Troubled Waters (5 page)

“Shut up,” the blond cop says, giving Rap a shove.

Rap gives Cass a sidelong glance. “What exactly are we charged with?” he asks in a taunting tone. “Possession of Tabasco in the first degree?”

It is Tarky who finally silences Rap. “I'd advise you to stop talking,” he says. “Wait till Harve gets here.”

The blond cop wrinkles his brow. “You mean Harve Sobel?”

The partner speaks up now. “Wasn't he the lawyer on that Black Panther case? Geez, and now he's representing this bunch.” He shakes his head. “Hell of a thing,” he says. “Fucking Panther just walked up to the patrol car and blew a cop away,” he went on. “How could anybody represent a piece of shit like that?”

“You're speaking of my future father-in-law,” Rap says in mock indignation.

They reach the parking lot. One of the cops walks toward the station wagon and opens the door. Wes says, “Don't you think you ought to get a search warrant?”

To Cass's astonishment, the cop stops in his tracks.

“What are we going to do with this stuff?” the blond cop asks. “I don't like the idea of riding around with deadly poison in the back seat, if you get my drift.”

“I keep telling you, it's not—” Rap begins.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Tarky cuts in. In the distance, the merry-go-round stops, then starts up with a spirited rendition of “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

“We got an expert on the way,” the balding cop tells his partner. “Some guy from the Department of Agriculture.”

A big black car rolls up, bouncing through the ruts in the dirt parking lot. The door opens and a man in a plaid sport shirt steps out. He walks toward the canister and nods at the cops. They nod back. He pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, the thick, heavy kind used in industry. He reaches up and turns the top of the canister, opening it. He takes a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and holds it against the opening.

Standing in the dusty parking lot, the music of childhood ringing in her ears, the smell of manure in her nose, Cass feels a bubble of laughter welling up in her throat. This solemn little man with his polyester shirt and his handkerchief is about to make a scientific declaration that the canister contains … hot sauce!

But before the bubble explodes in a giggle, the little man takes the handkerchief away and brings it, slowly, toward his face. He stops when the cloth is about eighteen inches from his nose. He sniffs the air, then says, “I don't dare bring it any closer, boys.” He lowers the handkerchief.

“And get that plastic bag over here quick. I don't want to end up dead. It's parathion all right.”

All eyes turn toward Kenny.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

August 26, 1969

Jail is a metal world of hard edges and clanging noises. Cass lies on the thin mattress, sweating in spite of her gauzy Indian dress, coasting in and out of sleep. Her dreams are nightmare visions involving cops and judges and a long, long prison sentence. What would she tell Mom and Dad? What was happening to Ron? How had the pigs known their plans?

And, above all else, how the hell had real parathion been in that container?

“… still think it was Kenny's fault.” The voice is Dana's and so is the cigarette smoke that brings Cass to full consciousness. In the distance, Elvis checks into the Heartbreak Hotel.

“I don't believe that,” Jan counters, her soft voice stubborn. “Kenny wouldn't tell the cops anything. And he
did
empty the canister and fill it with pepper oil. I was there, remember?”

“Then how do you explain the fact that we're in this place?” Dana replies. Her cigarette smoke rises to the ceiling like a campfire in the forest. “And how do you explain that creepy guy who said the canister was full of parathion?”

Cass rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits up on her cot. “How long have we been here?” She looks at her bare legs and pulls her skirt down. Her Keds are under the hard bunk. She slides her feet toward the floor and slips them on.

Neither of the others even bothers to look at her. It is yet another reminder that whenever Kenny's not around, she's the kid, the one nobody pays attention to. The little sister, tolerated because she came with Ron.

Jan runs nervous fingers through her stringy hair. “Dana, will you please stop? Kenny didn't do this. The pigs just knew, that's all.”

“Someone had to tell them,” Dana insists. “Someone had to put a real parathion canister into the station wagon. Kenny's father's station wagon,” she repeats with sinister emphasis.

“We're in deep shit,” she goes on. “I mean, I've got faith in Harve to get us out of here, but if they can prove that stuff was really poison, they've got us for attempted assault at least.”

