Racing in the Rain Page 10

  Denny pulled the driver’s-side door closed with a slam that shook the car. “Do I have a lawyer?” he said to himself. “I work at the most prestigious BMW and Mercedes service center in Seattle. Who does he think he’s dealing with? I have a good relationship with all the best lawyers in this town. And I have their home phone numbers.”

  We pulled out of the driveway with a spray of gravel at Maxwell’s feet, and as we took off up the idyllic, twisty Mercer Island road, I couldn’t help but notice that the white van was gone. And with it, Eve.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  With experience, a driver adjusts his understanding of how a car feels when it is near its limits. A driver becomes comfortable driving on the edge, so when his tires begin to slip, he can easily correct, pause, and recover. Knowing where and when he can push for a little extra becomes ingrained in his being.

  When the pressure is intense and the race is only half completed, a driver who is being chased relentlessly by a competitor realizes that he might be better off pushing from behind than pulling from the front. In that case, the smart move is to yield his lead to the trailing car and let the other driver pass. Our driver can then tuck in behind and make the new leader “drive his mirrors”—worry about the car behind him.

  Sometimes, however, it is important to hold one’s position and not allow the pass. For strategic reasons, psychological reasons. Sometimes a driver simply has to prove that he is better than his competition.

  Racing is about discipline and intelligence, not about who has the heavier foot. The one who drives smart will always win in the end.

  Chapter Thirty

  Zoë insisted on going to school the next day, and when Denny said he would pick her up at dismissal time, she complained that she wanted to play with her friends in the after-school program. Denny reluctantly agreed.

  “I’ll pick you up a little earlier than I usually do,” he said when we dropped her off. He must have been afraid that the Twins would try to steal her away.

  From Zoë’s school, we drove up Union to Fifteenth Avenue and found a parking spot directly across from Victrola Coffee. Denny tied my leash to a bicycle stand and went inside; he returned a few minutes later with coffee and a scone. He untied me and told me to sit underneath an outdoor table, which I did. A quarter of an hour later, we were joined by someone else. A large but compact man composed of circles: round head, round torso, round thighs, round hands. There was no hair on the top of his head, but a lot on the sides. He was wearing very wide jeans and a large gray sweatshirt with a giant purple W on it.

  “Good morning, Dennis,” the man said. “Please accept my sincere condolences for your devastating loss.” The man then wedged himself between the metal arms of the other sidewalk chair by our table. He was not fat, and in fact, he might have been considered muscular in some circles, yet he was very large.

  “Good-looking dog,” he said. “He has some terrier in him?”

  I lifted my head. Me?

  “I don’t know exactly,” Denny said. “Probably.”

  “Good-looking animal,” the man mused. I was impressed that he noticed me at all.

  “Let’s get down to business,” the man said. “This consultation will cost you an oil change. My Mercedes is very thirsty. An oil change, whether or not you decide to retain me.”

  “Fine,” said Denny.

  “Let me see the paperwork,” replied the man. Denny handed him the envelope Maxwell had given him. The man took it and removed the papers.

  “They said Eve told them she wanted Zoë to be raised by them,” said Denny.

  “I don’t care about that,” the man said.

  “Sometimes she was on so many drugs, she would have said anything,” Denny said desperately. “She may have said it, but she couldn’t have meant it.”

  “I don’t care what anyone said or why they said it,” the man said sharply. “Children are not possessions. They cannot be given away or traded in the marketplace. Everything that happens will be done in the best interest of the child.”

  “That’s what they said,” Denny said. “Zoë’s best interest.”

  “They’re educated,” the man said. “Still, the mother’s final wishes are irrelevant. How long were you married?”

  “Six years,” replied Denny.

  “Any other children?”

  “No.”

  The man drank his latte and leafed through the papers. He was a curious man, full of twitches and extra movements. It took me several minutes to realize that when he touched his hand to his hip pocket, it was because he had some kind of buzzing device hidden away. By touching it he could stop its buzzing. This man’s attention was in many places at once. And yet, when he locked eyes with Denny, I could sense the totality of his focus. Denny could, too, I knew, because in those moments, Denny’s tension slackened noticeably.

  “Are you in a drug treatment program?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been convicted of a felony? Spent any time in jail?”

  “No.”

  The man stuffed the papers back in the envelope. “This is nothing,” he said. “Where is your daughter now?”

  “She wanted to go to school. Should I have kept her home?”

  “No, that’s good. You’re being responsive to her needs. That’s important. Listen, this is not something you should be overly concerned with. I’ll ask for a ruling by the court. The child will be yours free and clear.”

  “Okay,” Denny said.

  “Don’t panic. Don’t get mad. Be polite. Call them and give them my information. Tell them all correspondence has to be directed to me as your attorney. I’ll call their lawyers and let them know the big dog—that’s me—is in your corner. My feeling is they’re looking for a soft spot; they’re hoping you’ll go away quietly. Grandparents are like that. Grandparents are convinced they’re better parents than their own kids, whose lives they’ve already messed up. The problem is, grandparents are pains in the butt because they have money. Do they have money?”

