Safer (9 page)

Two uniformed officers escort me home the same way I left twelve hours ago: in the back of a squad car. We pass the downtown branch of the First State Bank of Clark Falls, where Melody Seward works during the week. The time and temperature sign outside the bank is trimmed with all- weather garland and oversized clumps of plastic holly. It’s half past ten in the morning, according to the sign. Twenty- six degrees.

The streets seem unusually vacant for a Saturday. At the stoplights at Armstrong and Belmont, a white van from Channel Five Clark Falls passes us, pulls ahead in a cloud of exhaust, and disappears over the hill. By the time we turn in to Sycamore Court, the van is waiting for us at the curb in front of my house.

I see a familiar figure bundled in a sleek, belted winter coat, microphone in hand, apparently running through a quick sound check with the cameraman.

“Congratulations,” the cop at the wheel says over his shoulder. “You’re famous.”

“Real celebrity,” the other cop says.

“Lucky us, right?”

They seem to enjoy opening the back door and waiting for me to climb out of the car. As I emerge into the frigid air, Maya Lamb gives a go sign to the camera guy and hurries up the sidewalk toward us.

“Professor Callaway,” she says. “Can you comment on the—”

“No,” I say.

She veers from her course, angling for an interception spot several feet ahead of me. The cameraman hustles around for position, all the while tweaking the barrel of his lens. The cops make a show of moving me toward the house.

“This morning you’ve been arraigned on counts of sexual misconduct with your twelve- year- old neighbor,” Maya Lamb says into the microphone. “What’s your relationship with the alleged victim, Dr. Callaway?”

Without thinking, I almost blurt,
She’s thirteen.
As soon as the words form in my throat, I realize how they’ll sound if they come out. I realize that this is a version of the same trick Maya Lamb used to get me talking when
I
was the alleged victim.

I also realize that the facts don’t matter at this point. This is Maya Lamb’s story now, not mine. It’s all completely beyond my control.

Sara, a minute ahead of us, has already parked her car in the garage. She meets us in the driveway, stepping between me and the officer on my left, taking my hand. Her eyes are dry, and except for the cold- weather flush in her cheeks, her face is like pale marble. She looks strong and confident. But I can tell that she’s been crying.

“Dr. Callaway,” Maya Lamb says, then seems to realize
that she’ll need to be more specific. “Mrs. Callaway, do you believe your husband to be innocent of these charges?”

Sara covers my hand in both of hers and looks at the officer on my right. “Can you get them out of our way, please?”

While the cop moves Channel Five back down to the sidewalk, I see a bright blue numeral 8 emblazoned with peacock feathers strobing through the bare trees along the hill. A few seconds later, a second microwave truck rolls into the circle, this one from the local NBC affiliate. Following Channel Eight is a dark BMW sedan.

What is it with this town? Did nobody crash a car or rob a liquor store or crash a car into a liquor store at any point between last night and this morning? Is there nothing else in all of Clark Falls that passes for news? Who the hell do these people think I am, the Boston Strangler?

No. Of course not. I’m the out- of- work university professor who lives across the street from Roger Mallory, that’s who I am. For all I know, Roger faxed out a press release himself, first thing this morning. On Safer Places letterhead.

The first cop stays behind to manage traffic. His partner accompanies us up the driveway, around the corner of the house to the side door, just out of view of the media.

At the steps, Sara turns to him and says, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’ll just step inside, ma’am.”

“No, you won’t.”

“As soon as your husband collects his things, we’ll be out of your way.”

“And you can wait outside while he does.”

The cop attempts to be civil. It seems like a challenge, but he’s a professional. “Mrs. Callaway, for the safety of myself and my partner I’ll need to be—”

“Is my husband under arrest?”

He straightens his shoulders.

“Is he?”

“No,” the cop says. “Your husband isn’t under arrest. But he’s still under our—”

“Then you can wait outside,” another voice says.

Everybody turns to look, but I recognize the voice the moment I hear it. As Douglas Bennett joins us on the steps, I look toward the street and realize that the BMW now parked there belongs to him. I’m starting to wonder if dramatic entrances are his thing. He still looks like a rumpled mess, but his eyes appear brighter than they did in court two hours ago. He’s combed his hair.

