Down River (22 page)

Parks stood out in his immaculate suit, but no one was impressed, least of all the sergeant who sat behind the scuffed bulletproof glass. Parks drew himself up and played the lawyer card and asked to see Dolf Shepherd.

“No.” The response was unequivocal, offered with the tired indifference of long practice.

“I beg your pardon?” The lawyer appeared truly offended.

“He’s in interrogation. Nobody sees him.”

“But I am his lawyer,” Parks said.

The sergeant pointed to the long row of molded chairs. “Help yourself to a seat. It’ll be a while.”

“I demand to see my client now.”

The sergeant leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Age had put its mark on the man: deep frown lines and a belly like a suitcase. “Raise your voice to me one more time and I will personally put you out of this building,” he said. “Until I hear otherwise, no one sees him. That’s the word from the sheriff himself. Now, sit down or leave.”

The lawyer settled back onto his heels, but the hard edge did not leave his mouth. “This is not over,” he said.

“Yes, it is.” The officer rose from his chair, walked to the back of the room, and poured a cup of coffee. He leaned on a counter and stared at us through the bulletproof glass. My father put a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder.

“Sit down, Parks.”

The lawyer stalked to a far corner and my father tapped on the glass. The sergeant put down his coffee and came over. He was more respectful to my father. “Yes, Mr. Chase?”

“May I speak with the sheriff?”

The man’s features relaxed. In spite of everything that had happened in recent years, my father was still a force in this county and respected by many. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” he said. “No promises.”

“All I’m asking for.”

My father moved away and the sergeant lifted a phone off its cradle. His lips moved minutely, and he hung up. He looked at my father. “He knows you’re here,” he said.

We gathered in the corner. Parks spoke in a low whisper. “This is intolerable, Jacob. They cannot keep an attorney from his client. Even your sheriff should know that.”

“Something’s off,” I said.

“Meaning what?”

I read the frustration in the lawyer’s eyes. My father was paying him three bills an hour and he could not get past the front desk.

“We’re missing something,” I said.

Parks paled. “That’s not much help, Adam.”

“Nevertheless…”

“What are we missing?” my father asked.

I faced him, saw that he was close to the edge. Dolf may as well have been his brother.

“I don’t know. Dolf knows that Parks is here. And Parks is right. Even this sheriff knows better than to interrogate a suspect with his attorney cooling his heels in the lobby.” I looked at the lawyer. “What’s our recourse here? What can we do?”

Parks settled down, looked at his watch. “It’s after-hours, so we can’t go to the courts for relief. Not that they could do anything. The warrant looked solid. Other than barring my entry, the sheriff is acting within his authority.”

“What can you tell us about the warrant?” I asked.

“Short version? Dolf’s .38 fired the shot that killed Danny Faith. They seized the gun when they searched the house. Ballistics confirmed it as the murder weapon. According to the warrant, it has Dolf’s prints on it.”

“Dolf’s prints?” I asked.

Not mine?

“Dolf’s prints,” the lawyer confirmed. And then it hit me. Dolf was a meticulous man. He would have cleaned the gun before putting it back in the cabinet. He’d wiped off my prints and left his.

“They can’t make a case with just the murder weapon,” I said. “For trial, they’ll need more. Motive. Opportunity.”

“Opportunity won’t be a problem,” Parks said. “Danny worked part time for your father. Fourteen hundred acres. Dolf could have killed him anytime. Motive is another matter. The warrant is not specific in that regard.”

“So what?” my father asked. “We just sit here?”

“I’ll make some calls,” Parks said.

My father looked to me. “We wait,” I said. “We talk to the sheriff.”

We sat for hours. Parks rousted one of his assistants at home and instructed him to begin drafting a motion to suppress evidence based on the denial of right to counsel. That was all he could do, which was basically as good as doing nothing. At nine fifteen the sheriff walked through the security door. An armed deputy flanked him. He held up his hand and spoke before Parks could launch into a tirade.

“I’m not here to debate or discuss anything,” he said. “I’m well aware of your complaint.”