  “Plenty.”

  “And you?”

  “Oil changes for life,” Denny said with a forced smile.

  “Oil changes ain’t going to cut it, Dennis. My rate is four hundred fifty dollars an hour. I need a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Do you have it?”

  “I’ll get it, Mark,” Denny said.

  Mark sucked in his cheeks and nodded. “Me to you, Dennis? We’re talking about seven or eight grand to make this thing go away. You can do that, right? Of course you can. I waive my retainer for you, my friend.” He stood up and the chair almost stood with him, but he shucked himself out of it before it embarrassed him in front of the Victrola crowd. “This is a totally bogus custody suit. I can’t even imagine why they would bother to file it. Call the in-laws and tell them everything goes through me. I’ll have my assistant on this today. They’re playing you for a sucker, and you aren’t a sucker, are you, champ?”

  He cuffed Denny on the chin. “Be cool with them,” Mark said. “Don’t get angry. Be cool, and everything is in little Zoë’s best interest, got it? Always say everything is for her. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Denny said.

  The man paused solemnly. “How are you holding up, friend?”

  “I’m fine,” Denny said.

  “Ah. You’re a good man, Dennis,” Mark said. “I’ll take care of this. Of all the things you have to worry about, this is not one of them. You let me worry about this part. You take care of your daughter, okay?”

  “Thanks,” replied Denny.

  Mark trundled off down the street, and when he had rounded the corner, Denny looked at me and held his hands out in front of himself. They were shaking. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at his hands trembling and then he looked at me. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that if he just had a steering wheel to hold on to, his hands wouldn’t shake. If he had a steering wheel to hold on to, everything would be all right.

  Chapter
Thirty-One

  I spent most of the day hanging out in the garage with the guys who fix the cars because the owners of the shop didn’t like it when I was in the lobby where the customers could see me.

  I felt strangely anxious that day, in a very human way. People are always worried about what’s happening next. On a normal dog day, I can sit still for hours on end with no effort. But that day I was anxious. I was nervous and worried, uneasy and distracted. I paced around and never felt settled. I didn’t care for the sensation, yet I realized it was possibly a natural progression of my evolving soul, and therefore I tried my best to embrace it.

  One of the garage bays was open, and a sticky drizzle fogged the air. Skip, the big funny man with the long beard, dutifully washed the cars that were ready for pickup, even though it was raining.

  “Rain isn’t dirty, dirt is dirty,” he repeated to himself, a Seattle car-washing mantra. He squeezed his clump of sponge, and soapy water rushed like a river down the windshield of an immaculately cared-for British racing green BMW 2002. I lay, head between my forelegs, just inside the threshold of the garage, watching him work.

  The day seemed like it would never end, until the Seattle police car showed up and two policemen got out and walked to the lobby door and went inside.

  I nosed through the swinging door in the garage bay and into the file room. I wandered up behind the counter, which Mike was attending. “Afternoon, officers,” I heard Mike say. “A problem with your car?”

  “Are you Dennis Swift?” one of them asked.

  “I am not,” Mike replied.

  “Is he here?”

  Mike hesitated. I could smell his sudden tension. “He may have left for the day,” Mike said. “Let me check. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  “We have a warrant for his arrest,” one of the policemen said.

  “I’ll see if he’s still in the back.”

  Mike turned and stumbled into me. “Enzo. Clear out, boy.” I followed him into the back, where Denny was at the computer, logging invoices for the people who wanted their cars by the end of the day.

  “Den,” Mike said. “There are a couple of cops out front with a warrant.”

  “For?” Denny asked, not even looking up from the screen, tap-tap-tapping away at his invoices.

  “You. For your arrest.”

  Denny stopped what he was doing. “For what?” he asked.

  “I didn’t get the details. But they’re in uniform and I don’t think it’s a prank.”

  Denny stood up and started for the lobby.

  “I told them you might have left for the day,” Mike said, indicating the back door with his chin.

  “I appreciate the thought, Mike. But if they’ve got a warrant, they probably know where I live. Let me find out what this is all about.”

  Like a train, the three of us snaked through the file room and up to the counter. “I’m Denny Swift.”

  The police nodded. “Could you step out from behind the counter, sir?” one of them asked.

  “Is there a problem? Can you tell me what this is all about?” There were half a dozen people sitting in the lobby waiting for their invoices to be prepared; they all looked up from their reading material.

  “Please step out from behind the counter,” the policeman said.

  Denny hesitated for a moment, and then followed his instructions.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest,” one of the men said.

  “For what?” Denny asked. “Can I see it? There must be some mistake.”

  The cop handed Denny a sheaf of paper. Denny read it. “You’re joking,” he said.

  “No, sir,” the cop said, taking back the papers. “Please place your hands on the counter and spread your legs.”

  Denny’s boss, Craig, came out of the back.

  “Officers?” he said, approaching them. “I don’t believe this is necessary, and if it is, you can do it outside.”

  “Sir, hold!” the policeman said sternly, pointing a long finger at Craig.

