Flame Out (15 page)

“Left here!” Theo said at the next
STOP
sign. Following his orders we turned, passing tightly spaced apartment buildings before we got to the more spacious houses.

“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” Theo was counting houses. “Here! Stop here!”

Hale braked suddenly, throwing his arm across my waist as I jolted forward. We were in front of the home where Bernie had murdered Luisa so many years ago.

“I lived here as a kid,” Theo said. “Before Mom and I moved, this was my house.”

I turned around, ready to correct Theo and then stopped. Theo. Theodore. Teddy.

Theo was Teddy Lawler.

S
WEAT POOLED AT THE BASE OF MY SPINE. THE RADIATORS IN
the 116-year-old courthouse had stood the test of time, but the air conditioning, touch and go at best, was no match for a day that had reached eighty degrees before 10 a.m. The windows were cracked to let in a breeze, but if we opened them a few more inches, the reporters pressed against the glass were likely to crawl in. That said, all two hundred spectators remained silent, refusing to risk being ejected for what promised to be a great show. After thirty years, Bernie Lawler was getting out of prison because his wife and child were alive.

Theo Bazelon's ID of his childhood home had seemed unbelievable at first, not only to us but to him. He kept trying to rationalize his memories into a truth he could live with—he had come to Hopewell Falls on vacation, he was remembering another Jupiter's store in the chain, he was a child and making things up,
anything
to prove that he wasn't Teddy Lawler because that would mean his mother had at the least lied, and at worst faked her death. Nate ended up being the practical one.

“Test my DNA. Test his, too,” Nate said, pointing at his brother. “Send it to an outside lab and charge it to us if they can get the job
done faster. Better to know for sure than spend months agonizing.”

Within five days we had the results, which proved beyond doubt that Bernie was Teddy and Nate's father and that the woman lying in the hospital bed was Luisa Lawler. From there the wheels of justice cranked into gear, as we informed the DA, the DA informed Deirdre Lawler, and she demanded release of her brother with all deliberate speed, meaning yesterday. Now here we sat, eight days after Theo first identified his childhood home, waiting for Bernie Lawler.

Next to me, Hale looked cool and dry, the crease still sharp in his black wool pants. I was glad to be plainclothes today, not only because it was cooler than the uniform but because I had some hope of fading into the background.

I scanned the crowd, ducking so as not to draw attention to myself. I was on the watch for Lucas and Dave. At the prospect of his mother's killer getting out of prison, Lucas had spent the last few days swinging between rages and long walks to the river's edge, returning home tight jawed, only softening when his daughter climbed into his lap. Dave went into cop mode, amassing a file of evidence against Bernie.

“Maybe he didn't kill his wife and child,” Dave said when I visited him at home, “but that motherfucker
slaughtered
my mother.”

I thought he was right, but I needed to back him away from any truly stupid decision. “You don't know that.”

“I do. Luisa Lawler is out cold in a hospital bed, not in a shallow grave somewhere. She didn't die in that house, but we're both smart cops, and there's no denying someone did, and that someone was my mother. You saw the pictures from the basement—”

“You saw your mother's file. Dave—”

“No!” He stood suddenly, walking across the living room, kicking over a pile of old newspapers. Dave was a neat person, but trash was accumulating, and even from the next room I could smell that he needed to do dishes.

“It was twenty years ago,” he said. “When I was starting out, studying what your dad did to try to learn how to be a good cop, I
read the file. I saw the blood . . . splashed on the walls and seeping between the floorboards. It . . . took a long time for my mother to die. The head wounds that were identified in my mom's autopsy? Someone smashed her skull against the basement wall.”

“Dave,” I said and waited until he met my eyes. “You're a smart cop. Your involvement could wreck this case in court. Please stay away from Bernie.”

Today, Dave seemed to be doing just that. Eight sheriff's deputies walked the courtroom's four aisles, doing quick patrols. They were less concerned about violence and instead searched for electronic devices, people trying to capture video they could sell to the highest bidder among the fake news websites.

A low buzz started in the back of the courtroom, and Jake rushed up the aisle, head down. He wore a suit and had his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. For the first time I could see the resemblance between Jake and Maxim, the brothers sharing the same large nose and jutting jaws. Jake was followed by Brian, who had his hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, the tailored jacket straining across his shoulders and arms. The two men slid into the seat opposite us next to three law students and Dan Jaleda, who had ignored my earlier greeting and stared forward toward the empty jury box. Maxim Medved was slower, stopping at almost every row to say hello or shake hands. He reached the front, and the deputy ushered him into his row with a flourish, clapping the judge on the shoulder.

