Rogue Lawyer, Page 21

  beside her on a park bench and tends to her. The police ask me to stay with her too, but I cannot sit still. There are cops everywhere. God bless them.

  A young man in a dark suit introduces himself as Lynn Colfax. He is the detective in the Missing Children Division, City Police. What kind of sick society needs an entire section of its police department dedicated to missing children?

  He and I walk through the final moments. I stand exactly where I was standing when Starcher left for the restroom, less than a hundred feet away. I kept my eyes on him until he went inside, then I was jolted by the sound of gunfire. Step by step, thought by thought, we go through it all.

  The men’s restroom has only one door and no windows. It is inconceivable to me, and to Detective Colfax, that someone could grab an eight-year-old boy and physically remove him from the premises without being seen. But, at that moment, most of the people hanging around the Landing were either crouching behind benches or shrubs or flat on the ground as the bullets were fired. Other witnesses verify this. We estimate the diversion lasted fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. Plenty of time, I guess.

  After an hour, I finally admit that Starcher has not simply wandered away. He has been taken.

  17.

  The best way to tell Judith is to make her see for herself. If something bad happens to our son, she will never forgive me, and she will always maintain that since I am such a lousy parent, am in fact thoroughly derelict in all areas of parental guidance, that his disappearance was and is completely my fault. Great, Judith. You win; I’m to blame.

  It might help her to see the crime scene, especially with all the cops around.

  I stare at my cell phone for a long time, then make the call. She answers with “What is it?”

  I swallow hard and try to sound calm. “Judith, Starcher has disappeared. I’m at the Landing in City Park, with his grandmother, and with the police. He disappeared about an hour ago. You need to get down here now.”

  She yells, “What?”

  “You heard me. Starcher is missing. I think he’s been abducted.”

  Again she yells, “What! How! Were you watching him?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I was. We’ll argue later. Just get down here.”

  Twenty-one minutes later, I see her racing along the sidewalk, obviously a woman who’s scared out of her mind. As she approaches the Landing and sees all the policemen, then me, then the yellow crime scene ribbon strung around the restrooms, she stops, throws a hand over her mouth, and breaks down. Lynn Colfax and I walk over to her and try to calm her.

  She grits her teeth and says, “What happened?”

  She wipes her eyes as we go through it again. And again. She says nothing to me, as if I’m not a part of the drama. She won’t even look at me. She grills Colfax until all questions have been asked. She takes complete charge of the family’s side of things, even informs the detective that she is the custodial parent and all communication will be through her. Me, I’m viewed as nothing more than a negligent babysitter.

  Judith has a photo of Starcher on her cell phone. Colfax e-mails this to his office. He says that posters will go up immediately. All alerts and warnings are already in play. Every policeman in the City is looking for Starcher.

  18.

  We eventually leave the Landing, though it is painful. I would prefer to sit here all afternoon and throughout the night, just waiting for my little boy to appear and ask, “Where’s my boat?” It is the last place he saw his father. If he’s just lost, then maybe he’ll find his way back. We’re sleepwalking through this, numb and stunned and telling ourselves that this is not really happening.

  Lynn Colfax says he’s been through this before, and the best move right now is for us to meet at Central, in his office, and talk about how to proceed. It’s either an abduction, a disappearance, or a kidnapping, and all three pose different problems.

  I take my mother to my apartment, where she is met by Partner. He’ll take care of her for a few hours. She’s blaming herself for not being more attentive, and she’s griping because that bitch Judith wouldn’t even acknowledge her presence. “Why did you ever marry that woman?” she asks. It wasn’t by choice. Really, Mom? Can’t we discuss this later?

  Colfax has a neat desk and a calm, soothing presence. It means nothing to us—Judith and me. Ava, the third parent, is out of town. He begins by telling us a story about an abduction, one of the few with a happy ending. Most end badly, and I know this. I’ve read the summaries. With each passing hour, the chances of a good outcome get slimmer and slimmer.

  He asks if there is anyone that we know of who might be a suspect? A relative, a neighbor, the pervert down the street, anyone? We shake our heads, no. I’ve already thought about Link Scanlon and I’m not ready to bring him into this. A kidnapping does not fit his profile. All he wants from me is $100,000 in cash, a refund, and I cannot believe he would resort to kidnapping my son for ransom. Link would prefer to break my right leg this week and my left leg the next.

  Colfax says it’s useful to immediately promise a reward for information. He says a good starting point is $50,000. Judith, the sole parent, says, “I can handle that.” I doubt if she could stroke a check for that amount, but go, girl. “I’ll split it,” I say, as if we’re playing cards.

