“Hands out,” one of the correctional officers said.
Terry put them out and watched as a new pair of handcuffs was snapped onto his wrists. He looked for Howie, suddenly as anxious as he had been at five, when his mother let go of his hand on his first day of kindergarten. Howie was seated on the corner of a vacant desk, talking on his cell phone, but when he saw Terry’s look, he ended the call and hurried over.
“Do not touch the prisoner, sir,” said the officer who had cuffed Terry.
Gold ignored him. He put an arm around Terry’s shoulders and murmured, “It’s going to be all right.” Then—to Gold’s surprise as much as his client’s—he kissed Terry on the cheek.
Terry took that kiss with him as the four men escorted him down the front steps to where a county van waited behind a State Police cruiser with its jackpot lights pulsing. And the words. Them especially, as the cameras flashed and the TV lights came on and the questions flew at him like bullets: Have you been charged, did you do it, are you innocent, have you confessed, what can you say to Frank Peterson’s parents.
It’s going to be all right, Gold had said, and that was what Terry hung onto.
But of course it wasn’t.
SORRY
July 14th–July 15th
1
The battery-powered bubble-light Alec Pelley kept in the center console of his Explorer was in sort of a gray area. It might no longer be strictly legal, since he was retired from the State Police, but on the other hand, since he was a member in good standing of the Cap City Police Reserve, maybe it was. Either way, it seemed necessary to plonk it on the dashboard and light it up on this occasion. With its help, he made the run from Cap to Flint in record time and was knocking on the door of 17 Barnum Court at quarter past nine. There were no news people here, but further up the street he could see the harsh glare of TV lights in front of what he assumed was the Maitland house. Not all the blowflies had been drawn to the fresh meat of Howie’s impromptu press conference, it seemed. Not that he had expected it.
The door was opened by a short sandy-haired fireplug of a man, his brow creased, his lips pressed so tightly together that his mouth was almost nonexistent. All ready to let fly with his go-to-hell speech. The woman standing behind him was a green-eyed blonde, three inches taller than her husband and much better looking, even with no makeup and her eyes swollen. She wasn’t currently crying, but somewhere deeper in the house, someone was. A child. One of Maitland’s, Alec assumed.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mattingly? I’m Alec Pelley. Did Howie Gold call you?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Come in, Mr. Pelley.”
Alec started forward. Mattingly, eight inches shorter but undaunted, stepped in his way. “Could we see some identification first, please?”
“Of course.” Alec could have shown them his driver’s license, but opted for his Police Reserve ID instead. No need for them to know that most of his duty shifts these days were a kind of charity function, usually as a glorified security guard at rock shows, rodeos, pro wrestling fuckarees, and the thrice-yearly Monster Truck Jam at the Coliseum. He also worked the Cap City business area with a chalk-stick when one of the meter maids called in sick. This was a humbling experience for a man who had once commanded a squad of four State Police detectives, but Alec didn’t mind; he liked being outside in the sunshine. Also, he was something of a Bible scholar, and James 4, verse 6, proclaims, “God opposeth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Mattingly said, simultaneously stepping aside and holding out his hand. “Tom Mattingly.”
Alec shook with him, prepared for a strong grip. He was not disappointed.
“I’m not normally suspicious, this is a nice quiet neighborhood, but I told Jamie that we had to be super careful while we’ve got Sarah and Grace under our roof. Lot of people angry at Coach T already, and believe me, this is just the beginning. Once what he did gets around, it’s gonna be a whole lot worse. Glad you’re here to take them off our hands.”
Jamie Mattingly gave him a reproachful look. “Whatever their father may have done—if he did anything—it’s not their fault.” And, to Alec: “They’re devastated, especially Gracie. They saw their father led away in handcuffs.”
“Ah, Jesus, wait until they find out why,” Mattingly said. “And they will. These days kids always do. Goddam Internet, goddam Facebook, goddam Tweeter birds.” He shook his head. “Jamie’s right, innocent until proven guilty, it’s the American way, but when they make a public arrest like that . . .” He sighed. “Want something to drink, Mr. Pelley? Jamie made iced tea before the game.”