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Lincoln tries to settle himself, think clearly. “Should I bring a lawyer?”
“Up to you,” says Sergeant Evinrude evenly. “I just want to ask a few questions. You’ll be free to go whenever you want. No need for any Miranda warnings.”
Lincoln is dumbstruck. The sergeant moves them along.
“How about ten tomorrow morning? Just ask for me at the front desk.”
“Ah, OK,” Lincoln mumbles.
“See you then.” Click.
Lincoln sits holding the phone until it starts to whine from the disconnection. Even after he returns it to its cradle, the whine remains in his ears. A battery complaint? It must be from shoving the black woman. But that’s ridiculous. He replays the incident over and over in his head. He was just acting in panic, like everyone else. Maybe he was thinking only of himself, maybe he was a little rough, but how could that possibly be criminal?
He stands and walks to the window, looking down on the alley, working to gather himself. He knows he’s got to channel his father. Steely calm. Never admit, never concede. His father. An assistant attorney general for civil rights under President Clinton. The distinguished advocate for human rights whose son is being charged with battery on an elderly black woman.
“Lost in memory?” asks a voice from the doorway. Amy, looking relaxed and trim in jeans and a sleeveless green shirt.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she says, laughing. “I never heard you leave.”
“Shhh.” Lincoln motions her to sit.
“I’ve really only got a second,” she tells him, sitting down nonetheless. “Byron has got me running all over the city picking up photographs for your Professor Fleace. I spent the morning at the History Museum.”
“Were you able to find some good shots?” Earlier, Fleace and Lincoln had made a list of promising images.
“Lots. You could cut the text and add more photos.”
“Listen,” he says, sitting again, “we need to talk, seriously.”
“OK.” She looks at him with concern.
The phone rings. Lincoln picks it up.
“John, your wife is on the line,” Kim announces.
“Ah...” Before Lincoln can decide whether to take it, the call clicks through.
“Linc?”
“Hiiii.” In his distress, he turns the greeting into a yodel.
“Linc? You OK? You sound kind of funny.”
“Yes, just in a meeting at the moment.” Lincoln sits up and hunches over the phone, as if he could hide this conversation from Amy.
“Oh, sorry,” Mary says. “This will only take a second.” But then in a rushed, anxious voice she launches a monologue about how their insurance broker thinks Lincoln should take his name off the car insurance since Mary’s the one using the Camry these days, and the premium will drop without Lincoln and his two speeding tickets, etc. They haven’t spoken in two weeks, and this is what Mary wants to talk about?
Lincoln nods with the phone at his ear and smiles stupidly at Amy. His head is pounding, and he wonders if it’s too soon to take more Bufferin, but he’s too distracted to do the math and count the hours. Finally, he breaks in and tells Mary to go ahead, delete his name from the coverage.
Mary pauses. “How are things going?” she asks in a gentler voice.
“OK, busy, OK.”
“Me, too. But I’m getting away. I’m leaving today for a week in Sedona.”
Alone? Of course, not. Lincoln wants to ask, With whom? Instead, he jokes darkly, “Oh, a vacation from the vacation.”
