Presumed Guilty (17 page)

I am praying now, even as I write, even as I don’t know how to pray. Only that I must.
The Bible says that the Spirit intercedes for us, with groans words can’t express. That’s what I need right now, Lord. Intercession from the Spirit, because I don’t know how to pray.
The dinner just arrived. Burrito. I find I am looking forward to burrito night. It is one of the more palatable items on the fancy menu here. They like to keep the food laden with starch and carbs, to keep the prisoners happy. The burrito is their crowning achievement, and it comes as a small oasis in this desert of a cell.
The ravens brought meat to Elijah. I am almost positive that the burrito contains meat of some sort, but I do not ask for details.
Tonight, another message in a tin foil envelope came with the burrito. It was once again in King James: “Take heed, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief, in departing from the living God.”
No Scripture reference, though it sounded familiar enough.
The book of Hebrews,
I thought, and looked it up. Sure enough, right there in
chapter three
.
Someone was playing with me, someone who was following my case. Maybe it was even one of the deputies who watches this cage.
Whoever it was, he was pressing a hot iron into my soul.
Yes, I feel the need to keep in prayer. I’m stopping now and getting on my knees.

“Yo!”
Jared heard the word through a thick wall of brain matter. “Yo, you better get up and get out, now!”
A kicking in the ribs. Jared opened his eyes. It was not easy.

They were heavy and tired.
Cold. It was cold and he didn’t know where he was. Hard ground.
The sound of cars, an echo chamber. Dark. Some time of night. Now a string of swear words from the voice and another kick in
the ribs. Jared tried to focus. He looked up and saw a face staring
at him.
It was not like any face he had ever seen.
The eyes were feral and fiery. Superior. The guy’s face was distorted, not by expression but by some permanent force that had
twisted bone and skin.
Around his head was a dirty blue bandana, and a stained coat
covered the rest of his body. Jared caught a whiff of whisky and
sweat.
“Gonna stomp your head to Jell-O, you don’t get out now. Anywhere you go, I’ll know where you are . . .” And more foul language
poured out of the man’s malformed lips.
Jared’s head was pounding like an industrial crusher. Fear shot
through his body and got him to his feet.
The face did not move. “You’re dead. You don’t know it. Make
it real, baby.”
What?
His head was mush. He had no idea where he was. But he had to
move or he had the feeling his insides would be torn out. He began to stagger down the walk. He had no idea what direction he was going.
The voice of the man echoed off the walls of the underpass. But
he didn’t speak words. Now the guy was howling.
And Jared tried to run. His feet were cinder blocks, his legs hot
rubber.
The howling was like a mad wolf at the sight of a harvest
moon.
The world vibrated around him, swirled and gyrated. What was
wrong with his head? The same smell — whisky and sweat — hit
him again. Was the guy behind him?
No. Jared realized the smell was coming from him.
Drunk. I got drunk and passed out here.
Headlights from oncoming cars shot beams of blinding light
through his skull. He was in the street now. A horn blared and tires
squealed as the lights went around him.
Another voice, another shout, another obscenity. And then the
car drove on.
Why couldn’t he focus his eyes? Where had he been before
this?
Get out of the street!
He sucked in a huge gulp of night air and made for a streetlight. A
fixed point in this sea of uncertainty. He’d grab it. He could hold on. It became his point of reference. By concentrating, he could
keep the rest of the world from spinning out of control. If he could
make it to the pole, he could hold on, hold tight.
He remembered something. A story. About the Asian tsunami
of ’04. He’d read the accounts, one about a fisherman in a little
village. His house was completely washed away; the only thing left
was a pole embedded deep in the ground. The man hung on, with
his three children, to the pole. He lost two of the children. But
four hours later they rescued the fisherman and his daughter, then
found the other two kids alive.
A miracle, the fisherman said.
This would be like that, Jared managed to think.
Don’t get
washed away. Get away from the guy in the underpass.
Another car blared a horn, went around him. He kept his eyes
on the light pole. Wasn’t that the way they used to show drunks in
newspaper cartoons? Clinging to a lamppost?
Why wasn’t his head clearing?
Where had he been drinking?
At last, the pole was within reach. Jared almost fell down getting to it. But he kept enough balance to get to the standard and
throw his arms around the pole.
It was rough and cold against his cheek.
No, I wasn’t drinking.
The thought cleared a path in his brain. Other thoughts followed, plowing the field.
He remembered storming out of his mother’s house. They’d
argued. About God. Yes, and other things. He was going to move
back to Bakersfield, right?
He had his truck back, and he’d driven down to the little strip
mall off Rinaldi. Went in the liquor store. What did he buy? Jim Beam. A fifth.
Where was it? Where was his truck? He couldn’t remember
drinking anything. But his smell.
The light pole was keeping him up, helping him clear his head.
He kept one arm draped around it.
He’d bought something else.
Gum. He bought some gum at the liquor store. He checked his
right front pocket then. A mashed pack of Big Red. Cinnamon gum
covered the smell of alcohol best. If he drank and drove and was
stopped, Big Red would help him hide the fact.
But he did not drink. He was going to the park on Reseda to do
it. He remembered getting out of the truck, taking the bottle with
him.
The park. Something happened to him in the park.

