Preston Falls : a novel (12 page)

Somebody else says, "Doug Willis? Philip Reed," and sticks a hand through the bars. Willis should get up and shake his hand, but first he's got to close his eyes again. "Benny?" says the lawyer. "I need some privacy to confer with my client. You want to check up my ass for contraband?"

"You want to bite this?" Willis hears footsteps going away.

"So what happened to you, man? Let me guess—you fell down."

Willis opens his eyes. Philip Reed has this long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Corduroy jacket, blue oxford shirt bulging out above his belt, top button undone, yellow striped tie loosened. Sharp nose coming at you out of a puffy red face with bushy white sideburns. Foxy, the whole effect of him.

"What time is it?" says WiUis.

"Eight o'clock. Five of, I thought we better schmooze a little before they want you upstairs. Here." He opens a Dunkin' Donuts bag Willis hadn't noticed and hands a coffee cup through the bars. "Cream and

sugar

y,

"Just cream." Willis gets up and takes the cup, still hot, and two little cream things. "Thank you. This is very civilized."

"Don't worry, you'll get the bill. I also brought you a razor, which you have to promise not to cut your throat with." He opens his briefcase and hands Willis a blue plastic razor, a can of Colgate regular and two paper towels patterned with geese.

"You came prepared," says Willis. "He said inanely."

"This actually is more for you than for the judge," says Reed. "He's got to cut you loose no matter what the fuck you look like. This totally bullshit gun charge, which he'll throw out immediately, and all he's got left is just some little Mickey Mouse situation where you had words with somebody. The reason I want you shaved, you're going to walk in there feeling like you're a little more glued together, which in turn is going to give a boost to your demeanor, which in turn could save you a couple of bucks on your fine."

"Right," says Willis.

"Okay, now the other thing—and you're going to think this is weird, but trust me. After you get shaved we're going to fix your face a little. Anytime there's a question of resisting arrest, I bring along a thing of Cover Girl. The lip I don't know, but the chin definitely."

"What are you talking about?" says Willis.

"You look at yourself?" Willis brings the razor and stuff over to the sink and looks in the metal mirror: a strawberry on his chin and jaw, scabby scrapes on his swollen lower lip and at the corner of his mouth. "Now, the reason we're doing this—okay?—is we don't want you looking like some hardened criminal who had to be clubbed into submission.

PRESTON FALLS

Your goal is to get out of here with like a fifty-dollar fine for disturbing the peace or some bullshit and just put the whole episode behind you, am I right? Sad to say, but the attitude upstairs is going to be that if the boys beat the shit out of you, you probably—"

"No no no, this happened before."

"Before what?"

"Before I even went down there. I was, you know, up on a step-ladder, working around the house, and I just sort of lost my balance." Willis turns on the faucet; there's only cold.

"You fell off a stepladder and landed on your face," says Reed. "Yeah, okay. Hey, anything's possible."

"What can I tell you?" Willis lathers his face. What can he tell him? He makes the first swath, a boulevard down the right cheek.

''Ho boy. Well, whatever, we still cover up the damage as best we can. Otherwise it just becomes confusing. I am correct in assuming that you want to do this the easy way and get on with your life?"

"What are my options?" He's working on the patch between the sideburn and the corner of the jaw.

"What are your options," says Reed. "Okay. Option one: total war. You did nothing wrong, you're a family man on your little family outing, solid citizen, no criminal record —right? Any record at all?"

"Nope."

"No criminal record, you're harassed for no reason, first by an asshole park ranger and then by an asshole sheriff's deputy, who refused to listen to your side of the story —and so forth and so on."

"Which is what happened," says Willis. He's on the tricky shit now, throat and under the chin.

"Okay, whatever. Anyhow. You know that saying Pay the two dollars} Now, if you strongly feel you want to pursue this, we'll go upstairs, enter a plea of not guilty, we'll get a date, and we'll make the best case we can. With the stipulation that I don't think it's probably the wisest use of your time and money."

Willis goes lightly around the chin, trying not to slice scabs. "No, fuck it. Forget it. I just want it over."

"Good man," says Reed. "We'll make a lawyer out of you yet. Okay, dry off and come over here."

