Redemption – A Short Story, Page 3

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  When I first saw my dad again, it was like seeing a ghost. Growing up, he’d been a big, burly, red-faced guy who strutted into a room as if he owned it. The man who shuffled into the visitor’s area was pale and gaunt; his clothes hung loosely on him like an undersized store mannequin.

  May father walked to the table where I sat, and he stood for a moment. I saw the indecision in his eyes -- whether to embrace me or to shake my hand. I didn’t want a hug or a handshake. I stayed in my chair and gestured to the one opposite me. I might need my dad’s help, but I wasn’t going to make this easy on him. This wasn’t a heartfelt reunion between two people thrilled to see each other after a long separation. As I gazed into my father’s steely blue eyes, I felt like a mouse waiting for a cobra to strike.

  He lowered himself into the chair and spoke the first words of our ten-year drought. “It’s good to see you, son, even under these circumstances.”

  “I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Then I’m glad you called me. I want to help you.”

  Listening to my dad’s offer, I felt compelled to convince him of my innocence. “I didn’t kill this guy.”

  “I know you didn’t. I believe you.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I want you to tell me everything that happened leading up to your arrest. Don’t leave anything out. The more I know, the better chance I have to help you.”

  I nodded, ready to talk, ready to tell my side of the story to someone who might actually believe me. “I guess it all started because I needed a new pair of pants. One of the guys I work with invited us all over to his place for a barbecue. I wanted to get a new pair of khakis, maybe a shirt to go with it. I’d seen this fancy men’s clothing store downtown. I’d never been inside, but they had nice stuff in their windows. So I stopped in one day after work. Turns out this man who they think I killed -- Jonathan Cahill -- owned the store.”

  “So what happened?” my father asked.

  “As soon as I walked in, he gave me this attitude. Like I didn’t belong there. Like I wasn’t good enough to set foot in his precious store. I’d come straight from my construction job, dressed in my work clothes. I’m sure I was pretty sweaty, too.” I shook my head, remembering. “He followed me around the whole time. I could tell he was afraid I was going to steal something. I should have just walked out, but I was there and they had what I was looking for.” I paused, thinking that if only I’d left, I wouldn’t be in this jam.

  “Go on,” my dad said.

  “I took a few pairs of pants into the fitting room and while I was trying them on, I heard some more people come into the store. The owner left me alone and went to help them. I tried on the pants, but I didn’t like any of them that much.” I shrugged. “And the more I thought about how the guy had treated me, the more pissed off I got. So I just left.”

  “Did the owner see you leave?”

  “No, but I saw him busy with other customers at the back of the store. Smiling and treating them like royalty. When I saw that, I knew he wasn’t rude to everyone. Only to people he didn’t think were worthy of being his customers.”

  I saw my father wince. He knew I had other plans after I graduated college, but after my mom’s suicide, I lost my motivation. I took the easy way out -- a job that paid the bills and didn’t require me to interact with people.

  “How did shopping lead to a murder charge?” my dad asked.

  “It wasn’t murder at first; it was theft. An expensive watch went missing the day I was in the store and the owner was convinced I stole it. He must have noticed my company logo on the shirt I was wearing, because the police showed up at my workplace to question me.”

  I remembered how humiliated I felt having the cops grill me in front of my boss and my co-workers. “I got pretty angry. I mean, first the owner treats me like dirt and then he accuses me of stealing.”

  “Did the police charge you?”

  “No. The owner didn’t see me leave with the Rolex. The cops didn’t have any evidence. I’m sure they were hoping I’d confess, but obviously, I didn’t since I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  “I’m surprised the police even followed up on it. Usually they don’t bother with retail thefts.”

  “I bet Cahill was a big contributor to their police fund. Something like that. Or maybe he just had connections.”

  My father nodded. “You could be right. It wouldn’t be the first time a big-time donor got preferential treatment. So if the police didn’t charge you with theft, then...”

  I could see he was confused. “I should have just left it alone, but I didn’t. I decided to go back to the shop and talk to the owner. Tell him face-to-face I didn’t take the watch.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t believe me. He was convinced I took it. And why? Because I didn’t look like I could afford to buy clothes at his fancy store. Not me, not a blue-collar worker.” I pounded my fist on the table. “I get so sick of being treated like a second-class citizen.”

  “Did you get angry at the owner? Threaten him in some way?”

  “Not in words, but I was pretty hot. I stormed out, slammed the door, threw a trash can at the side of the building. There were people walking by who saw me. Maybe one of them contacted the police after they heard about the murder and gave them my description.”

  “And the police connected the dots,” my dad said. “They knew you were angry with the owner over the theft accusation and they figured it escalated from there. But that’s a pretty weak case. I’m surprised they convinced a DA to charge you.”

  “There’s more.” I didn’t want to tell him the rest. I felt like an idiot for what I’d done, but I couldn’t hold back. He’d find out anyway. “I went to see him at the shop on Tuesday during my lunch break. When I got off work at eleven, I looked up his address and drove to his house. I know it was stupid, but I was still mad. I planned on having it out with him.”

  My father grimaced. “So there’s a witness placing you at the victim’s house the night he was murdered, right?”

  “Someone saw my truck in his driveway. Just like I didn’t fit in at the store, my beat-up truck didn’t fit in the neighborhood. The witness must have written down the license plate number.”

  My dad leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, as though he wanted to create distance between us. I didn’t blame him. He finally heard from his son after all these years and then I dump this crap right into his lap. I shouldn’t have called him. I should have figured out another way. I was about to let him off the hook when he spoke.

  “It doesn’t look good, but I’ve seen stronger cases fall apart. I’ll call in some favors with the guys I still know on the force. I’ll try to get a look at the murder book and see if I can find some other leads to track down.”

  I was shocked. I’d hoped he could find me a criminal attorney, maybe give me some advice. I hadn’t expected him to offer to investigate the crime. To really go to bat for me. For the first time since I was thrown in jail, I felt a glimmer of hope. My voice cracked when I spoke. “Thanks, Dad. I didn’t know if you’d be willing to help me -- you know, after everything that’s happened.”

  He took a deep breath. “I know I was a rotten father and I’m not here to make excuses. The past is behind us and there’s nothing I can do to change it. But from here on out, I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I swear on your mother’s grave, I’ll figure out a way to get you out of this mess.”