“You’re still so fine,” Chad said.
Dallas could not move. Chad’s arms were like steel beams. “Your man’s been messing around on the side,” he said. “Don’t

you think you deserve a little action?”
He’s just talk. He wants to see you sweat.
But she could not deny that his talk always turned into physical

abuse. Just before she left it had been the worst. He used duct tape to bind her, then beat her for an hour with a wire coat hanger. No, he was not just talk.
He brought his face to her again. She turned hers. He licked her cheek.
Her mind flashed back, her body took on the full remembrance of how she’d felt when she finally worked up the guts to leave him. She’d thought seriously of killing him in his sleep.
She felt that way now.
“Listen, suppose we start all over again,” Chad whispered. “I’m going to be getting a steady job real soon. Good future. Your man’ll be sitting in the joint for the rest of his life. Fine woman like you shouldn’t be alone.”
He smiled and, once more, leaned toward her.
This time Dallas did not turn her head. She relaxed.
Chad ran his tongue over her lips.
She let him.
His grip lessened. Slightly.
With a quick jerk she thrust upward with the heel of her hand and smashed his nose.
She felt the crunch of cartilage.
Chad shrieked and stepped back.
In another defensive move, one she’d taught many women, Dallas smacked Chad’s ears with her cupped hands. He screamed again. His eardrums would be damaged and his equilibrium upset.
She pushed him hard in the chest with both hands.
He staggered back, hands on his face. She saw blood seeping through his fingers.
She ran.
An onslaught of obscenity erupted from Chad, and she knew she had to get out of the house or she’d be dead.
She was aware of her robe flapping and pulled it tight. She was barefoot. How far could she get that way? He’d catch her.
Outside, she could scream. But would anybody hear? Were all her neighbors blissfully asleep?
Chad’s voice, behind her, guttural and foul, getting closer.
She knew then she wouldn’t have time to unlock the front door, throw it open, get outside. She knew, too, that getting outside would not bring freedom.
I have to get to a phone. No, no time to call.
Lock myself in a room.
How long would that last?
Dear God, help.
She charged up the stairs.
Stupid.
But there was no turning back.
There was, however, a heavy table at the top of the stairs. Her grandmother’s oak table, given to Dallas shortly after her marriage. Not the flimsy kind the furniture warehouses sold by the bushel. This wood had substance.
Halfway up the stairs Dallas heard Chad charging around the corner. She didn’t have to turn and look.
She had to get to the table. Throw it down on top of him.
But was she strong enough to move it?
“Got you now, baby.” Chad ’s voice mocked her. Dallas sensed that he’d stopped to gloat. She was at the top stair and looked back.
He was smiling, his hands out wide, his face grotesquely smeared with blood. “Come to papa!”
The fear and rage in her practically lifted her off her feet. She knew, simply knew, that she’d have no trouble with the table. It was squat, with a doily on top. And a drawer. In the drawer were some old pictures and papers she hadn’t looked at in years.
The past surrounded her.
“Alone again . . .”
Chad was singing!
Her back was to the stairs, the table against the wall.
Leg muscles. Use your leg muscles to lift.
“. . . naturally . . .”
She lifted. And the table was slightly off the floor.
It was heavy, like holding a sack of cement. Leaning back, she let the weight of it produce momentum.
One shot at this. One.
Chad had stopped singing.
When she whirled around and let the table go, she knew she’d been perfect. It took a bounce, then hit him.
Table and man fell down the stairs, leaving a bloody streak on the beige carpeting.
And then Chad’s body lay at the bottom of the stairs, motionless.
Dallas, aware of her own breathing, watched. She hoped he was dead.
Then she ran to the bedroom, locked the door, grabbed the phone, and dialed 911.
A woman’s voice answered. “Dispatch, how may I help you?”
“There’s someone in my house. He wants to kill me.” She was sure that was his intent.
The 911 operator, calm of voice, began to ask a question. Dallas didn’t wait. She gave her address. “Get someone out here right away.”
“We are notifying the police right now. Can you hang on?”
“I don’t know, I — ”
“Are you safe, ma’am? Are you in a secure location?” “Just hurry.”
She put the phone on the bed and considered her options. Maybe she’d better get out of the house, but that would mean going past Chad’s body. But what other choice was there?
She quickly threw on a workout pants and jacket, and a pair of Nikes, not bothering with socks.
She heard a siren in the distance, getting closer.
She reached under the bed for the big flashlight, the kind the police carry, which she kept there in case of earthquake.
Now she was glad she had it for another reason. It was a perfect club.
If he broke in, she’d be ready for him.