“But we never even got to the bandstand,” Cass protests. “We didn't really do anything.”

“We printed up a thousand flyers telling everyone at the fair what we were going to do,” Jan points out. She twirls a strand of hair in her fingers and looks at the concrete block wall with weary eyes.

A tide of cold, wet fear hits Cass like a sudden virus. Ron! He can't afford this. He can't afford the slightest hint of a criminal conviction. Not with his conscientious objector petition pending before his draft board back in Cleveland. And now that there are no graduate student deferments, the only way Ron can escape the draft is by obtaining CO status or fiddling his medical records—something he swears he won't do, since it means some poor kid will have to fight in his place.

It's not easy to get conscientious objector status, especially if you come from a standard white-gloves Presbyterian family. And once the draft board finds out Ron's been busted for attempted assault, any claim that he has moral objections to violence will fall on deaf ears.

Sweat beads her forehead; she reaches a shaking hand to her mouth. Ron could lose his petition, he could be denied CO status and get drafted—and all because of her. If she hadn't insisted they come to the fair …

Cass raises cold eyes to Jan and says, “If Kenny ratted us out, I'll fucking kill the little bastard.”

Harve springs them by late morning. First the chicks, then Kenny, who's by himself in juvenile detention, and finally the guys. They have a court appearance in three days.

Back at the White House, Cass and Ron discover that they no longer have jobs. Cris Correra at Amigos Unidos can't afford to risk his federal funding by employing potential felons. Wes, Tarky, Jan, Dana, and Rap have also been cut loose. The summer migrant program is at an abrupt end.

Only Ted remains employed. Only Ted escaped arrest. He stood at the main tent, notebook in hand, waiting for the event to unfold. When nothing happened, he covered the fair the way the
Blade
expected him to, writing a nice human interest story about a boy with one hand raising a prize calf for the 4-H contest.

Rap explodes at the news. “Fucking shit. That Tio Taco we work for has all the balls of—”

“Don't blame Cris,” Dana says with a weary sigh. “He has to dance to the government's tune if he wants his funding.”

Rap's vulpine face breaks into an evil grin. “I've gotta blame somebody, babe,” he points out. “Who do you suggest as a replacement for our fearful leader?”

“How about Kenny?” Cass says, her tone edged with venom. “He's the one who fucked this up. Either he didn't switch the canisters or he did all this on purpose.”

“Why would he do that?” Jan challenges. “Give me one reason why Kenny would get all of us arrested. Including himself, I might point out.” She's usually the quiet one, but her anger can explode messily, like a can of garbage thrown from a passing car.

“He's a juvie,” Tark the Shark reminds her. “Whatever happens to the rest of us, Kenny will get out of this without a record. Think about that when you can't get a job because you've got a bust on your sheet.”

“We'll talk about it later,” Wes Tannock pronounces. He stands on the staircase, halfway up to the room he shares with Tarky. “I suggest we all get some sleep and meet on the porch at six o'clock. Jan, call Kenny and tell him to be here, okay? And Cass,” he adds, “why don't you make sure Ted's here, too?”

Cass nods. She's tired and hot and very, very worried about her brother. Ron says nothing, to her or anyone else. “Should we call the parents?” she asks him. He shakes his head. “What about your draft counselor?” Another head-shake. At last she says in a small, scared voice, “I'm really sorry, Ron.” At this, he strides out the door, slamming the screen behind him. She hears the Chevy start up in the driveway; the sound of spewing gravel follows. From the house, the Beatles remind her that all she needs is love.

She calls Ted. “What the hell happened?” he asks, then cuts her off when she tries to answer.

“I know you all got arrested,” he explains. “I found out when I got back to the
Blade
. But why? How did the cops know what was—”

“I don't know.” Cass finds herself, to her utter humiliation, breaking into gusty sobs. “All I know is, Ron's going to lose his CO status, and everybody here thinks Kenny fucked up. We're meeting at six. Can you come?”

