By Necessity: From Chapter Seven

The morning after Nancy Roark died in the sheriff’s custody, her son Paul has just watched the security footage of her arrest. He’s still sitting in her farmhouse kitchen when the sheriff pulls up. From By Necessity: A Private Rebellion, a grounded thriller by Jackson Parker, available now from Firewatch Press.

*  *  *

Paul heard the car crushing the gravel as it pulled up in front of the house. Peering through the sheer curtains of the front window from his chair in the kitchen, he recognized the silver sedan of the sheriff’s office. That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, Paul thought, echoing the words of Kipling in “The Gods of the Copybook Headings.” He stayed seated at the table, not knowing how this was going to play out. The last five days of video were now downloaded to his USB drive, and it was safely out of the house in his backpack inside the Tacoma. He knew what he saw in the video: a county sheriff throwing his weight around, using excessive force on a woman who posed no threat. He wondered what this sheriff might do against a man who could go toe-to-toe with him. Even though Paul was younger and more fit than the sheriff, he always assumed his opposition had skills or abilities he was not aware of. He’d seen too many things go sideways when people assumed their adversary was inferior.

The front doorknob rattled, but the door did not open. Moments later, Paul heard the boots coming up the wooden stairs to the kitchen door. Not wanting to completely catch the sheriff off guard, he called out, “Hello?” as the door slowly swung open. Standing outside the threshold, the sheriff flipped the retention strap off his sidearm, resting his hand on the grip. “Who is in there? This is the county sheriff. This house is condemned, and no one is authorized to be inside,” he declared as his left hand slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open, revealing Paul sitting at the table.

“Hello, Sheriff. I’m Oren Paul Roark. This is my mother’s house, and I am just here to get a few things,” Paul called back firmly but in a nonthreatening tone. “Why don’t you come inside and have a cup of coffee? It’s just about ready.”

“You can’t be in here, son. I know this is your mother’s house, but it has been condemned by the county health department. You need to leave right now, or you’ll face charges,” the sheriff replied matter-of-factly, still standing outside the door.

“Yeah, I saw the posted notices on the door. I saw your seal and signature on the door too, Sheriff,” Paul deadpanned, his arms still folded on the table. If the sheriff thought he could pin responsibility onto the county health department, Paul would be sure to drop it right back in his lap.

Paul was comfortable with silence. It didn’t make him uneasy when he knew he was holding at least some of the cards. He knew the sheriff played a role in his mother’s death, albeit likely unintentional. What he didn’t know was how the sheriff felt about it. He was going to let the sheriff tell him, whether by words or actions.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Holmes demanded as he stepped slowly into the kitchen. “I am the sheriff. My department served legal notices; yes, that is part of our job. And if you saw the notices, why did you come in anyway? You just admitted you know you are violating the law. You need to vacate the premises immediately.”

Paul paused and reclined back in the chair, looking completely at ease. The sheriff was standing on power and authority and wanted to drive the encounter. “It only means what I said, Sheriff, that your seal and signature are on the front door of my mom’s house dated three days ago.” Hearing the last few gurgles from the old Mr. Coffee machine on the counter, he slowly stood up. “Sheriff, I’m not here to stir up trouble. I’m only here to gather a few things and have some coffee. Sit down and have a cup—it just finished—then I’ll get what I came for and leave.”

Holmes wasn’t sure where to take it from here. Paul didn’t make any threats, nor did he outright refuse to leave, but he didn’t obey the sheriff’s direct order. He didn’t know Paul well, but he knew of his background, something about Special Forces. What’s more, he didn’t know Paul’s temperament. He was going to have to play it cool. He didn’t think he could coerce Paul into compliance with the authority of the badge—not at this point. He’d play along.

Removing his hat and sitting at the table opposite where Paul had been sitting, he politely requested, “Cream if you have it, no sugar, please.” He watched Paul’s reflection in the glass-covered picture hanging on the wall across from him, not fully trusting Paul behind him but not wanting to seem paranoid.

Paul didn’t know what angle the sheriff was going to take, but he had just watched video of the man using excessive force. He wondered how quickly the sheriff’s temper might rise. To say he had no interest in physical confrontation with the sheriff would be incorrect. But there was no way he could get into a physical confrontation with the elected sheriff and still go home to his wife and kids, go to work on Monday, and help Andie plan a funeral. He couldn’t control the sheriff’s actions, but maybe he could keep any potential confrontation between the two of them. As he poured the coffee, he flipped a switch on a small black box on the counter behind the coffee machine.

