He told me to drive home safely.” Bennett leans back in the chair. “Then, as I was raising my window, he asked about my son.”
I feel Sara pull her hand away and sit up a little.
“He turned off his flashlight, at which point I recognized him. Sergeant Van Stockman, now. He’s put on twenty years and forty pounds, and apparently he’s never moved out of a radio car in twenty years’ time, but I recognized him. Which I believe was his intent.”
“Jesus.”
“He said that he’d heard Eric would be home soon. He said, ‘I hope he doesn’t run into any more trouble.’ ”
“Jesus.”
“He told me that it would be a shame if some kiddie raper— his words—managed to end up roaming free while a young man like Eric somehow ended up in the state penitentiary.” Bennett folds his hands in his lap. “Then he asked me to have a good evening and strolled back to his car.”
“Jesus.”
I look at Sara. All the color seems to have drained from her complexion. “You’ve got to be…”
“I was angry at first. Not angry. Enraged.”
“What happened when you filed the complaint?”
“The complaint?”
Is he kidding? “Jesus, Bennett, you can’t just let—”
“Let me ask you,” Bennett says to me. “What happened when you called the police after you found your personal documents in Roger Mallory’s house?”
I don’t bother answering the question. Bennett knows the answer already.
“So we agree,” he says, “that in spite of our respective educations, we understand the way the world actually works.”
This is unbelievable. “But you’re telling me that…”
“What I’m telling you is that I hadn’t had a drink in two years,” Bennett says. “Two years and twenty- seven days, to be accurate. But I keep a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in my office at home. A gift from a client that I’ve never opened.
Sentimental reasons.” He looks at me. “The truth, Paul, is that in spite of my anger at being openly threatened—at this threat against my son, a mile from my home—I’d already decided to drop your case before I cracked the seal on that bottle. The truth is that I hadn’t planned to come to court this morning at all.”
Now he looks at Sara.
“And my point,” he tells her, “is that from this moment forward, you don’t have to worry about how crazy anything you tell me about Roger Mallory will sound.”
For the first time since the police showed up on our door step last night, Sara looks genuinely frightened. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this look before. Not even the night a stranger came into our house and attacked her in our bed. Not quite like this.
“My God,” she says.
I can’t think of a thing to add.
Bennett says, “Tell me how you came to find your credit card statement in Mallory’s house.”
I feel numb.
“Paul?”
“That’s not what started this,” I tell him. I want to beg Sara’s forgiveness before I say another word.
“What happened?”
My turn.
12.
INSTEAD OF “HELLO,” Charlie Bernard said, “Let me see if I heard this correctly.”
“Hey, Charlie.” I held the phone with my shoulder while I tied my shoes. “Heard what correctly?”
“When I phoned last evening, I was told that you were unavailable.”
“Sorry I missed you, buddy. Sara said you called.”
“Specifically, that you were—again, I’m confirming—out on patrol?”
It sounded funny even to me. But what could I say?
“I wonder,” he said. “What in holy hell does that mean?”
“I joined the neighborhood watch. Didn’t Sara tell you?”
“The neighborhood watch.”
“I’ve got a vest and everything.”
“Surely you must be shitting me.”
“A vest and a walkie- talkie. And a hell of a nice flashlight.” Before our break- in, I’d have been right alongside Charlie mocking the idea of patrolling a suburban cul- de- sac with a picture of a badge printed on my chest.
Even after our break- in, it still felt vaguely absurd. But
I feel Sara pull her hand away and sit up a little.
“He turned off his flashlight, at which point I recognized him. Sergeant Van Stockman, now. He’s put on twenty years and forty pounds, and apparently he’s never moved out of a radio car in twenty years’ time, but I recognized him. Which I believe was his intent.”
“Jesus.”
“He said that he’d heard Eric would be home soon. He said, ‘I hope he doesn’t run into any more trouble.’ ”
“Jesus.”
“He told me that it would be a shame if some kiddie raper— his words—managed to end up roaming free while a young man like Eric somehow ended up in the state penitentiary.” Bennett folds his hands in his lap. “Then he asked me to have a good evening and strolled back to his car.”
“Jesus.”
I look at Sara. All the color seems to have drained from her complexion. “You’ve got to be…”
“I was angry at first. Not angry. Enraged.”
“What happened when you filed the complaint?”
“The complaint?”
Is he kidding? “Jesus, Bennett, you can’t just let—”
“Let me ask you,” Bennett says to me. “What happened when you called the police after you found your personal documents in Roger Mallory’s house?”
I don’t bother answering the question. Bennett knows the answer already.
“So we agree,” he says, “that in spite of our respective educations, we understand the way the world actually works.”
This is unbelievable. “But you’re telling me that…”
“What I’m telling you is that I hadn’t had a drink in two years,” Bennett says. “Two years and twenty- seven days, to be accurate. But I keep a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in my office at home. A gift from a client that I’ve never opened.
Sentimental reasons.” He looks at me. “The truth, Paul, is that in spite of my anger at being openly threatened—at this threat against my son, a mile from my home—I’d already decided to drop your case before I cracked the seal on that bottle. The truth is that I hadn’t planned to come to court this morning at all.”
Now he looks at Sara.
“And my point,” he tells her, “is that from this moment forward, you don’t have to worry about how crazy anything you tell me about Roger Mallory will sound.”
For the first time since the police showed up on our door step last night, Sara looks genuinely frightened. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this look before. Not even the night a stranger came into our house and attacked her in our bed. Not quite like this.
“My God,” she says.
I can’t think of a thing to add.
Bennett says, “Tell me how you came to find your credit card statement in Mallory’s house.”
I feel numb.
“Paul?”
“That’s not what started this,” I tell him. I want to beg Sara’s forgiveness before I say another word.
“What happened?”
My turn.
12.
INSTEAD OF “HELLO,” Charlie Bernard said, “Let me see if I heard this correctly.”
“Hey, Charlie.” I held the phone with my shoulder while I tied my shoes. “Heard what correctly?”
“When I phoned last evening, I was told that you were unavailable.”
“Sorry I missed you, buddy. Sara said you called.”
“Specifically, that you were—again, I’m confirming—out on patrol?”
It sounded funny even to me. But what could I say?
“I wonder,” he said. “What in holy hell does that mean?”
“I joined the neighborhood watch. Didn’t Sara tell you?”
“The neighborhood watch.”
“I’ve got a vest and everything.”
“Surely you must be shitting me.”
“A vest and a walkie- talkie. And a hell of a nice flashlight.” Before our break- in, I’d have been right alongside Charlie mocking the idea of patrolling a suburban cul- de- sac with a picture of a badge printed on my chest.
Even after our break- in, it still felt vaguely absurd. But
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