Ted agrees; he tries to say something comforting, but before the words leave his lips, Cass returns the phone to its cradle.

Six o'clock on a hot, humid August day in Ohio means gathering clouds, the promise of hard rain that will cleanse but not dry things out. There are rumbles of thunder and thick, humid winds and big fat drops that plop on the porch roof as the students gather to discuss the arrests. They sit in their accustomed places, even though those perched on the ledge are beginning to get wet.

Rap begins the assault. “Why'd you do it, Kenny?” he calls from his place on the porch glider. “Why'd you sell us out?”

Kenny's face is white. “I didn't. Why would I do a thing like that?” Sitting on the floor, knobby knees crossed, he looks even younger than his years. “I emptied the canister and cleaned it out and put in the capsicum oil, like I told you.”

He swallows; his mouth is dry, the words sticking like peanut butter. “I put the canister in my dad's car. Jan drove me home. We left the car in the garage. When I went to bed, I swear, that canister had pepper oil in it.” He crosses his heart with his nail-bitten hands, just like the kid he really is.

Cross my heart and hope to die
.

Cass hopes he does die. She stares through the kid, her own eyes blazing righteous rage. She knows he screwed them up. She knows he sold them out, tipped off the cops that they were planning this demo. She knows it because she has to blame someone, has to hate someone besides herself for what she fears will happen to her brother.

“So you're telling us that somebody must have come by your house and switched canisters while you were asleep. Is that your testimony?” The cross-examiner is Tarky, whose tone of voice does nothing to conceal his disbelief.

“I guess,” Kenny replies. Then he lifts his chin and stares directly at Ted. “But at least I was there. I got arrested with everybody else.”

“Sorry, kid,” Rap cuts in. “Not a strong defense. Getting busted along with the targets is part of the cover. The cops round us all up, but you're the one who gets a break when we get to court.”

“What about the FBI guy at the museum?” Kenny turns his attention to Wes, who has always been his hero. “I saw him. I followed him inside. He met somebody in the Swiss room.”

Wes asks the obvious question. “Who did he meet?”

“Assuming there really was an FBI agent,” Rap murmurs.

“There was,” Kenny repeats, sounding like a stubborn kid even in his own ears, “but I didn't see who he met. The guards chased me away. And I didn't recognize the voice.”

Dana takes up where Rap left off. “Of course not,” she says. “You didn't recognize the voice because there was nobody there. There was no FBI agent. Because if there had been, you'd have told us. You wouldn't have kept it to yourself and let us go ahead—unless you wanted us to get busted.”

“I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't believe me,” Kenny replies. His voice catches; tears are not far off.

The rain begins in earnest. A bright crack of lightning splits the sky across the street. Thunder follows a minute later.

“Well, you were right about that, kid,” Rap says. “I don't believe you, and I don't think anyone else here does either.”

“I do,” Jan says into the heavy silence that follows. “I believe you, Kenny.”

No one else agrees. One by one, heads are shaken, the equivalent of a Roman emperor's thumbs-down.

Kenny knows where Rap and Dana stand; their contemptuous refusal to believe him doesn't change the expression on his face. But when first Tarky, then Ted, then Cass, and finally Ron reluctantly join the consensus, his lower lip begins to tremble.

The last member of the group to be polled, Wes Tannock, looks down at the kid from his place on the swing and slowly, his features grave, shakes his head too.

Kenny can no longer contain his sobs. He jumps up and runs from the porch, slipping on the rain-soaked stairs, careening across the lawn as he makes for the station wagon.

Jan reaches for the porch swing and lifts herself up. “He can't drive by himself,” she says and races after her cousin. Her bare feet slap the sidewalk and her hair flies behind her. She is a warrior goddess, a hippie Valkyrie.

The Stones rejoice in the fact that Mick's girlfriend is, at long last, under his thumb.

Kenny knows it all now. Has it written down, too. Times, dates, places, everything. In the steno book, just the way Ted showed him. Kenny doesn't think he wants to be a reporter like Ted, but his scientific mind approves of keeping records, of having documentary evidence.