The small box contained a homebrew radio-frequency jammer. It wasn’t strictly legal. According to the FCC, it was completely illegal, but Paul saw no harm in it. Whenever the family gathered at Nancy’s for a weekend together, the grandkids would often cling to their cell phones. Regardless of the suggestions to go outside and explore the forty-acre farm, they wanted their internet. Paul had rigged up the low-power jammer to create interference in the 850 MHz range, right where their phones communicated. While it was illegal, the power range only made it effective inside and directly around the house. It affected no one but his family. He also knew the sheriff’s P25 radio operated in this range, and while the jammer’s low power wouldn’t likely prevent the sheriff’s outgoing transmissions from reaching the repeater, it would probably interfere with his ability to receive.

Placing the filled mugs on the table, Paul took his seat. “I don’t even know what’s going on here. Yesterday I’m at work in Virginia when my sister calls and tells me my otherwise healthy mother has died. I get down here today and see her house has been condemned. We don’t even know what happened to her.” Paul chose his words carefully. He didn’t know if the sheriff knew that he and Andie had, in fact, been at the hospital last night. He certainly wouldn’t know that Paul had captured the majority of his mom’s EHR.

“Is that what you’re doing here, trying to find out what happened?” Holmes asked rhetorically. “Because that doesn’t mean you can defy a lawful eviction notice for any supposed answers you might find here. I would be within my authority to arrest you right now,” he said, bringing the hot cup to his mouth, signaling he wasn’t intending to get physical.

“I’ve already told you, I’m here to get a few things. This coffee is one of them. I spent many mornings of my childhood sitting at this table, smelling this coffee, and talking with my folks. Neither of them will ever be here again. Are you trying to take that from me?” Paul pushed. “I never said I wouldn’t leave. I plan to comply with what you call ‘a lawful order’ once I’ve got everything I came here for this morning.”

And there it was: the slight jab and the partial rejection of authority. Paul looked intently at Holmes as he spoke. The sheriff’s face flushed. Was he angry at the insinuation that the sheriff wasn’t fully in compliance with the law? Was he upset with the accusation that the sheriff would want to withhold a moment of nostalgic reflection as he had one last cup of coffee in his parents’ kitchen where he might never do so again? Perhaps it was the fear that the “everything I came here for” was indeed the video footage from the security cameras? Regardless of what it was, the comments and questions were landing the psychological blows he intended them to.

“What exactly are the things you came here for this morning, Mr. Roark?” Holmes caught himself increasing his volume and sharpening his tone. Calm it down, Stuart, he thought to himself. “Besides this coffee you’ve kindly shared,” he finished with a milder tone.

Keep him on his heels, Paul, he thought.

“Items of a personal nature, Sheriff. Are household items of a personal nature a threat to public safety?” Paul delivered the question with just an edge of sarcasm.

“I don’t care what items you’ve come in here for. I’ve told you to leave, and my patience is running out.” Standing up and placing his hat back on his head, Holmes continued. “It’s time you left. Let’s go, Roark.” Holmes didn’t like being played with, and it was clear that’s what Paul was trying to do. Attempting to usher Paul to the still-open kitchen door, Holmes took a step to the side and lifted an open palm to the door, indicating he wanted him to leave now.

Paul smiled inside. That’s it. Don’t escalate too fast. You can’t afford any physical contact, he reminded himself. Bringing the cup back up to his mouth, he sipped more coffee, his eyes looking down at the half-empty mug as if it was the only thing that mattered in the moment. “Coffee is getting cold. I’ll go get what I’m here for, and then I’ll leave,” he said as he slid the chair back from the table, standing up.

“No, you’ll leave now,” Holmes barked. Reaching for his chest mic, he turned his chin toward the mic, hitting the PTT button: “Sheriff Holmes requesting backup, any nearby units.” The transmission was made more for Paul than it was for backup. He needed backup if his assumptions about Paul were correct, but he didn’t want to get physical with this man. He wanted him out of the house, using the threat of overwhelming force to get Paul to leave.

Paul recognized the transmission for what it was, but he also read between the lines. Lines that the sheriff didn’t know he’d just laid down.

The sheriff called for backup but did not name his location. The sheriff was rattled. Naming your location when calling for backup was basic law-enforcement protocol, and in his haste to play the tough guy, he had tipped his hand. Paul’s internal smile widened when he heard no response from dispatch or other deputies requesting the location.

