Acre Under a Green Sky

My father's briefcase was beaten and scuffed like a farmer's boot. Its mouth opened wide at the top like a satchel. And when it was closed, two bald handles stood at attention to accommodate his grip. The brown leather was faded and veined with cracks –– all of its stiffness years gone. If he were ever to empty the briefcase it would fall into an ugly brown puddle on the floor. The police station was a short drive from my father's office, and I held the briefcase on my lap the whole way. I needed both hands to carry it into the police station –– it was that heavy.

George The Dispatcher was at his post –– ever-watchful, ever-diligent. From his elevated perch there behind the counter, he could see everything going on inside and outside the glass-enclosed station room. The converted auto dealership was the perfect blind for hunting night speeders on Main Street when the town was dark and deserted. Boredom had made him maniacal in his pursuit of speeders. He would jump up and down gleefully at the sight of one. Then he would radio one of the two police cars to make an arrest. But unfortunately for George, everyone in town got wise to him. He had nabbed so many of them. So everyone got in the habit of braking to a funeral procession crawl past the police station; sometimes with a wave to George, then they would burn rubber as soon as they were well out of view. It was a funny sight to see.

My father told George that we had come to see Luka. George phoned the message on to Chief Mosko in back. It was obvious that George The Dispatcher was still smarting from our last visit. He was famous for his grudges. He often bragged that he didn't speak to his brother for three years over a soccer bet. Now he was giving my father the cold shoulder, and I had a feeling my father was grateful.

Will Mosko came out looking like a man with a million things on his mind –– all of them sad. He gave me a cursory nod and got right to the point.

"We're moving Luka to County this afternoon," Will said, averting his eyes the whole time.

"So soon?"

"Bradley wanted him there this morning, but I arranged to keep him here for your meeting today. I'm afraid it's the best I can do."

"I understand. I know how it's done, but I was hoping procedure might be waived in this case. I mean ..."

"I know," Will interrupted, "I know it's going to be hard on you –– driving all that way every time you want to see Luka, but Matt's the boss."

"Yeah, well I never expected any courtesies from Matt Bradley, or whatever his real name is, but I was hoping."

"I tried, Josh. I really tried for you."

"For God's sake, Will," my father said, "You're not responsible for any of this. You don't imagine I blame you, do you?"

Will looked down at his feet and backed away a step.

"There is one thing more," he said, "Doc Mace doesn't want Luka getting any booze."

My father laughed and raised his arms as if submitting to a search. Only then did Chief Mosko look him squarely in the eyes. "Christ, Josh. Isn't this hard enough? I'm not gonna fuckin' search you. Come on."

Clearly, my father was shocked by Will's response. Will held the gate open, and I grabbed my father's briefcase and followed him into the inner sanctum. George puffed out his chest and gave me a sneer, but there was nothing he could do or say about it. That briefcase was my passport, and the Chief of Police himself had invited me in. When all was said and done, poor George was no more intimidating than a worm of toothpaste.

We followed Will through the station toward a back wall with a large glass window facing into a darkened room. It was a holdover from the auto-dealership-days. A car salesman could sit back there with his morning paper or a client and still see the action on the floor. My father took his briefcase from me and sat me down in one of the chairs lined up against the wall. I was told to stay put, and he followed Will around a corner and out of sight.

Then with the flick of a switch, the window was lit like a movie screen. I stood up and turned to see my father entering the little room. Two officers joined me there for the show.

My father sat at a small table with his briefcase on the floor to his right. Without looking, he reached into it for two long, yellow legal pads. Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket for two new, dagger-sharp yellow pencils. He placed a pad and pencil in front of the empty chair facing him, and kept the other for himself. He scribbled something on the pad; all the while making an effort not to acknowledge the prying eyes on him.

The interrogation room was no more than an enclosed cubicle with a table and two chairs. Florescent bulbs on the ceiling provided more light than anyone could possibly need. My father sat facing the door Luka would enter. And to his left running the length of the cubicle was the window facing out onto the station area where we stood watching. The effect must have been claustrophobic and intimidating whether it was intended to be or not. Supposedly, the room was chosen for the attorney's protection.

