"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 benches squeaked as we obeyed. "Counselor, I'm under the impression that Mr. Parker has agreed to sign the nonjudicial waiver. Is that correct?"
The lawyer next to my father stood up, hands at his sides. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Do you have that document present?"
The bailiff, a hulking bald man, approached the table and took the paper from Aaronson. He brought it up to
Judge Rawling, who put on a pair of reading glasses and pored over the sheet. Once finished, she looked up.
"I now remand James Parker to the custody of the New
York Police Department, who have a warrant out for Mr.
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.