Ynez pulled away, wiping her eyes. “I think we should get it,” she said.
“Hell with that. I’m canceling our supplemental insurance.”
She grasped his arm. “No! You can’t!”
“We’ll get it from someone else. But I’m not giving in to these scare tactics. Like Edward said today, why would we buy anything from this guy? We don’t know the first thing about him.”
“I’ll pay for it out of my own money, then!”
“Don’t you see what’s happening? You’re doing exactly what he wants you to do.” Jorge waved the pamphlet. “You’re giving in to this.”
“Everything will be covered,” she beseeched him. “No matter what happens, we’ll be able to get the best care.” She held him, looked into his eyes. “It’s our son. We have to think of what’s best for him, not us.”
She was right, but he was not sure that buying insurance from that creepy nameless agent was what was best for their child. Still, he understood her concern, and he told her that they’d keep the insurance until he was able to find alternative coverage.
“Just don’t listen to that insurance agent,” Jorge said. “If he comes back, don’t let him talk you into anything, don’t let him try to sell you any new insurance.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, and he heard the fear in her voice. “If he comes back, I’m not even going to open the door.”
3
“Hello!”
It took Hunt a moment to recognize the voice on the phone, and when he did, he was immediately put on edge.
The insurance agent.
“How are you today, Mr. Jackson? I’m just calling to give you a heads-up about a new type of coverage we’re offering for a very limited time to our best and most loyal customers. Technically, it’s a rider attached to our deluxe personal injury policy, which means that in order to qualify you will have to purchase a personal injury policy, but I guarantee that it will be worth your while.”
Hunt sighed. “I’ll bite. What is it?”
“Legal insurance.”
“So… you’ll pay for lawyers if I get sued or something?”
The agent laughed. “Legal fees are already covered under the appropriate policy, such as auto or home. No, this insures that you will not be falsely accused of a criminal act and will not be arrested if—”
“What the hell is this?”
“I’m trying to explain that, Mr. Jackson.”
“Let’s stop right here,” Hunt said. “I don’t know what kind of insurance company would offer something so ridiculous—”
“The Insurance Group is a consortium of well-established and highly respectable carriers.”
“—but I can tell you that neither of us would waste a single penny on such crap.”
“What is it?” Beth asked, poking her head out of the kitchen.
He put a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Insurance agent,” he said disgustedly.
“I really think you should discuss this with your wife,” the agent said.
“Sorry. Not interested.”
“I could come by and—”
“No,” Hunt told him. “And please don’t call again.”
There was a long pause. “Very well. As I said, I would advise you to partake of this generous, limited-time offer, but the ultimate decision is, of course, up to you.”
“Yes it is.”
“May I just say, though, that you ignore your insurance needs at your own risk. Let me assure you that when tragedy strikes, when lives are disrupted due to natural or man-made catastrophes, it is not policemen or firemen who help put those lives back together. It is insurance men.”
“Thanks for the civics lesson,” Hunt said, and before the agent could say another word, he hung up the phone.
“What did he want?” Beth asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“He wanted to sell us legal insurance, which would guarantee that we wouldn’t be arrested and falsely imprisoned for crimes we did not commit.”
“You’re joking.”
“Indeed I’m not.”
She stared at him, at a loss for words, and he knew exactly how she felt. There was something unreal about all of this. No, not unreal. Surreal. It was as if they’d suddenly been thrust into a Twilight Zone world where the rules of normalcy did not apply.
“Is this a real company?” Beth asked.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. And I’m thinking maybe it’s time we contacted the Better Business Bureau an( made a few inquiries about The Insurance Group.”
THIRTEEN
1
The next few days were busy and stressful for both Hunt and Beth, and on Wednesday night they decided to go to bed early and catch up on some much needed sleep. Hunt dozed off first. Beth remained awake awhile longer, reading a collection of horror stories by Barry Welch, but they were both sound asleep before ten o’clock.
They were awakened by policemen pounding on their front door.
The policemen didn’t ring the doorbell, just knocked, and thinking about it later, Hunt found that odd. If the intent was to intimidate them, however, the tactic worked. That constant barrage of fists on wood and the shouted cries of “Open up! Police!” served to frighten them as they hurriedly put on robes and pants and went to answer the door.
“What if they’re not really cops?” Beth whispered as they came close. “I saw that on the news once. Home invasion robbers pretended to be cops to get into the house. Then they raped and killed the family.”
Hunt put his eye to the peephole. “They look like cops.”
“Open up now or we’ll have to break down the door!”
He started unhooking the latch.
“What are you doing?”
“They’re going to knock down the door and get in anyway. If they are cops, we’ll be better off if we’re cooperative.”
“And if they’re not?”
He unlocked the door, and the second it opened, they were on him, two uniformed officers slamming him against the wall, yanking his arms behind his back and slapping handcuffs on his wrists. A punch to the side left him gasping for air, and a fist to the groin accompanied what was supposed to be a pat down. Beth was screaming, backing away, but he could not tell if it was fear or an effort to alert the neighbors that accounted for the edge of desperation in her cry. It sounded to him like she was saying something, not just screaming incoherently, but the pain in his balls and his side made it hard for him to concentrate.
