Chapter 12

Sunday, July 14

That exhilaration came to a crashing halt when we drove the camper back to our house, where Emily had left her car. State, county, and city police cars were parked in front of the house, all with strobes flashing.

Greta said, “Just keep driving while I call Stan. Maybe we should go back over to Plattsburg.”

“Nah,” I said. “They probably have the camper on their BOLO lists already. We’ll just end up pulled over on the side of the interstate up in the mountains.”

Em asked, “What do they want?”

I said, “I’ve no idea, but police cars with their strobes flashing never bring good news. I’ll park on the next block and talk to Stan, if we can reach him.”

But even that plan crashed and burned five seconds later when a panoply of flashing lights and the brief whine of a siren came from behind the rig. I drove a few more yards before I pulled over, having just turned the corner, and I wanted to leave space for the police car to park behind us. Then I turned off the engine, turned on the interior lights, rolled down my window, and put my hands on the steering wheel. I said, “Em, come sit on the floor up here, between us where you’ll be visible. Greta, maybe you should roll down your window.” The camper had hand cranks. “And you guys keep your hands visible.”

But it was Tate.

“Hey,” he said, leaning under the rig’s front overhang. “You’re missing all the excitement.”

“Yeah, we can see that. I was going to park on the next block and call Stan Ostrowski.”

“I already did that. He’s on alert, waiting to see what the state OCI decides.”

“So what’s going on?”

Tate, tired of leaning under the camper extension, crouched by the door. He said, “There was the proverbial anonymous tip phoned in to OCI. Someone claimed he was hiking in the forest and saw you burying something in your yard late last night.”

“Well, somebody’s stepped in it then, because we were on the Lostine River in the Wallowa (wah-LAH-wah) Mountains of Oregon last night.”

“I know, and I told Poitier that, but one of his techs mentioned the possibility that you could have driven here and back within nine or ten hours.”

“Sure, that makes a lot of sense. I intend to hide something so I drive a ten-hour round trip to bury it in my yard rather than just tossing it into Wallowa Lake up in Oregon. Did anybody point out how stupid that sounds?”

“It wasn’t about sensible, just what was possible.”

“That’s great, just fuckin’ great.” I couldn’t help sighing at ridiculousness of it. “So, who’s buried in our back yard?”

“Not a who, thank god. It’s an M-one Garand and a Colt nineteen-eleven.”

Greta said, “Could you say that in words we might all understand?”

Tate said, “Those are the rifle and pistol we suspect were used to murder Kendal Caldwell and Nguyen Quang Viet.”

I said, “That’s a relief, anyway. I was afraid someone else had gotten himself killed, like maybe Jimmy.”

“You wish,” Greta said.

Tate asked, “Ready to face the music?”

I took in and blew out a deep breath. “I suppose.”

“Go ahead and drive around the block. When I left, there was still space in your driveway. You might as well pull in. I’ll follow you.”

After Tate had gone to his car, Em said, “I wonder if anyone is suspicious about why the tipster would be hiking in a National Forest, on a mountain, late at night?”

Even with both Tate and Detective Lindsey Turner running interference for me, when I wouldn’t answer any questions without my attorney, Sergeant Zacharie Poitier of the state Office of Criminal Investigation found it expedient to arrest me on suspicion of murder. He had me booked into the Coldwater County Detention Center.

I went through the entire humiliating routine: fingerprints, mug shots, stripped naked, body cavity search, orange coveralls, and a pair of cheap canvas shoes. I signed my jeans and what I’d been wearing into the jail property room, but had left all the valuables home with Greta.

Jerry Sanforth, the Sheriff’s Sergeant in charge of the detention center, came in from home just to make sure the routines were kept as tolerable as possible. They put me in the isolation cell off the intake area, rather than in a two-man room on the cell block proper. Just before he locked the cell door, Jerry handed me a pair of disposable foam ear plugs. “Sleep well,” he said, with a sympathetic grin and shake of his head.

