Read Parker 04 - The Fury Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
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
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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