The Fury (2009)

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The Fury (2009) Page 8

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter


  money?”

  She thought about this. “I don’t know our checkingaccount information, but we keep a jar of emergency

  money in a safe.”

  “How much is in there?” I asked.

  “Five thousand dollars,” she said.

  “That should be enough for now,” I said.

  “Mrs. Parker?” Amanda said. My mother turned to

  her. “My name is Amanda Davies. I’m Henry’s…friend.

  I’m a lawyer, so please don’t talk to anybody you don’t

  know. Don’t speak to reporters, don’t give anybody

  money, and only talk to the police if you have a lawyer

  present. If you need one, tell the detective on the case

  and he’ll help you retain one, free of charge. We’ll do

  our best to get your husband out of this as soon as we

  can. So put that chicken in the freezer.”

  “Thank you, dear,” my mom said, her eyes twin­

  kling as she smiled at Amanda. “You said you’re a

  friend of Henry’s…are you two in college together?”

  My mouth opened, but I didn’t say anything.

  Amanda responded, “Something like that. You’re

  welcome to come to New York with us if—”

  “Oh no, I could never do that.” It was definitive. I

  wondered when my mother last left the state.

  “Do you want us to, I don’t know, come over for

  dinner?” I asked.

  “Oh no,” she said fervently. “The house is a godawful mess.”

  I nodded, felt my eyes begin to sting.

  “Then I’ll call you as soon as we get back,” I said.

  “Be strong. We’ll sort this out. Remember what

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  Amanda said. Don’t talk to strangers, and also don’t

  believe anything anyone says about Dad.”

  “I know your father,” she said sweetly. “If anyone

  says he did something wrong, they just don’t know

  James.”

  “I love you, Mom. It’s good to see you.” I ap­

  proached, wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me

  back, fragile, like the tension in her joints might cause

  them to shatter. When we untangled, I held her hands

  for an extra moment, then she let them go. Sitting back

  down, she turned her attention to the ceiling. And we

  walked away.

  “You okay?” Amanda asked. She could tell I was

  rattled. More than that. It was all my memories—good,

  bad and wrenching—flowing back at once.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Will she be okay?”

  “She’s survived being married to him for almost

  thirty years. I think a little while without him will be

  easier.”

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “Given the circumstances? Could be worse. I haven’t

  had the nervous breakdown I was sure was coming

  when I saw her.”

  “Do you believe your father’s story? About the gun?

  The money?”

  I sighed. “Guess I have to. You know what’s funny?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never felt closer to him. Guess not too many

  sons and fathers can have being accused of murder as

  a way to relate to each other.”

  10

  Amanda and I sat in the first row of the Bend County

  District Courthouse as my father was led into the room

  in handcuffs. My mother sat next to us, her eyes distant

  like she was viewing a movie, not watching her husband

  accused of murder. He was seated at a small wooden

  table next to a man in a natty suit, his temporary courtappointed lawyer, Douglas Aaronson. Once the case

  was transferred to New York we’d have to find him new

  representation. None of us could afford much of

  anything, so the best we could hope for was someone

  competent enough to either prove my father’s inno­

  cence, or at least keeps things progressing until we could

  prove it ourselves.

  Judge Catherine Rawling entered the courtroom.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said. Everyone stood up. Aaronson

  had to prompt my father. He stood up awkwardly.

  Rawling was younger than I would have expected for

  a judge, late thirties, with close-cropped blond hair. Her

  face was emotionless as she took her chair. She looked

  at my father for a moment.

  “Be seated,” she said, averting her gaze. Chairs and

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  benches squeaked as we obeyed. “Counselor, I’m under

  the impression that Mr. Parker has agreed to sign the

  nonjudicial waiver. Is that correct?”

  The lawyer next to my father stood up, hands at his

  sides. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Do you have that document present?”

  The bailiff, a hulking bald man, approached the table

  and took the paper from Aaronson. He brought it up to

  Judge Rawling, who put on a pair of reading glasses and

  pored over the sheet. Once finished, she looked up.

  “I now remand James Parker to the custody of the New

  York Police Department, who have a warrant out for Mr.

  Parker’s arrest on the charge of murder in the first degree.”

  I shuddered as I heard those words. Though my

  father and I had this terrible thing in common, I’d thank­

  fully never heard those words uttered. They seemed to

  affect him too, as he turned to the lawyer, eyes open, as

  though expecting the man to suddenly yell surprise and

  remove the handcuffs.

  Rawling continued.

  “Mr. Aaronson, am I also correct in the information

  that two deputies from the NYPD have arrived to take

  Mr. Parker into custody pending a grand jury hearing?”

  “That is correct, Your Honor.” So far Aaronson was

  doing a bang-up job.