“Then you know that it is a constitutional violation to interrogate my client out of my presence.”

Color rose in the sheriff’s face. He stared the lawyer down. “I have nothing further to say to you,” he said, and paused a beat. “You are irrelevant.” He spoke to my father. “Before you get all riled, Jacob, you may as well hear what I have to say. Dolf Shepherd has been charged with the murder of Danny Faith. He has been advised of his right to counsel and has refused that right.” He looked at Parks and smiled. “You are not his attorney, Mr. Templeton. Therefore, there has been no constitutional violation. You will not be going further than this lobby.”

My father’s words exploded in a rush. “He doesn’t want a lawyer?”

A smile spread above the uniform. “Unlike some, Mr. Shepherd seems unwilling to hide behind lawyers and their tricks.” His eyes swiveled onto me.

My stomach churned. A familiar feeling.

“What are you saying?” Parks demanded. “That he’s confessed?”

“I’m not speaking to you,” the sheriff replied. “I thought I’d made that clear.”

“What
are
you saying?” my father asked.

The sheriff held my father’s gaze then turned slowly to me, the smile sliding into obscurity. There was no reading his face. “He wants to see you,” he said.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Parks interrupted. “And you’ll allow that?”

The sheriff ignored him. “I can take you back whenever you’re ready.”

“Just a minute, Adam,” Parks said. “You’re right. This doesn’t make sense.”

The sheriff shrugged. “You want to see him or not?”

Parks gripped my arm and pulled. He spoke in a whisper. “Dolf’s been in custody for what, three or four hours? He’s refused counsel, yet asked for you. Unusual, to say the least. Most troubling, though, is the sheriff’s willingness to go along with that request.” He skipped a beat, and I saw that he was deeply concerned. “Something is definitely wrong.”

“But what?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t see it.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” I said. “I can’t refuse.”

“You should, though. Legally speaking, I don’t see what can be gained.”

“It’s not always about the law.”

“I advise against it,” Parks stated.

“Dad?” I asked.

“He wants to see you.” Hands shoved deep into pockets, the implication was clear in his face. Refusal was not an option.

I walked back to the sheriff, studied his face for some kind of hint. Nothing. Dead eyes and a flat slash of mouth. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The sheriff turned, and something flickered on the face of the deputy beside him. I looked back at my father. He raised a hand, and Parks leaned toward me. “Listen to what he has to say, Adam, but keep your mouth shut. You have no friends in there. Not even Dolf.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“A murder charge has been known to turn friends against each other. It happens all the time. The first to deal is the first to walk. Every D.A. in the country plays that game. And every sheriff knows it.”

My voice was unforgiving. “Dolf’s not like that.”

“I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Not this time.”

“Just watch yourself, Adam. You beat one of the biggest murder charges ever brought in this county. That’s been eating at the sheriff for five years. Politically, it hurt him, and I guarantee he’s lost sleep over it. He still wants a piece of you. That’s human nature. So, remember: without me in the room there’s no attorney-client privilege attached to your conversation. Assume that you’re being overheard, even recorded, no matter what they say to the contrary.”

It was a needless warning. I’d been through the door before, and I had no illusions. Two-way mirrors, microphones, hard questions. I remembered. The sheriff paused at the door. A buzzer sounded. A lock clicked open.

“Look familiar?” the sheriff asked.

I ignored the smirk, and stepped through the door. After five long years, I was back inside.

I’d spent a lot of time here, and I knew it like I knew my own home: the smells, the blind corners, the guards with quick tempers and ready clubs. It still smelled of vomit, antiseptic, and black mold.

I’d sworn I would never come back to Rowan County; but I had. And now I was here, in the pit. But it was for Dolf; and I was not in custody. A big difference.

We passed prisoners in jumpsuits and flip-flops. Some moved freely; others traveled the halls in cuffs and under guard. Most kept their eyes down, but some stared, a challenge; and I stared back. I knew how it worked, the rules of engagement. I’d learned how to spot the predators. They’d come at me on day one. I was rich, I was white, and I refused to look away. That was really all it took, and they decided early on to beat me down.