“Bet you wish it was you sitting on that bench, about to set your brother free, Judge.”

Maxim Medved didn't correct the deputy's use of “Judge,” and I realized that more people used his title than his name, including me. He gave a half wave to the bailiff who stood at the front of the courtroom. “I would unlock his shackles myself.”

The prison transport entrance opened, and Bernie shuffled to the table flanked by two guards, followed by Deirdre and a young law student carrying two document boxes. Bernie strained his neck,
surveying the crowd, greeting several people who waved. I knew the instant he saw his brothers: he tried to break away. The guards gently guided him back to the table.

“Check out his suit,” Hale whispered.

Of course Hale noticed the clothes. “Not bespoke?”

“Not even close.”

Someone had arranged for Bernie to get a pale gray linen suit, but they missed on the size, folds of cloth hung at his back, and the tie hung around a collar with a several-inch gap. His sister, in low heels, appeared taller than he was, but of course she wasn't. She just had more substance.

Judge Keveney entered the courtroom. We barely had a chance to stand before Keveney waved us down. Court proceedings could be ponderous, but Keveney worked at a quick clip, completing the formalities in less than a minute: he asked Jerry, the DA on this case, if he would like to withdraw charges, since the two decedents—Luisa Lawler and Theodore Lawler—were in fact alive. Skipping even the perfunctory protests that prosecutors usually threw out when prisoners were going to be released, Jerry agreed. Keveney announced that charges against Bernie Lawler had been dropped and he was free to go.

The crowd erupted. Deirdre shoved the law student aside, grabbing her brother into a hug that bunched his baggy suit. When she pulled away, I could see she was crying. Bernie reached out and wiped her tears away, kissing her once and then twice, less a “thank you for getting me out of jail” kiss one might give a lawyer and more an “I missed you” from a big brother.

The crowds surged forward to meet Bernie, forcing Hale and me to step sideways, out of the crush. As Bernie crossed the bar from the courtroom to where the spectators sat, Jake grabbed Bernie's arm. He seemed unsure, but Bernie pulled him close. Bernie ruffled Brian's hair, despite Brian's being several inches taller, before reaching for the judge. The judge rested his hand on his brother's shoulder and left it there even as he and Bernie pushed forward through the crowd. Despite
getting pulled forward by his brother and pushed by his sister, Bernie stopped, again and again, to listen to well-wishers and greet old friends. After thirty years in prison, Bernie had lost his sense of urgency.

“Got a cattle prod?” Hale asked as the crowd made its slow way through the dimly lit marble corridors of the courthouse.

“He's been in institutions long enough that if law enforcement ordered him to, he would pick up the pace, but that seems . . . unkind.”

After the slow trip through the dimly lit marble corridors of the old courthouse, stepping outside was a shock, the sun's glare beating down and destroying shadows. A microphone had been set up, and a large crowd fanned out down the steps to the sidewalk, spilling into the street. Hand lettered signs reading J
USTICE
F
OR
A
LL
or F
REE
B
ERNIE
bobbed above the crowd.

“How vicious is this going to get?” Hale asked.

“Most of the people who might be enraged by this verdict are dead.”

With the exception of an occasional flossy champagne blond or home-dyed matte black hair—usually sported by men—it was a sea of white hair. I spotted several of the former employees of Sleep-Tite and a couple of guys from Jake's bar. The only people genuinely agitated were the law students, and that was mostly for the cameras. I was scanning the crowd for Lucas and Dave when I saw my father, tucked in along a row of hedges on the left. I was shocked. Last night, he had said he wouldn't be here, and I had believed him.

“I sent a man to prison for thirty years, Juniper.” Dad had pulled the paper label off his teabag and was folding it, ripping it in half, and then folding the torn pieces in half again. My mother and I waited for him to speak, which involved a lot of long silences as Dad struggled to find the words to express his grief. Mom was still, feet on the floor and palms up, meditative. I had to sit on my hands to keep from grabbing the shredded paper out of his hands.

“I took a man's life,” he said.