I turned to one of the officers and asked what was taking so long. He simply shrugged.

My father didn't appear the least bit impatient. I would later learn that he was used to being kept waiting in this fishbowl by other police officers. It was a petty exercise in power, and one he accepted graciously. But Will Mosko was a direct and honest man of conscience; a smart man, who had never pulled this kind of shit before. Chief Mosko understood; even welcomed the limitations of police work. He had plenty of weight to throw around without pretenses of more. This was not like him.

Just then, the door opened; and Luka stood before my father. Chief Mosko removed his handcuffs, and closed the door on the two men. Luka turned to see us gawking from the other side of the window, and almost simultaneously Chief Mosko appeared to shoo the officers away. I stood transfixed.

I had never seen Luka look like this. I couldn't figure out what was different about him. He looked pale and unwell, but there was something else. Then it occurred to me. I had never seen Luka not smiling.

Luka did not move, but turned his hardened eyes on my father. Then I heard Luka say, "I gotta know. Do they really think I did it?"

My father was visibly shaken by both the rock hard intensity of those eyes and the substance of his question. Luka went on, "I can take it if they really think I killed Gwen and all. But if they're just covering their own sad asses –– well, I just can't live with that. I'll put myself down, I swear it."

"Sit down," my father said; and for some stupid reason, I thought he was talking to me. I took my seat; grateful that I could hear everything so clearly.

"What are we supposed to think, Chuck? You were there with them. Who else?"

"I got just one reason to live. To get the man who did this. But if they're not looking for the real killer, what chance have I got?"

"Sit down. Please, Chuck. Sit down."

"You think I did it, too?"

"It looks bad, Chuck. Surely, you can see that."

"Yeah. I guess so."

"I need to know what happened that night."

"I told them. They wrote it all down."

"I need to hear it from you."

"I go home and go to bed. Next morning, I get up and go to the bathroom. I take a leak. Then I splash some water on my face and look in the mirror. There's something in the tub. It's Jeff. Dead –– all bloody. I run to get Gwen. She's dead. I've got blood all over me. Then Marilyn. Then Estelle. Then you. It's all a nightmare. You gotta understand. It's not real. None of this is real."

"Start with leaving the Royal Grill that night."

"I don't remember leaving the bar. I don't remember going to bed. Most nights, I come home drunk after everyone's in bed, and I take my clothes off downstairs and my shoes so I won't wake anybody and I go upstairs in the dark and fall down next to Gwen. It's been like that for years."

"So you have no memory of that night?"

"I remember the bar. Billy and the gang and having a great time dancing and talking and joking around. I remember the picnic. You were there. In our backyard."

"You were drinking at the picnic, too?"

"Right. It was Graduation Day."

"And you were able to go out afterward to the bar?"

"I got some shut-eye on the couch first. Like I always do."

"You sleep on the couch, then?"

"Sometimes, why?"

"Why did you go up to your room that night?"

"It's my bed. Where I sleep?"

"Why not the couch?"

"What are you getting at? A man goes to bed in his bed, for Christ's sake!"

"Nora had an idea someone was sleeping on the couch every night. She thought Gwen."

"You don't know Gwen! Nobody's going to chase her outta her bed. No, I'm the one gets put out when the time comes."

"What do you mean?"

"Like if we have a fight or something, you know."

"Like that night?"

"No, we were okay that day. We were great that day. You saw us."

"Yeah, I did. So what happened that night, Chuck? Lay it out for me."

"You mean, the murders?"

There wasn't a sound. My father wasn't answering Luka. It was as if someone had turned the volume off. I stood up to see what was going on.

Luka was sitting opposite my father. He absentmindedly picked up the pencil and began toying with it. My father was sitting back staring at Luka as if he'd never seen him before. Luka started doodling on the pad; and then he looked toward the window, and I ducked back down into my seat.

I heard Luka say, "God, I'd give anything for a beer right now."

Then my father spoke. He said, "Luka? Do you want to talk about the murders of your family?" And icicles hung on every word. I felt a familiar chill of fear. This was my father's killing voice.

