The Fury (2009)

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter

  lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones.”

  “I don’t want to leave here,” my father said softly.

  “Dad, jail isn’t exactly comfortable,” I said.

  “I mean, I don’t want to leave Bend,” he said more

  forcefully. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t kill Stephen.

  They can’t just take me wherever they want.”

  I looked atAmanda. She said, “Mr. Parker, if you don’t

  sign the waiver you’ll stay in Bend, but you’ll be in prison

  until they prove your identity. It could be weeks, months.

  And that’s before any sort of trial.And trust me, you won’t

  be doing yourself any favors with the judge assigned to

  the case. They will take you if you make them.”

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  “This can’t be right,” James said. “Goddamn it I

  shouldn’t be here! Henry, you know me, you know this

  isn’t right.”

  I knew him, but I didn’t. I’d seen the depths of his

  anger, his rage. It was up to me to believe he wasn’t

  capable of reaching another level.

  “Dad…” I began. “Why do they suspect you?”

  Without hesitating, James said, “They told me there’s

  evidence linking me to the crime. They said they found

  it in Stephen’s apartment.”

  “In New York?” I said. “How is that possible?”

  He looked down at the floor, his whole body seeming

  to sag into nothing. “They said they found my finger­

  prints on the gun that killed him.”

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  “Wait, step back,” I said. It took me a moment to

  regroup, to process what my father had just said. “How

  could they possibly have found your fingerprints on the

  gun that killed Stephen?”

  “I don’t know,” my father said. He said it unconvinc­

  ingly. There was more to this. Amanda looked at him

  with incredible frustration. She had a great legal mind,

  but I could already tell that she was thinking about

  James Parker’s chances during a murder trial. Even if

  he was innocent—which he had to be—this man would

  never do himself any favors with his lawyer or a judge.

  He was already refusing easy extradition, and he was

  lying—or at least hiding the truth—from the only

  people here who gave a damn.

  Sadly, I knew what it felt like to be accused of a

  terrible crime you didn’t commit. I knew just how

  lonely it could be, and how much a friendly hand

  meant. Amanda had been that for me. If not for her,

  I’d either be dead or in prison. She’d reached out,

  offered a hand, and I’d smartly accepted. My father,

  meanwhile, was dangling from the edge of a cliff,

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  slapping our hands away in the misguided belief that

  he couldn’t fall.

  “Mr. Parker,” Amanda said. “You need to tell us what

  happened. All of it. You know why they arrested you.

  Even if you’re innocent, you don’t seem surprised.

  Shocked, maybe, but not surprised. I can see it in your

  eyes. You’re thinking about the circumstances that led

  to this. How events could have been misconstrued. We

  need to know this so we can understand what hap­

  pened.”

  My father looked at Amanda, confused. She’d il­

  luminated a path for him and his reluctance to see it

  was waning.

  “I was in New York,” James finally said, the words

  coming out in a rush like air that had been compressed.

  “The day Stephen died. I was there.”

  “You were in the city?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Why?”

  James looked at me, then Amanda. He stayed quiet.

  I got the picture. He wanted to talk to her. She was im­

  partial. A lawyer. I was his son. And I would judge.

  “Mr. Parker,” she said. “Why were you in New

  York?”

  “I saw him,” James said. His eyes had grown wide,

  for the first time fully beginning to piece together the

  circumstances. There was terror in those eyes. They

  ripped a hole through me because right then I knew he

  understood why he’d been accused of the crime. “Helen

  called me.”

  “Helen Gaines?” Amanda said. “Stephen’s mother?”

  James nodded. “I hadn’t spoken to her in, God,

  almost thirty years. After she had Stephen, I wanted

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  nothing to do with either of them. I had a family. A wife.

  I told her that,” he said, slamming his fist on the table.

  “From the beginning, I told her this won’t go anywhere.

  It wasn’t my fault the crazy bitch lied about being on

  the pill.”

  “How did she get your number?” Amanda said.

