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“Don’t worry. We’re going to get you out of this.”
“We should tell them—”
“TJ, listen.” John put a hand on my shoulder. “Remember when this all started? You said I should know what to do? That I’m the lawyer?”
“Yes,” I answered, looking up at him.
“I do. So this time, followmylead.”
•••
I wrung my hands in the back seat of the police cruiser, which felt horribly familiar. The hard vinyl bench. The scratchy bulletproof divider. The greenish glow of the laptop screen on the console. The stolid expressions of the cops. The long guns between them in the rack, held vertically. The loud crackle of the radio with incomprehensible codes.
I looked out the window, fighting for self-control. I told myself this was now and that was then. It wasn’t the same night, but itfeltthesame, and my body went back in time, dragging with it my thoughts, my feelings, my memories.
It was a cool night like this one. I was driving home and I really meant to go home, where Carrie was waiting for me. But all I could think about was a cold beer, so I stopped in the first bar I saw. I hadn’t meant to have more than one, but before I knew it, I had six.
I was feeling great until the cops showed up and dragged me outside—where Emily, Carrie’s daughter, only two years old, was crying in her car seat. She’d been asleep, and I’d forgotten she was in the back seat. Tears streaked her perfect cheeks.
I felt myself die from shame, even drunk as I was. I’d left Emily alone in an unlocked car. It was a cool night, but I was lucky. She could have died. She could have been kidnapped. Anything could have happened.
Bystanders shouted and pointed at me. The cops shoved me into the cruiser and I broke down, knowing I was a guy who would leave a kid in a car to go drinking.
Guilty!
They say that drunks have to hit rock bottom to change, and I’d experienced plenty of rock bottoms, but that night was the lowest I would go, the deepest depth I could fall. The date was June 7, and I would never forget it because it became my sobriety date. I never drank after that, not one drop. I went to jail, then rehab, but there would never be enough amends or apologies. Carrie would never have me back, and I didn’t deserve her or Emily.
Guilty!
I tried to shed the memory now as we drove up to the Justice Center in West Chester, a seven-story brick edifice that held offices of the sheriff, detectives, district attorneys, and courtrooms. Its imposing Greek columns supported a triangular portico over the entrance, andthere were detention cells in the basement of the building, where I’d been held when I was arrested before.
American and Pennsylvania flags flapped in front of the building, and I shuddered as we pulled up under the signparking for west chester police only.
Standing at the curb was John.
With my father.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The cops led us to Interview Room Four, a sterile cubicle with black plastic chairs around a smooth fake-wood table. There was a large video camera on a tripod next to the table, but I didn’t know if it was running.
I sat down next to John, trying to get my emotional bearings. I kept thinking about Rigel getting hit by the truck. The horrifying thud. His scream. The heat of the truck engine.
Meanwhile my father stood in the doorway with the two cops, greeting them like a host and shaking their hands. “Officer Mullen, any relation to Jimmy Mullen? Owns a PVC pipe company? We’re on the Chamber together.”
“Jimmy’s my uncle.” The cop grinned. “He speaks highly of you.”
“As well he should,” my father shot back. “Send my regards, will you? Jimmy’s a great guy. Helluva golfer.”
“He cheats.”
“Who doesn’t?” my father said, and they both laughed.
“Please, sit down.” The other officer gestured my father into a chair next to me, but he sat down at the head of the table, then took over.
“Officers, I think we need to talk about the press. I expect you will not be releasing the details of this incident.”
Officer Mullen nodded. “We release the minimum, as per procedure.”
