Six Years
Page 28
Chapter 15
When I saw the headlights, I let out a gasp and tried yet again to roll away. The headlights followed me.
“Sir?”
I lay flat on my back, staring straight up in the air. That was curious. How could a car be approaching me head-on if I was facing the sky? I raised my arm to block the light. A thunderbolt of pain ripped down my shoulder socket.
“Sir, are you okay?”
I shielded my eyes and squinted. The two headlights merged into one flashlight. The person pointing it moved the beam away from my eyes. I blinked up and saw a cop standing over me. I sat up slowly, my entire body crying out in protest.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You don’t know where you are?”
I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was pitch-dark. I was lying in shrubbery of some kind. For a moment I flashed back to my freshman year of college, that time I ended up in a bush after a night of too much inexperienced drinking.
“What’s your name, sir?” the cop asked.
“Jake Fisher.”
“Mr. Fisher, have you been drinking tonight?”
“I was attacked,” I said.
“Attacked?”
“Two men with guns.”
“Mr. Fisher?”
“Yes?”
The cop had that condescending-patient-cop tone. “Have you been drinking tonight?”
“I was. Much earlier.”
“Mr. Fisher, I’m State Trooper John Ong. You appear to have some injuries. Would you like us to take you to a hospital?”
I was trying hard to focus. Every brain wave seemed to travel through some kind of shower-door distortion. “I’m not sure.”
“We will call for an ambulance,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” I looked around. “Where am I?”
“Mr. Fisher, may I see some identification, please?”
“Sure.” I reached into my back pocket, but then I remembered that I had tossed my wallet and phone into the front passenger seat next to Bob. “They stole it.”
“Who?”
“The two men who attacked me.”
“The guys with the guns?”
“Yes.”
“So it was a robbery?”
“No.”
The images flashed across my eyes—my forearm against Otto’s neck, the box cutter in his hand, the tool chest, the handcuff, that naked, horrible, paralyzing fear, the sudden stop, the squelching sound as his windpipe collapsed like a twig. I closed my eyes and tried to make them go away.
Then, almost more to myself than State Trooper Ong, “I killed one of them.”
“Excuse me?”
There were tears in my eyes now. I did not know what to do. I had killed a man, but it had been both an accident and in self-defense. I needed to explain that. I couldn’t just keep that to myself. I knew better. Many of the students who majored in political science were also pre-law. Most of my fellow professors had even gotten their JDs and passed the bar. I knew a lot about the Constitution and rights and how our legal system worked. In short, you need to be careful about what you say. You cannot “unring” that bell. I wanted to talk. I needed to talk. But I couldn’t just blurt out admissions of murder.
I heard sirens and saw the ambulance pull up.
State Trooper John Ong shone the light back in my eyes. That couldn’t have been an accident. “Mr. Fisher?”
“I’d like to call my attorney,” I said.
* * *
I don’t have an attorney.
I am a single college professor with no criminal record and very few resources. What would I need an attorney for?
“Okay, I have good news and bad news,” Benedict said.
I had instead called Benedict. Benedict wasn’t a member of the bar, but he had gotten a law degree at Stanford. I sat on one of those gurneys covered with what seemed to be butcher paper. I was in the ER of a small hospital. The doctor on duty—who looked almost as exhausted as I felt—had told me that I had probably suffered a concussion. My head ached like it. I also had various contusions, cuts, and maybe a sprain. He didn’t know what to make of the teeth marks. With the adrenaline spikes ebbing away, the pain was gaining ground and confidence. He promised to prescribe some Percocet for me.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“The good news is, the cops think you’ve gone completely nuts and don’t believe a word of what you say.”
“And the bad news?”
“I tend to agree with them, though I add the strong possibility of an alcohol-induced hallucination.”
“I was attacked.”
“Yes, I get that,” Benedict said. “Two men, guns, a van, something about power tools.”
“Tools. No one said anything about power.”
“Right, whatever. You also drank a lot and then you got some strange.”
I pulled up my calf to reveal the bite mark. “How do you explain that?”
“Wendy must have been wild.”
“Windy,” I corrected him. This was pointless. “So what now?”
“I don’t like to brag,” Benedict said, “but I have some top-drawer legal advice for you, if you’d like to hear it.”
“I do.”
“Stop confessing to killing another human being.”
“Wow,” I said, “and you didn’t want to brag.”
“It’s also in a lot of the law books,” Benedict said. “Look, the license plate number you gave? It doesn’t exist. There is no body or signs of violence or a crime—only a minor misdemeanor because you, admittedly drunk, trespassed into a man’s backyard by falling down a hill. The cops are willing to let you go with just a ticket. Let’s just get home and then we can figure it out, okay?”
It was hard to argue with that logic. It would be wise for me to get out of this place, to get back on campus, to rest and regroup and recover, to consider everything that had happened in the sober light of familiar day. Plus, I had taught Constitution 101 one semester. The Fifth Amendment protects you against self-incrimination. Maybe I should use that right now.
Benedict drove. My head spun. The doc had given me a shot that had lifted me up and dropped me in the middle of Loopy Land. I tried to focus, but putting aside the drinking and drugs, the threat to life was hard to shake. I had literally had to fight for survival. What was going on here? What could Natalie have to do with all this?
As we pulled into the staff parking lot, I saw a campus police car near my front door. Benedict looked a question at me. I shrugged and stepped out of the car. The head rush as I stood nearly floored me. I made my way to a standing position and started gingerly up the path. Evelyn Stemmer was the head of campus security. She was a petite woman with a ready smile. The ready smile wasn’t there right now.