"Sure," Luka said, "That's why we're here."

"When did the murders happen?"

"While I was at the bar. Sometime that night."

"And then you drove home drunk and walked through a house full of dead bodies and crawled into bed next to your murdered wife, is that what happened?"

"What else could have happened? If I'd been there, he would have killed me, too."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who is this guy? This killer?"

"That's what we gotta find out."

"Who would want to kill Gwen?"

Here was a new voice to me; not icy with disapproval and reproach, but cruel and red hot. This voice was truly lethal. I was frightened for Luka. I jumped to my feet to watch; prepared to sound the alarm if by some ironic turnabout the attorney attacked the client.

"Who would want to kill Estelle?" my father went on, "She got any enemies you know of?"

My father was on his feet now, and Luka was squirming in his seat as if it were on fire; all the time shaking his head. Something terrible was stirring in my father; something he appeared to have no control over.

"Who would want to kill Marilyn? Maybe it was Jeff he was after. Chuck, listen to me. Maybe they weren't all dead when you got home. Maybe Marilyn was still trying to crawl into the hall as you passed by. Let's look at this picture, okay? Here's a man who parties all night getting shit-faced drunk leaving his mother-in-law, his wife and two kids all alone at home so some madman can come in and slaughter them. And this guy –– you, I'm talking about –– you get so drunk you blindly climb the stairs and crawl into a blood-soaked bed with your dead wife and pass out. And the cops are victimizing you. And the DA is victimizing you. And you're not absolutely sure you want to live. But, it's Graduation Day! Tell me, you drunken slob, what was the excuse the day before? You really piss me off, Chuck. I had no idea how much you piss me off."

Luka turned his head abruptly toward the window and looked directly at me; then back to my father. His face contorted; his whole body seized in pain. "Oh, my God!" he said, "Oh, my God!"

"What? What is it?"

"Oh, my God! What have I done!"

Few of us ever see what I saw that day. I stood there and watched Luka disintegrate –– empty out. It began like a death rattle, but so deep and so low it seemed to echo from his groin, then change into a sustained kind of whine in the mask of his face, until finally his whole being erupted in a terrifying wail; and he plunged the pencil into his thigh.

George The Dispatcher jumped to his feet and ran over to me by the window. My father held up a halting hand without ever taking his eyes off Luka who was now crying into his folded arms with such deep, racking sobs that the table shook. My father went to Luka and pulled his shoulders off the table. Luka's head fell back as if his neck were made of rubber. His mouth was open like a newborn chick craning desperately for nourishment. The pencil had penetrated his leg and broken in half. My father pulled it out of his leg and threw it into the corner. Luka appeared oblivious to the operation.

I know now that the truth penetrates by degrees; going deeper and deeper and deeper. There's the truth that something bad happened which is an assault to the mind. Then the truth of grief; an assault to the heart. And finally, the truth of shame, an assault to the soul. Luka may not have killed his family, but he didn't do anything to save them either. He was absent that night. He had not been present for years. He had wept for himself, and now at last, he was weeping for them.

And this was no accident. My father had done this to Luka intentionally. He could see what I had failed to see –– that Luka was completely detached from any feeling. Breaking through Luka's shock was an essential and very tricky business. He was of little use as he was. There were truths locked in there with his feelings, but more importantly, his lack of feeling made him appear guilty; even cold-blooded. Many innocent men have passed through trial and onto the gallows wrapped in that same shroud of shock; convicted in large part because of it.

Luka's crying subsided into sporadic chokes and sighs until he was breathing fully and more deeply than he had in years. My father stood by Luka's side with his hand on his shoulder. George finally lost interest and moved back to his counter.

"Did you kill them, Luka?"

"No," Luka said, "I couldn't have."

"Do you have any idea who did?"

"No. No one."

"The police say you left the bar at 1:30. How long does it take you to get home."

"Ten –– fifteen minutes, I guess."

"And the truth is you don't know what you did from 1:45 that morning until you woke up about 8:30 that same morning. Is that right?"

"I didn't kill them, I know that! Don't you think I'd know?"

"I don't know."

"I couldn't have killed them. I couldn't!"