  “Bailiff,” Rawling said, “please show them in.”

  The bailiff walked to the double doors at the front of

  the courtroom. He pulled them open, and nodded at

  whoever was waiting outside to follow him. When the

  bailiff reentered, there were two men trailing him. One

  was a young officer, couldn’t have been more than

  twenty-four or -five, but with muscles that stretched out

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  his blue uniform. And right behind him, wearing a

  standard suit, to my surprise, was Detective Sevi Mak­

  houlian.

  “Your Honor,” the bailiff said. “Officer Clark and

  Detective Makhoulian of the NYPD.”

  “Thank you, Bailiff. I hereby grant transfer of this

  prisoner into custody of the NYPD for extradition to

  New York City.” She looked at the two cops as she

  spoke. “From this point forward James Parker is under

  your responsibility and jurisdiction, in accordance with

  New York State. Gentlemen, thank you for your prompt­

  ness in coming out here. Mr. Parker,” she said, “you are

  remanded into the custody of these officers.”

  The bailiff approached. The three men took my

  father by his cuffs and led him outside. As soon as they

  did, Amanda and I got up and followed.

  “Detective!” I shouted. Makhoulian turned around.

  He looked slightly surprised to see me.

 
“Henry,” he said.

  “My father’s innocent,” I blurted. I had no idea how

  he was supposed to respond to that. Maybe part of me

  was hoping he’d simply nod, smack his head and say,

  “Whoops, you’re right!”

  Needless to say, that did not happen.

  “Henry, we can talk more in New York. For now, it’s

  my job to get your father back to New York safely. All

  you can do is make sure that happens.”

  “How can I do that?” I asked.

  “Stay away. Go home. There’s nothing more you

  can do right now.”

  Then Makhoulian and Officer Clark took my father

  by his manacles and led him away.

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  “There’s a computer in the courthouse library,”

  Amanda said. “Let’s change our flight home and get the

  next plane out of here. He’s right. There’s nothing more

  we can do here.”

  After a brief goodbye to my mother, we managed to

  book a red-eye from Portland to JFK. I would have

  thought that after everything we’d been through, the

  confrontation with my father, the arrest, the hearing,

  that I would have slept like a baby. And while Amanda’s

  head rested comfortably on my shoulder while she

  slept, I was awake the whole flight, my eyes open,

  staring at nothing. Wondering how this had happened.

  When the crew turned off the cabin lights to allow

  other passengers to sleep, I stayed up in the dark.

  Nausea had taken the place of normal functions, and a

  cold sweat had been running down my back for hours.

  I couldn’t understand it, not a word. That I had a

  brother to begin with, even one related only half by

  blood, was shock enough. That my father—that his

  father—was now accused of murdering him, that was

  enough to make my world stop.

  And as I sat there, one image refused to leave my

  mind’s eye: that of my father, clothed in dirty pants

  and a rumpled shirt, being led away from the court­

  room in handcuffs. I’d grown up used to a sense of

  rage in the man’s eye, a frustration and impotence that

  perhaps the world had left him in the dust. His voice

  and mannerisms were that of an animal who bore its

  claws at anyone who came close, and even when he

  seemed calm, the wrong look could turn him into a dif­

  ferent man.

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  Yet thinking about him, head bowed, hands behind

  his back, he looked less like a beast than a small dog

  being led somewhere he didn’t understand for reasons

  he couldn’t comprehend. He looked defeated. Lost.

  And I wondered if, somehow, my father didn’t think

  that in some way he deserved it.

  I thought about Amanda’s line of questioning, and

  my father’s answers. According to him, Helen Gaines

  had called him for money to help Stephen battle his ad­

  diction. My father said the money was for rehab, to help

  him kick the drugs. This was possible, I supposed, re­

  membering the state Stephen was in when I saw him on

  the street. He looked like a man whose rope had been

  pulled as taut as possible, one more tug causing it to

  snap.

  But my father had admitted to holding the gun,

  aiming it in such a way that his fingerprints would be

  found on the trigger and butt. For a jury to believe he

  did all of that—and that Stephen Gaines had coinciden­

  tally been murdered by a different man using the same

  gun on that same day—was pushing the limits of rea­

  sonable doubt. If I wasn’t his son, if I hadn’t lived with

  the man for eighteen years, if I hadn’t been able to look

  into those eyes, I would doubt his innocence myself.

  And deep down, a small part of me did doubt it.

  When we landed, I had a message waiting for me

  from Wallace Langston. I hadn’t spoken to Wallace

  since we left for Bend, and no doubt my father’s arrest

  would be reported in local papers. The Gazette would

  have to cover it, as would the Dispatch, our biggest

  rival. I only hoped that Paulina Cole wouldn’t get a hold

  of it.

