the time most residents of Walker County had their morning coffee and turned on their computers, they knew that Sheriff Crocker had crashed into a young mother and daughter on Azalea Park Road, and had taken off.
By six o'clock that evening, there was a petition for Sheriff Crocker's resignation on PeoplesPetition.com. Before midnight, three hundred people had signed it.
* * * *
Summer Dayes heard about it the next morning. She was stretching in front of the television, waiting for the local weather forecast, her head over her knees, when she recognized his voice.
"Sheriff Crocker! Is it true that you crashed into a woman and her daughter inside a parked car last night and left without stopping?” A young female reporter shoved a microphone in his face as he was walked into the station.
Crocker looked stunned, trapped. “I need to get to work. I cannot comment at this time."
The reporter pressed on. “How many drinks did you have at Magnolia Spring Country Club?"
"I assure you, that wasn't a factor. It's a curvy road. It was a split-second situation. I don't think anyone could've avoided it."
"Why did you leave? Were you afraid of a DUI? You had your Escalade taken to get repaired late at night. Was that part of a cover-up?"
Crocker swiveled, looking for an escape, then crossed his arms and glared at the reporter. “Look. I was wrong to leave the scene. I screwed up, you know. I apologize to the citizens of Walker County, but this hasn't affected their safety one bit. We have one of the safest counties in the state and nothing is going to change that. The citizens deserve better, so I'm going to do better. I'm a human being. I'm not perfect."
"Why weren't you charged with anything? Why weren't you given a sobriety test?"
"I am paying for the damage to the woman's car and will work for a week without pay. That should save the county about two thousand dollars."
Captain Roland Parker managed to pull Crocker inside the sheriff's department, while saying to the reporter, “The sheriff has asked the state attorney general to open an investigation. I'm sure all of your questions will be answered."
Summer stood up, dizzy for a moment, swaying. She turned off the television and stumbled out the screen door for her morning jog. She headed down to Sandy Point Beach. The jarring of her body felt oddly disconnected to the pounding of her feet.
How could he do such a thing? His cavalier excuse that he “screwed up” was so—she searched for the right word—offensive.
She left the road and jogged over the sand dunes, through the oat grass and dollar weed to the wide white beach. Three miles of sand and not a soul around. Usually this was
where she would lengthen her stride and pick up her pace, but she slowed to a stop, mesmerized by the shimmering waves.
A great blue heron waded in the shallow water fishing for pinfish. It eyed her but did not move. A dolphin, slicing past, puffed for air.
So this is it, she thought. It's over. Even if Bill managed to keep her name out of it.
She expelled a breath, relieved.
Summer was not quite sure why she had gotten involved with Sheriff Bill Crocker in the first place. He was a man used to being in control, who enjoyed control; she valued her freedom above all else. He had assets of several million dollars, mostly from land deals he had made to developers, yet the idea of him as a powerful man seemed laughable to her—he was a redneck sheriff.
They had almost nothing in common.
They met at an exhibit of her photography at the Capitol City Airport, a group of her wildlife photos, and a series featuring the rusty trucks on Route 19. He came up and told her that the trucks were from his great uncle's farm, that he had learned to drive in one of them. He bought five of the photos, took her card, and began calling her every day with an idea of something for her to photograph—an old boat, a derelict house on stilts, a nest of hatching sea-turtle eggs. He'd be glad to show her. Finally she agreed, even though it was obvious what he was really after.
He was charming and told wonderful stories. He had wonderful salt-and-pepper hair, short and thick, hair that made you want to run barefoot through it. They had lots of laughs.
Yet she hated the rigid way he viewed the world, his insistence on “Christian family values” when she knew he had always cheated on his wife and only went to church before elections. And even though she was the current cause of his infidelity, she couldn't stand his wanton disregard for his wife, as if she were a servant rather than his spouse.
She liked to tease him, never cruelly, but to show he had no power over her. It was titillating, an aphrodisiac—like taunting an alligator with a broomstick.
Summer waded out into the tepid Gulf water, tea-colored from tannins washed into the bay from the last thunderstorm. Her feet sank into the silky sand, the waves lapped gently on her calves.
It had been wrong from the beginning. She had to end it.
But how?
He was a vengeful man. He might get her fired from her job teaching art in the local schools. There were a half-dozen ways he could make her life difficult. She supposed she would have to move.
Summer waded out forty feet before finding water deep enough to swim. It felt thick and heavy on her skin.
How she longed for the sparkling, crashing waves of the Pacific, cold, exhilarating, pounding down on top of her, tossing her, twisting her. She longed for the endless beaches of San Diego, and the jagged cliffs of Big Sur. She longed to return to California.
It was time for a change.
* * * *
Zeke Fullerton, personal injury lawyer, stopped by the Brinkmeyers’ at 7:30 p.m. after Tom and Donna got home from work. As soon as he heard that the sheriff was involved, he offered to waive the initial consultation fee.
"Are you having headaches, Mrs. Brinkmeyer? Neck aches? Back pain? Vision problems? Are you anxious? Trouble sleeping? Have you had to hire household help? Are you going to take time off from work? Is Sophie having trouble concentrating at school? Any discipline problems?"
So many questions! Donna felt confused and angry. Why did this happen to her? She didn't deserve it. Everything this lawyer said felt like someone poking her with a knitting needle. She didn't want to be there, didn't want to do this. She sat on the sofa and put her head in her hands.
Then she felt it. A stab at the base of her neck. And sharp tingling down her spine.
