Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (3 page)

Ben listened to the newcomer join in with the officers already present. He heard the exchange of curse words, insults, and bravado: standard greetings for cops sheltered from public view. He felt the familiar pang of isolation.

In the crude shower room, Ben cranked the water as hot as it would go. Steam filled the stall, and he worked to lose himself in the mist. Ben pushed his head under the water, and a thousand hot needle pricks scalded the back of his neck. He forced himself to relax. It was time to put it all away again. Try to be normal for the entire day that lay ahead. He closed his eyes and spoke in a low voice to the only person that was the least bit interested in hearing anything he had to say.

“Forget about Oakland, Sawyer. This is Newberg.”

TWO

Alex Sawyer stood in front of the century-old house, stretched her arms above her head, and drew crisp, spring air deep into her lungs. The morning sun had escaped from the lingering mood of Wisconsin’s strongest season, and the warmth felt good against her face. She took in the neighborhood of stylish Victorian homes surrounded by towering oaks, a stark contrast to the California subdivision where she and Ben had lived for more than ten years. That neighborhood had oozed comfortable conformity—five different floor plans, three color palettes, tiled roofs, and postage-stamp yards. The eclectic Old World charm of Newberg fed her Midwestern nostalgia. In that respect it was good to be home.

Alex stepped off the porch, jogging at a brisk pace, and began to mentally map out her day.

With twelve-year-old Jake off to school, Alex knew whatever plans she cared to make had to revolve around the two other men in her life. Then again, dealing with her husband wasn’t an issue—Ben had pulled his usual early-morning disappearing act and snuck off to the police department gym before the sun was up.
Won’t be seeing him until dinner,
she thought. Alex had done her best, but there was no denying that resentment had begun to set in. These early-morning departures were getting old.
When was the last time we enjoyed coffee in bed?
Or how about just sleeping in?
But she felt no anger, more a sense of loss.

He’s been through a lot,
she reminded herself. Thrown to the wolves by his own department. Tossed aside after almost fifteen years of dedicated service. Forced to come back here and work for his father-in-law. Of course, Ben refused to talk about it. Typical cop. Confront an armed gunman in a dark alley? No problem. Talk about personal issues? No way.
If he ever does open up,
she told herself,
I want to be there for him
. Then again, how much longer was she expected to wait? But her absentee husband was only one of the troubled cops in her life. The other was her most challenging relationship of all.

Four months had passed since Police Chief Lars Norgaard collapsed while giving his update on the state of crime in Newberg to the local Chamber of Commerce. He had been air-lifted to the university hospital in Madison sixty miles away. By the time Alex reached him, her father had slipped deep into a nonresponsive state that lasted for days. He had finally come around, but the initial reports were grim: severe stroke with possible brain damage. Total loss of speech. Greatly reduced motor skills. The best the doctors could offer amounted to “wait and see.” Progress had been slow.

Even as she ran, Alex knew her father had likely been awake for hours and was already awaiting her arrival. She pictured him, cross and surly, banging his cane and pointing at a staff nurse or orderly. He’d keep it up until someone wheeled him to the porch. There he’d sit and watch the sidewalk, waiting for his daughter to come into view. But the staff at the Newberg Convalescent Center discouraged visitors before ten and she had time to kill.

With all they had been through, being back in Newberg gave Alex a sense of peace. The isolated prairie town was forty-five miles west of Milwaukee and inhabited almost exclusively by twenty thousand second- and third-generation Swedes and Norwegians. A place where the only social institutions of any significance were bars and churches. It was the town of her childhood. The place she met her husband. Home.

Alex headed into the heart of Newberg’s downtown. Owner-operated shops specializing in the niche-market of antiques, crafts, and pottery lined the shady cobbled street. At this early hour none of the stores were open, but Alex decided to slow her pace to a brisk walk and enjoy the window displays and the solitude of near-deserted sidewalks. The aroma of coffee drifted toward her from Newberg’s one and only bistro. A moment later she found herself standing inside the empty shop, calling out an inquisitive hello.