  “It’s called the phone book,” James said drily. “Last

  I checked I’m not the president.”

  “Why did she call you after so long?”

  James leaned over again, chewed his thumbnail. He

  ripped off a ragged piece of white, spat it across the

  room. I saw a small line of blood well up from where

  he’d ripped.

  “She said she was in trouble. That she needed money.

  That Stephen was in trouble.”

  “Did she say what kind of trouble?”

  “She said Stephen had a drug problem. She needed

  to get him help before it was too late. She couldn’t

  afford treatment.”

  “So why did you come all the way to New York?”

  “I hung up on her. She called back. She said if I didn’t

  help them, she would sue me for child support and make

  sure my name was in every newspaper as one of those

  deadbeat dads. She said technically I owed her thirty

  years’ of payments, and that if she hadn’t wrecked my

  marriage thirty years ago she’d make it her mission to do

  it now. I couldn’t afford thirty years back payments for

  the life of me. I told her I could give her some money, a

  little, but that’s it. She said she needed to see me. That

  maybe meeting his father would snap some sense into

  Stephen.”

  “And you agreed to go?”

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  “Not at first,” James said. “I told her I could send it

  Western Union. She said those two words again, ‘child

  support,’ and I was on a plane the next day.” He looked

  at me and grinned. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

  “Where did you tell mom you were going?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, just said I was going fishing or some

  shit. She didn’t ask many questions.”

  “They say your fingerprints ended up on the gun

  that killed Stephen,” Amanda said. “That means two

  things. One, they found the murder weapon. And two,

  your prints were on it. Can you explain how that

  happened?”

  “Helen,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “When I

  got to their apartment—a real rats’ nest. Ugh, just dis­

  gusting. Cockroaches everywhere, food left out.

  Anyway, I hadn’t seen Helen in almost thirty years. I

  had some money with me. Not much, I ain’t Ted Turner

&nbs
p; in case you haven’t noticed. Stephen wasn’t there.

  Helen told me he was working. It was late, and I didn’t

  care much. I’d gone that long without seeing the boy.”

  “The gun, Dad,” I said.

  “I’m getting to that. So I give her some money, two

  grand. It’s all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of

  course, Helen tells me it’s not enough. Rehab centers

  cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses

  my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in

  there.”

  “And then what?” Amanda said.

  “Then…Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what

  she’s doing. And suddenly out she comes holding

  this…this cannon. Then she pointed that thing at me

  and told me she needed money. Of course I’ve handled

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  a gun or two, and I notice the safety’s off. But she’s

  holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn’t

  think she’d shoot me on purpose, the way she was

  holding it—both hands on the butt, two fingers in the

  trigger guard—that thing could have gone off by

  accident and blown my head off.”

  I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing

  I was. If Helen Gaines didn’t know how to handle a gun,

  chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged

  to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my

  father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the

  gun? And who did kill him?

  “So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move

  I grab it out of her hands.”

  “Slick, Pop,” I said.

  “How did you take it from her?” Amanda asked.

  “Just like this, I guess.” My father mimicked

  grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the

  chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual

  demonstration.

  “The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder

  weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not

  on the trigger, they wouldn’t immediately think you

  killed her.” Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he

  looked down. We both knew he was lying.

  “So I might have held it normal,” he said.

  “Come on, Dad, we’re trying to help you. Nobody

  else will, trust me.”

  “I might have pointed it at her,” he said.

  “You might have or you did?” Amanda demanded.

  “I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my

  hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points

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  a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted

  to scare her, is all. Just scare her.”

  “Did you fire that gun?” Amanda said.

  “Absolutely not,” James replied. “I pointed it at her

  once.”

  “Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,”

  Amanda said. “If it wasn’t you, someone was able to

  kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact.”

  “The killer must have used gloves,” I said. “Some­

  thing that didn’t disturb fingerprints that were already

  on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that’s what leaves

  the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would

  leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.

  Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms

  to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough

  to shoot him in the back of the head from close range,

  and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after

  blowing his brains all over the wall.”

