“Mark insists that he’s never seen it. Honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t searched his apartment before now. I have a friend at the department who said Mains got an anonymous tip this morning, suggesting the police check out Mark’s home.” He took a long drag of cigarette. “Lana. Carmen. Sit down. I can’t think with you marching around me like a damned German battalion.”
Carmen perched on the arm of the sofa, but my mother continued pacing, but more slowly. Lew shrugged, apparently resigned. “Because Mark was arrested late, I can’t get a bail hearing until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Let me tell you, the district attorney is salivating over this whole thing. It’s the biggest case of his career, and he was not impressed with the little stunt you pulled in front of the Justice Center this afternoon.”
Mom frowned. “We have every right to—”
“Lana, I’m well aware of your constitutional rights, thank you. I’m afraid Mark will spend the night in jail.”
Carmen stood. “We can’t let that happen. Mark didn’t do anything wrong.” She resumed her march around the sofa.
“I understand your concern. But I’ve been to the jail many times. It’s small, cozy even. There are only a few cells. Stripling isn’t exactly Gotham City, nor is Stripling’s jail Grand Central. First thing tomorrow, I’ll post Mark’s bail. I’ll request it, but there’s no way the judge is going to release him on his own recognizance. However, the D.A. cannot refuse a bond settlement with Mark’s history in the community. I’ll warn you that the price for his release may be fairly steep.” Lew removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “Traditionally, the district requires ten percent of the bail be paid up front, or you could make arrangements through a bail bond company. This is a list of bondsmen in the county that I trust, in case you need help coming up with bail. Like I said, I expect it to be rather high.”
Neither of my parents reached for the paper. Lew finally placed it on the coffee table.
“We won’t be posting bond.” My father spoke.
“What?” Carmen squawked.
“We won’t be posting bond. Mark’s innocent, and I won’t be contributing my money or any of our money to a justice system that’s set to condemn him.”
Lew’s face fell, but he quickly regained control. “Alden, I understand and respect your principles, but, all lawyer-talk aside, that’s a plain stupid decision. The trial could be months away. The DA needs the time to build a case against your son, and, frankly, I need the time to build a worthwhile defense. Under those circumstances, the Stripling P.D. cannot keep Mark in their tiny holding cell. He’ll be moved to a county jail or even a prison for the time leading up to and during the trial.” Lew inched forward in his seat. “The men that he’ll meet in these places could be hardened, Alden. Hardened criminals. God knows what they’ll do to a sensitive kid like Mark.”
My father flinched. “This is not up for debate.”
There would be no prison time in my brother’s future. I spoke for the first time. “I’ll get the money you need, Lew.”
“India, that is neither your responsibility nor your decision,” my father said.
“It shouldn’t be,” I said with heat. “It should be yours, but you choked. You’d rather let Mark rot in prison for your ideals than consider his well-being.”
“We’ve all had a long day. We’ll discuss this in the morning,” Mom said in the tone she usually reserved for times when budget meetings with the church elders turned sour.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dad said.
“Damn right,” I agreed.
“India,” my mother warned.
Carmen looked at Lew. “How much time do we have before he’s moved to one of these other places?”
Lew thought for a minute. “That really depends on the prisoner transfer schedule, but I have some favors I can call in at the station. I can buy Mark a couple of days at the jail. He’ll be out of there Friday, though, at the latest.”
“Do that, Lew. We’ll discuss this again before Mark’s moved,” my mother decreed.
I stormed out of the house.
Chapter Thirty
I stopped at Mark’s apartment to pick up a few of his things, then headed into town. Police cruisers and a few automobiles speckled the Justice Center’s lot. I parked near the library. I grabbed my shoulder bag and the canvas sack I had brought from Mark’s apartment.
I jogged up the stone steps. The front room of the police department was deceptively small. A glass wall and doors behind the front desk closed the majority of the department off from the public. The room resembled a waiting area in a family doctor’s office. Two groupings of uncomfortable chairs book-ended the desk. The four side tables held collections of back issues of magazines. A ficus plant languished in the far corner beyond the reaches of natural light. The department was not the typical Stripling-chic to which most public buildings in the town aspired. It is one of the few town structures where function trumped form. The Stripling Historical Society bemoaned this fact.
The front desk was a four-foot-high counter bolted to the linoleum floor, similar to the reference desk at Ryan Memorial Library. Behind the desk sat Officer Knute, who didn’t appear pleased to see me.
“May I help you?” he asked, offering nothing of the kind.
“I’d like to speak with Detective Mains, please.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be speaking to the detective?”
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was just after nine. I hadn’t realized the time. Mains had probably gone home hours ago. But maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Officer Knute just didn’t like me.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is he here?”
Officer Knute grumbled that he was.
“Then may I speak to him?”
“Your name, please.”
“India Hayes. I’m Mark Hayes’s sis—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. He’d heard it before. Knute made an in-house call. “This is Knute at the front desk. . . . There’s a woman here to see you . . . about the Hayes case. . . . She claims that she’s his sister. India. . . . If you’re sure, sir. . . . Right-oh.” He hung up the phone. This time when he addressed me, he was much more polite. “Please take a seat, it could be a few minutes.”
I sat on one of the chairs on the desk’s right flank. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. I shifted on the hard plastic surface, so that it didn’t hit me directly on my tailbone.
I didn’t wait long.
Mains stepped through the glass doors. His tie and jacket were gone, his shirt collar open at the throat, and his brown hair stood on end as if he’d been pulling on it throughout the day. He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Hi.” I greeted him as if it was ten o’clock in the morning and we were old pals.
He stood waiting for me to continue.
I stood up and hefted my bag to my shoulder. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
Knute snorted from his station at the desk.
“I want to apologize for any problems my parents and Carmen caused today.”
He laughed. “I felt like I was back in high school. Your sister hasn’t changed a bit.”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied.
“I appreciate your apology, but I doubt that you came all the way down here just for that.”
“I, um, I—”
“Spit it out,” he said.
“Can I see Mark?”
For a half second, I thought Mains looked disappointed, but it must have been my imagination. Whatever his first reaction was, it was immediately superseded by doubt. “We don’t usually allow a suspect’s family member to visit our jail cells this late in the day.”