When I saw the headlights, I let out a gasp and tried yet again to roll away. The headlights followed me.
“Sir?”
I lay flat on my back, staring straight up in the air. That was curious. How could a car be approaching me head-on if I was facing the sky? I raised my arm to block the light. A thunderbolt of pain ripped down my shoulder socket.
“Sir, are you okay?”
I shielded my eyes and squinted. The two headlights merged into one flashlight. The person pointing it moved the beam away from my eyes. I blinked up and saw a cop standing over me. I sat up slowly, my entire body crying out in protest.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You don’t know where you are?”
I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was pitch-dark. I was lying in shrubbery of some kind. For a moment I flashed back to my freshman year of college, that time I ended up in a bush after a night of too much inexperienced drinking.
“What’s your name, sir?” the cop asked.
“Jake Fisher.”
“Mr. Fisher, have you been drinking tonight?”
“I was attacked,” I said.
“Attacked?”
“Two men with guns.”
“Mr. Fisher?”
“Yes?”
The cop had that condescending-patient-cop tone. “Have you been drinking tonight?”
“I was. Much earlier.”
“Mr. Fisher, I’m State Trooper John Ong. You appear to have some injuries. Would you like us to take you to a hospital?”
I was trying hard to focus. Every brain wave seemed to travel through some kind of shower-door distortion. “I’m not sure.”
“We will call for an ambulance,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” I looked around. “Where am I?”
“Mr. Fisher, may I see some identification, please?”
“Sure.” I reached into my back pocket, but then I remembered that I had tossed my wallet and phone into the front passenger seat next to Bob. “They stole it.”
“Who?”
“The two men who attacked me.”
“The guys with the guns?”
“Yes.”
“So it was a robbery?”
“No.”
The images flashed across my eyes—my forearm against Otto’s neck, the box cutter in his hand, the tool chest, the handcuff, that naked, horrible, paralyzing fear, the sudden stop, the squelching sound as his windpipe collapsed like a twig. I closed my eyes and tried to make them go away.
Then, almost more to myself than State Trooper Ong, “I killed one of them.”
“Excuse me?”
There were tears in my eyes now. I did not know what to do. I had killed a man, but it had been both an accident and in self-defense. I needed to explain that. I couldn’t just keep that to myself. I knew better. Many of the students who majored in political science were also pre-law. Most of my fellow professors had even gotten their JDs and passed the bar. I knew a lot about the Constitution and rights and how our legal system worked. In short, you need to be careful about what you say. You cannot “unring” that bell. I wanted to talk. I needed to talk. But I couldn’t just blurt out admissions of murder.
I heard sirens and saw the ambulance pull up.
State Trooper John Ong shone the light back in my eyes. That couldn’t have been an accident. “Mr. Fisher?”
“I’d like to call my attorney,” I said.
* * *
I don’t have an attorney.
I am a single college professor with no criminal record and very few resources. What would I need an attorney for?
“Okay, I have good news and bad news,” Benedict said.
I had instead called Benedict. Benedict wasn’t a member of the bar, but he had gotten a law degree at Stanford. I sat on one of those gurneys covered with what seemed to be butcher paper. I was in the ER of a small hospital. The doctor on duty—who looked almost as exhausted as I felt—had told me that I had probably suffered a concussion. My head ached like it. I also had various contusions, cuts, and maybe a sprain. He didn’t know what to make of the teeth marks. With the adrenaline spikes ebbing away, the pain was gaining ground and confidence. He promised to prescribe some Percocet for me.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“The good news is, the cops think you’ve gone completely nuts and don’t believe a word of what you say.”
“And the bad news?”
“I tend to agree with them, though I add the strong possibility of an alcohol-induced hallucination.”
“I was attacked.”
“Yes, I get that,” Benedict said. “Two men, guns, a van, something about power tools.”
“Tools. No one said anything about power.”
“Right, whatever. You also drank a lot and then you got some strange.”
I pulled up my calf to reveal the bite mark. “How do you explain that?”
“Wendy must have been wild.”
“Windy,” I corrected him. This was pointless. “So what now?”
“I don’t like to brag,” Benedict said, “but I have some top-drawer legal advice for you, if you’d like to hear it.”
“I do.”
“Stop confessing to killing another human being.”
“Wow,” I said, “and you didn’t want to brag.”
“It’s also in a lot of the law books,” Benedict said. “Look, the license plate number you gave? It doesn’t exist. There is no body or signs of violence or a crime—only a minor misdemeanor because you, admittedly drunk, trespassed into a man’s backyard by falling down a hill. The cops are willing to let you go with just a ticket. Let’s just get home and then we can figure it out, okay?”
It was hard to argue with that logic. It would be wise for me to get out of this place, to get back on campus, to rest and regroup and recover, to consider everything that had happened in the sober light of familiar day. Plus, I had taught Constitution 101 one semester. The Fifth Amendment protects you against self-incrimination. Maybe I should use that right now.
Benedict drove. My head spun. The doc had given me a shot that had lifted me up and dropped me in the middle of Loopy Land. I tried to focus, but putting aside the drinking and drugs, the threat to life was hard to shake. I had literally had to fight for survival. What was going on here? What could Natalie have to do with all this?
As we pulled into the staff parking lot, I saw a campus police car near my front door. Benedict looked a question at me. I shrugged and stepped out of the car. The head rush as I stood nearly floored me. I made my way to a standing position and started gingerly up the path. Evelyn Stemmer was the head of campus security. She was a petite woman with a ready smile. The ready smile wasn’t there right now.
