So Far and Good (A Cecil Younger Investigation, Band 8) - Hardcover

Buch 8 von 8: A Cecil Younger Investigation

Straley, John

 
9781641292535: So Far and Good (A Cecil Younger Investigation, Band 8)
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1641292539 ISBN 13: 9781641292535
Verlag: Soho Crime, 2021

Inhaltsangabe

To his chagrin, Alaskan PI Cecil Younger learns his teenage daughter has launched her own detective agency. But when her first case goes awry, she’s going to need some help from an unlikely source: her father, who’s currently locked up in prison.

The verdict from the three-judge panel is in. Cecil Younger, bumbling criminal defense investigator and totally embarrassing father, has been sentenced to seven-and-a-half years in prison for his involvement in . . . well, a number of things, ranging from destruction of private property to killing a guy. But compared to the original twenty-five-year sentence, it's not so bad. His success with getting his sentence reduced has attracted the attention of his fellow inmates, and one man, "Fourth Street," reaches out for advice for his upcoming parole hearing in exchange for protection and companionship.

When he isn't reading Adrienne Rich or James Baldwin with Fourth Street, Cecil spends his time filling up large yellow legal pads. He writes, mostly, about his teenage daughter, Blossom, who is on a Nancy Drew–like quest to help her friend, George, discover the truth about her biological parents, which turns out to be complicated. Shortly after submitting a mail-in genetics test, George learns she is the infamous "Baby Jane Doe" who was kidnapped from her Native mother shortly after she was born. A media and legal circus quickly ensues, and George's reunion with her birth family isn’t the heartwarming story the journalists hoped it would be. There is an even darker secret about the baby-snatching case, a secret threatens to destroy not just George’s family—but Cecil’s as well.

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

The youngest of five children, John Straley was born in Redwood City, California, in 1953. He received a BA in English from the University of Washington and, at the urging of his parents, a certificate of completion in horse shoeing. John never saw himself living in Alaska (where there are no horses left to shoe), but when his wife, Jan, a prominent whale biologist, announced she was taking a job in Sitka, the two headed north and never left. John worked for thirty years as a criminal defense investigator in Sitka, and many of the characters that fill his books were inspired by his work. Now retired, he lives with his wife in a bright green house on the beach and writes in his weather-tight office overlooking Old Sitka Rocks. The former Writer Laureate of Alaska, he is the author of ten novels.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