Willis goes over to him and stands at the bars, gripping them the way they do in old movies, or old editorial cartoons about Nixon and

shit. He's wanted to do this the whole time he's been here, but didn't want to be seen doing it: it's such 2ijail thing, like putting X's on the calendar. Sure enough, the sons of bitches are cold. Philip Reed takes a compact out of his briefcase, flips up the lid, and tells Willis to turn his head. Willis closes his eyes and feels a finger smoothing creamy stuff on his chin, around his lips. First time his face has been touched in however long.

The courtroom upstairs has rows of slatted wood folding chairs facing a gray metal desk on a plywood podium. A limp, gold-fringed American flag on a pole at one side and what must be the state flag at the other. Behind the desk, a portly old character actor in a black robe: white hair, bald dome, and those black-rimmed glasses that made people look intelligent back about the time Willis's mother used to get the Saturday Review. He could be the park ranger's brother who went to college. Willis follows Philip Reed to the front row of chairs. Over to their left sit the deputy who arrested him and a pudgy young guy in a too-tight suit who turns out to be some assistant under-assistant prosecutor.

The judge looks at Reed, then at Willis, then turns to the state man. "Okay, so what have we got here?"

The prosecutor stands up. "This is Douglas Willis, Your Honor. His driver's license says Preston Falls, but his vehicle has a commuter parking sticker from the Town of Chesterton, New York, and on his own information he works in New York City. He's charged with disorderly conduct, resisting arrest and criminal possession of a firearm."

The judge is looking at a sheet of paper. "Douglas Willis," he says, then looks up. "That's you?"

Willis nods.

"How do you plead?" So this is officially going on? Like, court is in session?

Philip Reed says, "If I may?"

"Yeah, go ahead," says the judge.

"Mr. Willis is willing to save the court time by pleading guilty to the charge of disorderly conduct."

"Isn't that nice of him," says the judge.

"Mr. Willis lost his temper—^with some provocation, I have to say—

PRESTON FALLS

while he was camping at Lake Edwards with his family. As I understand it, a park ranger refused to allow Mr. Willis to leave his dog in his vehicle very briefly while he went to inform his family he had arrived. They ended up having words, and the ranger took it upon himself to call the sheriff's office. At no time whatsoever did Mr. Willis resist arrest. He was simply trying to explain—"

"Oh, balls," says the sheriff's deputy, who's been sitting there shaking his head. "I gave this guy every—"

"May I?" says Reed.

"Let the distinguished counsel say his piece, Don," says the judge.

"At any rate, Mr. Willis now regrets having allowed himself to be provoked. Due to the holiday, he's already spent two days in jail. He has no criminal record, he holds an extremely responsible position with his firm in New York City, and right now he's anxious more than anything to get back to his family, who I have to say are a little shocked that this thing was allowed to go so far. Oh yes, I almost forgot: this weapons charge, so called. Now, this, I have to say, with all due respect, is really throwing in the kitchen sink. The weapon in question is a .22 rifle belonging to Mr. Willis, which was kept behind the seat of his truck. Correct me if Fm wrong, Your Honor, but I believe in this state a man is still allowed to own a .22? Or have the liberals managed to get the Second Amendment to the Constitution repealed over the weekend without—"

"You can spare us the sarcasm, Mr. Reed."

"Tm just pointing out that I don't understand exactly what law Mr. Willis is supposed to have violated here. I might add that this .22 stayed behind the seat of the truck during this whole episode, that Mr. Willis never mentioned or in any way so much as alluded to this .22, much less produced it or threatened anybody with it. It simply happened to be in his vehicle, hundreds of feet away, at the time of this very silly, very unnecessary dispute."

The judge looks over at the sheriff's deputy. "What about it, Don?"

"Your Honor," says the prosecutor, "the weapon was found in a routine search of the defendant's vehicle incident to the arrest. It's not clear what he was planning to do with it."

"What's clear, Your Honor," says Reed, "is the fact that he didn't do anything with it. What's the implication here? That Mr. Willis was planning to stick up the concession stand? Mr. Willis"—glancing at his yellow pad—"is the Director of Public Affairs for Dandineau Beverages. I

don't know what his salary is—I didn't ask—but I assume he's got the price of a hot dog."

