Parker 04 - The Fury (10 page)

81

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

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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.

The Fury

83

"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.

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Jason Pinter

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.

The Fury

85

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

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Jason Pinter

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.