A man’s voice answered from out of view, “Come on in. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The place was clearly in transition. Stacks of aged, hardcover books stood like short towers along the length of a wall. Alex began a quick mental inventory and noted several familiar titles until her eyes stopped on one. She reached out and ran her fingers over the gold embossed letters on the binding. She pulled the book from the stack and opened it gently. The odor of old print and paper, along with the familiar lines of text, took her back in time.

“Find something you like?”

Alex looked up to see a man standing across the store. His voice implied hope for more than a one-word answer.

“
My Ántonia
. Cather has been a favorite of mine since I was a little girl.”

He stepped forward to get a closer look. “Yeah, that’s a quality printing. I think it’s about forty years old. I’m not sure, but maybe it’s a first edition.”

“No. It was published in around 1918. Way back.”

The man looked at her with surprise, and Alex thought she might have come off sounding stuffy. “Like I said. She’s a favorite of mine.”

The man smiled. “I’m Louis Carson.”

“Hi, Louis. Alex Sawyer.” Alex extended her hand and Louis shook it warmly. His grip was firm, and Alex guessed Louis might be five years younger than her. He was a good six inches taller, with a trim physique and jet-black hair worn long and combed back. His jaw was square and covered with two or three days of stubble. For a moment, the gaze of his hazel eyes felt intense and unsettling. Alex drew her hand back and looked away; an awkwardness hung in the air.

She stammered out, “Is this a bookstore or a coffeehouse?”

Louis, apparently clueless of her discomfort, put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Well, I need a customer, so if you’re looking for a good read, it’s a bookstore. If you’re thirsty, I’ll offer you some coffee.”

“So … it’s both, then?” She asked, liking the idea.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Louis said. “I bought this place about two months ago. Business is okay, but I want to give it something distinctive. The coffee’s already great. The previous owner had a first-rate roaster; I won’t change that. But I thought it might be interesting to dabble as a bookseller. You know, only the finest coffee and nothing less than classic books.”

Louis delivered the last line mocking an advertisement on the radio. He paused and looked around at the stacks of books and the empty seats and unoccupied tables. His voice took on a much less enthusiastic tone. “That’s the plan, anyway.”

“I like it,” Alex said, nodding. “How about I take a cup to go?”

“I’d rather you have a cup to stay.” He was still smiling. “That’s the idea, you know.”

Alex couldn’t help but think the attention felt pretty good. “All right,” she said. “Make it for here.”

Alex looked around at the cramped space. “You might be on to something. Newberg doesn’t have a used bookstore. I think the yuppies from Madison who come into town on the weekends will be all over it.”

“Good,” Louis answered. “I’m glad you think so, seeing that I am a yuppie from Madison.” Louis stepped behind the counter and poured out two mugs of coffee as he explained how he came to own a coffeehouse.

“One day I was a financial planner and the next day I wasn’t. The job just sort of evaporated. Then I figured out I was better off. Instead of jumping onto another spinning wheel of the rat race, I cashed out my severance and here I am.”

“Pretty brave,” Alex said. “Tough time to be opening your own business.”

“Yeah, but I did my homework. I looked around and found this great town with the only coffeehouse up for sale,” he said. “The bookstore angle is just my twist. But I have to tell you, this town is turning out to be a tough nut to crack.” Louis returned with two steaming mugs and cleared a small table. He motioned Alex to sit.

“Yeah, us Newbergers can be a stalwart bunch,” Alex said. “Mixture of Nordic values and Protestant work ethic. Bottom line, we don’t trust anyone born outside the city walls.”

“So you’re native?”

“Sort of. My husband and I lived out in California for almost fourteen years with our son, Jake. But we both grew up here. Just moved back about a year and a half ago.” Alex’s comfort level rose, spurred on by adult conversation. She took a sip of the flavorful coffee, then went on. “Actually one year, seven months, and twenty-three days ago, but who’s counting.”

“The ultimate long and winding road, huh?”

“I swear, in the time we were gone, nothing changed. This place is like Brigadoon.” Alex warmed her hands on the mug of coffee and began to tell Louis the G-rated version of the Sawyer saga. She told Louis about Ben being a cop in Oakland—leaving out the juicy conclusion—and that he now worked for Newberg PD. When she mentioned that her dad had spent the last five years as chief of the small department, Alex was pleased to see that Louis didn’t raise his eyebrows with the assuming look that said,
Your husband must be a kiss ass.
She didn’t stop until she had drained her cup, looked at her watch, and found that an hour had passed. It struck her she hadn’t talked to anyone for an entire hour in, well,
years.