The cop says, “And you are?”

“Mr. Callaway’s attorney.” Bennett holds out a business card. “At this time I’ll remind you, or inform you as the case may be, that the court’s order to transport my client doesn’t specify permission for you to physically enter these premises.”

“No kidding.” The cop glances at the card, then seems to smile with his eyes. “So you’re Bennett.”

“That’s correct.”

“Funny, I just heard a story about you.”

“Marvelous. Then further introductions won’t be needed.” Bennett rises to the step immediately behind me and gestures Sara onward. “I’ll accompany my client from here. When he’s finished, we’ll permit you to step inside and conduct a brief search to ensure that his shaving kit and his supply of clean underwear contain no threat to you or your partner.”

The cop gives Bennett a long look. A tight grin pinches the corner of his mouth. He finally glances to the BMW and says, “Counselor, is that your vehicle?”

“It is.”

“Did you drive here?”

“I believe you saw me do so.”

“I believe that’s my vehicle right there.” The cop points to the squad car at the end of the driveway. “If we went and looked, I believe we’d be able to find a breath kit on board.”

“Since department patrol guidelines require you to carry one, Officer, that wouldn’t surprise me.”

“How’d you like to step over to the street and blow into the tube for me?”

“I wouldn’t like it.”

“I’ll bet.”

“But naturally I’d comply, as soon as Mr. Callaway is finished gathering his belongings,” Bennett says. “Unless you’d prefer to conduct the test now, while Mrs. Callaway and my client conduct their business.”

The cop smiles. “Oh, I think I can wait.”

“Then excuse us, please.”

Up the steps we go. Once we’re inside, out of the cold, Sara lets go of my hand and walks straight to the island in the middle of the kitchen. She stands there a moment, her back to me and Bennett. She finally puts her purse on the counter and takes off her coat.

I look at Bennett. “Didn’t I fire you?”

“Yes. Well.” He shrugs. “I’m not billing. Sara, it’s nice to meet you in person. You have a lovely home.”

Turning finally, Sara says, “I don’t know whether to thank you for your help out there or kick you back out with everyone else.”

Bennett nods as though he understands. “I realize that there isn’t much I can say on my own behalf.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“But I’d like to do what I can to help get you two through the rest of the morning. At least until we’re clear of police interaction. In light of circumstances, I’m prepared to insist.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Bennett, I’m not sure you’re the—”

“In light of what circumstances?” I get the sense that he’s talking about something other than this morning’s fiasco at the courthouse.

Bennett’s glance acknowledges that he’s heard my question,
but he doesn’t address it. “Once Paul is settled, I can offer you a referral to another defender, if you’d like one. Of course, I wouldn’t blame you.”

Through this entire exchange, Sara hasn’t yet looked at me. I finally leave Bennett standing inside the door and walk over. She flinches when I put my hand on her back. When I step closer, she stands there stiffly, arms crossed, staring at the counter.

“Sara.”

She turns without a word and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing with my hand in the air where her shoulder had been.

I listen to her footfalls on the hardwood floors. In the distance, I hear the bathroom door close quietly. After a moment, I put my hand down.

Douglas Bennett clears his throat gently. “The court order allows you twenty minutes inside the house.” He looks like he wishes he didn’t have to tell me that.

Twenty minutes.

Sara has emptied our savings account to pay the bond premium that allows me to be standing here in the first place. All of that buys me twenty minutes.

“I’m sorry, Paul.”

At least he’s finally getting my name right.

The house feels strange. Familiar and foreign at the same time.

There are blackened hickory logs left over in the fireplace, smelling faintly of ash. Around the floor I spot the odd cocktail napkin, a dropped toothpick here, a scatter of crumbs there. The remnants of last night’s party lend a peculiar, lonesome quality to the air; it’s almost as if the festive clatter still hangs somewhere in the silence.

Upstairs, my office looks like a looted office supply store. Dis connected cables drape my desk where my computer used to
be. The drawers are pulled, contents jumbled. File cabinets stand open and emptied, library bookshelves randomly decimated. Even the telephone is gone.

