The Fury (2009)
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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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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 of
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