Chapter Four（2）

The sheriff marched down the wooden steps. “English, you’re under arrest,” he announced.

“Say what?”

“You heard.”

My heart began to pound with adrenaline in the fight or flight response. Since my normal reflex is flight, I’m not sure why I reacted with a surge of scared aggression, but I did. My fists balled up and I launched forward, only to find my way blocked by Jake.

“Whoa,” he said. He turned to Billingsly, asking, “What’s the charge, Sheriff?”

Billingsly said flatly, “English has about an acre of pot growing on the hill behind this house. How about a charge of manufacturing marijuana with intent to distribute?”

“I’ve been here four days,” I said. “How am I supposed to have achieved these results? Miracle-Gro?”

“It’s your property, it’s your pot,” Billingsly said without emotion. “But if you don’t think the charge fits, try this for size: aiding and abetting, or conspiring, in the possession and production of a controlled substance—with intent to distribute.”

So ... reducing the charges to “constructive possession,” what was that? Five years minimum? It was so unreal, for a moment I felt like I was on drugs.

The deputy had the handcuffs out.

My voice rose in tempo to the blood beating in my temples. “Obviously you should be looking for Ted Harvey, the guy I apparently pay to sit in the sun and smoke dope all day. Obviously —” My heart was stuttering in fear and anger. Jake put his hand on my arm in warning—which did not go unnoticed.

Jake said, “Can I ask you boys how you came to be searching the hill behind Mr. English’s house?”

“We’ve got a warrant,” Dwayne chimed in.

Billingsly looked annoyed at unauthorized vocal-I-zation. “We got an anonymous tip,” he said.

“And that doesn’t seem suspicious to you?” I cried, ignoring Jake’s hand tightening on my arm.

“Listen, English, the pot is there. And I notice you didn’t seem surprised to hear it.”

“I notice you seem more interested in anonymous phone calls than the fact I nearly got brained on my own property. Why’s that? One anonymous phone call and you’re out here like a flash, but an honest taxpayer is in the hospital two days and you never even show up to take his statement?”

Yep, I was losing it. Jake must have deduced it was time to intervene. He said mildly enough, “I don’t know how you boys handle things up here, but I’d say this is a lawsuit waiting to happen. English is barely out of the hospital.”

“They released him. If he’s well enough to leave the hospital —”

Dwayne jumped in. “Maybe you LA cops turn a blind eye to smokin’ dope and —”

“AND YOU’VE GOT A FART’S CHANCE IN A HURRICANE OF BRINGING THIS TO TRIAL,” Jake overrode them both loudly.

There was a pause in the wake of that lung power. The windmill screeched rustily in the breeze. Pretty much expressing my feelings.

“Before your DA laughs you out of his office you might want to consider the lawsuit English will slap on you,” Jake added coolly. “That’s you personally, you follow me? You’ll have liens on your wages, your home, and your car, if not your wife and kids. Think about it. Long after Mr. English has gone back to Los Angeles you’ll still be negotiating with his lawyers.”

I can’t say I appreciated this line of defense and the portrait of me as a litigation-crazed Angeleno, but it was effective as I could see by the way Deputy Dwayne sort of sidled away from his boss’s side. Billingsly’s piggy eyes flickered as he mentally squared-off against my high-priced, big-city lawyers, a long-distance nemesis he would have no power to touch.

A massive tumbleweed rolled by while we waited for the sheriff to make up his mind.

Billingsly stroked an uneasy finger down the white skunk stripe in his beard.

The sunlight shimmered blindingly off the dirt; I had to close my eyes against the glare. Jake’s hand was still fastened on me but it felt more like reassurance than restraint now. I told myself that, if they did arrest me, Jake would handle it. He would know what to do. He would have me out on bail in hours. No need to panic. I told myself this two or three times while the back of my shirt grew damp with perspiration.

“Let me give you a friendly piece of advice, boys,” Billingsly managed finally. “You rile the wrong folks, and you’ll be too busy planning your funerals to worry about going to court.”

* * * * *

“Never use the word ‘obvious’ to a hick cop,” Jake said as we watched the two-man posse ride away in a cloud of exhaust and dust. “Let alone three times in one breath.”

“Thanks for the tip. Any secret handshakes you can show me?” I turned toward the house. I needed to sit before I caved in; the roof of my skull felt like it was cracking apart, showering my brain with dust and pebbles.

Jake followed in silence.

“So how long are you staying?” I asked politely, trying to unlock the front door. My hands were shaking. Jake took the keys and let us inside.

“Just until you’re fit to drive back to LA.”

“I’m staying.”

“What do you mean, you’re staying? You live in Los Angeles remember?”

“I’m staying till I find out what the fuck is going on here!”

Jake said nothing.

I knew what he was thinking. “If I leave this place now there’s going to be a midnight barbecue to guarantee I never have reason to come back.”

“You stick around and you may wake up in the middle of a midnight barbecue.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Jake snorted. “Tough guy, huh?”

“Oh yeah, that’s me.”

He gave me a level look.

“Reality check, tough guy. You’ve got a faulty pump, savvy? That automatically disqualifies you from the Hardy Boys Club.”

Now why this simple statement of fact pissed me off so, I’m not sure. Especially since it was what I’d been telling myself.

“Nobody’s asking you to stay.” More effective I guess if my voice hadn’t gone high and quavery with stress.

“I noticed.”

I mopped my wet forehead with my sleeve, lowered myself to the sofa. More calmly, I said, “Nobody asked you to ride to my rescue. You want to bail, don’t let me stop you.”

Jake’s lips quirked as though he actually found this funny. “This is the thanks the cavalry gets?”

“You want a big, wet, sloppy kiss hello?” I started to slap my forehead, but thought better of it. “I forgot. You don’t do that.”

Silence.

“Okaaaay,” Jake said finally. “You want to say what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve said it.”

Silence.

“I’m going to lie down. You know, get some shut-eye before the barbecue starts. Check and see if we have marshmallows, will you?”

I dropped back against the cushions too fagged for the moment to care what anybody, including Jake, did. The sofa made a couple of slow wide swoops, like a merry-go-round drawing to a standstill. I closed my eyes.

I could sense Jake standing there in the middle of the room, a perplexed Colossus of Rhodes. That’s right, big boy, I thought. Do the math.

I was drifting out on the tide of peaceful oblivion when he muttered, “Now who the hell is this?”