Read Online Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin - Free Book Online Page A

wondering if you could come get me out.” He sounded very young, if not particularly frightened about his predicament.
    â€œOkay, Leon. Full name.”
    â€œLeon James Prouty.”
    â€œWhat have you been charged with, young man?”
    â€œUh. They said I was doing some midnight landscaping.”
    â€œI don’t know what that means.”
    â€œLike if you was to find a yard where somebody had just did some landscaping, and you was to dig up all the new bushes and throw ’em in a truck, drive off with them? That’s what you’d call midnight landscaping.”
    â€œSo the charge would be grand theft?”
    â€œI guess. Plus, you know how they do, make up a bunch of shit, try to scare you? Criminal trespass, breaking and entering, receiving—so on, so forth.”
    â€œYou at the city jail?”
    â€œPickeral Point police station.”
    â€œOkay, good. So have you been booked?”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œYou got money, Leon? I don’t work for free.”
    â€œHow much this gonna cost me?”
    I picked a number out of the air, just to see if he was serious. “We could probably get you started for five hundred. If you should happen to go to trial, considerably more.”
    â€œOh. No problem. Can I write you a check?”
    â€œYou’re making a joke, right?”
    â€œI’ll get it from the ATM as soon as you spring me.”
    A thief with a bank account. What a pleasant novelty. Most of my clients keep their life savings in a fat wad in their front pocket. “I’ll be right down,” I said. “I trust you haven’t given a statement to the police?”
    â€œNo sir. I don’t say jack to them clowns.”
    â€œKeep it that way. I’ll be right down.”
    I hung up the phone and turned to Lisa. “I’ve got to run. Go back to my house and just sit tight for a while, okay?”
    â€œHow about I come with you?”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œI’ll leave the rum here. Huh? What do you say?” She smiled coyly.
    I didn’t feel like negotiating with a drunk, so we walked silently out to my aging Chrysler. Lisa slouched in a small heap next to me, drumming rapidly on her thigh with her fingernails. “Put your seat belt on.”
    â€œYes, Daddy,” she said in an ironic tone.
    â€œAnd when did you start smoking?”
    â€œYou know what, Dad? The reason I came here is I was hoping to avoid the judgmental bullshit.”
    Despite her promise to leave the rum in the office, she’d brought it with her. I reached over, grabbed it, poured it out the window.
    â€œMan!” she said. “You had to do that, didn’t you? Mr. Good Parent. Mr. Take Charge.”
    When she was sober, Lisa was a terrific kid. But right now I didn’t like her much. Had I been this impossible back in my drinking days? Undoubtedly. Probably a good deal worse. I am a grandiose drunk. The more I swig, the bigger a man I am, the greater my accomplishments, the smarter I get, the braver, the taller . . . I sneaked a look at my daughter and felt the creeping itch of shame. My fault. Surely this was all my fault.
    It was the hook she would always have in me. As long as I felt like I might be able to reclaim her, make up for my mistakes as a father, she’d always have leverage over me, always have the ability to force me into being softer on her than I probably ought to be.
    I kept my mouth closed and drove.
    When we reached the police station, I said, “Wait here for me.” Why I bothered saying that, I don’t know. Lisa, of course, got out and followed me into the station.
    The lobby of the new Pickeral Point police station has all the latest security features. Outside it’s a bland sandstone box, designed to fit in with the aging Art Deco knock-offs that comprise the city and county government buildings on the square. But inside it’s all modern: cameras, a receptionist behind