The judge looks at Reed over the top of his glasses. "You must be coming up in the world, Mr. Reed. That or Mr. Willis is coming down." He looks at the prosecutor. "Well?" he says.

The prosecutor looks at the sheriff's deputy, who shakes his head and waves a hand as if batting away a mosquito. "In the interest of saving time," the prosecutor says, "we're willing to be satisfied with the defendant's guilty plea to the charge of disorderly conduct."

"I should think so J' the judge says. "But I'm surprised at you, Don. He must've annoyed you considerably." He looks at Willis. "You. I'm fining you fifty dollars. You pay the clerk, down the hall there. Your distinguished counsel will show you."

"But Your Honor—" says the prosecutor.

"Bang bang," the judge says, pumping his fist to suggest an imaginary gavel. "Court's in recess."

"He's a beauty," says Reed, leading Willis to the door. "Roy," he says to the prosecutor, "how's everything? Don?" Neither the prosecutor nor the deputy says anything back. "Hey, we put the hurt on 'em," he says in Willis's ear. The deputy meets Willis's eyes. Willis considers snapping the son of a bitch a salute. But no.

Reed gives the clerk two twenties and a ten, brings Willis back downstairs to claim his wallet and duffel bag, and they walk out the basement door into a sunny morning. Grass still wet with dew. Couple of leaves falling.

"Well, listen, thanks," says Willis. "This turned out to be pretty painless. And I appreciate the little touches, by the way. Coffee and everything."

"Like I say, you'll get the bill," says Reed. "So listen, you have time to grab some breakfast? Bet you a hundred dollars they didn't bring you breakfast this morning, am I right?"

"God, did they? No. Yesterday they did."

"Shitheels. See, they knew you'd be out. And that way Benny gets his breakfast this morning on the taxpayers' dime. This is the level they think at. Anyhow, we'll make it quick. I know you got a long drive ahead of you."

"Just back to Preston Falls," says Willis.

PRESTON FALLS

"Oh well. Hell, then. I thought you were driving all the way down to Westchester."

"No, actually I'm up here for a couple of months. Hell of a way to start it off."

"Nowhere to go but up," says Reed. "So listen, there's a little hole-in-the-wall place that makes decent omelettes, there's Denny's and that whole spectrum, and then there's a couple places with scones and latte and all that bullshit."

"Anything," says Willis. Actually, the scones-and-latte thing sounds best; he's just been in jail, for Christ's sake, with a toilet on the wall.

"Then Dudley's it is. Here, let's take my wheels and I'll drop you back here after, so you can get your vehicle out of hock."

Willis follows him over to a sharky black sports car, a Z-something, parked cheekily next to a police cruiser. Its roof comes up to Willis's waist. He opens the unlocked passenger door, sits way down and opens his window so he won't stink up the cockpit. He still has on the jeans and t-shirt he pulled out of the dirty clothes whatever day it was he tried to rip down the ceiling. And he hasn't had a shower since—well, not in jail, that's for sure.

Reed climbs in and twists the key, and the sound system blasts so loud Willis flinches. After a little he recognizes it: "Smells like Teen Spirit," which he understands can only be coincidence. Reed turns it down to reasonable. "This gets on your nerves, say so."

"No, I'm into it," says Willis.

"Well, it's funny." Reed noses out of the parking lot, waits for a Saab to go by. "For the longest time I thought either I was getting old or this shit was the emperor's new clothes, you know? But then when he killed himself I started picking up on it." The Saab passes by, and they're off.

"That's amazing," Willis says. "I went through that same exact thing. But the guy could play, no question. I mean, he couldn't really play, but within that, you know?"

Reed looks over. "You play music?"

"Yeah, in a half-assed way."

"Weird. You know, I thought so. I don't know, there's a look or something. Fuckin' Calvin, man. He never told me he had a musician next door. I got to take this up with him. So what do you play?"

"Guitar, like everybody else in the world."

They stop at a stoplight behind the Saab, which has one of those ANOTHER SHITTY DAY IN PARADISE bumper stickers. Willis keeps

being surprised that there's nothing unique about his sensibility. The song's going Oh we oh we oh we oh or whatever it really is in that part.

"Electric?" says Reed.

"Mostly." Which Willis isn't sure is true, but to play acoustic is to be a sensitive plant. "So, you too? What do you play?"