  To make an unbearable situation even worse, Judith’s parents arrive and are escorted into the office. They grab their daughter and all three have a long cry. I stand against a wall, as far away as possible. They do not acknowledge my presence. Starcher lives with these grandparents about half the time, so they are very attached to him. I try to understand their grief, but I have loathed these people for so long I cannot stand the sight of them. When they settle down, they ask what happened and I tell them. Colfax helps me out with a few facts here and there. By the time we get through with the narrative, they are convinced everything was all my fault. Great—now we’re getting somewhere.

  I do not have to stay in the room. I excuse myself, leave the building, and return to the Landing. The police are still there, loitering around the boathouse, keeping people away from the men’s restroom. I speak to them and express my gratitude; they are sympathetic. Partner arrives, says my mother has had two martinis and is somewhat subdued. He and I split up and roam the walkways of the park. The sun is setting; the shadows are getting longer. Partner brings me a flashlight, and we continue our search well into the night.

  At 8:00 p.m. I call Judith to see how she’s holding up. She’s at home, with her parents, waiting by the phone. I offer to come over and sit, but she says no thanks. She has friends over and I wouldn’t fit. I’m sure she’s right about that.

  I roam through the park for hours, shining my light at every bridge, culvert, tree, and pile of rocks. This is the worst day of my life, and when it ends, I sit on a bench at midnight and finally weep.

  19.

  Aided by whiskey and a pill, I manage to sleep for three hours on the sofa before waking in a pool of sweat. Wide awake now, and the nightmare only continues. I shower to kill time and check on my mother. She’s had some pills and seems to be in a coma. At dawn Partner and I return to the park. There’s nowhere else to go, really. What else am I supposed to do? Sit by the phone? It’s in my pocket and it buzzes at 7:03. Lynn Colfax checks in to see how I’m doing. I tell him I’m at the park, still searching. He says they’ve had a few tips but nothing useful. Just some crackpots interested in the reward money. He asks if I’ve seen the Sunday morning newspaper. Yes, I have. Front page.

  Partner brings some muffins and coffee, and we eat on a picnic table overlooking a pond that’s used for skating in the winter. He asks, “Have you thought about Link?”

  “Yes, I have, but I don’t think it’s him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not his kind of crime.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  We return to the silence that defines our relationship, a quiet I have always appreciated. Now, though, I need someone to talk t
o. We finish eating and split up again. I cover the same paths and trails, look under the same footbridges, walk along the same creeks. I call Judith mid-morning, and her mother answers her cell phone. Judith is resting, and, no, they’ve heard nothing. Back at the Landing, the police have removed the crime scene tape and things have returned to normal. The place is bustling with people again, all apparently oblivious to yesterday’s horror. I watch some boys race their boats around the pond. I stand where I stood yesterday when I saw Starcher for the last time. A dull pain rips through my gut and I’m forced to walk away.

  At the rate I’m going, Starcher is the only child I’ll ever produce. He was an accident, an unwanted child born in the midst of a raging war between his parents, but in spite of that he has blossomed into a beautiful boy. I haven’t been much of a father, but then I’ve been shut out of his life. I never dreamed I could miss another human so much. But then, what parent can imagine a child being abducted?

  Hours pass as I roam the park. I jump out of my skin when my phone rings, but it’s only an acquaintance wanting to help. Late in the day, I sit on a park bench near a jogging trail. From out of nowhere, Detective Landy Reardon appears and sits beside me. He’s wearing a suit under the standard black trench coat.

  “What brings you here?” I ask, startled.

  “I’m just the messenger, Rudd. Nothing more. Not involved, really. But your kid is okay.”

  I take a deep breath and lean forward, elbows on knees, thoroughly confused. I manage to grunt, “What?”

  He stares straight ahead as if I’m not here. “Your kid’s okay. What they want is an exchange.”

  “An exchange?”

  “You got it. You tell me; I tell them. You tell me where the girl is buried, you get your kid back after they find her.”

  I don’t know what to think or say. Praise God my kid is safe, but he’s safe because the cops have snatched him and are holding him as bait! I tell myself I should be angry, furious, volcanic, but I am nothing but relieved. Starcher is okay!

  “They? Them? You’re talking about some of your own people, right?”

  “Sort of. Look, Rudd, you gotta understand that Roy Kemp has pretty much checked out. They’ve put him on administrative leave for a month or so, but no one knows it. He’s a mess, and he’s out there acting on his own.”

  “But he has a lot of friends, right?”

  “Oh yes. Kemp is highly regarded. He’s a thirty-year man, you know, with a lot of contacts, a lot of pull.”

  “So this is an inside job. I don’t believe it. And they’ve sent you to negotiate.”