From my perch atop the courthouse steps I tried to catch my dad's attention, but his eyes were glued to Bernie. Dad wore a blue raincoat despite the clear day, and his old pair of eyeglasses, the bent wire frames sitting askew on his nose.

I tapped Hale's wrist and nodded in the direction of my father, afraid that saying his name, even in a whisper, would draw attention to him. I didn't need to worry—everyone was focused on Bernie or his sister, who stepped up to the podium.

“Today, an innocent man,” Deirdre's voice boomed, and the audience flinched before one of her law students reached over and lowered the volume. “Today, an innocent man has been set free. My brother, Bernie, should never have been arrested, and his time in prison robbed him of life. For those of you, who, unlike my law students, were alive thirty years ago”—the crowd chuckled—“think about what has happened in your life over those last thirty years. Births. Marriages. Maybe a job you love. Holidays spent around a table with family, sharing stories.” The people in the audience smiled up at her as I worked myself toward my father. “Now imagine if all those experiences—your life—were taken for you.” The judge put his arm over Bernie's shoulder, gripping him fiercely. “The Innocence Clinic has walls lined with the pictures of people like Bernie, imprisoned or even put to death. While we have so much more work to do, today we can celebrate my brother's freedom. It is a joyous day for my family, for Hopewell Falls, for the people of New York State, and this country.”

The crowd clapped, and the law students cheered as if it were a sporting event. Hale and I were stuck in the crowd, clustered so tightly we couldn't pass. I watched as Deirdre pulled Bernie forward. He stood mute in front of the mic as the clapping went on and on, the crowd matching the enthusiasm of the judge and Jake. The crowd quieted, and he leaned forward, speaking, but the mic didn't pick up his voice. His sister nudged him forward, and his nose bumped the metal. He jumped back as feedback screeched out, shrugging helplessly
as one of the law students reached over and upped the volume.

“It's a beautiful day, isn't it?” Bernie said. “The sky, it's gorgeous! And there's so much of it!” The crowd laughed as he gazed up, smiling, and he looked like a boy instead of a man of sixty. The smile on his face stayed as he looked at his sister. “I want to thank Deirdre, although now I think about it, maybe she should thank me.” Bernie held out his hand to Deirdre, who grasped it tightly.

“Deirdre here would never have gone out there and gotten her law degree if she hadn't seen where bad lawyering will get you. And to all her little worker elves”—the law students cheered again—“who worked tirelessly for years to make this day happen, I hope I get the opportunity to shake each and every one of your hands.”

“What's next for you, Bernie?” a reporter yelled out.

Deirdre dropped Bernie's hand.

“No questions!” she said, but Bernie had already started talking.

“Well, first I'm going for a walk. A long walk, down by the river. Then I'm going to eat a lot of vegetables. You try to get a fresh cucumber in prison.” The press scribbled in their pads, and I bet Bernie's vegetable comment would lead off several newscasts and newspaper articles.

His smile faded. “And then, I'm going to get reacquainted with my family.” Jake was crying openly at this, comforted by Brian. “My brothers, and my nephews and nieces. And maybe, eventually, my sons. I have two boys.” His voice cracked, and he paused, the microphone catching his hitching breath until it eased. “I'm ready to meet them whenever they're ready, but I . . . I hope it's soon.” He laughed. “Oh, but first, a shower, which can be as long and hot as I want, with no guards watching.”

State troopers cleared a path as Bernie and his sister stepped into the crowd. The judge followed, with Jake and Brian close behind. Reporters continued to throw questions at Bernie, but he concentrated on shaking the hands of the old Sleep-Tite employees and childhood friends he met. He even kissed a baby.

“This way,” Hale said, skimming the crowd's edge, the quickest path to my father. Bernie and his sister were moving rapidly in the direction of my father thanks to the intervention of the state troopers, and I wanted to prevent what might be a terrible confrontation. I was still ten feet away when Bernie stopped, turned, and broke away from his entourage. Within seconds, he was nose to nose with my father.

“My worthy foe,” Bernie said. “Officer Lyons.” Flashes went off, reporters getting pictures of the two men shaking hands. Bernie rested his hands on my father's shoulders, saying something only my father could hear, my father nodding once, twice, before whispering something back. Hale held me back, while to my left the judge and Brian corralled Jake, who muttered in a voice roughened by cigarettes and tears, “He's the one who should be locked away for life.”