Exposure (27 page)

17

HEN
H
ARLAN
W
ILKES WAS ASKED, LATER, TO DESCRIBE HOW
he felt that Monday night when the navy and gold Wake Forest Police cruiser arrived unexpectedly, he would struggle to comply. What words could do justice to the feeling that he’d been thrust onto one of those centrifugal motion rides and the bottom had just dropped out? How could he confess to feeling struck—literally slammed, wind knocked out of him—by the thought that Sheri and Amelia had been right, that he had overreacted from the start, and that his doing so had led to this, the arrival of the police to take his daughter to jail? No way could he say that aloud, he could hardly admit the possibility to himself. “I guess I just couldn’t believe it,” he would say. “I guess I hoped that whatever it was about, it was going be in her favor. My daughter is innocent. There was no reason to think they’d arrest her.”

Before the police’s Saturday visit—a travesty itself, he would say, without mentioning how he’d only learned of it afterward—he’d begun his day by sending off Amelia’s girlfriend, Cameron, and was thinking about whether he should limit Amelia’s access to her, given that Cameron’s phone log showed recent calls to a number that he’d found was Kim Winter’s home listing. He was pretty sure Cameron hadn’t been talking to the teacher. He’d gone out to the garage where he kept his collectibles, thinking about the possibility that the Winter kid had something going on with Cameron separate from Amelia, and if so, he wanted to break the news to Amelia gently.

He’d been tinkering under the hood of his 1939 Bugatti Type 57C, his “gangster car,” he called it, when the police came to the house with the search warrant. He’d never heard a thing. Not until they’d been and gone and he’d come inside for lunch did he know that his daughter had come under investigation. Sheri sat him down after he’d passed Amelia, brooding as she headed for her cottage, and told him what had gone on while he was in the garage. He had been outraged—“Outraged!” he would later say—that no one had come for him or called him in to deal with the detective. If they had? Well, if they had, things might have gone differently—no, no, he couldn’t say how, exactly, but surely he was deserving of a chance to do something. Sheri’s reasoning—that she’d decided his presence would have made it even worse than it was—was no comfort. His own wife acting against his interests, and didn’t that just figure. It amazed him how you could admire and trust and marry a woman, live with her for twenty years, and not know her in the least.

Sunday had been no picnic either, he’d say. Amelia stayed shut in her room, she would not go to church, she wouldn’t answer his questions, she wouldn’t talk to her mother. Only Buttercup was welcomed. Harlan had felt helpless and confused. He’d gotten in touch with his attorney, who’d promised to get some information, but as best anyone knew, something that was found in Winter’s electronics led to the DA wanting to see what was stored in Amelia’s.

He’d worked on Monday, as usual, making the rounds, having meetings with his GMs (general managers—no way did he mean GM the brand, wouldn’t touch those cars, that company was a disaster), and then returned home at his usual time, about six thirty. He and Sheri ate dinner, all like usual, though he would admit there was plenty of tension, what with her betrayal on Saturday and the question of the investigation hanging over all of their heads.

On Monday, he saw the cruiser from the window of his den, right around eight o’clock. Its lights were not flashing. No siren blared. He hadn’t even noticed the car until he saw the headlights swing across the front of the house as it made the first curve of the driveway. And even then, he didn’t expect what they were there for, didn’t suspect it, would not have imagined if he’d lived to be a hundred years old that their mission was to come to his house unannounced—that son of a bitch DA hadn’t even given him a warning—and with a warrant for Amelia’s arrest.

“Mr. Wilkes,” the officer had said, stepping out of the car. Harlan recognized him as the dark-haired cop from Monday afternoon.

“Well this is a surprise,” Harlan said, reaching to shake the man’s hand. The handshake was awkward, Harlan noticed, but he’d figured the awkwardness was deference. “I guess you’ve got some new information for me. Liles, he come up with anything more on Winter? I’ll assume that whatever he’s got now just confirmed my girl’s account.”

The officer cleared his throat. “Sir, is your daughter on the premises?”

“She is, but my understanding is that she’s not feeling too good. Nothing serious.”

“Sir,” the officer said, producing a white sheet of paper, “I have here a warrant for her arrest.”

Harlan took a step backward. “What is this, some sort of joke?”

“No, sir. Would you like to inform Miss Wilkes that I’ll be taking her downtown?”

“I would not,” Harlan said. “Explain yourself!”

“The district attorney’s office has received information implicating Miss Wilkes in a crime. He convened the grand jury earlier today, and they have returned an indictment. Sir,” he said, gesturing toward the house.

Harlan moved to block the door and pulled his cellphone from its holster. “The chief might have something to say about this,” he growled.

The officer looked at him passively. “He might, but meantime, I have an arrest warrant which I am required to act on, and I am requesting that you step aside.”

While Harlan held his phone to his ear and listened as the police chief’s personal line rang and rang and then went to voice mail, his mind raced and his heart did, too, and his breath seemed to hitch up in his chest. He left a brief message, “Harlan Wilkes here. Call me as soon as possible on my personal line,” and then tried a different tactic. He told the officer, “I do not understand what’s going on. My daughter has been home, here, for two weeks. She couldn’t have been involved in any crime.”

“ ‘G.S. 14-190.17, Second degree sexual exploitation of a minor,’ ” the officer read. “ ‘G.S. 14-190.1, Obscene literature and exhibitions. G.S. 14-190.5, Preparation of obscene photographs.’ These are some of the charges. I suggest you contact an attorney.”