Jared was finally getting his bearings. The freeway was the 405. He saw the sign for the onramp.
He was remembering what happened in the park.
Blackout.
One moment he’d been sitting on the top of a park table, feet on the bench, the bottle of Jim Beam beside him, the dark trees his only company.
The next moment he was out.
And now he was in a different location, not knowing how he got there.
But there was something strange here.
His mouth, for one thing. His tongue was not thick, nor his throat dry, the way they would be if he had too much to drink.
He looked up at the light, blurry to his eyes. He tried to focus on it.
But there was still a fuzziness in his brain.
Why was this happening? It was like a hole had opened up in his head in Iraq, and darkness poured in, something foreign and vicious. It wasn’t PTSD, like the VA kept saying. It was a whole lot scarier.
But now what? He couldn’t stay here all night.
His truck. Back at the park.
Could he make it? How far had he walked?
More to the point. What would he do when he got to the truck?
And then, he knew.

Dallas tried not to breathe loud enough to be heard.
The sirens were close now, and she was still alone upstairs. She hoped.
She listened at the bedroom door. If Chad was indeed out there

and tried to break in, she’d have a slight advantage. She’d planned it out in her mind. She’d throw the door open, then knock a homer with the flashlight.

She was amazed at how anxious she was to do it. Chad McKenzie was back, and he’d done something to Jared. She wasn’t going to turn the other cheek at that.

Threaten my family and you’re toast.
No sound outside her door. The sirens stopped.
Half a minute passed.
A knock at the door.
She had to go down. The front door was locked.
Holding the flashlight at the ready, she threw open the bedroom

door.
And saw pieces. Four pieces of a photograph.
It was a wedding photo, the one of her and Ron looking at each

The police officer took a half hour to get the story from Dallas. A tech arrived, and the officer suggested Dallas find another place to stay while they finished gathering evidence.

Dallas remembered that Cara was up in Santa Barbara with two girlfriends for a couple of days. So she called the Bensons and got Lisa.

“I know it’s late,” Dallas said. “But something’s happened.” “What is it?”
“Can I come over?”
“Of course, but — ”
“I’ll be right there.”
Bob and Lisa Benson lived in Canoga Park, about a fifteenminute drive from the church on a low-traffic day.

Lisa was waiting for her outside the house.
“I’m so sorry to get you up,” Dallas said.
“No worries,” Lisa said. “Come on in and tell us what’s going on.” Bob, his eyes a little red, looked concerned. Lisa brought her