Redemption Road: A Novel (30 page)

As hard as Elizabeth drove the car before, she pushed it to breaking now, turning off the crumbled road and onto a state highway, cars slashing past as the needle touched 105. The wind made so much noise she could barely think. But what could she think about anyway?

The girl wasn’t answering.

Screams. A dead phone. But, she’d heard other things, too. Hard voices and shouting and breaking wood.

Elizabeth dialed the house, but the line was off the hook. She tried the girl’s phone again, but that failed, too.

“Damn it!”

Three tries. Three fails.

Desperate, she called Beckett. “Charlie!”

“Liz, where the hell are you? What’s that noise?”

She could barely hear above the wind. “Charlie, what’s happening?”

“Thank God. Listen. Don’t go to your house!” He was yelling to be heard. “Don’t go home!”

“What? Why?”

“Hamilton and Marsh…” She lost a sentence or two, then he was back. “Word just hit the street. They have an indictment, Liz. Double homicide. We just found out.”

“What about Channing?”

“Liz…” Static. “Don’t…”

“What?”

“State police locked us out—”

“Charlie! Wait!”

“Don’t go to your fucking house!”

Elizabeth hung up in numb disbelief. It wasn’t the warrant or that she’d be arrested. State cops were at her house, and so was the girl who’d saved her life, Channing, who was eighteen and hollowed out and liable to confess anything. Already, five minutes had passed.

“Too much time.”

She pushed the old car until the needle touched 110, then 115. She watched for slow movers and cops; squeezed the wheel hard and said her first real prayer in a dozen years.

Please, God …

*   *   *

But, it was over by the time she got there. She saw it from a block out: no lights at the house, no cars or cops or movement. She came hard anyway, locking up the brakes and rocking into the drive.

“Channing!”

She took the yard at a run, saw tire tracks in the grass, and the door broken in its frame. On the porch she hit the door with a shoulder, felt it rock on a single hinge. Inside, she found out-of-place furniture, dirty footprints, and the bathroom door, blasted off the hinges, too.

She was too late.

That was real.

She checked the house, anyway. Bedrooms. Closets. She wanted to find the girl, hidden maybe, or tucked away. But she was kidding herself, and she knew it. The warrant wasn’t for Channing, but they had a subpoena, and Hamilton and Marsh would use it, were probably talking to her now.

What happened in the basement?

Who pulled the trigger?

In a fog, Elizabeth stepped outside and wedged the door shut behind her. They had the girl, and the girl would talk. Whether from guilt or naïveté or the desire to help Elizabeth, Channing would eventually break.

Elizabeth couldn’t let that happen.

The shooting was too political, too racial. They’d burn her down to make an example.

“I saw it happen.”

The voice came from beyond the hedge, and Elizabeth recognized the neighbor who lived to the right, an elderly man with a ’72 Pontiac station wagon he polished on weekends as if it were made of something more precious than steel and paint. “Mr. Goldman?”

“Must have been twenty cops. Assault rifles and body armor. Goddamn Nazis.” He pointed and ducked his head. “Sorry about your door.”

“There was a girl.…”

“A small one, yes. Two tough old bastards hauled her out.”

“You saw her?”

“Hard to miss, really, hanging between them like she was, all bright-eyed and flushed and kicking like a mule.”

*   *   *

For a hard flat second Elizabeth didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go to the station with a murder warrant on her head. It was beyond even Dyer to help her, now. Hamilton and Marsh had their indictment. That meant they’d pick her up and drop her in a hole. Even if she won at trial—which was doubtful—she’d be vilified by the national press, picked apart, and stripped to her bones. It was an angry nation and she was another white cop on the wrong side of a shooting. It couldn’t play otherwise, not with fourteen bullet holes in the floor.

And that was best-case scenario.

Worst case, Channing would talk. That meant time mattered, and not the kind that would be counted in days.

Hours, she thought. Minutes.

Would the girl even fight?

