Parker's arrest on the charge of murder in the first degree.'
I shuddered as I heard those words. Though my father and I had this terrible thing in common, I'd thank fully never heard those words uttered. They seemed to affect him too, as he turned to the lawyer, eyes open, as though expecting the man to suddenly yell surprise and remove the handcuffs.
Rawling continued.
'Mr. Aaronson, am I also correct in the information that two deputies from the NYPD have arrived to take
Mr. Parker into custody pending a grand jury hearing?'
'That is correct, Your Honor.' So far Aaronson was doing a bang-up job.
'Bailiff,' Rawling said, 'please show them in.'
The bailiff walked to the double doors at the front of the courtroom. He pulled them open, and nodded at whoever was waiting outside to follow him. When the bailiff reentered, there were two men trailing him. One was a young officer, couldn't have been more than twenty-four or -five, but with muscles that stretched out his blue uniform. And right behind him, wearing a standard suit, to my surprise, was Detective Sevi Mak houlian.
'Your Honor,' the bailiff said. 'Officer Clark and
Detective Makhoulian of the NYPD.'
'Thank you, Bailiff. I hereby grant transfer of this prisoner into custody of the NYPD for extradition to
New York City.' She looked at the two cops as she spoke. 'From this point forward James Parker is under your responsibility and jurisdiction, in accordance with
New York State. Gentlemen, thank you for your prompt ness in coming out here. Mr. Parker,' she said, 'you are remanded into the custody of these officers.'
The bailiff approached. The three men took my father by his cuffs and led him outside. As soon as they did, Amanda and I got up and followed.
'Detective!' I shouted. Makhoulian turned around.
He looked slightly surprised to see me.
'Henry,' he said.
'My father's innocent,' I blurted. I had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that. Maybe part of me was hoping he'd simply nod, smack his head and say,
'Whoops, you're right!'
Needless to say, that did not happen.
'Henry, we can talk more in New York. For now, it's my job to get your father back to New York safely. All you can do is make sure that happens.'
'How can I do that?' I asked.
'Stay away. Go home. There's nothing more you can do right now.'
Then Makhoulian and Officer Clark took my father by his manacles and led him away.
'There's a computer in the courthouse library,'
Amanda said. 'Let's change our flight home and get the next plane out of here. He's right. There's nothing more we can do here.'
After a brief goodbye to my mother, we managed to book a red-eye from Portland to JFK. I would have thought that after everything we'd been through, the confrontation with my father, the arrest, the hearing, that I would have slept like a baby. And while Amanda's head rested comfortably on my shoulder while she slept, I was awake the whole flight, my eyes open, staring at nothing. Wondering how this had happened.
When the crew turned off the cabin lights to allow other passengers to sleep, I stayed up in the dark.
Nausea had taken the place of normal functions, and a cold sweat had been running down my back for hours.
I couldn't understand it, not a word. That I had a brother to begin with, even one related only half by blood, was shock enough. That my father-that his father-was now accused of murdering him, that was enough to make my world stop.
And as I sat there, one image refused to leave my mind's eye: that of my father, clothed in dirty pants and a rumpled shirt, being led away from the court room in handcuffs. I'd grown up used to a sense of rage in the man's eye, a frustration and impotence that perhaps the world had left him in the dust. His voice and mannerisms were that of an animal who bore its claws at anyone who came close, and even when he seemed calm, the wrong look could turn him into a dif ferent man.
Yet thinking about him, head bowed, hands behind his back, he looked less like a beast than a small dog being led somewhere he didn't understand for reasons he couldn't comprehend. He looked defeated. Lost.
And I wondered if, somehow, my father didn't think that in some way he deserved it.
I thought about Amanda's line of questioning, and my father's answers. According to him, Helen Gaines had called him for money to help Stephen battle his ad diction. My father said the money was for rehab, to help him kick the drugs. This was possible, I supposed, re membering the state Stephen was in when I saw him on the street. He looked like a man whose rope had been pulled as taut as possible, one more tug causing it to snap.
But my father had admitted to holding the gun, aiming it in such a way that his fingerprints would be found on the trigger and butt. For a jury to believe he did all of that-and that Stephen Gaines had coinciden tally been murdered by a different man using the same gun on that same day-was pushing the limits of rea sonable doubt. If I wasn't his son, if I hadn't lived with the man for eighteen years, if I hadn't been able to look into those eyes, I would doubt his innocence myself.
And deep down, a small part of me did doubt it.
When we landed, I had a message waiting for me from Wallace Langston. I hadn't spoken to Wallace since we left for Bend, and no doubt my father's arrest would be reported in local papers. The Gazette would have to cover it, as would the Dispatch, our biggest rival. I only hoped that Paulina Cole wouldn't get a hold of it.
Paulina Cole had actually been my coworker at the
Gazette, but soon left for the more lucrative pastures of the Dispatch. There she became the paper's chief print antagonist, penning articles that were as loved as they were reviled, and always stirred up controversy. She'd slimed me in print numerous times, and had made it clear that her mission was to bring our paper down. Last year she'd penned an expose on my mentor, Jack
O'Donell, exposing his rampant alcoholism, shaming the man to the point where he'd left the paper and dis appeared. I heard several rumors testifying to his where abouts. They usually ran the spectrum of 'he's in rehab in Colorado' to 'he threw himself off the Verrazano
Bridge.'
I missed Jack deeply, the newsroom felt as if it were missing its most important gear with him gone. Yet I knew the man needed time to heal. I only hoped he would, and that the Jack O'Donnell who'd single handedly brought the Gazette to journalistic promi nence would return to his old, worn desk.
In my heart, I knew what I had to do. The cops had my father. They had physical evidence he was not only at the scene of the crime, but had actually handled the murder weapon. They had proof of his travel; no doubt airline bookings and credit-card receipts would show his travel plans.
And the most damaging piece of all, they had a motive.
Odds were my father would be made to stand trial by the grand jury, and he certainly wouldn't be able to afford a lawyer worth a damn. His freedom-maybe his life-would be in the hands of whatever public defender happened to have a clear docket. I'd like to say my contacts in the press might get my father someone with a little more experience, a little more court savvy, someone who would maybe even take a pro bono case or two. Unfortunately that wasn't so. Law-enforcement officials-except for a scant few-weren't big fans of mine. They still harbored a grudge for one of their own who died, and right or not, they blamed me for his death.
James Parker didn't just face an uphill climb, he faced a sheer cliff slick with ice.
When we landed, I called Wallace Langston at the
Gazette and told him I'd be there within the hour.
Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 04
The Fury (2009)
Amanda and I stepped into the taxi line.
'What are you going to do?' Amanda asked. I pocketed the phone as a cab pulled up.
'Only thing I can do,' I said. 'I need to prove he's innocent. And then find at who killed Stephen
