Deputy DA Mike Freton looked much more approachable in his office than he did in court. In that venue he seemed to be a living Rushmore, formidable and unbreakable. Here he seemed human, even warm.
But he was also a prosecutor convinced that her husband was a murderer.
“I represent the people of California, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said. “You are one of the people, and if you have something to say to me about a case I’m involved with, my door is open. Even if it’s a case you’re very much involved with.”
His delivery was sincere and smooth. He would make a good run at the district attorney position if he ever chose to go for it. In fact, he looked like he’d be successful at pretty much anything he tried.
“Does Jeff Waite know you’re here?” he added.
“I don’t think I told him. This is rather spur-of-the-moment. And I don’t want to keep you.” It was late Friday afternoon, and she imagined Freton wanted to get home like everybody else.
“You’re not, Mrs. Hamilton. The office gets kind of quiet about now and I usually do some late work, especially when I’m in trial. Then I head over to a place on Temple for a bite before heading home.”
“Where is that?”
“Pasadena.”
“Nice.”
“I like it.”
He waited, punctuating an end to small talk. She said, “Mr. Freton, I know that you and Jeff have talked about Ron entering into a plea.”
“Yes.”
“Would that satisfy you?”
“I don’t think
satisfy
is the word I would use. I do think it would be a just resolution to the case.”
“Even though Ron didn’t kill that girl?”
“Mrs. Hamilton, I have to look at the evidence. That’s all I can do. In light of the evidence, I think a plea is the best thing for your husband.”
“But what’s your gut feeling, Mr. Freton? Do you honestly think Ron did this?”
“I don’t use gut feeling. That would be a bad habit to get into.”
But if you feel something’s wrong —
Dejection took over, sinking her words.
Mr. Freton seemed to sense it. “If you were to come to me with exculpatory evidence — sorry, that’s legalese — evidence that would tend to show innocence, I would be interested. But I know Jeff Waite and I know Harry Stegman, and if they don’t have it by this time, it probably doesn’t exist.”
“I believe there is someone, or maybe more than one, who set Ron up. Because of the pornography connection. Ron is an outspoken critic of it and has been working hard to get some new ordinances passed.”
The deputy DA nodded without conviction.
“You don’t think that’s possible?” she said.
“You know about the pornography we found in his computer.”
Stiffening, Dallas said, “I know what I read in the papers. I also know it shouldn’t have been in the papers.”
“You’re right. And I want to assure you that the leak did not come from this office.”
She regarded him carefully. Perhaps his smoothness hid the truth.
“Then what are you doing about it?” she said.
“Following standard protocol for getting to the bottom of it. Meantime, I have to deal with the facts as they exist. And right now, I don’t see a better resolution to this matter than your husband’s plea.”
“Even if that means the real killer is still out there?”
“We can’t look at it that way. No one who prosecutes cases can ever see everything. Neither can a jury. The standard is proof beyond a reasonable doubt, not every possible doubt. We just have to do our best and hope things work out.”
“What about the truth?”
“That’s what the process is all about, as imperfect as it is.”
“Forget the process. I’m sick of the process. All that’s happened to me in this process is bad. I’ve been threatened and found people who know what’s going on but aren’t good witnesses and — ”
“Whoa, what are you talking about?”
Should she even go there? What would Jeff think if she started telling Freton all this? Maybe it would hurt Ron.
“I’m just saying that you seem to want to convict on shaky ground, when there’s people out there — ”
“You keep mentioning other people, witnesses. Why hasn’t Jeff produced them?”
Dallas looked down.
Quiet, motormouth.
Mr. Freton said, “I understand completely a wife’s desire to see that everything possible is done on her husband’s behalf.”
“Then find out who leaked the pornography story. Whoever did it might know more.”
He paused. “That might not even be relevant to the crime.”
“But it might.”
“It’s a very thin string, Mrs. Hamilton.”
She stood up. “Very thin is all I have right now. So find that string, and pull it for all it’s worth.”
Dallas pressed the phone to her ear, as if that action could take her to her son through some sci-fi transference. “Is he all right?”
“He’s in jail.”
“What?”
“They found him up in Bakersfield, pulled him over for some rinky-dink traffic thing. They ran a check on him and found out there’s a bench warrant for him for missing his court date. So they brought him here to the downtown jail.”
“Where Ron is?”
“Sort of a weird coincidence, isn’t it?”
Was it? Why would God have the two men in her life in the same jail at the same time? There had to be a reason, there had to be meaning, and she prayed that it would reveal itself.
“He’ll appear before a judge on Monday morning,” Jeff said. “I’ll go with him.”
Dallas looked at the clock in Cara’s kitchenette. Six thirty. Past visiting hours.
“At least we know where he is,” Dallas said. “Jeff, will he be safe in there?”
“It’s only ’til Monday morning. Then we can bail him out.”