Elizabeth’s paralysis snapped like a glass rod. She started the car and had Channing’s father on the line before she reached the first turn. He would move heaven and earth, but his lawyers were in Charlotte. That would take time. So, she went the only place that made sense: around the city, across the river. Box bushes took paint off the car, but she found the old lawyer sitting in the same chair on the same porch. He offered pleasantries, but she shut him down before he could rise from the chair. “No time, Faircloth. Just listen, please.”

She started too fast, too shaky.

“Slow down, Elizabeth. Catch your breath. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Sit down. Tell me from the beginning.”

“It needs to be privileged.”

“Very well. Consider me your attorney.”

“You’re not licensed.”

“Then consider me a friend.” She hesitated, so he spoke carefully to make his point. “Anything you tell me I will take to my grave unless you instruct otherwise. You cannot shock me or dissuade me or make me anything less than your ally.”

“I’m not the only one at risk.”

“Five decades before the bar, my dear, and you would not believe the secrets I have kept. Whatever the problem, you have come to the right place.”

“Very well.” She took a deep breath and focused on his hands, on the class ring and creases and parchment skin. He leaned into her words, and she told him everything, her eyes never leaving the crooked fingers, her words rising from some dim, far place. She started with the subpoena for Channing and her own indictment, then moved to the horrible truth of what really happened in the basement on Penelope Street. It hurt like being naked in the cold, but there was no time left for shame or self-pity. She told him everything and let her wrists show to make it real. He interrupted only once, when he whispered, “You poor dear girl.”

Even then she couldn’t look him in the face. It was the shame of it, as if she weren’t just naked but nailed to a board. “I don’t know what she’ll say, Faircloth, only what will happen if she tells the truth.”

“And you wish to put her interests above your own.”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain of that? If she tortured those men—”

“That’s on me. My decision.”

“May I ask why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not if you understand the consequences of what you’re asking me to do. The indictment has your name on it, not hers. You’re risking prison—”

“I’ll never go to prison. I’ll run first.”

“As your friend and lawyer, I feel compelled to advise you that such plans rarely work out.”

“Just keep her from talking, Faircloth. I’ll live with what comes after.”

“Very well. One thing at a time.” He patted her hand. “You were right to come to me, Elizabeth. Thank you for that, for that trust.”

“What can we do for Channing?”

“For starters, don’t panic. Even if she confesses everything, we can argue the shooting is justified. She’s a child, and traumatized. Prosecution is not a foregone conclusion. Conviction is not even worth discussing.”

“Eighteen rounds. You’ve seen the papers. You understand the context.”

He nodded because he did. Things were different since Baltimore and Ferguson. Everything was racial; everything was watched. That made the deaths of Brendon and Titus Monroe not just public but political, especially with allegations of torture and retribution. If the attorney general had to shift targets, he certainly could. The cop, the rich girl; at this point it didn’t matter. Win or lose, the machine needed a body.

“Even if she’s acquitted,” Elizabeth said, “you know what a trial would do to a girl so young. She won’t recover.”

“Give me a dollar.” The old lawyer held out a hand.

“What?”

“Make it two.”

“I have a twenty.”

“That’s fine.” He took the bill. “A ten-dollar retainer for you, and another for the girl. In case anyone asks. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Of course…”

“Give it to me.” Elizabeth handed it over. He removed the battery and the SIM card, then handed everything back and smiled to take away the sting. “Cops make bad fugitives. It’s the mind-set.”

“Jesus.”

She stared at the phone. Crybaby was already moving.

“Get a burner phone when you can. Call me with the number.” He shrugged on a wrinkled coat. The rest of him was in faded jeans and boat shoes without socks. “I’ll deal with the girl first, then we can talk about this indictment. Her father is Alsace Shore?”

“You know him?”

“I know his lawyers. They may complicate matters, which doesn’t matter so long as they keep her from talking. We’ll see when I get there. Will your friends on the force help the state police find you?”

“Beckett’s on my side. Dyer, too, I hope. Everyone else is a wild card.”

“Then, you should leave, immediately. Do you have a safe place to go? A friend in another town? Family?”

The question almost ruined her. How could she admit the truth? That most of her friends were cops and would arrest her on sight, that even family was a shelter built on sand. “Right now, you and Channing are all I have.”