He was whirled around to face forward, and he saw the two cops, one young and brash with a wide dumb face, the other older and tired but still crafty, like a weary Lee Van Cleef. Both looked like they wanted to beat the living hell out of him.
He sucked in breath. “What am I being charged with?”
The young cop pushed his dumb face right against Hunt’s. “You are under arrest for child molestation, unlawful sexual congress, contributing to the delinquency of a minor and any other charges the DA sees fit to throw your way, you disgusting piece of shit.”
“Hank,” the older officer warned.
“I know, I know.”
“We don’t want to void this one.”
“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” Hunt said. “There’s been a mistake. You’ve got the wrong guy!”
“Don’t say anything!” Beth ordered. “Wait until we get a lawyer!” She turned on the younger officer. “And I heard that ‘piece of shit’ remark, you piece of shit. And so help me God, when this all gets sorted out, you’re going to pay through the fucking nose for it. We’ll sue you, your department, the city, and you’ll end up scrubbing toilets in the park with your minimal wages garnished, you incompetent fucking asshole.”
“Classy wife you got there,” the cop told Hunt.
If he’d been tougher, if he’d been cooler, he would’ve responded, “She’s got your number, dickwad.” But he was scared and confused, the handcuffs hurt like hell, and he didn’t want to antagonize these idiots even m
ore. Obviously, this was all part of some huge screwup, and the faster he was taken to the police station, where he could explain the situation to someone in charge, the quicker it would all be sorted out.
“What’s your name?” Beth demanded. “What’s your badge number? Who’s your commanding officer? I want all of that information before you leave here.”
“Your husband’s a child molester and you’re mad at us? What kind of woman are you?”
“He’s not a child molester, you assholes have made a huge mistake, and I’ll tell you the kind of woman I am: I’m the kind that will not rest until unqualified thugs like you are thrown off the police force.”
Hank was obviously all set to argue, ready to go toe-to-toe with her, but the older cop put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we’ve gotta take him in.”
“And why did you come in the middle of the night, huh? Needed to cause a scene, have a show? Why didn’t you arrest him this afternoon? You couldn’t’ve just found out about this trumped-up charge just now. Why’d you wait until now to act on it?”
Her fearlessness, her righteous anger, bolstered Hunt’s own confidence, blew away some of the cowed deference that had started to settle over him. He was wearing nothing but jeans and an unbelted bathrobe, and he held up his chin, met the eyes of the older cop. “I want a shirt,” he said. “I’m not going to the police station dressed like this.”
“Oh yes you are,” Hank said.
The older cop nodded. “We have plenty of orange jumpsuits that’ll fit you.” He turned Hunt around, pushed him toward the door. “Come on, get going.”
“I’m coming,” Beth promised. “I’ll follow you in the car.”
He wanted her to accompany him more than anything. He wanted a witness to this Kafkaesque nightmare just in case they tried to accuse him of something else. But he knew they weren’t going to let her past the police station lobby. She wouldn’t be with him when they fingerprinted him and took his picture. She’d be sitting on a bench, angry and frustrated, and there be nothing she’d be able to do for him.
He shook his head. “Find a lawyer,” he told her, looking over his shoulder. “Get someone to get me out.”
Now she was crying, and Hunt saw the young policeman smile. He wanted to kick in that bastard’s teeth and wipe the smirk off his face. Beth drew on some inner reserve of strength and pulled herself together. “I’ll find someone. I’ll find out how to get bail.” She glared at the young cop. “And Hank whatever-your-name-is? Badge number seven-seven-three? I’ll be telling the lawyer all about you. And I’ll see you in court.”
The policemen pushed Hunt outside and held his head down as they forced him into the backseat of their cruiser. The rooftop lights were on and blinking—red blue, red blue, red blue—and they seemed to illuminate the entire street. Looking out the patrol car’s window, he saw the faces of his neighbors peeking out at him from behind their living room curtains.
Great.
He was terrified that first night, so scared that he did not allow himself to fall asleep. He’d read enough books and seen enough movies to know how a “short eyes” was treated in prison. And while he wasn’t technically in prison, was only in county jail, he was thrown in with the rest of the inmates in a general holding cell and left to fend for himself.
County jail.
He worked for the county, and he didn’t think there was any way possible to keep this secret from his coworkers, from his bosses. Even in an organization as large and diverse as county government, news and rumors spread quickly, and everyone was bound to find out. Steve was bound to find out. He’d probably lose his job, end up fired and unemployable.
No. He’d talk to the employees’ association, find out what his rights were. He was only accused, not convicted, of a crime. And he was innocent to boot. Genuinely innocent. They couldn’t fire him for that. And if they tried, he’d sue them from here to eternity.
This might be another nail in the division’s coffin, though, the straw that would break the camel’s back and give the higher-ups an excuse to contract out tree trimming. And there’d be no way to prove it. He might be able to contest a retaliatory firing based on false criminal charges, but he couldn’t combat an impersonal budgetary layoff.