  “They say keep your friends close but your enemies

  closer,” Amanda said. “Stephen’s killer must have been

  somebody he knew.”

  I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking

  older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was

  waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of

  advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The

  story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be

  proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian

  had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right

  now she was the only person who could corroborate my

  father’s story. And she was a woman who certainly

  owed him nothing.

  “Sign the waiver, Dad,” I said grimly, gritting my

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  teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option

  would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the

  more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. “Go

  to New York. We can do more for you there than we can

  here.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail,” my father said. His words

  were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my

  heart might have bled for this man, it was now.

  “Mr. Parker,” Amanda said. “James. All we can do

  right now is try to prove your innocence. We can’t do that

  here. Henry’s right. We’ll find you a lawyer. We’ll help

  you.”

  He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying

  to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,

  James Parker simply nodded and said, “I’ll sign it.”

  Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn’t show that

  emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me

  his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time

  mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I’d

  hoped someone would lock him up for one of his

  crimes. As a young boy I’d wished I was strong enough

  to stand up to him. It didn’t matter how far I went, how

  much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher­

  ever I went.

  Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop

  opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left

  the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed

  officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his

  arms across his chest.

  “Well?” he said.

  “He’ll sign the waiver,” I said. “Let’s get this over

  with and get him back to New York.”

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  Whalin let out a pleased sigh. “I’m glad to hear that.

  Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell

  we can’t spare. He still needs to appear before the judge

  tomorrow morning, but that’s a formality. I’ll call the

  NYPD. We’ll have the waiver ready for him to sign at

  tomorrow’s hearing, and they’ll send officers to escort

  him back to New York. Then he’s all yours. Thanks for

  talking some sense into him.”

  Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted

  my father out of his hair, it would help the process move

  faster. I felt Amanda’s hand loop through my arm. I put

  my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.

  As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting

  in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as

  though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She

  had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was

  teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were

  wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering
her

  mouth. She looked like she was debating between

  falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles

  poked out from her handbag. Memories came flooding

  back. The more he raged, the more she knit. Losing

  herself in stitches and patterns.

  “Mom?” I said, approaching nervously. I hadn’t seen

  her in a long time. That pale, thin body turned around,

  hand still at her mouth. She cocked her head to one side,

  trying to determine whether she knew the man standing

  in front of her.

  “Is that…oh my God, is that you, Henry?”

  Suddenly she righted herself, ran over as fast as her

  sensible shoes could carry her. She flung her arms

  around me and I found myself nearly supporting her

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  entire body weight. She sobbed onto my shoulder as I

  bit my lip, did everything I could not to break down as

  well.

  “The police…they called me at Spano’s house….

  What have they done to him?” she wailed. My mother

  pulled away, looked at me, hoping for some answer,

  some assurance that this might have been a terrible joke.

  “He’s going to be okay, Mom,” I said, trying to inject

  belief into that line when deep down there was none.

  “It’s a big misunderstanding.”

  “When are they going to let him out? I bought

  chicken breasts for dinner.”

  “Mom,” I said, “I don’t think he’ll be back in time

  for dinner.”

  “Then when will he be back?”

  I looked at Amanda. Her eyes said, What do you

  want me to do? My mother looked so lost, confused. It

  wasn’t that I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth

  about my father and Stephen Gaines, it was that for

  whatever reason, she’d lost the ability to truly under­

  stand just how many wrongs this man had committed

  toward her. Over the years her defenses had rusted.

  Nothing allowed in, no anger, hostility or resentment

  out. I wondered, now, if my attitude toward him, my

  anger, was compounded by the lack of hers.

  “I don’t know when,” I said. I took her hand. Held

  it. She held on to mine, but her eyes were far off, distant,

  trying to process the situation but clearly failing. To her,

  the notion of my father being arrested was like him

  being sent into outer space.

  “Well, what do I do?” she said. “Should I wait at

  home for him to be released?”

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  “Home is a good idea, Mom,” I said. “Do you have