I expected to lie awake most of the night, but maybe it was my clear conscience or maybe it was the utter loss of control, and, therefore, a lack of any responsibilities, but I slept well. Or at least I did after an initial period of trying to make the earplugs not feel like a couple wads of plastic foam jammed into my ear canals. Eventually, sleep overtook the annoyance. I woke up once in the night, needing to use the toilet, and there it was, barely a step away. How convenient was that? I’m not even sure I came fully awake. I may have to consider that type of arrangement if we ever build our own house. It wouldn’t even have to be a full toilet, just a urinal on the wall.

Monday, July 15

Jail food, on the other hand, was even worse than hospital food, something I thought impossible outside a North Korean prison or a Siberian gulag. Breakfast was two pieces of bread with peanut butter, a bowl of corn flakes with nonfat milk and no sugar, and a cup of something the other prisoners called coffee. Jerry saw my grimace and said, “Our menu has all the nutrition your body needs and nothing to interfere with that basic experience. We call it the Purist Diet,”

I said, “No wonder you have only two stars on Yelp. Really, you couldn’t at least have crunchy peanut butter?”

“You’ll have to stay over ‘til Sunday for that,” he laughed, giving my shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

My arraignment was scheduled for ten o’clock. Stan Ostrowski arrived at nine.

We met in one of the interrogation rooms that had been set aside for attorneys and clients. There was no camera, just some wire stubs up in the corner, and there was a canvas curtain on this side of the one-way glass.

“I reckon the other shoe finally dropped,” he began. “Now maybe we can start to put this baby to bed.”

He saw me wince. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

With a sour look, I said, “Mixed metaphors. They make my eyes hurt.”

He looked at me like I’d just pissed in the punch bowl and said, “You need to start taking this more seriously.”

“How can I not, when it’s costing me better than thirty bucks every quarter hour?”

“Then keep in mind that it goes up to sixty-two fifty at ten o’clock.”

He shuffled some papers, and consulted one. “Do you know anything about the guns they found?”

“Not directly. But if it was the same rifle that was in the dumpster, and it’s still wrapped in the same plastic, then my fingerprints will be on the outside of that plastic. As far as I know, I’ve never been near the pistol, but if it was in a bag or something in the dumpster, I might have touched it incidentally.”

We quickly reviewed the other aspects of the case. Then he asked me what our house was worth (about $190,000) and if I knew what our equity was (about $75,000). “And do you still have the twenty thousand in the bank?” I assured him we did. He told me it would likely become an issue when he asked for bail. At that point, there was a knock on the door. It was Jerry. He said, “Time to go.”

Stan said, “I’ll see you over there.” The courtroom being in the same complex as the Health Center made me dread walking into court.

We rode from the jail to the County Services Center in a van with metal screened windows, me and two other guys in orange jumpsuits, each of us chained at wrists, waists, and ankles. On arrival at the County complex, we exited the van at a secured side entrance, cut off from outside view.

The other two prisoners were deposited in a locked anteroom, pending the completion of my hearing, and I was led into the courtroom. I’d been relieved of the chains, but was still in the orange jumpsuit with “CC DET CTR” stenciled on the back. At least I was spared the humiliation of having to wear one of the older jumpsuits that still bore the label “CC JAIL.”

The courtroom was packed. Admittedly, it wasn’t an exceptionally large courtroom, but the half devoted to gallery seating was standing room only.

Pretty much all the staff from the Center were there, and a number of their spouses. Greta, Emily, and Louise were sitting behind the defense table, right next to Lindsey Turner. There were even a few of our CMP clients: I saw Barney Austin, Sue Takahashi, and Mindy Peterson. I was surprised and pleased that there was something of sufficient interest that got Mindy out and about.

When Doc B saw me, he called, “Don’t worry, Gary. We all chipped in and we’ve already ordered you a Raquel Welch poster.” Fans of The Shawshank Redemption, I guess. II gave him a big “OK” sign.

I saw Jimmy standing against the back wall, arms folded, smirking.

Sergeant Poitier, a dark-complected, mid-height, barrel-chested man, was seated at the prosecution table next to Virginia Howard, the County Prosecutor. In marked contrast to Poitier, Howard was a tall, thin woman with blonde hair, which she kept short. I estimated her age as early forties. I knew her from some of the commitment hearings.

