Sentinal Dome- Yosemite

Random Chapter, "The Curve"...

The Children

They were both remarkable to look at.  They might have been identical twins, only they weren’t.  The two and half years between them became lost as you stared, and Jordan couldn’t help but stare at their features: light skin, dark eyebrows, and deep brown eyes that seemed more aimed than narrowed.  Cary Shannon, 25, was handsome, well dressed, and athletically built.  His brown hair was clipped neat and short below a Giants cap. He kept his hands below the table, his right bicep and arm reacting to his right foot bouncing lightly in his shoe.  Kate was two years older, her beauty not only in her face, but also in the graceful way she walked, sat.  Her long, dark hair resting on her shoulders had been slowly separated from her forehead with her index finger; she folded her hands on the table and waited.  It was clear they didn’t want to be there; their polite smiles were difficult to see past.  Indeed, Jordan couldn’t help but think they both looked as though they had just swallowed cough medicine and were being stoic about the reaction.  Kate’s two-plus years over her brother still maintained the lead.  When she spoke, Cary nodded almost imperceptibly.

She started, “I understand you found our mother.  I didn’t realize people were still looking for her.”

Jordan had deliberately taken the “suspect” seat.  In interrogation situations, he always sat the suspect in the corner seat, against the wall, away from the door, his own seat always crowding the suspect, the door behind him the only escape.  It automatically gave him some advantages—the discomfort of a guilty conscience sprung immediately, and glances toward the door provided a loud message.  Jordan thought he wanted them to have the freedom of standing and walking away if they chose to do so.  He nodded and began to explain.

“Well, while technically we never actually stopped, to be frank, we found her completely by accident.  You see, your father …”

“As I said, and I think I repeated it several times on the phone, Detective, we are not interested in him.”

It was clear after three aborted meetings they had run out of excuses not to meet him.  Their reluctance, given what they knew, what they thought they knew, was reasonable.  The agreement to meet came with a warning that their father was not to be a topic.  Jordan had to agree, knowing all the while somehow he would have to introduce the topic, indeed insist on it.  And here was yet another person who assumed he was a detective …

“I’m just a cop, Kate.  Would it be okay if I addressed you by your first names?”

Cary looked at his sister as she nodded and then he followed suit.

“I’m sorry you have chosen to limit this conversation.  I have spent months, nearly all on my own time …”

She held up her hand.  When he continued, she looked down at her purse, her brother turned in his seat towards her, and they both rose to leave.

Jordan was crushed.  He felt lost, desperate. He rose quickly and slammed his fist on the table.

“SIT DOWN!”  He followed it with, “AND THAT IS NOT A REQUEST!”  His face was flushed with anger, his right fist still clenched.  His shoulders dropped suddenly.  All that came out of his mouth now was a plea, “Please!”  The few dinner patrons all froze, waiters stopped in their tracks.  Jordan’s jacket was partially open; the badge attached to his waist was visible to some of the closer customers.

Cary looked at sister, who slowly retreated into her seat.  He followed.

Jordan was numb.  He was moving in slow motion, or so it felt.  He shook off their waiter, who made an admirable about-face in one motion as if rehearsed.

He  looked across the table.  Kate had taken a deep breath and was examining his eyes, her head slightly tilted.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you; thank you for not leaving.”

“I didn’t sit back down, we didn’t sit back down because we were scared, Detective…  cop,” she smiled.  “You look more hurt than angry.”

Jordan looked into her face.  Yeah, of course—she’s a psychologist!  She sat back down to help, to heal.  Shit.  I’m going to need one, he thought, if I live through all this.  He wasn’t a big believer in the field of “head doctors,” but now he was glad he had a foot hold.  He was going to take advantage of it.  If ever there was an end that could justify the means …

“Actually, I need your help, both of you.  I need to know if I’m going crazy.  What if I told you that you two might be the only two people who can tell me yea or nay?  If you can humor me for a just a few moments, I’ll buy you dinner … and arrest anyone you’d like me to arrest!”

They both finally managed a full smile.

“Anyone?” they both asked.

“I promise!” Jordan replied.  “I need you to tell me I can stop, I can rest here.  Maybe I’m all mixed up, my hunches are way, way off; it’s been a wild goose chase all the while.”

They both leaned forward.  Ask them for help—they would get in their own way to help, risk some of themselves, to help.  Jordan felt a bit cheap for the ruse, but also more motivated than ever; this was the momentum he needed. He already knew if they read the file they’d come to the same conclusion. All he could do now was hope they read it all, every sentence.  

He wondered whether they were like their mother, their father, both?

“Please read this—promise me, to the end.”  He slid the file across the table.  Kate slid the file between herself and her brother.  She looked at the cover, “The Shannon Case,” then again, hardly turning towards her brother, they read the file together, making small nods to each other while they read. The two of them were attached in a way Jordan had rarely seen.  He wondered if he had had a brother or sister whether he too would have had such an attachment.