I force myself to set aside the indignity, the sense of violation. For the moment, I’m only interested in knowing one thing.

I take a few moments to paw through the rubble of my middle desk drawer, already scavenged by the police. I’m looking for the spare credit card I keep there for the purpose of ordering merchandise over the Internet: books, gifts for Sara, the occasional box of cigars. I don’t expect to find it, and I’m not surprised that it’s not there.

Only in confirming this suspicion do I realize that the confirmation tells me nothing. The police have surely confiscated the card as evidence. I don’t even know if that MasterCard account of mine is the account referenced in my affidavit—the account I’m said to have used to rent an Internet session at the coffee shop, and to pay for the online photo gallery starring Brit Seward. Standing here in my wreck of an office, there’s no way to know much more than I knew sitting in my jail cell.

I take a small suitcase from the storage space in the alcove and carry it back downstairs with me. A few changes of clothes. Toothbrush. Alarm clock. Electric razor. At a thousand dollars per minute, I’ve got about ten grand left on the twenty- minute meter.

Sara is in our bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. She looks up when I come in. Her eyes glisten, and she says, “I’m so sorry.”

“Sara…”

“I didn’t believe you,” she says. Her voice hitches. “You tried to tell me. And I didn’t believe you.”

I sit down beside her. She puts her head on my shoulder and covers her face and says, again, “I didn’t believe you.”

Nine minutes. Eight.

“If you believe me now,” I finally say, “then you know that this is a lie. You know that, right?”

I feel her nodding her head against my shoulder. But she doesn’t speak.

Mrs. Callaway, do you believe that your husband is innocent?

“Sara, look at me.”

She does. Her eyes are red, streaming tears.

“None of this happened. These photos they’re talking about… they can’t be real. Please tell me you know that.”

“Of course they’re not real.” Eyes closed again. “Of course.”

“None of it happened.”

“Then
why?”
She stands up and paces a few steps away. “Why is she
saying
these things?”

“It’s Roger, goddammit.” We’re down to our last five thousand bucks. I grab as many clothes as I can cram in the suitcase, making enough room in it for the short pile of half- read books stacked on my night table. “That twisted son of a bitch is behind this.”

“But Paul,
why?”
she says. “To retaliate somehow? Do you think that’s really possible?”

I think about grabbing the charging cord for my cell phone, then remember that my cell phone has been confiscated as evidence.

“All of that happened weeks ago,” Sara says.

A little over two weeks, actually. That’s all. I don’t bother pointing this out.

“You apologized,” she says. “Why now?”

There are things that I haven’t told Sara. I know that I’m going to have to tell her those things now. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

“Forget about why,” she says.
“How?
Paul, it doesn’t make any sense.”

I zip the suitcase. I can buy a new toothbrush and razor.

“We’d better go,” I tell her. “Before they start lobbing tear gas through the windows or something.”

Douglas Bennett is waiting for us in the kitchen, sitting
where I left him at the island counter: a pot of coffee on a trivet within reach, a chipped Dixson College mug in front of him. The pot of coffee was half full fifteen minutes ago. Now it’s empty. Littered around the mug is a handful of what look like empty candy wrappers.

“Perfect timing,” Bennett says, crunching something in his teeth. “I’ll go tell Officer Breathalyzer we’re ready.”

I watch him stand, scoop up the twists of waxed paper, and crumple them all together. “A little late for mints, isn’t it?” I ask him.

“Well past the point.” He smiles. “That’s why I stopped at the drugstore to buy these charcoal tablets.”

Over the years I’ve heard students trade any number of dubious- sounding recipes for beating a roadside breath test, but I haven’t heard this one. “Do they work?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” Bennett hands Sara another business card—same as the card he handed the cop outside, except this one has a scribble of black ink on the back. “Sara, on the chance that I’m arrested, will you call the number written there and let them know the situation?”

“All right.”

Bennett thanks her and buttons his coat. “Paul, I’ve instructed my office to book you a kitchenette suite at the Residence Inn downtown. The firm will cover your expenses there for the duration of the court order. If that’s acceptable.”