Stan was already seated at the defense table, but I looked to Greta and Emily, first, before sitting down.

While Jerry kept a grip on my arm, I exchanged greetings with Greta and assured her I’d passed a comfortable night. If I’d had to guess, mine was probably better than hers. As he’d brought me into the courtroom, Jerry had warned me not to approach her or anyone, nor to attempt any physical contact. I gave a wink to Emily before turning to sit in the chair Jerry was holding for me. Then he stood at the wall, about six feet away.

I’d barely taken my seat, and Stan had leaned over to tell me something, when the door opened from the judges’ chambers. Tate was acting as bailiff, and he called, “All rise,” in a voice that brooked no gainsaying. We all performed as instructed.

Stan leaned toward me and whispered, “Just sit tight.”

But Judge Austin had taken his chair and Tate said, “Please be seated.”

Circuit Court Judge Andrew Austin was a descendant of one of the first settlers in the Coldwater Valley, Henry Baker Austin, a man renowned for his peaceful coexistence with the Ciranaga Indians. He planted the first hazelnut grove in the valley, with seed stock from Oregon hazelnut pioneer Sam Strictland. Austin also planted the first apple orchard, and the first wheat, and brought in the first sheep, all of which grew to become the staple agricultural stocks of the northeast corner of the state.

Judge Austin was in his mid-fifties, a man of some height with graying hair, and a judge before whom I’d testified a number of times in Vinley Act cases. In fact, since the first time I’d testified, three years ago, neither Jimmy nor Grant had appeared in court as an expert witness under our certifications by the state. I’d handled all the cases, which was fine by me, community mental health was my job.

Judge Austin was also Barney Austin’s uncle.

Before opening the proceedings, Judge Austin looked critically at the crowded courtroom and said, in a voice that suggested it could, if necessary, become much louder, “I expect everyone to be on their best behavior.” He paused briefly as he continued to survey the room. “This room, like every other courtroom in this country, is one of the sacred chambers of our democratic republic, a hall of justice and civil rights that men and women have fought and died to establish and preserve. Please give it the respect it is due.”

With a final glance around the room, Judge Austin read us through the formalities, designating the court and his standing in it.

Finally, he nodded to the clerk of the court, who called. In the prescribed form, “In the State versus Gary Mazur, please come forward.”

Judge Austin asked, “Are counsel present?”

The two attorneys rose to stand at the tables. Virginia Howard identified herself as prosecutor, then Stan did the same as defense counsel. Stan sat down, but Howard remained on her feet.

Looking toward her, Judge Austin said, “Madame Prosecutor, I believe you have a motion.”

“I do, your Honor. The State moves that this case be dismissed without prejudice.”

I was not wholly surprised, but there was a collective gasp from the gallery, and an audible squeak from Greta. Judge Austin paused long enough to cast a stern glare into each quarter of the gallery.

Finally, he looked toward our table and asked, “Mister Ostrowski, have you a response?”

Stan rose. “Your honor, though it is our belief that a dismissal with prejudice would be the proper motion, the defense has no objection.”

Judge Austin said, “Very well. The State versus Gary Mazur is dismissed without prejudice.” Then he looked at me, “Mister Mazur, you will be free to go as soon as you return that jail ensemble.” There were a few quiet titters.

Feeling bold, I stood, seeing, out of the corner of my eye, a surprised Stan begin to reach for me. With a respectful nod, I said, “Thank you, your Honor.” I immediately sat back down.

Stan muttered, “Will you behave? No wonder someone’s trying to frame you for murder.”

But Judge Austin smiled indulgently and turned once more to the gallery. Not yet finished with his civics lesson, he again addressed the crowd of spectators. “To make this court action understandable for everyone, allow me to explain. Dismissing a case without prejudice means that this case could be reopened in the future and again brought to the court. A case dismissed with prejudice is closed with finality, unless a higher court was to reopen it, which is a rare occurrence.” Then he smiled and slowly nodded. “Thank you for joining everyone up here, before the bar,” he gestured to the lawyers and staff on this side of the dividing rail, “in this important exercise of our civil rights.” After the briefest pause, he said, “Court is in recess for ten minutes.”