The old man took her hand, and she felt kindness in the heat of his fingers. “Allow me to make a suggestion. I have a fishing cabin on the lake. It’s on Goodman Road, not far at all. I haven’t been there in forever, but a handyman keeps it open for me. You should go there. Just for now,” he assured her. “Just so I can find you.”

“Shouldn’t I be doing something?”

“Let me find out what’s happening. Then we can make a plan.”

“All right. Come on. I’ll drive you.”

“No. Stay out of the city. Stay away from people. I’ll call the car service.” He guided her off the porch, and she stopped on the second step. “Be quick, Elizabeth. They may have tracked your phone, already.”

He was eager, but she needed this single moment, just to be sure. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you have pretty eyes and a lovely smile.”

“Don’t joke, Faircloth.”

“Very well. I’m helping you because Adrian spoke of you often, and because I’ve followed your career since his trial, because you are thoughtful and kind and unlike other detectives, because I find you to be a most admirable woman.” A twinkle glinted in the old man’s eyes. “Have I not told you that?”

“And if you’re charged for practicing without a license?”

“Until you showed up the other day, I’d not been out of my house for over a decade. Now, I’ve been to court, breathed fresh air, and helped a friend that needed help. I’m eighty-nine years old, with a heart so weak I’m unlikely to live another three. So, look at me.” He lifted his arms so she could take in the old jeans and flyaway hair, the coat he could have used for a pillow. “Now, ask again if I give a good goddamn about being charged with anything.”

18

Beckett watched the circus unfold. Alsace Shore. The lawyers. They were in the lobby beyond the glass, arguing, posturing. The Charlotte attorneys made the most noise, but that made perfect sense: $1,500 an hour between the three of them, the client right there and just as red-faced. Only Crybaby Jones seemed at ease. He stood a few feet to the side, both hands on his cane, his head tilted attentively as detectives tried to explain that none of them, in fact, represented Channing Shore.

“She doesn’t want a lawyer. She’s waived the right—”

“She’s too young for that. I’m her father.
These
are her lawyers. Right here! Right now! I demand to see her!”

“Sir, I need you to calm down, and I’ll explain again. Your daughter’s eighteen. She doesn’t want a lawyer.”

But Alsace Shore was not the calming kind. He had his own suspicions, Beckett thought. And, why not? He knew what Channing could do with a gun. That meant he knew the danger she was in now, that one wrong word could change her life forever. Beckett felt sick from the thought, but mostly that was about Liz. He’d made a promise and wasn’t sure he could keep it.

“How long has this been going on?” Beckett leaned into the sergeant, who shrugged.

“An hour.”

“Has Dyer been out?”

“Shit rolls downhill. You know that.”

“Call me if it gets worse.”

Beckett left the front desk and worked his way toward the interview rooms. Hamilton and Marsh had the girl in isolation with the local cops frozen out. Uniformed troopers barred the door. Even Dyer was banned, and that made the tension unmistakable, as if the AG thought the locals were covering for one of their own and only the state cops knew right from wrong, as if God himself wanted Liz to fry.

It tied Beckett into knots.

Liz was clean.

How could they not see that?

But they didn’t. Occam’s razor. The obvious explanation. Whatever. The truth was a coal he wanted to puke from his chest.

The kid is the goddamn shooter!

Twenty feet from the troopers, Beckett stopped and checked his watch. They’d had the girl inside for ninety-three minutes. The all-points on Liz was two hours’ old, and every detail was on the wire. Name. Description. Vehicles. Elizabeth was officially wanted for double homicide. Every cop in the state was looking for her, and that was not the worst part.

Suspect considered armed and dangerous.

Approach with caution.

“Where’s Dyer?” Beckett caught a uniformed officer by the sleeve as she passed. She pointed, and Beckett bulled through the hall, people scrambling to get out of his way. He found Dyer near the conference room. “Where’ve you been?”

“Making phone calls.”

“Have you seen this?” Beckett pushed a copy of the all-points at Dyer.

“It’s why I’m making calls.”

“Those state cops are going to get her killed.”