The officer hesitated. He called over his partner. Then he began the words of the Miranda Rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…”
Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.
They took him back to one of the police stations on Martha’s Vineyard, and he found himself in a small gray room with the only door locked. Alex had the disoriented sensation of not knowing exactly where he was. He stared at his hands. It all seemed so strange. Funny, Alex thought, he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. In a dazed sort of way, he felt like he’d just come home. Maybe it was the liquor, because Alex didn’t believe that it could be God.
Two sergeants walked in – officers Maxwell and Dugan according to their name tags.
“So how did all of this happen?” asked the one called Maxwell. He had pepper gray hair and a slightly darker mustache.
“You’ll forgive me if I talk slowly,” Alex said. “I’m used to lying, so it’ll take some doing to come up with the truth.”
‘Got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.
“And I need a lawyer, but first, let me tell you about tonight. And, listen, can you let me know when you find my wife.” Alex told his story slowly, and the sergeant caught it all on tape. The easiest interrogation he’d had in months.
A third policeman walked in. “Your wife is in Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“There’s concussion and some swelling, and she’s still unconscious,” he said. “That’s all they know right now.”
When he thought about Vivian, all he could remember were the manipulation and the anger. Surely there were good times too. Why couldn’t he remember them? “She really is the best part of me,” said Alex to himself. “And I really treated her like a heel.” His head throbbed and his mind bounced around as if on springs. But one thought kept surfacing, and he said it out loud. “If she dies, I’ll be charged with manslaughter, won’t I?” He looked at the officer.
“Not necessarily. Cooperate. Tell them everything.”
Alex smiled wryly. “If I tell them everything, I’ll never get out of prison.”
To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.
Chapter XXXIX pgs. 270-271
‘It’s got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.
The next day dawned amid iron and concrete for Alex. A pale yellowish light illuminated a sink and toilet in the left corner of the cell. Not even that is private, he thought.
Alex took a deep breath. His head ached, and it made his other senses more acute. Somewhere off to the right, metal clanged against metal, reverberating harshly off the hard surfaces with no rugs or curtains or pillows to soften the sound. It was so strange, having no control over himself or his surroundings. A mysterious “they” determined where Alex would be and what he would do.
Alex sat on his bunk staring at the blanket. He set about removing all the lint bumps with his fingers. There was precious little to occupy his time. He had no watch, and no way to know how long before something would happen – breakfast, lunch, exercise – any break from the monotony would be welcome.
“Visitor, Lidecker.” Even the guard’s voice was harsh, and the unexpected sound jerked Alex to his feet. Nothing seemed real. It was as though his mind were in some pathetic movie. Head throbbing, he stood waiting for his body to be processed by a uniformed jailer. No one appeared quite human in here.
The visitor was Abraham Franklin, “the best lawyer money could buy” if you could believe his business card. Weasel had made the arrangements. Alex had never needed a criminal lawyer before. Alex eyed the business card through a thick plate of glass.
Alex knew this was coming. They cuffed his hands behind him, ducked his head under the doorframe, and sat him down in the back of the patrol car. Alex wondered if he would regret his honesty after the liquor had worn off the next morning.
They took him back to one of the police stations on Martha’s Vineyard, and he found himself in a small gray room with the only door locked. Alex had the disoriented sensation of not knowing exactly where he was. He stared at his hands. It all seemed so strange. Funny, Alex thought, he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. In a dazed sort of way, he felt like he’d just come home. Maybe it was the liquor, because Alex didn’t believe that it could be God.
Two sergeants walked in – officers Maxwell and Dugan according to their name tags.
“So how did all of this happen?” asked the one called Maxwell. He had pepper gray hair and a slightly darker mustache.
“You’ll forgive me if I talk slowly,” Alex said. “I’m used to lying, so it’ll take some doing to come up with the truth.”
‘Got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.
“And I need a lawyer, but first, let me tell you about tonight. And, listen, can you let me know when you find my wife.” Alex told his story slowly, and the sergeant caught it all on tape. The easiest interrogation he’d had in months.
A third policeman walked in. “Your wife is in Martha’s Vineyard Hospital.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“There’s concussion and some swelling, and she’s still unconscious,” he said. “That’s all they know right now.”
When he thought about Vivian, all he could remember were the manipulation and the anger. Surely there were good times too. Why couldn’t he remember them? “She really is the best part of me,” said Alex to himself. “And I really treated her like a heel.” His head throbbed and his mind bounced around as if on springs. But one thought kept surfacing, and he said it out loud. “If she dies, I’ll be charged with manslaughter, won’t I?” He looked at the officer.
“Not necessarily. Cooperate. Tell them everything.”
Alex smiled wryly. “If I tell them everything, I’ll never get out of prison.”
To read from the beginning, click the photos on the right.
Chapter XXXIX pgs. 270-271
‘It’s got to be the liquor,’ thought the officer.
The next day dawned amid iron and concrete for Alex. A pale yellowish light illuminated a sink and toilet in the left corner of the cell. Not even that is private, he thought.
Alex took a deep breath. His head ached, and it made his other senses more acute. Somewhere off to the right, metal clanged against metal, reverberating harshly off the hard surfaces with no rugs or curtains or pillows to soften the sound. It was so strange, having no control over himself or his surroundings. A mysterious “they” determined where Alex would be and what he would do.
Alex sat on his bunk staring at the blanket. He set about removing all the lint bumps with his fingers. There was precious little to occupy his time. He had no watch, and no way to know how long before something would happen – breakfast, lunch, exercise – any break from the monotony would be welcome.
“Visitor, Lidecker.” Even the guard’s voice was harsh, and the unexpected sound jerked Alex to his feet. Nothing seemed real. It was as though his mind were in some pathetic movie. Head throbbing, he stood waiting for his body to be processed by a uniformed jailer. No one appeared quite human in here.
The visitor was Abraham Franklin, “the best lawyer money could buy” if you could believe his business card. Weasel had made the arrangements. Alex had never needed a criminal lawyer before. Alex eyed the business card through a thick plate of glass.
No comments:
Post a Comment