I had three fights in the first week. It took a broken hand and a concussion to earn my place in the pecking order. I wasn’t at the top, not even close, but judgment had been made.

Tough enough to be left alone.

So, yeah. I remembered.

   The sheriff led me to the largest interview room and stopped at the door. I saw a slice of Dolf through the small glass window, then the sheriff blocked the view. “Here’s how it works,” he said. “You go in alone and you get five minutes. I’ll be out here, and in spite of what your lawyer said, you’ll have your privacy.”

“That right?”

He leaned close and I saw the sweat on his face, the close-cropped gray hair and the sunburned scalp beneath it. “Yeah. That’s right. Hard thing to screw up. Even for you.”

I leaned left and peered through the glass. Dolf was bent, staring at the tabletop. “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

He twisted his lips and lowered fleshy eyelids. He turned and shoved a key into the broad lock, twisted it with a practiced motion. The door swung free. “Five minutes,” he said, and stepped aside. Dolf did not look up.

My skin crawled when I walked into the room, and it seemed to burn when the door clanged shut. They’d grilled me for three days, same room, and I saw it like it was yesterday.

I took the chair opposite Dolf, the cop side of the table. It grated when I dragged it over the concrete floor. He sat immobile, and although the jumpsuit hung on him, his wrists still looked massive, his hands thick and competent. The light was brighter in here because the cops wanted no secrets, but the color still seemed off, and Dolf’s skin looked as yellow as the linoleum floor outside. His head was bent, and I saw the hump of his nose, the white eyebrows. Cigarettes and a foil ashtray sat on the table.

I said his name, and he finally looked up. I don’t know why, but I expected to see something distant in him, a barrier between us; but that’s not how it was. There was warmth and depth in him; a wry smile that surprised me.

“Hell of a thing, huh?” His hands moved. He looked at the mirror and rotated his neck. His fingers found the smokes and shook one out. He lit it with a match, leaned back, gestured at the room with a hand. “Is this how it was for you?”

“Pretty much.”

He nodded, pointed at the mirror. “How many back there, do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

No smile this time. “Guess not. Is your dad out there?”

“Yes.”

“Is he upset?”

“Parks is upset. My father is distraught. You’re his best friend. He’s scared for you.” I paused, waited for some hint of why he’d asked to speak with me. “I don’t understand why I’m here, Dolf. You should be talking to Parks. He’s one of the best lawyers in the state and he’s right out there.”

Dolf made a vague motion with the cigarette, causing pale smoke to dance. “Lawyers,” he said vaguely.

“You need him.”

Dolf waved the thought away, leaned back. “It’s a funny thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Life.”

“Meaning what?”

He ignored me, ground out the cigarette in the cheap foil tray. He leaned forward, and his eyes were very bright. “Would you like to know the most profound thing I’ve ever seen?”

“Are you okay, Dolf?” I asked. “You seem… I don’t know… scattered.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “The most profound thing. Would you like to know?”

“Sure.”

“You saw it, too, although I don’t think you fully appreciated it at the time.”

“What?”

“The day your father went into the river after Grace.”

I don’t know what was on my face. Blankness. Surprise. It was not what I’d expected to hear. The old man nodded.

“Any man would have done the same,” I said.

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Other than that day, have you ever seen your father in the river or in a pool? In the ocean, maybe?”

“What are you talking about, Dolf?”

“Your father can’t swim, Adam. Guess you never knew that about him.”

I was shocked. “No. I never knew.”

“He’s scared of water, terrified; been that way since we were boys. But he went in without hesitation, headfirst into a debris-choked river so swollen it was all but over its banks. It’s miracle they didn’t both drown.” He paused, nodded again. “The most profound thing I have ever seen. Unequivocal. Selfless.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “Because you’re like your father, Adam; and because I need you to do something for me.”

“What?”

His eyes burned. “I need you to let it go.”

“Let what go?”

“Me. This. All of this.” New force moved into his words, a conviction. “Don’t try to save me. Don’t start digging. Don’t get your teeth into it.” He released my arm and I rocked back. “Just let it go.”