Austin stood and Tate called, “All rise,” but half the people had sprung to their feet the second Judge Austin had. Everyone remained respectfully silent as he stepped down from the bench and into chambers. I think the guy might have earned some votes today, should he ever decide to stand for election to a higher court.

Still technically in custody, I couldn’t really fraternize or even embrace Greta. I nodded in gratitude to many of the well-wishers until Tate came over and took my elbow, He said, “Let’s go, so everyone will clear out of here.”

“Aren’t you the bailiff?”

“Nah. I just stood in for your case. That Judge Austin sure dazzled ‘em today, didn’t he?”

Grinning, Tate had made me ride in the back of his cruiser, “in the belly of the beast”, he’d chortled, on the way back to the detention center. Then, as we approached that still-new edifice, he asked me how I’d enjoyed my first stay in the lock-up I’d been instrumental in creating.

Sobering at the last minute, he said, “I know this business is still hanging over your head, but I think we have Poitier in your corner, now. Not that he would have balked at putting you away for it, but he seems to have an affinity for getting things right, and even he seems offended at how easily your supposed guilt keeps getting dumped in our laps.

“Anyway, before we even process you out, he wants to question you.”

“Aw, come on. I like a joke as much as--” I started to protest, but he cut in.

“No, no joke. It’s actually to economize your lawyer fees. Ostrowski will be there for the interview, of course, and this gets him on his way sooner.”

“Oh, okay, thanks. That was thoughtful.”

He said, “I’d encourage you to be cooperative, but, knowing you, it’ll be hard to shut you up, so I’ll just suggest you follow your attorney’s advice, since you’re paying so much for it.”

Just over three hours later, I was at home with Greta. Emily was there, too, as she’d taken the day off. Turns out the two of them had spent the night together, sans hanky-panky, as they both had been worried to distraction. Much later, I learned that Greta had cried herself to sleep, while Emily held her. Emily told me that Greta, in her tears, had sobbed, “I should have killed that damn Phil myself, instead of fucking him. What the hell was I thinking?”

At the post-hearing interview, Poitier had explored every imaginable aspect of the crimes and my possible relation to them, including the attack that left me unconscious in the county workshop, even the brake hose incident.

At the end, he sat back from the interrogation table, scrubbed his hands through his short, dark hair, looked over his shoulder to address whoever was behind the reflective surface of the observation window, and said, “Somebody put too much salt in the gravy to begin with, and they keep adding things to try to make it palatable.”

Turning back to me, Poitier said, “Try to avoid looking guiltier.”

Stan added, “What he said,” bobbing his head toward the state cop.

Tuesday, July 16

The next morning, I was at my “usual” table in the bakery until after nine, accepting congratulations and answering questions from staff and clients.

When Jerry Sanforth came by to ask, seriously, what I might suggest by way of improvements to the jail, I told him he should add earplugs to the prisoners’ commissary list, especially if he wanted to turn a profit. He said he was thinking that he might keep it for the black market and retire early on the proceeds.

My last visitor was Chet Weaver. He asked to speak privately, so we went to my office.

“What’s up?” I asked, as we took seats at the small conference table in my outer office.

“They’ve offered me the Administrator’s position,” he said.

“For the Center, or the whole county?” I quipped.

“Just the Center -- for now,” he joked in turn.

“That was fast, wasn’t it? I mean, I’m not complaining, but did they even give Jennifer Lawrence a chance to get her resume in?”

“She was the first person they called, but she said she was too busy making money.”

“I’m sure that’s just the excuse she gave so she could nobly step aside and let you have your dream job. You’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Please take it. Please, please, please.” I folded my heads in supplication.

He was nodding, but he said, “I gave them some conditions.”

“Well, anything short of your own helicopter I figure should be a cinch.”

He said, “Not everyone is greeting my appointment with such enthusiasm. There’s been some balking at what I feel is a reasonable request, my freedom to hire my own help.”