Page by page, they read together.  They slid closer to each other after a few minutes.  He could see where they were in the report, where they lingered—the pictures, the newspaper clippings. The frowns at the portions related to their father.  Then the page that was his face, his face at their age.  They were introduced to their own image.  It never occurred to Jordan that they might never have seen a picture of their father.  They stared at the picture for a long time.  When Kate started to turn the page, Cary held his finger on it.  He finally relinquished it. He looked up at Jordan with what appeared to be disgust, then peered down at the pages.  He was only looking at the pages now, not reading them for a while.  Kate’s eyes absorbed every word.

The finding of the car, Detective Taylor, Mrs. Taylor, the arborist, the Georgia Ford interview …

Jordan sat up in his seat.  Something was happening.  Their eyes were blinking more often, both had pursed their lips.  They never turned towards each other but made small movements as if to.  Then he realized they were making tiny acknowledgments of what they were reading.  Jordan was seeing history being rolled back.  Two decades of “truth” and avoidance had all set safely like epoxy in their heads.  1 + 1 = 2 … only now they were learning a new math—that1 had never really existed, that the addition had been all wrong.  They had been brought up by their mother’s mother.  Jordan saw they were reading the Georgia Ford interview, the portion about the seizures—they knew about grand mal!

Before Kate closed the file she turned to her brother, he nodded, and she closed the file.  Jordan had signaled to the waiter three previous times to refill their water glasses, and did again. Jordan leaned on the table, one arm up, his hand covering his mouth. 

Kate began talking.  She talked to the open space between her brother and Jordan.

“Nana had seizures—grand mal.  She refused to take meds for it, in fact, she refused to see a doctor.  Old-school lady.  She made us promise not to tell.”

Cary finished, “She would sometimes hurt herself while she was flailing around, and we’d have to hold her down.”

Kate continued, “Like the night my father held my mother down, apparently.”

Their hands were clasped together, elbows on the table as if to arm wrestle.  They sat in silence for a bit, looked back through the file, and inevitably came to their father’s picture again.  Kate held it up to her brother’s face and began to laugh, then to cry, then to laugh again.  Cary just stared out the window, lost in some other place where even his sister couldn’t distract him.

“Have you met him?” Kate asked.

“No.  I know where he is now, finally.  It’s been a long road, lots of detours and doubts.  I figured I’d see how you two felt about this before I contacted him.  But now, well now, I don’t think I need to meet him.  I think he’s had his fill of cops.  If you plan to go see him, give him this file.  You can tell him about this one cop—who knows.

“Does he want to meet us?” Cary asked.

“I only know what his wife told me about him, and from that, I suspect he would very much like to meet you both.  As you read, he was crushed by the idea you had to carry all this with you.”

“He’s crushed about us?!  He’s spent 25 years of being accused … looking at his feet …” her voice faded off. 

 “Don’t do that!  Your father didn’t want you to do that.” 

“Did he ever try to find us?” Cary asked.

Jordan looked down at his hands on the table and spoke gently.  He didn’t want eye contact.  “If he had knocked on your door yesterday …”  Cary quickly nodded, appeared to be holding back emotion.

Kate turned back pages on the report.  “An arborist?”

Jordan nodded his head.  “Now, here’s a real irony—as if this whole thing isn’t one huge irony.  Mrs. Taylor, the widow of the dick who worked on the case, became your father’s advocate—reluctantly at first, then full steam.  She was a real thinker, helped her husband in numerous cases.  She suggested we hire an arborist to find the damage and maybe trace evidence on and inside the bark of the tree!  And guess what—we did!  We matched the paint to your … well, your father’s car.  Fascinating investigation: he had to estimate the growth of the tree, determine whether the tree twisted as it grew, and identify later damage to help him understand what vehicle damage would look like on the bark—and he found it!  And guess who picked up the tab for the arborist?”

“Mrs. Taylor?” Kate guessed.

“Yeah, she insisted.  She said since it was her idea …”

“Why did my mother take my father’s car that night?” Cary interrupted.

“Not sure we’re ever going to know that.  She might have gone looking for your dad, or still was influenced by the seizure.”  Cary nodded slowly, then asked, “Did she suffer?”

Jordan thought it out for a moment. 

“We don’t think so.  She struck her head on the steering wheel.”

“What’s his wife like?” Kate asked.

“Tough, one tough lady—who loves her man.  She never blinked when it came to his innocence.  You’re going to like her.  She kept your father’s chin up as high as it would go.  I have no doubt she saved his life, then made one for him he could live in.”

The questions now came non-stop.

The waiter timidly walked up to the table.  “Officer Cooper, we need to close!”

None of them had realized it—hours had passed.

“Close?” Jordan said in mock exasperation.  “We haven’t even ordered yet!”

It was the first time and the last he heard them laugh.  It made him smile.  He was feeling really good about himself—and then he realized he’d passed it on to them.

“I must tell you, the lion’s share of the thanks for all this goes to my wife, Shelly.  I was sort of willing to let the whole thing slide.  She wasn’t.   She kept on me …”

They nodded.

“So there’s this guy at work I’d like you to arrest,”  Cary whispered.  Kate just rolled her eyes.

8 iron... Eagle Springs