Sheriff Burton Steel, Senior, is something of a local legend. He fancies himself a throwback to the days when tough-minded lawmen ruled the world. His thesis, not mine. His role models include Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp.
He is a large man, standing six-four and, prior to the onset of his illness, weighing in at two-twenty. His is a chiseled face with an iron jaw, steely blue eyes, and a thick mane of unruly black hair that he proudly boasts contains not a single strand of gray.
He rules the San Remo County Sheriff’s Department as if it was his personal fiefdom. He demands loyalty, and anyone who chooses to defy him is quickly removed.
Sound familiar?
He ran his initial campaign on a law-and-order ticket, promising to protect and serve the rights and safety of every citizen. He won handily. He won a second term by an even wider margin and had achieved a third-term victory in an unprecedented landslide. As was said of the immortal Caesar, Burton Steel strode the county ‘like a colossus,’ admired and respected everywhere he went. So you can imagine his terror when his body began to break down.
He first noticed things were not right during his third term re-election campaign. He started to experience a perplexing weakness in his arms and legs. There were times he struggled just to stand. He developed difficulty swallowing. His speech, always so forceful and commanding, failed him at times, leaving him unsteady and weak-voiced. Regina, who made frequent campaign appearances with him, became insistent he visit his doctor.
He slipped away from the trail one afternoon to see his friend, Dr. Lonnie MacDonald, a highly regarded neurologist, who administered a battery of tests.
As MacDonald later admitted, he had chosen specific tests for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis because he already suspected it was the cause of the Sheriff’s decline. He withheld the test results until the day after my father won re-election.
I had driven up from Los Angeles to be with him and my stepmother on election night. I was at their home the next morning when Dr. MacDonald visited. He didn’t sugar the pill. My father wouldn’t have allowed it. The doctor informed us that although the disease was in its early stages, its progress was difficult to predict. The biggest blow was that ALS was incurable.
To his credit, the old man took the news in his stride. He thanked Dr. MacDonald for his frankness. He vowed to fight with all his strength. It wasn’t until MacDonald left and he was alone with Regina and me that he allowed the news to sink in.
“It’s a fucking death sentence.”
Some weeks later, when he had formulated his argument for asking me to return to Freedom so that I might serve as a crutch for him, he summoned me back to the family manse.
“I need you, Buddy,” he said.
When I tried to explain that my home was now Los Angeles and I was gainfully and happily employed as a Homicide Detective with the LAPD, he refused to listen.
“I’m not ready to throw in the towel. With you beside me covering my ass I know I can eke out some more quality time. And I can also arrange it so that when I can no longer function, you’ll become Sheriff.”
“What if that’s not what I want?”
“Look at me, Buddy. I’ll be lucky if I’m still around a year from now.”
“You don’t know that, Dad,” I said. “Nobody’s put a clock on this.”
“Listen to me, Buddy. The way I see it, you and me, we’ve never been close. But you’re my only son. If you were here, we could resolve whatever needs resolving and I could die in peace.
“Add to that the fact you could have a far bigger career here than you could ever have down there in L.A. For someone your age, with your talent, the Sheriff’s Department could be a stepping stone to statewide recognition and office. This could prove to be a win-win for us both.”
Despite the fact I discussed this with my sister, Sandra, and she forcefully called my attention to the self-serving nature of our father’s argument, I still fell for it.
I guess the hope we could find common ground appealed to me.
“I could die in peace.”
Or maybe it was simply guilt.
But whatever it was, here I am in Freedom. And despite his protestations to the contrary, we still have our issues and he still has the ability to press my buttons, which he does regularly.
As he was doing this very day.
“This thing’s gonna end sooner rather than later,” he was saying.
We were sitting on his back porch where a brisk breeze carried with it a respite from the heat of the day. He was nursing an icy glass of Johnny Walker blue. Mine was a Beefeater’s gin and lemonade.
“I hope you remember our deal,” he said.
“What deal?”
“I’m not playing this hand to the end.”
I suddenly realized he had staged this little heart-to-heart so as to trump me with the guilt card. He knew damned good and well I was reluctant to assist in his suicide. What he’d have me do was to stand watch over his passing, effectively playing Cerberus, making sure he stayed dead.
This was a whole lot more than I bargained for. Not that he cared. Things always went his way, and as such, even his final moments wouldn’t deviate from that protocol.
Nausea flooded over me and I shuddered to think I might become involved in a deal with the devil. A reality I had feared since childhood.
“We never made that deal,” I said.
“Bullshit. You’re the only one I can count on to do it.”
“But I never said I would.”
“It’ll be easy, Buddy. I already have all the supplies you’ll need. We live in a right-to-die state. What’s your problem?”
“Because, as usual, you’re only seeing what you want to see.”
“Meaning?”
“There are laws in place. A medical presence is a necessity. There has to be a certified judgment in hand proving that end-of-life assistance is justified.”
“I’m not going through all those examinations and all that goddamned paperwork. Regina doesn’t believe in any of this end-of-life crap. She’ll be a total pain in the ass and will stop at nothing to prevent me from going through with it.”
“But it will still be your call.”
“Bullshit. I’ll be lying in some fucking hospital bed with every kind of imaginable tube sticking out of me. I’ll be totally gaga, stripped of any remaining dignity and my opinion won’t count for squat because Regina will bully her way into getting whatever the hell it is she believes God would want.
“Which is why I need you, Buddy. To insure I make my exit on my terms. Without becoming some kind of vegetable or a religious football for Regina to kick around.”
He was agitated and I was the source. I knew him for the bully he was. As was always the case, he believed he had the upper hand because he had a history of always getting his way.
“Don’t go upsetting me, here, Buddy. A deal is a deal. Don’t even think about weaseling out of it.”
I felt myself filling with rage.
“Get a grip.” He struggled to stand. “More than once you told me you came back here for the father-son dynamic. To do your part in resolving our issues before it’s too late. Be sure to keep that in mind as you weigh your part in our mutual future.”
He glowered at me. “Now get the fuck out of here so’s I can get some rest.”