  But Craig was right. People were there, waiting for their BMWs and Mercedes gull-wings and other fancy cars. The police didn’t have to do what they did in front of those people. They were customers. They trusted Denny, and now he was a criminal? What the police were doing wasn’t right. There must have been a better way. But they had guns and batons. They had pepper spray and Tasers.

  Denny followed their instructions and placed his hands on the counter and spread his legs; the cop patted him down thoroughly.

  “Please turn around and place your hands behind your back,” the cop said.

  “You don’t need handcuffs,” Craig said angrily. “He’s not running anywhere!”

  “Sir!” the cop barked. “Hold!”

  Denny turned around and placed his hands behind his back. The officer cuffed him. “You have the right to remain silent,” the cop said. “Anything you say can and will be held against you—”

  “How long is this going to take?” Denny asked. “I have to pick up my daughter.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the other police officer said.

  “I can pick her up, Denny,” Mike said.

  “Your daughter is in protective custody,” said the policeman.

  “What?” shouted Denny, his confusion turning to fear. “Where is my daughter?”

  “. . . an attorney will be appointed to you . . .”

  “Where is my daughter?”

  “Who should I call?” asked Mike.

  “Call Mark Fein,” Denny said, desperate. “He’s in the computer.”

  “Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?” continued the policeman.

  “Do you need me to bail you out?” Craig asked. “Whatever you need—”

  “I have no idea what I need,” Denny said. “Call Mark. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Do you understand the rights as I have read them?” repeated the cop.

  “I understand!” Denny snapped. “Yes. I understand!”

  “What are you being arrested for?” Mike asked.

  Denny looked to the officers, but they said nothing. They waited for Denny to answer the question. They were well trained in the sophisticated methods of breaking down a subject—make him voice his own crime.

  “‘Criminal negligence toward a child,’” Denny said.

  “Abandonment,” one of the cops clarified.

  “But I didn’t abandon anyone,” Denny said to the cop. “Who’s behind this? What child?”

  There was a long pause. The people in the lobby were rapt. Denny was standing before them all, his hands bound behind his back. They could all see how he was a prisoner now, he had no use of his hands now, he could not race a car now. All attention was on the police and their black guns, sticks, and wands. It was true drama. Everyone wanted to know the answer to the question. What child?

  “Your daughter,” the cop replied simply. Without another word, the police took Denny away.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Much of what happened to Denny regarding the custody suit concerning Zoë as well as the charge of criminal neglect was not witnessed by me. These events spanned close to three years of our lives. One of the tactics of Maxwell and Trish was to drag out the process in order to deplete Denny of money and destroy his will. It was also intended to play off of his desire to see Zoë mature in a loving and supportive environment. I was denied access to much information. I was not invited to attend any of the legal proceedings, for instance. I was allowed to attend only a few of the meetings Denny had with his attorney, Mark Fein, specifically, those that occurred at Victrola Coffee. I did not accompany Denny to the police station after his arrest. I was not present for his booking, his arraignment, or his subsequent lie detector testing.

  Much of what I will tell you about the ordeal that followed Eve’s death is a reconstruction based on information compiled by me from secondhand knowledge, overheard conversations, and established legal practices as I have learned them from var
ious television shows, most especially the Law & Order series and its spin-offs.

  My intent, here, is to tell our story in a dramatically truthful way. While the facts may be less than accurate, please understand that the emotion is true. The intent is true.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They took Denny to a small room with a large table and many chairs. The walls had windows that looked out to the surrounding office, which was filled with police detectives doing their police work. Wooden blinds filtered the blue light that crept into the room, rippling the table and floor with long shadows.

  No one bothered him. After being booked and fingerprinted and photographed, he was put in the room, alone, and left there, as if the police had forgotten him entirely. He sat by himself. He sat for hours with nothing. No coffee, no water, no restrooms, no radio. No distractions. Alone.

  Did he despair? Did he silently scold himself for allowing himself to be in that situation? Or did he finally realize what it is like to be me, to be a dog? Did he understand, as those slow minutes ticked by, that being alone is not the same as being lonely? I like to think that he was alone for that time, but that he wasn’t lonely. I like to think that he thought about his condition, but he did not despair.

  And then the lawyer Mark Fein burst into the East Precinct on Seattle’s Capitol Hill; he burst in and began shouting. That is Mark Fein’s blustery style. Bellowing. Boisterous. Bold. Mark Fein is a capital letter B. He is shaped like the letter, and he acts like the letter. Brash. Brazen. Bullish. He blew down the door, bull-rushed the desk, blasted the sergeant on duty, and bailed out Denny.

  “What the heck is this all about, Dennis?” Mark demanded on the street corner.

  “It’s nothing,” Denny said, uninterested in the conv-

  ersation.

  “A charge of criminal neglect, Dennis! That’s not nothing!”

  “It’s a lie,” said Denny.

  “Is it? Did you leave Zoë to wander off alone?”

  “No.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Mark said. “I can’t believe the district attorney would sign off on these trumped-up charges! You can’t arrest someone for abandonment because he dropped his daughter off at school. Your in-laws must have powerful friends.”