One of those boot camps for teen agers. A last chance before prison, in Eric’s case. He’ll be eighteen soon, and I’ve pulled all the strings I can reach. Be lieve me.”
Sara glances at me, but I’m watching Douglas Bennett. Won dering why he’s chosen this moment to tell us about his son.
“Hard as nails,” Bennett says. “This place where we sent him. He wrote us hate letters for weeks.”
Sara nods politely. “Those couldn’t have been very pleasant to read.”
Bennett acknowledges Sara’s kindness with a nod. “Cheryl cried for two months straight. But we’re past that now. These last three months… We visited in September. He seemed to stand a little straighter. Look us in the eye. The instructors say he’s been studying, volunteering for things. Talking about college when he comes home. I don’t know.” He looks again at the outdated photo of the young boy with braces on his teeth. “Maybe they got him in time.”
I’m honestly glad for Eric Bennett. I’m not unhappy to listen to this story, which sounds like it has a chance to move into happier chapters. But I’m still waiting.
“Despite innumerable ways in which I may have failed as a parent,” Bennett says, “and in spite of whatever impressions I may have given the two of you in court this morning, the fact remains that I’m among the two or three highest- paid defenders in Clark Falls.”
Sara says, “Mr. Bennett—”
He holds up a hand. “Doug. And don’t mistake my meaning. I’m not sounding my own horn. I’m only providing context.”
Just then he seems uncomfortable with the photo staring up from the table in front of him. He returns it to its place on the corner of his desk. Then he comes back and sits down again.
“Being the son of a highly paid defense attorney, in a town the size of Clark Falls, Eric’s troubles are well- known in the legal circle here, as I’m sure you can imagine. The cobbler’s children go without shoes, et cetera.”
“I don’t mean to seem uncaring,” I finally say. “But why are you telling us this?”
“Twenty years ago—before Eric was even born—I successfully defended a client. The details of the case aren’t important, but during that trial, a patrol officer named Van Stockman deliveredwhat was considered to be key testimony for the prosecution. Unfortunately for the prosecution, I was able to turn Stockman’s own procedural mistakes during the arrest, and the handling of evidence, into an acquittal for my client.” He waves his hand. “I only tell you this to explain how I first came to know Van Stockman. And how I know that Van Stockman’s training officer, in those days…”
“Was Roger Mallory.”
Bennett seems impressed to hear me say this.
Sara seems shocked. She looks at me.
How did you know that?
At the mental image of Roger in his former life, decked in his patrol gear, just like the young cop who handcuffed me in front of my house last night—the skin tightens at the back of my neck.
“I’ve met him,” I tell her.
“When?”
I leave it there for now, except to explain that Stockman had been Clair Mallory’s maiden name. That Roger had married his patrol partner’s big sister, making Van Stockman not only his subordinate, but also his brother- in- law. Eventually, his son Brandon’s uncle.
“That’s right,” Bennett says.
“What does Stockman have to do…”
“Last night, after meeting with you at the jail, I was followed to within a mile of my home by a Clark Falls patrol unit.”
“Followed?”
“And eventually pulled over. On North River Road, where there are no streetlamps, and very little traffic at that hour. The officer who approached my window held a light in my eyes and asked for my license and registration.”
“You were followed.”
“After reviewing my license he apologized for the inconvenience. He indicated that he recognized me. He speculated that perhaps I’d just come from a late- night meeting with aclient.
Sara glances at me, but I’m watching Douglas Bennett. Won dering why he’s chosen this moment to tell us about his son.
“Hard as nails,” Bennett says. “This place where we sent him. He wrote us hate letters for weeks.”
Sara nods politely. “Those couldn’t have been very pleasant to read.”
Bennett acknowledges Sara’s kindness with a nod. “Cheryl cried for two months straight. But we’re past that now. These last three months… We visited in September. He seemed to stand a little straighter. Look us in the eye. The instructors say he’s been studying, volunteering for things. Talking about college when he comes home. I don’t know.” He looks again at the outdated photo of the young boy with braces on his teeth. “Maybe they got him in time.”
I’m honestly glad for Eric Bennett. I’m not unhappy to listen to this story, which sounds like it has a chance to move into happier chapters. But I’m still waiting.
“Despite innumerable ways in which I may have failed as a parent,” Bennett says, “and in spite of whatever impressions I may have given the two of you in court this morning, the fact remains that I’m among the two or three highest- paid defenders in Clark Falls.”
Sara says, “Mr. Bennett—”
He holds up a hand. “Doug. And don’t mistake my meaning. I’m not sounding my own horn. I’m only providing context.”
Just then he seems uncomfortable with the photo staring up from the table in front of him. He returns it to its place on the corner of his desk. Then he comes back and sits down again.
“Being the son of a highly paid defense attorney, in a town the size of Clark Falls, Eric’s troubles are well- known in the legal circle here, as I’m sure you can imagine. The cobbler’s children go without shoes, et cetera.”
“I don’t mean to seem uncaring,” I finally say. “But why are you telling us this?”
“Twenty years ago—before Eric was even born—I successfully defended a client. The details of the case aren’t important, but during that trial, a patrol officer named Van Stockman deliveredwhat was considered to be key testimony for the prosecution. Unfortunately for the prosecution, I was able to turn Stockman’s own procedural mistakes during the arrest, and the handling of evidence, into an acquittal for my client.” He waves his hand. “I only tell you this to explain how I first came to know Van Stockman. And how I know that Van Stockman’s training officer, in those days…”
“Was Roger Mallory.”
Bennett seems impressed to hear me say this.
Sara seems shocked. She looks at me.
How did you know that?
At the mental image of Roger in his former life, decked in his patrol gear, just like the young cop who handcuffed me in front of my house last night—the skin tightens at the back of my neck.
“I’ve met him,” I tell her.
“When?”
I leave it there for now, except to explain that Stockman had been Clair Mallory’s maiden name. That Roger had married his patrol partner’s big sister, making Van Stockman not only his subordinate, but also his brother- in- law. Eventually, his son Brandon’s uncle.
“That’s right,” Bennett says.
“What does Stockman have to do…”
“Last night, after meeting with you at the jail, I was followed to within a mile of my home by a Clark Falls patrol unit.”
“Followed?”
“And eventually pulled over. On North River Road, where there are no streetlamps, and very little traffic at that hour. The officer who approached my window held a light in my eyes and asked for my license and registration.”
“You were followed.”
“After reviewing my license he apologized for the inconvenience. He indicated that he recognized me. He speculated that perhaps I’d just come from a late- night meeting with aclient.
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