The eating area was segregated too, and staggered by time. Now it was the white inmates’ turn. Jared parked himself at a metal table on a metal stool at the far end of the mess hall.
The meal tonight was some sort of macaroni and cheese. Jared wasn’t sure it was even macaroni. The “cheese” was most likely made from some secret industrial powder also used for caulking ships.
He would be glad to get out of this place.
He hadn’t taken two bites when someone said, “You’re marked.” The old guy from his cell had slipped in next to him. “What’s that?” Jared said.
“Marked. Means you got something coming at you. And you
don’t know when it’ll happen.”
Little hot needles pricked Jared’s skin. The guy was serious.
Jared looked at him a moment, noticing as the guy chewed his food
that one of his front teeth had a gold cap. “Can I get moved?” “Not much time.”
“Well, tell somebody, tell a deputy — ”
“They don’t care. They hear this all the time. You gotta watch
your own back, Fish. That’s it, that’s all, the way of the slam. You
don’t look like you’ve done time before.”
Jared shook his head.
“It’s all over you, man.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I have a reason.”
Jared waited. “You want to tell me?”
“Sure.” The old guy took another bite.
“So?”
“They want you in hell,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Hell. The lake of fire.”
Great. A crazy man. He was in a cell with four skinheads and
a loon.
“Thanks,” Jared said dismissively.
“Same as they want your old man.”
Jared flinched, looked at him. “What about my father?” “I know who he is. I know who you are.”
Feeling exposed before a hundred prying eyes, Jared spoke low.
“How do you know?”
The guy shrugged.
“Tell me.”
The man said nothing. He shoveled a piece of bread in his
mouth.
No, Jared decided, this was all crazy stuff, and all he was doing
was encouraging more of it by listening. It was always possible too,
that the old guy just liked messing with people’s heads. Something
to do to kill time.
“I don’t care what you know,” Jared said. “Just leave me alone.” “They won’t leave you alone.”
“Who?”
“The minions.”
“What?”
“Of Satan. They’re real.” When he said this he set his jaw as
if to underscore how serious he was. His gold tooth flashed like a
warning light.
Certifiable nut
. If he could survive another day he’d be clear of
him, and the others.
Hell
. The old guy’d mentioned hell. Perfect. Hell was just what Jared deserved.
You did it, boy. You got what you wanted. What was that illusion
you had about Tiana and Jamaal? What were you thinking, man?
This is the place for people like you, and no doubt whatever happens
on the deuce you’re going to end up here again, or a place like it. What
does it matter if some guy punches your ticket now?
He looked around at all the blue-clad inmates in one big sardine can. They called him Fish — jail lingo for First In, Special
Handling — and that was what he was, so the sardine comparison
worked. Only nobody was going to give him special handling again.
Everybody was better off with him out of the picture. His mom, his
dad, his sister, and certainly that woman with a kid who couldn’t
catch a break. He wasn’t going to be anybody’s break.
The fear left him. His acceptance of death gave him a perverse
hope that he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore and wouldn’t be the
cause of anyone else’s suffering.
And then chow was over, and he’d only eaten a few bites. It
didn’t matter. It was only an imitation of food here. He didn’t feel
hunger at all as he was marched back to his cell along with the other
sardines. Nobody spoke — no one was allowed to speak — but he
heard whispers. The whispers were directed at him.
Didn’t matter anymore.
He got into his bunk and looked at the ceiling for a couple of
hours, narrating moments of his life. They came on the big screen,
like an ESPN video replay, complete with voice-over.
Jared Hamilton breaks his nose, ladies and gentlemen, when Freddy
Van Horn throws him a baseball from the next driveway and he doesn’t
catch it. He doesn’t put the mitt up there and ohhhh, that’s gotta hurt,
folks!
He remembered the stunning blow and the blood pouring out
of his nose and the look of shock on his mother’s face and the look
of disappointment on his father’s face because he had a mitt and
couldn’t catch a stupid baseball.
Yes, sir, and there he is trying to get Lisa Larson to like him, but she
just laughs when he finally works up the courage to ask her out, and
her boyfriend pushes him into the lockers, and that’s when he decides
he’s going in the Marines someday so he can come back and deal with
the boyfriend. You see that, ladies and gentlemen? You see that? Kind
of sad, don’t you think?
He skipped over Iraq completely, knowing those memories
would come back soon enough. Over them he had no control. He
thought of Tiana and Jamaal.
And there he is, folks, trying to save a woman, trying to be somebody in a kid’s eyes, trying to make it seem like he’s got a purpose
around here. Give him a hand!
At lights-out the noise started up — the inmates came alive at
night, because out on the street they were night crawlers, and in
here night was their time to scream obscenities.
But he wasn’t going to let the noise break him. He was going
to sleep. And he did start to drift off, did start to fade away from
voices and memories, when he felt something hard and sharp
pressed against his jugular.