“Oh, my gosh, it’s nine thirty already?” Alex stood abruptly from her chair. “I’d better go. I’ll be back when I can spend some time on a cup of coffee and a good book.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Louis said as he stood. “Take the Cather with you.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got a paperback copy somewhere. It’s been a while, but if I want to find it, I will.”

“Cather in paperback? Stop. The book needs a good home. Take it,” Louis said, extending the book toward her.

“Okay, but I’m going to read it, then either bring it back or pay you for it.”

“You’d better or I’ll call a cop.”

Alex laughed. “Thanks for the java and the book. Get this place cleaned up, okay?”

“I’ll get right on it.”

As Alex left, she noticed that shops were opening and a fair amount of traffic now flowed in the street. She thought of a new friend and at the contrast between Louis and the men in her life, none of them happy and not shy about letting her know it. Every day was a balancing act, like walking an emotional high wire. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that Louis had come out onto the sidewalk to watch her leave. He waved and Alex waved back, already looking forward to her next chance to step down off the wire and get away.

THREE

Harlan jumped with ease from the rear of the pickup and pulled his backpack higher on his shoulder. He banged his open hand against the sidewall and called out to the driver, “Obliged for the lift.”

The truck sped out, leaving Harlan in a parking lot full of Ford trucks, Buick and Chevy muscle cars, and a half-dozen Harley motorcycles. There wasn’t an import in sight.
I’ll be damned,
he thought.
The whole lot is American made.

The Wisconsin evening remained stubbornly cold, and the fifty-mile ride in the open air left him with a shiver he worked hard to control. Harlan wore a heavy dark blue corduroy top that was really no more than a thick shirt, but he was glad to have it. A wool beanie was pulled down low to just above his eyebrows. The jeans and army boots were broken in and fit well. His trip to Goodwill represented a major portion of the $227 he had in his pocket when he walked out the front gate of Red Cliff State Penitentiary. Between the clothes, food, and a few incidentals, he was down to around a hundred bucks. That, after seventeen years of on-again, off-again prison work at twenty-seven cents an hour. But the used clothing was money well spent, and Harlan was glad to shed himself of the thin black slacks, plastic windbreaker, and hard-sole shoes that were his last physical reminder of prison.

Country music poured out from inside the split-level structure located along a lonely stretch of the two-lane state highway. The building had been converted into a nightclub of sorts and was said to be the only watering hole for twenty miles in any direction. Neon signs of a half-dozen beers flashed from the windows, along with the name of the bar: Chicken Lips Saloon. Harlan walked toward the building, where a cluster of men and women stood under the lamplight, each with cigarette in hand. They looked up to watch as Harlan, a compact but muscular man with a bone-white complexion, approached. Harlan took note that as he drew close, the conversations faded away. One man in the group held a bottle down by his waist, with two fingers around the long neck and the rest of his hand buried in his pocket. The bottle dangled there, and Harlan realized at any second it could be called on as a weapon. The man’s chest and arms were swollen under a flannel shirt, and his eyes stared out from a chiseled face as if he was ready to challenge Harlan’s entry. Harlan slowed his step and met the man’s gaze with a well-practiced hard look of his own. He kept staring even after the man looked away and raised his bottle for a nervous swallow of beer. The group retreated in unison and gave Harlan a clear path to the door. Harlan passed by without a word and stepped inside.

With all the interior walls removed, what once served as a family home was now a beer hall in every respect. Harlan saw the source of the music was a live band set off in one corner. They played a popular slow tune well enough that a crowd of men and women swayed in each other’s arms on the parquet dance floor under a spinning ball of mirrors and glass. Harlan stood in the doorway to give his eyes a minute to adjust to the low light. The heavy aroma of grilling sausage served as a reminder he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. A hundred droning voices filled his head with snippets of conversations, causing Harlan to feel unsettled and on the verge of aggravation. He set out to find the office he was told would be toward the back and marked
PRIVATE
.