FOLLOW THE LEADER - Chapter 85

Chapter 85



Colin broke his promise to the chief the next evening. He was barbecuing ribs for Mike Rollins and his ex, Joy, Amy Feingold and me. I watched Mike Rollins and Amy, who had come in together. I thought they might be a couple, but then I remembered the powerful bond they shared. Katherine. Not to mention they were still neighbors and running partners.

Joy looked fabulous in her designer jeans and silk blouse. Mostly she looked relieved. Linda told me later that Joy had been crying before she came. No surprise there.

And Linda?

She wore a Stanford sweatshirt and a pair of jeans and played hostess, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps it was my imagination, but she appeared to tense up when she looked at Colin and me. Clearly, the get-together was not her idea. 

The idea was to eat ribs and drink beer and then listen to the Official Story, as told by Detective Colin D. Kelly.

Along with Linda, I wasn’t sure that having bereaved folks over in this way was such a good idea.

Before the guests arrived Colin told me: “I gotta give ‘em more than what they can read in the papers. They deserve that.”

“Maybe you should wait until you’re asked.”

“Exactly what I told him,” Linda said.

Colin walked away, unfazed.

As planned, Colin waited until we had all finished the ribs and wiped our greasy hands on hot washcloths. Then he told them his version of the key events ending with his trip to the hospital. Basically, all he knew. It took a while.

I was dying to add details that only I could know, including a congratulatory call from F.B.I. agents Thornhill and Driscoll, but I bit my tongue. Better to play second fiddle. Better for the “team,” as Chief Howell would say.

When Colin was finally done, no one said anything. 

Linda got up and cleared the table.

Finally Rollins said, “I hope he burns in hell.”

That broke the ice.

“Hear, hear!” said everyone.

Then Colin was besieged with questions, as I knew he would be.

“Will Powers get the death penalty?” Joy asked.

“Who knows?”

“There are no mitigating circumstances,” she said. “Nada. Why should they cut him any slack?”

I reminded them that Charles Manson was still alive inside the state prison in Corcoran.

“But he’s going to die, isn’t he?” Joy asked.

“Eventually. But he won’t be executed.”

“Fuck me!” said Rollins. “Why the hell not?”

I gestured toward Colin.

“Ask him,” I said.

Colin shrugged. “Something about California’s statute regarding the death penalty. The California Supreme Court objected to one part of it. Or maybe a couple of parts. That’s all I know.”

Silence.

We all shared the same thought. The legal system favored smart attorneys who could wriggle out of anything.  I couldn’t remember the last time a death row prisoner was executed in California.

The question and answer portion of the evening was over.

Almost.

Finally Mike Rollins turned to me and asked: “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Colin laughed.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“After a couple of more beers,” I said.  “Maybe.” No matter how well I explained the situation, it was going to sound weird.

And Colin wasn’t helping.

“It’s similar to what happened to Frank a few years back at SFO,” he said.

“It’s Francis,” I whispered from the side of my mouth. The truth was I didn’t give a shit any more.

“Wait,” said Rollins. “A dog bit you in the airport?”

“That was an attack dog,” I said. “Its owner was a blind guy with a cane. Part of a human trafficking ring. Turned out he wasn’t blind.”

“Yeah, right!” said Rollins.

Joy laughed. “Do you expect us to believe that?” she asked.

“Really?” Amy said. “Give us a break.”

Colin was having fun with it, so I decided to play along.

“Come on,” he urged. “Tell them what really bit you.”

“Where?”

“In Glen Canyon Park.”

“Oh, that.”

“Come on, tell us!” Linda chimed, even though she knew the story.

I sighed and said, “All right. It was a coyote.”

Laughs all around.

Linda chuckled on her way into the kitchen to check on her pie. 

“It’s true!” said Colin to the rest of us. “I was there!”

“Swear to God,” I threw in and raised my right hand.

The conversation turned to dogs. Dogs of all kind. Wolves versus coyotes.

“Coyotes have longer snouts,” said Mike Rollins.

“How would you know?” asked his ex. 

Next it was Cheetahs versus greyhounds. Everyone agreed that Cheetahs were faster.

Linda came in with the pie, diverting everyone’s attention.

Lots of ooohs.  

By the time we finished eating the strawberry rhubarb pie, my freak neck wound was ancient history.