“What? Who’s screwing around with that, Rauch? That’s stupid. How can they hold you responsible for the work if you can’t even choose...,” my voice trailed off as I noticed him grinning at me.

I felt the walls closing in and suddenly found myself longing for the comfort of that jail cell.

“Fuck,” I said. Then, to be sure I understood myself, I repeated, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Still grinning, he said, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

I gave him a look intended to melt his brain. He just sat there, smiling, his hands folded on the tabletop. He looked like a simpleton. Maybe my death ray had worked. Except then he slowly shook his head, as if reflecting on the antics of a three year old.

I hated to whine, but I didn’t let that stop me. “Look, I finally got everything just the way I like it here. It’s starting to run smooth.”

He was shaking his head. “Smoothly, you mean. It calls for an adverb. And since it’s running smoothly, it’s time to move on.”

“But I’m good at this, if I do say so myself. I not only have the support program better integrated, but I’ve chivvied the entire clinical staff, even Jimmy, into a better crisis team, and uh...” He was grinning again. Fuck, I thought to myself, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Hoist with his own petard,” he pronounced.

“Oh, please. The job will be bad enough. I’m not going to have to listen to you spouting naval jargon all the time, am I?”

“That’s not naval jargon, you nitwit, that’s William Shakespeare’s Hamlet.”

“I thought a petard was like a yardarm or one of those things on a ship’s mast that you hoist things on.”

He said, “You’re kidding? I’ve seen the transcripts for your undergrad and grad degrees, but they apparently just took it for granted that you had a high school diploma.”

“I have a high school diploma. I just don’t remember petard coming up on an exam, or having to memorize some speech that had petard in it. I can do Shylock’s monologue from The Merchant of Venice, if you want. I know where the Rialto is. And I can recite the Gettysburg Address or The Cremation of Sam McGee, I just don’t know what a petard is.”

He sighed. “It’s a small explosive device usually put together to demolish a castle gate or some similar purpose. Hamlet found out his uncle planned to blow him up and he figured to use the petard on his uncle, instead.”

Then he looked at me as if speculating. “So you like Robert Service, huh?”

“Service and Ogden Nash and what’s-his-name, that Australian guy who wrote Waltzing Matilda. They redeemed the idea of poetry for me, after we studied Shakespeare.”

“Banjo Paterson.”

“Yeah, him.”

“Ever heard of Carl Hiaasen?”

“The Florida guy? Writes novels? You like him, too?”

“Do you know the title, Team of Rivals?”

“Sure, Whatsername Goodwin’s biography of Lincoln. It was the basis for that movie, with the ‘I drink your milkshake’ guy. I thought Goodwin was more spot-on than anything else I’ve read about Lincoln’s presidency, and darn more readable.”

He was nodding. “Then we might just get along, after all, if you can just learn not to be such a smartass.”

“But it’s always worked so well for me.”

Greta was ecstatic, of course. She hissed one of those sibilant yesses, accompanied by the requisite fist pump. She said, “You can show that asshole Jimmy how it’s supposed to be done.”

I said, “Jimmy’s not going to give a rat’s ass what I do, unless I’m doing it to him. You can bet I’ll be auditing his statistics, though.””

Later, Emily joined us for supper, and she was definitely excited. She said to Greta, “Now you and I can quit our jobs and open up that tea parlor we were talking about.”

I said, “It’s a long commute to Portland.”

“Portland?” Greta said. “We’ve spotted a vacant restaurant space downtown.”

“It’s vacant for a reason. Besides, you’d have to be in a place like Portland to find enough women who know that a tea shop doesn’t carry golf supplies.”

“Why not Kingston?” Emily demanded.

“Well, it’s closer, only about two hundred fifty miles. Maybe Greg will lend you his plane for the commute. But it’s a workingman’s town. They’re fishermen. There’s probably not a tea drinker among them.”

Kingston was on the coast, at the mouth of the Kingston River, on a small bay called Cook’s Slough. The original settlers were fisherman, and the commercial fishing fleet still provided the basis for the city’s economy, with lumbering second, and tourism third.