  “I don’t know where the kid is, I swear. And I don’t like being where I am right now.”

  “That makes at least two of us. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I should’ve known the cops were not above snatching kids.”

  “Back off, Rudd. You got a big mouth, you know that? Deal or no deal?”

  “I’m supposed to tell you what Arch Swanger told me about the girl, right? Where she’s buried. And let’s say Swanger is telling the truth, you find the body, he gets busted for capital murder, and my career as a lawyer is over. My son is returned safely to his mother, and I get to spend a lot more time with him. In fact, I’ll be a full-time dad.”

  “You’re on the right track.”

  “And if I say no, what will happen to my kid? Am I supposed to believe that an assistant chief of police and his thugs will actually hurt a child as revenge?”

  “I guess you gotta roll the dice, Rudd.”

  PART FIVE

  U-HAUL LAW

  1.

  I fight the panic. I tell myself my son is safe, and I believe this. But the situation is so urgent that it is impossible to think rationally. Partner and I go to a coffee joint where we huddle in a corner. I walk through the various scenarios as he listens.

  There is really no choice. The only important thing here is the safety and deliverance of my son; everything else fades in comparison. If I divulge the secret and lose my license to practice law, I’ll survive. Hell, I might even prosper somewhere else, and I certainly won’t be dealing with the likes of Arch Swanger again. This could be my ticket out of the profession, my one beautiful opportunity to walk away from the law and to search for real happiness.

  I want that little boy in my arms.

  Partner and I debate whether I should call Judith and bring her up to date. I decide not to, not now anyway. She will add nothing but stress and complications. And, much more important, she might let it slip to someone else that Kemp and associates have pulled an inside job. Reardon warned me to keep it quiet.

  I call Judith anyway, just to check on her. Ava answers the phone and says Judith is in bed, medicated, and not doing well. The FBI just left the house. There is a swarm of reporters out in the street. Things are just awful. As if I don’t know.

  At 7:00 p.m. Sunday, I call Reardon and say we have a deal.

  It takes an hour to get a search warrant. Obviously, the police have a friendly judge on standby. At 8:30, Partner and I leave the City, with one unmarked car in front of us and one behind, which is nothing unusual. By the time we get to Dr. Woo’s sign, the police are there in force. Spotlights, two backhoes, at least two dozen men with shovels and sticks, and a canine squad of dogs in crates. I’ve told them everything I know, and they’re examining the ground next to the rows of corn. State troopers guard the shoulder of the interstate, waving off any driver who might get curious.

  Partner parks the van where they tell us to park, a hundred feet away from the sign and the action. We sit and watch and hope as the first few frantic moments slip away and the long hours begin. They methodically poke into every square inch of soil. They make a grid, comb through it, then make another one. The backhoes are not used. The dogs stay calm.

  On the other side of the sign there are several unmarked black cars bunched together in the darkness. I’m sure Assistant Chief Kemp is waiting in one of them. I loathe him and would like to personally drill him between the eyes, but right now he’s the man who can deliver my son.

  And then I remember what he’s been through: the horror, the fear, the waiting, the final resignation when he and his wife realized Jiliana was not coming home. Now he’s sitting over there praying his men will find some bones, something for him to bury properly. That’s the best he can expect—a skeleton. My expectations are far greater and certainly more realistic.

  By midnight, I’m cursing Arch Swanger.

  2.

  As they work through the night, Partner and I take turns nodding off. We’re starving and desperate for coffee, but we’re not about to leave. At 5:20, Reardon calls my cell and says, “It’s a dry run, Rudd, there’s nothing here.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know, I swear.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can leave now. Get back on the interstate, head south to the Four Corners exit. I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.”

  As we pull away, the searchers are packing up their gear. The dogs are still in their crates, resting. Arch Swanger is probably watching and laughing. We head south, and twenty minutes later Reardon calls again. He says, “You know that truck stop at Four Corners?”

  “I think so.”

  “Park at the gas pumps but don’t buy any gas. Walk inside, the restaurant is on the right, and at the far end, away from the counter, is a row of booths. Your kid will be there eating ice cream.”

  “Got it.” I want so badly to say something as stupid as “Thanks,” like I owe someone a debt of gratitude for kidnapping my child, not hurting him, and then giving him back. Truthfully, though, I am overcome with relief, joy, gratitude, anticipation, and a strange disbelief that this abduction just might end on a happy note. This never happens.

  A minute later, my phone buzzes again. It’s Reardon and he says, “Look, Rudd, there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing this matter, asking a bunch of questions, running to the press, chasing camera
s, you know, your typical routine. We’ll take care of the press and leak it that you pulled off a dramatic rescue, after an