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  85

  Paulina Cole had actually been my coworker at the

  Gazette, but soon left for the more lucrative pastures of

  the Dispatch. There she became the paper’s chief print

  antagonist, penning articles that were as loved as they

  were reviled, and always stirred up controversy. She’d

  slimed me in print numerous times, and had made it

  clear that her mission was to bring our paper down. Last

  year she’d penned an exposé on my mentor, Jack

  O’Donell, exposing his rampant alcoholism, shaming

  the man to the point where he’d left the paper and dis­

  appeared. I heard several rumors testifying to his where­

  abouts. They usually ran the spectrum of “he’s in rehab

  in Colorado” to “he threw himself off the Verrazano

  Bridge.”

  I missed Jack deeply, the newsroom felt as if it were

  missing its most important gear with him gone. Yet I

  knew the man needed time to heal. I only hoped he

  would, and that the Jack O’Donnell who’d single­

  handedly brought the Gazette to journalistic promi­

  nence would return to his old, worn desk.

  In my heart, I knew what I had to do. The cops had

  my father. They had physical evidence he was not only

  at the scene of the crime, but had actually handled the

  murder weapon. They had proof of his travel; no doubt

  airline bookings and credit-card receipts would show

  his travel plans.

  And the most damaging piece of all, they had a

  motive.

  Odds were my father would be made to stand trial by

  the grand jury, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to

  afford a lawyer worth a damn. His freedom—maybe his

  life—would be in the hands of whatever public defender

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  happened to have a clear docket. I’d like to say my

  contacts in the press might get my father someone with

  a little more experience, a little more court savvy,

  someone who would maybe even take a pro bono case

  or two. Unfortunately that wasn’t so. Law-enforcement

  officials—except for a scant few—weren’t big fans of

  mine. They still harbored a grudge for one of their own

  who died, and right or not, they blamed me for his death.

  James Parker didn’t just face an uphill climb, he

  faced a sheer cliff slick with ice.

  When we landed, I called Wallace Langston at the

  Gazette and told him I’d be there within the hour.

  Amanda and I stepped into the taxi line.

  “What are you going to do?” Amanda asked. I

  pocketed the phone as a cab pulled up.

  “Only thing I can do,” I said. “I need to prove he’s

  innocent. And then find at who killed Stephen Gaines.”

  11

  The newsroom of the New York Gazette felt like home.

  And after leaving Bend, a place I never truly thought ofr />
  as one, I needed a new home. Many of the reporters I

  considered friends, and even those I clashed with, like

  Frank Rourke, had started to attain a certain grudging

  respect for me. I’d started here under the worst circum­

  stances imaginable. Fresh out of college, anointed the

  golden boy right off the bat, and immediately embroiled

  in a scandal that threatened not only the integrity of the

  paper but my life. It’s no secret which of those things

  most reporters considered of predominant importance.

  I exited the elevator and made my way down the hall.

  Evelyn Waterstone saw me rounding the corner. I gave

  a halfhearted wave, and she snorted like I’d just pulled

  my pants down in the middle of the cafeteria. Evelyn

  was never one for endearing gestures.

  Making my way to Wallace’s office through the sea

  of dropped pens, smells of ink, paper and clothing still

  fresh from its wearer’s most recent smoke break, I

  looked up to see Tony Valentine approaching.

  Tony’s face erupted in a toothy smile as he sped up

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  to meet me. I took a breath, prepared for whatever

  verbal bath I was about to get. Tony was wearing a blue

  pin-striped suit with a yellow tie. His face looked extra

  orange today. Either he’d fallen asleep in the tanning

  bed, or his mother had mated with a pumpkin.

  That wolf’s mouth open in a wide smile, perfect,

  gleaming teeth. Nobody in their life had ever been so

  happy to see me.

  It was impossible to avoid him, so I sucked it up and

  prepared myself.

  “Henry!” Tony shouted with the glee of a man who

  found a rolled-up hundred in his pocket. “Listen, my

  man, it’s good to see you back here. I’ve heard some bad

  things about you and your pops, and you always assume

  the worst. So I’m glad to see you’re okay, my man.”

  “Wait,” I said, holding my hand up. “What did you

  hear about ‘me and my pops’?”

  “Oh, this and that,” he said cryptically.

  “Oh yeah? And who are these sources of yours?”

  “Please,” Tony said. “You have your channels of in­

  formation and I have mine. Let’s leave it at that. But

  listen, my man, I know a guy who knows a guy who

  knows a lawyer who reps all the celebrities when they,

  shall we say, stray on the wrong side of the law.

  Remember how Paris Hilton got released from prison

  after serving an hour for her DUI? That was my bud.”

  “Didn’t she have to spend a month in there after the

 

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