Harlan’s mind spun with the impossibility of Amelia’s involvement in such things. Sexual exploitation of a
minor
? Of who? Obscene
exhibitions
? Something, he was sure, had gotten mixed up. “There’s been a mistake,” he said, still blocking the door. “She was the
victim. She’s
the minor. Anthony Winter, he’s your perpetrator. You call in and check, you’ll see.”

“Mr. Winter’s situation is being handled accordingly.” The officer paused, then said, “As I hear it he’ll be facing similar charges, in fact. Now, Mr. Wilkes, I will ask you once more to allow my entry and produce your daughter, or I will call for backup and proceed that way.”

“God damn it,” Harlan said, almost dizzy with confusion, sickened by his inability to stop the man in front of him from taking his daughter away. “God damn it all.” He pushed the door open, growling, “I’ll get her. Wait here.”

Kim Winter parked her car in her driveway Monday night, having spent the evening at school working at the annual holiday-gifts fund-raising bazaar. It had been an awkward evening for her, manning the popular student-art booth alone. Parents and grandparents couldn’t avoid her, because that would mean not buying any of the paintings or drawings, the handmade mugs and bowls and plates, the sculptures, the willow baskets, the semiprecious jewelry, all the things their children had spent the fall semester creating with the bazaar in mind. The families were not, however, friendly in their transactions. They were silent, or terse, or in one case blatantly rude. She could see the distaste in their eyes, the realization that,
Oh
, you’re
the one whose son is the sex offender
, despite the efforts she’d made to look as professional and upstanding as anyone there.

The worst of them were the well-preserved grandmothers, with their smooth, salon-quality makeup and long, polished nails and dyed, set, teased hair and brightly colored, perfectly matched tailored outfits, women who appeared to have been airbrushed to perfection before leaving their grand old estate homes. These were the women who, on the arms of smooth-haired, smooth-faced daughters or daughters-in-law looked her way and drawled their “Oh my word!” remarks loudly enough for her to hear them, before approaching her booth and glancing down their noses at her as they shopped.
Oh my word!
, Kim thought as they milled about the booth,
It’s obvious
you
never had a chance at being foolish in love
, and,
Oh my word, I’m sure
your
children were all shining beacons of exemplary behavior
. When she knew that, in fact, some of their children—the parents of her students—were in fact far less than exemplary in the ways they cheated on their spouses or their taxes or their business partners, paid tuition months late, served alcohol to minors in their homes, jetted off for vacations (or rehab), leaving teenagers home alone, unsupervised except by dear Grandmama, who called them at least once a day to make sure everything was truly fine.

Being home, finally, was a relief. She was opening her car door, looking forward to a long hot bath and a glass of Bordeaux with some Petrucciani jazz playing, when a car pulled in behind her. She glanced in her rearview mirror and was startled to see a light bar atop the car. Her side mirror confirmed it: a police car. She hoped she had been speeding, or that her vehicle registration was expired, or, even better, that a taillight was out and the officer was simply going to let her know about it.
Please
, she thought,
let it be something as simple as that
.

She got out of the car and pulled her jacket closed; the night had cooled quickly and there was a damp bite to the air. Inside the cruiser, the police officer looked up, saw her waiting, and nodded an acknowledgment. He typed something into the laptop computer mounted to the dashboard, then put on his hat and got out of the car. “Ma’am,” he said.

“Good evening. Is it a taillight?” she asked, walking toward both him and the back of her car. Her heels, the same pair she’d worn on her date with William, clicked on the concrete, a jarring noise she still was not accustomed to making. William had commented on her shoes, or rather the visual effect of them, as they were leaving the restaurant Friday, saying, “You always look feminine and pulled together, but if you don’t mind my noticing this aloud … well, you’ve got great legs.”

Possibly the officer was noticing, too. He was slow to respond to her question, saying, “Taillight? Oh. No ma’am, I’m here to see Anthony Winter.”

The hair on her neck rose. “See Anthony? At nine o’clock? What’s going on?”

“You are …?”

“I’m his mother. He’s my son,” she added, stupidly stating the obvious. “Haven’t you already—that is, he’s been through a lot lately, and—”

“I’m afraid it isn’t over yet,” the officer said, not unkindly. “I have a warrant for his arrest.”

“His arrest,” Kim parroted. “His
arrest
? That can’t be. I mean, there must be some error. He was already brought in for that, two weeks ago. He was released. He’s got a court date next week.”

“No mistake.” He showed her a sheet of paper that was marked clearly:
WARRANT
. She took it and turned so that the streetlight shined on its surface. Even without her reading glasses it was easy enough to make out today’s date and the letters of her son’s name. The officer said, “Is he at home?”

“I …” Kim paused, surprised at how tempted she was to lie and say he’d gone somewhere, anywhere, for the week. To what end, though? Supposing the police officer believed her and left, what would that accomplish? They’d go looking for him elsewhere, sure, but then she’d have to keep him hidden at home, imprisoned and waiting to be found. And that would mean, what, that she’d be guilty of harboring a fugitive? There should be laws, she thought, protecting mothers who protected their children. She handed him the warrant, then looked toward the house and said, “Probably. His light is on. But can I please ask you what’s going on?”