“I’m going down the hall to my dead mother’s room to get her favorite dress for her to be buried in. Then I’m going to get some family pictures for the funeral. If you are willing to deny a man who poses no threat the opportunity to collect a few items for his mother’s funeral, a mother who died while in custody of your department, I think you’ll find your next election will be a tighter race than you’ve ever seen, because people will find out.”

Holmes was furious, but he was also scared. What did he mean, “people will find out”? Find out about what? That he wouldn’t allow Paul access to his mother’s things, or find out what happened on the porch? Had he already seen the video? He couldn’t let this carry on, and his temper was rising fast. Reaching for his mic, he transmitted again: “Where is my backup?” His voice rose an octave.

Turning down the hall, Paul walked and talked: “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back, would you, Stuart?”

Completely befuddled, Holmes screamed into the mic, “Where in the hell is my backup, dammit?” Who was this man to question if he’d shoot an unarmed man in the back? He was the duly elected sheriff of the county and a man of upstanding character. His post demanded it. Why did Paul just call him by his first name? His title was Sheriff. The sheriff stomped out the back door, activating his mic again. Maybe the tin roof is blocking my signal. “THIS IS SHERIFF STUART HOLMES, WHERE IS MY GODDAMN BACKUP!” There was no reply.

What Holmes didn’t know was that multiple deputies and dispatch were calling back for his “10-20” just as intently as he was asking for backup. They were at the same time trying to contact the county communications center to see where the sheriff’s radio last pinged. Maybe they could find his location that way.

He thought about going around front to use his vehicle-mounted radio. It had a better antenna. He was about to step off when he heard Paul coming back down the hall. Looking back in, he saw Paul, a floral-patterned dress over one arm and a few framed photos in his other hand. Walking up to the coffee machine, Paul set down the photos, picked up the half-full glass coffeepot, and dumped it in the sink. “I have what I came for, and no harm was done. I’m leaving just like I told you I would. You don’t need any backup, so you can calm down.”

Reaching for his handcuffs, Holmes was preparing to take Paul into custody. Feeling the cold steel in his hand, he pulled his hand back. The cuffing of Nancy’s broken arm flashed in his mind’s eye. Paul stared him down as he collected the photos once again, casually switching off the jammer as he did so.

“It’s likely we will be speaking again soon, Sheriff. I’ve got a funeral to plan and a family in Virginia to attend to,” Paul casually intoned as he walked to join the sheriff on the wooden porch, pulling the door closed behind him. “You asked me if I was here trying to figure out what happened. Finding out what happened is not my job; that’s for the medical examiner and state investigators. But finding out what happened is something I was once very good at doing. I’d like you to keep my sister, Andie, informed of any new information you become aware of. She’ll relay it to me.”

“What do you mean, ‘medical examiner and state investigators’?” Holmes spat.

Placing the collected items in the passenger side of his truck, Paul spoke over his shoulder, not having heard the sheriff’s boots come down the stairs. “You keep asking me, ‘What do I mean?’” Turning to face the sheriff and closing the passenger door, Paul continued, “When I say something, I mean what I say. You seem to think it’s a veiled threat. I’ve done too many things in too many places to be anything but direct. Do you really think the death of a healthy woman in a hospital who was also in police custody is not going to be looked at?”

Paul let Holmes stew on that as he walked around his truck to get in. The sheriff’s radio started to squawk with traffic. “I doubt a county sheriff can stop that from being looked at.”

Holmes froze. Of course it was going to be investigated, and if somehow they did get people to look past it, this Paul character was going to make noise. Backing his truck up to face the drive, Paul rolled down his window. “Sheriff, two more things. When you leave, please lock the doors. And would you please have your men roll past here occasionally? You know we have security cameras that can see about everything, but that 1080p resolution can’t stop bad things from happening.” Pausing for a breath, he slipped his sunglasses on. “You never know when Tim might come back.”

*  *  *

Holmes worries the video exists. He wonders if Paul has it. What he doesn’t know is what Paul plans to do next.

By Necessity: A Private Rebellion by Jackson Parker. Available now.

[Amazon Link] https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HPXW9N1J

Jackson Parker writes grounded thrillers from the rural South, drawing on firsthand experience with rural communities, emergency medicine, and the outdoors. By Necessity is his first novel. Follow him on X at @jxnparkerbooks or at jacksonparkerbooks.com.