a better career, he would have to earn it and work for it, a trait that so few people in Freeden seemed to share.
Dwight worried about Ben, though. Practically nothing in Ben’s personal life ever strayed along a narrow, routine path. His life was constantly in turmoil with spousal infidelity, extended family in and out of jail, parents who had died at an early age, and a sister who had died from a drug overdose after years of abuse. Dwight did not befriend Ben because he felt sorry for him, but he often did, in fact, feel pained for the sorrows he had endured. While he joked about Ben’s love and passion for his career, he recognized it was a real situation and that one day Ben would likely regret spending so much time working and not building relationships and friendships with people.
Ben, too, worried about his lack of relationships, though he would often cast it off, only for the same grave concerns of being alone at an old age to resurface later. This, Ben thought, was what Dwight and he had most in common: separated from one another, they were very alone. People admired the both of them for their talents, but for various reasons resented them as people. In Dwight’s case, his sexual identity was not welcome in this rural Southern town, and in Ben’s case, his financial success, all a result of his established legal career, was viewed with distaste by his local peers who barely made ends meet while watching him enjoy the successes of never worrying about when the next paycheck would come. Ben believed this was why he and Dwight connected, that he and Dwight both needed real friendship. In this moment, as he sipped on his sauvignon blanc which he didn’t like, Ben realized that Dwight was truly a breath of fresh air in his life.
Ben took another sip of his wine, and suddenly, a loud noise captured his and Dwight’s attention at the entrance to the restaurant.
The glass front door swung open as Freeden police officers barged into the dining room as if they were diffusing a hostage situation. The police officers made their way into the building, ten of them, marching toward Dwight and Ben’s table. The one in the front, who was Chief Gary McDowell, walked up to their table, his officers behind him. “Dwight Kerry?”
“Yes?” Dwight answered.
“You are under arrest for the rape and murder of Braxton Jones. You have the right to remain silent.”
And silent he was.
4: The Gay
“Excuse me?” Dwight sat there with a surprised smile on his face that soon turned to a frown when he realized this was serious. “What the hell are you talking about?”
One officer, whose name neither Ben nor Dwight knew, approached Dwight and pulled him from his seat like a rag doll. Dwight snatched away.
“Do not touch me like that, young man!” he yelled.
“Dwight, we are going to need you to calm down,” said Chief McDowell.
“This is ludicrous!” he yelled again. “I haven’t done a thing and I don’t even know what you are talking about.”
Ben, confused, interrupted to advise Dwight in the only way he knew how in situations such as these. “Dwight, stop talking.”
“I’m serious. I didn’t do anything. This is absurd!”
“Stop talking, Dwight,” Ben restated. “Let them do what they have to do, we will figure it out. This has got to be a mistake.”
Dwight attempted to calm himself. He blew and blew breaths of air in an attempt to lower his stress level. As one of the area’s cultural dignitaries stood there humiliated in front of his peers and fellow guests at the restaurant, he began to practice the art of mindfulness, trying to remain calm in the embarrassing moment of being handcuffed, and arrested, at his place. The assurance that Ben recognized what and what not to do in a situation like this certainly helped the matter.
The officer handcuffed Dwight, his arms secured behind him like nothing more than a meth-head, which of course was the usual arrestee in Freeden. Nothing as serious as murder ever happened in this town.
The police began walking Dwight out of the restaurant. Dwight turned his head back toward Ben, and shouted, “I’m going to need your help.”
“Yeah,” Ben said, slightly above normal tone but not too loud. Ben then looked around the restaurant. People gazed at him. What the hell has Dwight done? Did he actually do something wrong? There was no way, but the sad reality was that a local boy was apparently dead.
Braxton Jones, who had, according to the policy, been murdered, was the seventeen-year-old son of Dale and Lucy Jones, a prominent family in the community. Braxton was an academically gifted senior at Freeden High School, and though not very socially involved outside his music circle, was admired by people throughout the community as a young man with a promising future. He was the offspring of his father, for sure; he was set to be the valedictorian of his graduating class, a feat his father had achieved at the same high school back in his senior year.
Dale was an accomplished certified public accountant. In fact, he was the certified public accountant in town. Everyone used Dale as their CPA. Dale had been here his whole life. Every major operation farmer used him, every businessperson used him; he lacked nothing so far as respectability was concerned.
This would not bode well for Dwight. And even though Ben could not fathom Dwight committing such an awful act, it was apparently a certainty that a boy born in this community was dead, and that evidence against Dwight existed.
To imagine that a young, well-raised boy could be murdered in Freeden was simply unthinkable. Something like this just did not happen here. A fact that was quickly emphasized. As soon as Dwight was dragged out of the restaurant, the scuttlebutt began. Ben got up from his table.
“Can you believe that?” one woman said to her husband.
“I have to call Joanna… Lord, she will never believe what just happened,” another woman said. “I always knew that man was up to something.”
Ben threw a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table, assuming that would cover the tab and more. He had no desire to stick around to finish dinner or the typical it’s-been-a-pleasure-serving-you small talk with the server at the end of the meal.
Soon enough David’s did not even feel like a restaurant to Ben. Instead, it looked like a church fellowship hall, as people began getting out of their booths and walking away from their tables to others, gossiping about what they had just seen. Folks started getting on their cell phones, calling their friends and neighbors and telling them what had happened. Ben walked to the entrance, still hearing all the loud chatter, and turned back to them. The way they spoke of all this disgusted him. A young boy found dead and a pillar of the community arrested should have saddened everyone. Though it did not seem that way. It seemed to Ben as if this all was just a made-for-TV occurrence that presented these higher-end citizens with something meaningful to chat about over their late-night dinner and drinks.
Ben wondered what this might do to him and his reputation. Guilt overcame him again for worrying about this type of thing. He knew he should not care. Dwight was a friend. But a murderer? He just could not come to believe it. He knew Dwight could not have done this. Or could he? He suddenly doubted everything. Ben wondered if, perhaps, like so many others in his life, he did not know Dwight as well as he thought. No matter the case, the police had enough evidence to arrest him. Or enough of something.
Ben turned back toward the door and walked out onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to Main Street, realizing that this would likely shake this town to its core by morning.
Little did he know.
Ben arrived at the Freeden police station, which was just about a half mile down the road from David’s. He parked his truck alongside the road, and sat there, waiting for the call. He knew Dwight would reach out to him.
About two hours later, his phone finally rang.
919-537-0911.
He knew the number. It was the police station for sure.