THE TEST

It’s not hard remembering how long you have been in prison. Days pass and your daughter’s birthdays, holidays without the usual food, then seasons go by: a fall where you need a wool cap but don’t have one, a winter where slush wets your socks in the exercise yard, and your feet may stay wet all day depending how many pairs of socks you have, and a spring where unseen songbirds titter from the rocky field beyond the coils of razor wire. I can remember how long I have been in. What bothers me is that as time goes on, I begin to forget when, if ever, I will be getting out.
     There is a single time-accounting sergeant who is in charge of keeping the book on time. He or she keeps track of your time, down to the minute you were logged into jail when you were first booked in on your charges. The TA sergeant also calculates your “good time.” In Alaska, for every three days of time in prison that you don’t cause any trouble, you earn one day off your sentence; but not always. If you participate in certain rehabilitative services, that time within the program does not earn good time. It can be tricky to know how much time you have officially lost for certain infractions. Inmates are supposed to be informed of loss of good time, but often that information slips through the cracks. Infractions can be written up or not, and inmates are never sure if the report makes it into the hands of the probation officer and then to the TA sergeant. An inmate can ask for a TAA or a “time accounting audit,” but it’s a pretty big deal, and it’s generally believed that unless your attorney requests the audit with some justification by the court, the TA sergeant will simply add days or weeks, just for making them go through the extra work. The truth of it is no one ever likes the answer the TA sergeant gives, so most of us don’t ask. We wait.
     I was originally sentenced to twenty-five years, but my lawyers and I went before the three-judge panel, and I gave the longest allocution in the history of Alaska, and they lowered my sentence to seven years. On the day I’m writing this, I have served four years. I’m close to what should have been my release date, but the events I am writing about occurred six months ago. It wasn’t too long after the decision of the three-judge panel, and I was still feeling the weight of the twenty-five lift off my back. I was floating. Sad still, and sick of being inside . . . but floating. Perhaps it was the floating that made me do some of the stupid things that resulted in my losing a chunk of good time, and set this whole horrific shitstorm roaring through every part of my life—my caged life and my free life too.
     So I wait and I spend the time writing. I know I lost some good time, but I’m not sure how much and what for. It could be months or a year. My lawyer doesn’t want me writing anything down, of course, but I have to. I want to write it all down, not because I’m trapped inside prison but because I’m frightened of prison being trapped inside of me. During the years I have spent here, I have seen human beings so overwhelmed by rules, walls and changing protocols that they become pale with something I once thought was the result of insanity or inconsolable grief. They take in everything they ever used to enjoy as if it were now an insult to the very idea of pleasure. The food, the sex, the work, the books they read, the art they make—it is all meaningless without the freedom to enjoy it.
     Just two weeks ago, a story made the rounds about a guy who made it out after being in prison for twelve and a half years. He had dreamed of rebuilding his motorcycle and riding it to the Arctic Circle with a big-breasted girl riding bitch on the back. Well, the “girl,” who was almost forty years old, bailed somewhere outside of Tok Junction not far up the highway because the bike’s hard suspension hurt her back so much she decided she would rather work in a roadhouse serving wildland firefighters than rattle her way up that bumpy road.
     Once alone, our man became more and more obsessed with limitations—speed limits and traffic signs. He was in violation of his parole and screaming across the northern tundra, trying to eat up the horizon before his arms turned numb or the bugs and road dust sealed his eyes shut. But eventually even a straight road to the horizon seemed too limiting, too narrow.
     Word came back to us that the RCMP found him wrapped around a bridge abutment somewhere in the Northwest Territories, his bike in pieces and his body having been consumed by scavengers.
     A majority of the inmates, even the short-timers, envied him.
     This is all a long way of saying that I am writing this story about my daughter to remind myself of a certain kind of freedom that I want to carry in my mind throughout this entire experience inside. It’s a freedom that I associate with my daughter’s goodness, and maybe, more broadly, with just the possibility of human goodness.
 
There were several investigations concerning the events that caused me to lose good time and will keep me in here until . . . I don’t know when. One was conducted by the Alaska State Troopers and the Department of Corrections; another by the office of Child Protective Services, which got involved, as you will soon learn. Obviously I wasn’t present to see anything that happened outside Lemon Creek Correctional Center, so in writing this, I wanted to double-check the facts from those investigations. My attorney was given those reports. I’ve also had the advantage of being able to talk with my daughter, Blossom Younger. She gave me her written reports, letters and diary, which you might think is a rare display of openness between a teenage girl and her incarcerated father. In truth, she gave me all her written materials in order to hide them from the other investigations, which turned out to be a well-reasoned ploy because my lawyer and the Department of Corrections threw up quite a few walls against the discovery of my personal possessions. No adult investigator thought there would be much of Blossom’s stuff in my possession.
     Blossom spoke with me during her visits about what happened in the basement, and she cried like a baby, long after her bruises had healed and the cuts had sealed together and the stitches had come out. She wept without control, but she hadn’t cried when it first happened. Then she was a tough and smart-mouthed teenager who could handle all the troubles of the adult world, thank you very much. She thought she was a freedom fighter, and she thought she was fighting for my freedom, bless her soul, but once she learned I had that more or less covered, she started opening up to me and her mother, and her rage all spilled out “like the insides of a gutted fish.” Those were her words. She made me promise not to paint her as a wimp in this account, and as you will see, there is nothing wimpy about our daughter. But you might judge me harshly and miss my love for her if I didn’t clue you in to her tender nature.
     I write now in pencil on a yellow pad—several yellow pads, actually. I usually work while I’m at my job in the library or when I’m alone in my bunk. I make two copies of everything I write, and I hide both copies: one in a safe place and the other with a person I trust. I write to keep from beating my head against the wall for whatever time I have left in here, and I write to remember...

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Verlag
Soho Crime
Erscheinungsdatum
2021
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1641292539
ISBN 13 
9781641292535
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Friedensallee 273
Hamburg
22763
Deutschland

Weitere beliebte Ausgaben desselben Titels

9781641294065: So Far and Good: A Cecil Younger Investigation #8

Vorgestellte Ausgabe

ISBN 10:  164129406X ISBN 13:  9781641294065
Verlag: Soho Crime, 2022
Softcover