rooms, marked simply 1, 2 and 3. He took us to the right, knocked on the reinforced-metal door.
A small slat opened at about eye level, then the door opened. Inside were two cops, one in uniform and one plainclothes. And sitting in a metal folding chair, his wrists handcuffed to the table, was my father.
His eyes were red. I could tell he'd been crying. He was still wearing the same clothes, but they were soaked through with sweat. He was shaking, as though his body was simply unable to process what was happening.
When he saw us, his mouth opened and his face lit up.
'Henry!' he exclaimed.
'His son,' Whalin told the cops. 'And Parker's lawyer.' Whalin nodded at Amanda. She went to say something, but I nudged her. She got the tip. This was the only way we'd get to speak with him.
'You have half an hour,' Whalin said as the other cops exited the room.
'We'll take as much time as we damn well please,'
Amanda said, staring right into the captain's eyes. He frowned, told the cops to take a hike.
'We have to lock the door from the outside. Proce dure. If you want to leave, just knock.'
Amanda pointed at the camera hung up in the upper corner of the interrogation room. A small red light was blinking on it.
'I want that turned off,' she said. Whalin looked at it, then nodded, making a slicing motion across his throat, telling the cops to kill the feed. They walked away, and a moment later the light went off.
'Thank you, Captain,' Amanda said. 'We'll be in touch soon.'
We went in and closed the door. A metal snick came from outside. The cops locking us in with the alleged murderer.
We took two chairs and pulled them up to the table.
My father reached out to us, but the handcuffs held his wrists firm. He looked dejected, then said, 'Henry, thank God you're here. Did they tell you? They think I killed Stephen.'
'I know, Dad. The question is why do they think that?' My father leaned down, started to bite his nails, his head comically close to the table. 'Dad?'
James shrugged, but there was nothing behind it.
'Listen, Mr. Parker,' Amanda said. 'Your best option right now is to sign the nonjudicial review waiver. Once you do that they'll bring you back to New York and begin actual legal proceedings. I'll help you get a lawyer, or at least weed out the bad ones.'
'I don't want to leave here,' my father said softly.
'Dad, jail isn't exactly comfortable,' I said.
'I mean, I don't want to leave Bend,' he said more forcefully. 'I didn't do anything. I didn't kill Stephen.
They can't just take me wherever they want.'
I looked atAmanda. She said, 'Mr. Parker, if you don't sign the waiver you'll stay in Bend, but you'll be in prison until they prove your identity. It could be weeks, months.
And that's before any sort of trial. And trust me, you won't be doing yourself any favors with the judge assigned to the case. They will take you if you make them.'
'This can't be right,' James said. ' Goddamn it I shouldn't be here! Henry, you know me, you know this isn't right.'
I knew him, but I didn't. I'd seen the depths of his anger, his rage. It was up to me to believe he wasn't capable of reaching another level.
'Dad…' I began. 'Why do they suspect you?'
Without hesitating, James said, 'They told me there's evidence linking me to the crime. They said they found it in Stephen's apartment.'
'In New York?' I said. 'How is that possible?'
He looked down at the floor, his whole body seeming to sag into nothing. 'They said they found my finger prints on the gun that killed him.'
'Wait, step back,' I said. It took me a moment to regroup, to process what my father had just said. 'How could they possibly have found your fingerprints on the gun that killed Stephen?'
'I don't know,' my father said. He said it unconvinc ingly. There was more to this. Amanda looked at him with incredible frustration. She had a great legal mind, but I could already tell that she was thinking about
James Parker's chances during a murder trial. Even if he was innocent-which he had to be-this man would never do himself any favors with his lawyer or a judge.
He was already refusing easy extradition, and he was lying-or at least hiding the truth-from the only people here who gave a damn.
Sadly, I knew what it felt like to be accused of a terrible crime you didn't commit. I knew just how lonely it could be, and how much a friendly hand meant. Amanda had been that for me. If not for her,
I'd either be dead or in prison. She'd reached out, offered a hand, and I'd smartly accepted. My father, meanwhile, was dangling from the edge of a cliff, slapping our hands away in the misguided belief that he couldn't fall.
'Mr. Parker,' Amanda said. 'You need to tell us what happened. All of it. You know why they arrested you.
Even if you're innocent, you don't seem surprised.
Shocked, maybe, but not surprised. I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about the circumstances that led to this. How events could have been misconstrued. We need to know this so we can understand what hap pened.'
My father looked at Amanda, confused. She'd il luminated a path for him and his reluctance to see it was waning.
'I was in New York,' James finally said, the words coming out in a rush like air that had been compressed.
'The day Stephen died. I was there.'
'You were in the city?' I asked, incredulous.
'Why?'
James looked at me, then Amanda. He stayed quiet.
I got the picture. He wanted to talk to her. She was im partial. A lawyer. I was his son. And I would judge.
'Mr. Parker,' she said. 'Why were you in New
York?'
'I saw him,' James said. His eyes had grown wide, for the first time fully beginning to piece together the circumstances. There was terror in those eyes. They ripped a hole through me because right then I knew he understood why he'd been accused of the crime. 'Helen called me.'
'Helen Gaines?' Amanda said. 'Stephen's mother?'
James nodded. 'I hadn't spoken to her in, God, almost thirty years. After she had Stephen, I wanted nothing to do with either of them. I had a family. A wife.
I told her that,' he said, slamming his fist on the table.
'From the beginning, I told her this won't go anywhere.
It wasn't my fault the crazy bitch lied about being on the pill.'
'How did she get your number?' Amanda said.
'It's called the phone book,' James said drily. 'Last
I checked I'm not the president.'
'Why did she call you after so long?'
James leaned over again, chewed his thumbnail. He ripped off a ragged piece of white, spat it across the room. I saw a small line of blood well up from where he'd ripped.
'She said she was in trouble. That she needed money.
That Stephen was in trouble.'
'Did she say what kind of trouble?'