"Answer him, Donna,” Tom said, biting his lips, his eyes snakelike and shiny, the way he looked when he checked his Saturday-night lottery ticket.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Yes, she was emotional and anxious. Yes, she was afraid to get into the car, afraid to pull out in traffic, especially in Mulletville, where the rednecks in their trucks never stopped before darting out in front of you. So many bills, so many errands to cram into one day, everyone wanting something from her—Mom, could you pick me up at . . . Mom, could you get me . . . Darling, remember I asked you—sure she was having trouble sleeping. She had always had back trouble, but now it was worse.
"I think we have a good case,” said the lawyer.
"How much do you think we could get?” asked Tom, which made Donna blush and look away.
The lawyer smiled and wrote a number on a slip of paper.
"He barely hit me!” Donna protested.
The lawyer took Donna's hand. His fingers were long, his palm dry, almost as if dusted with baby powder. “I know you may feel we're taking advantage of the situation, but look at it this way. If criminal law fails to find justice, civil law has to step in. Like in the O.J. Simpson case."
"A hundred thousand dollars?” Donna looked at Tom, aghast, but there scratching at the back of her brain was a shopping list that got longer and longer the more she thought about it.
"Maybe more,” the lawyer said. “The sheriff should be held to a higher standard."
"How long will it take"—Donna lifted her face, daring, for the first time, to look the lawyer in the eyes—"before we get the money?"
* * * *
Bill Crocker bolted up in bed, heart pounding, covered in sweat. He was there again, at the accident, trying to take it back, trying to change the outcome, the scene playing over and over in his head, relentlessly, like some godawful TV commercial. How could he have been so stupid? He wanted to turn off his brain, but he couldn't. It was agonizing.
He looked at the clock—2:30 a.m. Meredith snored softly on her side, turned away from him. He felt completely nauseated.
He rolled out of bed, shuffled to his office, and turned on his computer. It was like picking a scab—he had to see what they were saying about him now: “Just because he's sheriff, he thinks the laws don't apply to him?” “What a jerk!” “Time for this good ole boy to resign.” “Arrogant SOB!” “Anybody else in Walker County would've gotten arrested on a DUI and a hit-and-run!” “Drunken trash!” “He rigged the election. Now he's committing crimes!” “Scumbag!” “HE HIT A CAR WITH A CHILD IN IT AND LEFT!!!!” “Either fire him or change the law so next time I get drunk and do a hit-and-run I can go home first and sober up, then have one of my friends investigate the accident for me.” “Time to go, Crocker! It's time for change."
Over a thousand people had now signed the online petition demanding his resignation.
Why, why, why didn't he stop and talk to the woman. Pay her there? He always carried at least five hundred on him.
He tried to conjure the very moment when he turned the steering wheel, for he must've done that, driving down the straight black asphalt, sixty miles an hour, his eyelids feeling thick and heavy, pressing down on the gas pedal, anxious to get home, then seeing the white egret by the road, a sick bird, a wounded bird, leaning forward, squinting, and a hand, not his hand, but a wicked, gleeful force pushing the steering wheel right toward the bird, to kill the wretched bird.
Why had he been afraid? Why flee? He recalled the jolting panic as if he had seen a gigantic boulder rolling toward him, threatening to crush him—he had to move, had to get out of the way.
Bill realized that he had not been afraid of the FHP slapping him with a DUI, or of losing his office, or confronting a furious driver, or paying thousands of dollars. It was a much greater fear that had made him run.
He feared his luck was running out.
* * * *
Crocker jerked awake at the sound of screaming, simultaneously realizing that he must've fallen asleep at his computer, that it was morning, and that the screaming was his wife, Meredith, downstairs. He jumped up, grabbed a loaded shotgun, and charged down the hall.
The front door was half open. He saw her lavender housecoat, legs akimbo, her hands slapping away an invisible force. He ra
n up, shoved her out of the way, and swung wide the door.
She did not stop screaming.
* * * *
An hour later, Clive Johnston kissed his sleeping wife and infant daughter, called his editor at the Capitol City Observer, who was already at his desk, and told him he was headed south into Walker County.
It felt a bit like entering enemy territory.
He first drove past the scene of the accident, a part of Azalea Park Drive that was without curves or hills. The mailbox still leaned and had a scrape down the side.
He then interviewed Donna Brinkmeyer, who complained tearfully that “Sheriff Crocker apologized on television to everyone but me. He lives on my street, but he didn't even bother to call.” Her husband, Tom Brinkmeyer, who held his wife's hand during the interview, claimed that his wife was a “physical and emotional wreck.” They would not discuss their personal-injury lawsuit against the sheriff.
Around lunchtime, Johnston walked into Magnolia Spring Country Club. The bartender, a pre-med student from the local university, new at the job, who didn't even know who Sheriff Crocker was, called up the tab on the computer. On the night of the accident, Sheriff Crocker ordered six Crown Royals and one white wine. Several people who had been at the bar that night, including Crocker's friend Donald Mayes, defended him, saying that “the sheriff was buying rounds for everyone,” and that “the drinks are notoriously stingy.” Two people mentioned a blonde in her thirties who had sat with Crocker and Mayes, but no one knew her name.
At the sheriff station he attempted to interview the sheriff's deputies who had arrived at the crash. Both were on “sick leave."
Johnston called his editor with his findings.
"How much did you say the bar tab was?” his editor asked.
EQMM, May 2010 Page 16