He’d half-expected a guard to come by, call out his name and announce that he was free to go, but obviously Beth was unable to find a lawyer at such a late hour and unable to convince the cops that this was all some hideous mistake. He had tried to talk some sense into the policemen at every turn, but the two who picked him up considered him a criminal and ignored him, the one who took his prints and his mug shots didn’t care one way or the other, and the guard who led him to the holding cell probably heard exactly the same thing from every inmate he escorted.
It was the lack of communication with Beth that was the hardest. For all he knew, she had been murdered in a drive-by while talking to a bail bondsman, or killed in a car crash while racing home, or dragged off the sidewalk while walking to her car and raped in some alley. He knew his mind tended toward extreme scenarios, but the situation in which he found himself was extreme, and what he had learned from it was that absolutely anything was possible.
All the more frustrating was the fact that he was not even sure of the specific crime he was supposed to have committed. He knew he was being charged with child molestation, that he had supposedly had sex with a little girl, but as for who and where and when he had no clue. The police wouldn’t elaborate. He would have to wait for his lawyer who, hopefully, would show up in the morning.
Hunt made it through the night unharmed. Everyone ignored him and left him alone, and as he looked around at his fellow inmates, he wondered if criminals were able to spot one of their own, if they possessed some sort of sixth sense that allowed them to realize when an innocent man was in their midst.
Who was he kidding? They hadn’t beaten the shit out of him only because they didn’t know what he was in for. It was as simple as that.
The lawyer did come in the morning. Midmorning, sometime after ten o’clock. His name was Raymond Jennings, and he looked like a less pompous F. Lee Bailey. Hunt didn’t know how Beth had found him or chosen him, whether she’d asked around and gotten recommendations or simply called the first number in the Yellow Pages, but Jennings seemed like a good guy, seemed competent and trustworthy, and he chose to believe that the lawyer was one of the best Tucson had to offer and would have an easy time getting him out from under this mess.
Hunt’s exposure to the criminal justice system had been entirely through television and the movies, and he’d been expecting to meet with his lawyer either in a large cafeterialike setting where numerous prisoners chatted with their loved ones and legal representatives at long tables, or in a closed cubicle, talking on a phone while looking through safety glass. The reality, though, was that they met in a room not unlike an ordinary conference room, with a heavy table and four chairs in the center, and a TV and VCR in front of a wall-long blackboard. Jennings was already seated at the head of the table when a guard led Hunt into the room and unfastened his handcuffs, an array of papers laid out before him. He stood when Hunt entered, hand extended. “My name’s Raymond Jennings. I’m your lawyer.”
“Thank God.” Hunt shook the offered hand, then sat heavily in a chair across from the attorney. “What in the hell am I being charged with?” he asked. “They wouldn’t tell me any of the details. And since I’m completely innocent, I can’t even figure out what I might have done that could possibly be misinterpreted as a crime. The only thing I can come up with is that they’ve got me mixed up with someone else and they arrested the wrong man by mistake.”
Jennings picked up a police report from the pile of forms and documents spread over the table. “The alleged victim is a nine-year-old girl named Kate Gifford—”
Kate?
Lilly’s friend?
Hunt felt as though he’d been sucker-punched in the stomach. “Jesus,” he breathed. He slumped forw
ard, let his arms fall to the table. He had not seen this one coming. It had not even been one of the increasingly remote possibilities he’d considered toward the end of last night’s long, long stay in the holding cell.
“Her parents allege that there has been a pattern of inappropriate contact with the child over an extended but unspecified period of time, and that on yesterday morning, you orally copulated with the girl in Webster Park on a blanket behind a bush.”
Her parents.
He had met Greg and Lana Gifford at Joel’s New Year’s Eve party. They both worked for Automated Interface, and not only were they nice people, but he and they had similar career backgrounds. He’d worked in computer operations and the two of them worked in programming, but there was a lot of common ground, and he found it invigorating after being away for so long to talk to people who were technologically literate. He liked the Giffords, and he’d hoped to see them again.
Her parents allege.
That meant Greg and Lana had filed the criminal complaint. He wanted to call Greg right now, talk man-to-man and sort out whatever misunderstanding had led to this totally wrong and outrageous conclusion. He would never do something so heinous, had never in his most perverse fantasies even considered such a horrendous thing, and he had the feeling that if he could talk to Greg, even talk to Lana, he’d be able to make them see that. They’d been lied to. This was a joke gone horribly wrong or a full-fledged plot by some unknown enemy to ruin his life. He’d been framed somehow, and he needed to prove that none of it had happened.
“It’s a lie,” he said angrily. “It’s all a lie. I was at Webster Park yesterday morning—they got that part right—but I was working. I was trimming trees and I have two witnesses who can prove that this never happened. All three of us worked together, and we were never out of each other’s sight. We left by noon. Whoever says otherwise is lying. Besides, that park’s fifteen miles away from where Kate lives. How would she get there?”
THE POLICY Page 18