Dear God in heaven, help him. I’m a K – 10 and can’t get to him, can’t look him in the eye and tell him how stupid I was, how wrong, how blind, how unloving, how sorry I am now.
Jared, I let you down. I let you fall, because I was all mixed-up with . . . no, because I let myself get all mixed-up and I missed what was important for you.
God, let me see him again before they take me away. Give him another chance. Illuminate his heart toward you!
Protect him. I didn’t. Protect him, Lord.
“Don’t move,” Pal whispered.
He was standing over Jared, his back to the cell door. “You move, you lose,” Pal said. He pushed his weapon — probably a sharpened piece of metal — harder against Jared’s throat.
Jared didn’t move. He sensed the other three moving around, forming a human screen to cloak what was happening in the cell.
Pal put his face in front of Jared’s. Pal’s eyes sparked with a glint of virulent menace. Crazy eyes.
“You ready to pledge now?” Pal said.
Jared was silent.
Pal jabbed Jared’s throat. It felt like it broke skin.
“Do you believe in Hitler?”
Jared said nothing.
“Answer me, Fish. And be careful what you say. Do you believe in the power and glory of Adolf? Do you, Fish?”
He glared at Pal.
“You better say something right now.” Pal’s weapon drew a trickle of blood.
“Do it,” Jared said.
“What?”
“Do it. Now. Coward.”
“You crazy . . .” Pal hesitated, but his eyes widened, the color of hate filling them. “I’m gonna like this.”
Jared closed his eyes. Waiting.
Then he heard the old guy’s voice. “Put down the shank.”
Time stopped. Jared opened his eyes and saw Pal’s face flash with momentary confusion. But only a flash. “Shut up, old man,” Pal said, still looking at Jared. “Unless you want some of this.”
“In the name of Jesus Christ, and by his blood, I command you to turn around.”
The old man spoke firmly but quietly, as if he trusted the words more than the tone.
Pal bared his teeth at Jared. Then he turned toward the old man.
Cara jolted awake in the blackness.
It was night and she was alone in her bedroom.
But she knew she’d been summoned, without doubt. Jared was in trouble.
She got out of bed and looked out the window. She could see the
Cara threw on a robe and opened her door. She was surprised by soft light coming from the living room. She followed it.
Her mother was on her knees at the sofa.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
Dallas looked up. “I’m praying for your brother. He needs it.”
“I know. I got the same message.”
She took Cara’s hands. “We need to cover him then.”
Cara knelt by her mother’s side. “Yes. Let’s storm the throne together.”
Pal approached the old guy. Jared saw the three others in the cell stepping away toward the back wall. What was happening? Did the old guy have a weapon of his own?
No. Nothing in his hands as he got to his feet. “In the name of Jesus Christ, and by his blood, I bind you.”
Jared saw Pal’s body go rigid.
“If you unbind me,” Pal said, his voice lower now, “I will tear your eyes out.”
“In the name of Christ,” the old guy said, “what is your name?”
“Bel,” Pal said.
Sweat burst out across Jared’s palms.
Bel? What kind of name is that?
“Will that statement stand for truth before the true and living God?” the old guy said.
“Yessss!” The voice from Pal answered, a voice unlike his own. It sounded like the answer was yanked out of him.
The other three inmates pressed themselves against the back wall as if pinned there. Freaked out, from the look of them. Just like Jared.
The old man leaned into Pal’s face, and Pal just stood there, his arms at his sides. The man said, “In the name of Jesus Christ, and by his blood, you have no authority here. Jesus Christ is your Lord and conqueror. Confess it.”
Jared could see Pal’s back muscles flex, the skin rippling. The shank dropped out of his hand and hit the floor. That was the most amazing thing so far.
“Jesus Christ is my Lord and conqueror,” the voice that was not Pal’s said through Pal’s mouth.
And then Pal screamed as loudly as any man Jared had ever heard. Jared practically jumped through the upper bunk.
The old man stood there, staring into Pal’s screaming mouth, unflinching.
A deputy was at the cell, holding a club. “Hey hey hey! What’s going on?” He pounded on the bars with his stick.
More screams rose from the cells along the module, screams of wild fury, like a chain reaction of otherworldly shrieks. What was happening? The evil that he’d felt earlier, the presence
,
he sensed now in the fullest force, in this place, focused.
“Get me out of here,” Jared said to the deputy, rolling off his bunk. He picked up the shank and held it out. “He tried to kill me.”
The deputy’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon. He drew his own. “Nobody move,” he ordered, then called for backup.
Pal, or whatever was in Pal, looked straight at the old guy, who said, “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to go to Christ right now, to be dealt with as he sees fit.”
“No!” the Pal-thing screamed.
“Now!”
The deputy’s eyes were crazy wide as he shouted, “Shut up! Nobody move!”
The only one who moved then was Pal, as he fell to the floor of the cell.