She shakes her head. “I can’t leave you.”
“You can. And you will.” He grabs the skull from under her arm, securing it to the backseat with the same bungee cord he used for the crowbar. “Ouch!” he emits, the skull scraping against his finger as he manhandles it.
“Did that thing cut you?” Brianna asks, her mind flashing back to her and Lon’s glowing palms after being nicked by it. “Let me see your hand.”
“No time to play doctor,” Johnny negates her concern, wiping the blood from his hand onto his pant leg. “You have to go.”
“But, what about you? What are you going to do?” Her voice trembles with reservation.
“I’ll be just fine.” He grins. “As they say, ‘this ain’t my first rodeo.’”
“You take the skull out the back. They can have me,” Brianna continues to argue, the sirens encroaching ever closer. “I can’t drive this thing!”
“Kick-start. Clutch. And throttle,” Johnny points out each operational element. Forcefully taking her hands in his, he latches them around the handlebars, pushing against the bike. “Now, drive!”
Watching her disappear around the backside of the lab, he steps out into view of the oncoming security guard and the two police cruisers. They slam on their brakes, the dust from their vehicles whirling up around him, his silhouette spotlighted in their high-beams.
“Aha!” the security guard howls proudly. “Gotcha!”
Two police officers, each driving a patrol car, hop out of their vehicles, wielding their sidearms across open driver’s side doors as they perch themselves defensively behind them. “Hands in the air!” they order simultaneously.
Johnny does as instructed, his hands held high and retreating in the air. “Nice night, isn’t it, gentlemen,” he says, a cocky grin emanating.
The next morning, Brianna sits nervously in the back of a small, hot courtroom awaiting Lon’s preliminary hearing. A fashionably dressed woman, a lawyer she presumes, sits at a long table in front of the empty judge’s bench, fanning herself with a notepad. The only other company in the room is that of the bailiff and the court clerk. The large wooden door creaks from behind.
Brianna turns to see Alonzo Sr. and Winona, making their way toward her. She slides over on the unforgiving wooden bench, making room for them. Alonzo assists Winona into her seat next to Brianna as he takes his place beside his wife.
“Jolie Blonde,” Alonzo speaks the endearing moniker, his voice gentle yet slightly reprimanding, “we were spectin’ you last night.”
“I know,” Brianna acknowledges apologetically. “I got caught up.”
Alonzo continues, his point not yet fully complete, “Da missus waited up ’til midnight, worried sick.”
Taking note of Winona’s dejected posture, Brianna’s tired eyes tear up. She reaches for Winona’s hand, holding it tightly in hers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” The sentiments roll off her tongue as they had many times before in conversations with her own mother.
“Now, now, sweet girl,” Winona coddles, quickly wiping away Brianna’s tears. “Don’t cry. You’re alright. That’s the main thing.” She scans her bloodshot eyes. “You look awfully tired though.”
“I am,” Brianna agrees, recalling the laborious events of last night. She leans her aching head, seemingly weighing a ton, on Winona’s shoulder, wondering what it is about mothers that makes them so comforting.
The side door to the courtroom opens. An attorney enters, followed by Lon, whose eyes busily search until they land on Brianna, offering him much needed consolation. Pulling her head from Winona’s shoulder, Brianna smiles at him confidently, causing him to return the gesture. Winona’s hand subconsciously grabs for Alonzo’s, now needing some comfort herself at the sight of her handsome boy, feeling unsettled about his fate.
Lon and his attorney take their seats as the Honorable Judge Edmond Boucher settles in at his bench. The judge leafs through the file sitting before him while exchanging pleasantries with the bailiff. Addressing both attorneys, he turns his attention to Lon, reading his name from the paperwork, “Alonzo Castille Jr.”
“Yes, sir,” Lon speaks up, his head held high, making direct eye contact with Judge Boucher.
The seventeen-year-old’s confidence causes the judge to give in to a smile. “Do you understand why you’re here, Alonzo?”
“Not exactly, sir. I mean, I know why I’m here. But, the truth is, I shouldn’t be,” he clarifies. “And you can call me Lon.” His attorney elbows him, shushing any further expletive about his name. Growing self-conscious, Lon adds a respectful “sir,” as a sign he was in no way attempting to undermine the stately man.
The judge peers at Lon, his eyes lifting above the lenses of his bifocals. “This is what we call a preliminary proceeding. A simple way of determining whether there is substantial evidence requiring a trial. You are not on trial here,
Lon.”
The judge emphasizes his preferred name of reference. “Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Lon says.
“About that,” the female prosecutor calls upon the judge, “permission to approach the bench, Your Honor?”
He nods. The fashionably dressed prosecutor, accompanied by Lon’s attorney, gather at Judge Boucher’s bench. While they talk amongst themselves, Lon looks back at Brianna and his parents. His parents watch the judge and the attorneys intently.
Brianna’s eyes meet Lon’s, a knowing flicker in hers as she gives him a hopeful wink. Her cool manner concerning, he notices she still wears the same stealth black clothing from last night. Cocking his head to the side, much like an inspecting canine, he wishes he could read her mind.
“Ahem,” Judge Boucher recalls Lon’s attention.
The prosecutor walks back to her table, gathering up her things. Lon’s attorney gives him a thumbs-up on his return to their post.
“Seems to be your lucky day,
Lon,”
the judge prefaces. “In lieu of new information, there is no probable cause to continue any further. Case dismissed.” Judge Boucher taps his gavel. Addressing his bailiff on the way back to his chambers, “Now, that’s a good way to start the day,” he chatters, giving the bailiff a swift pat on the back.
Winona breathes a sigh of relief, wrapping her arms around Alonzo, who embraces her jovially.
“That’s it?” Lon asks disbelieving to his attorney.
His attorney shrugs, closing up his files, “Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“What did she say?” Lon continues, inquiring of the female lawyer petitioning the judge.
“Said her client vouched for you. Alibi covered. They have a new lead,” his attorney explains.
“Her
client?”
The attorney pulls his notepad from his briefcase, quickly scanning the name. “Dr. Bernard Shaw of ETNA Laboratories.” Stuffing the notepad back into his case, he pats Lon on the back. “I’d say I hope to see you again, but considering my line of work, I hope I don’t.” He winks, walking away.
Lon turns toward the back of the courtroom, noticing Brianna slipping out the back. Quickly trailing off after her, his mother and father intercept, passing his athletic frame between the two for some triumphant hugging. He indulges them momentarily before excusing himself to check on Brianna.
“Let da boy go, Win,” Alonzo speaks, taking his wife’s hand in his, quieting her rebuttal, fully knowing his son’s primary target is the jolie blonde on the other side of the door.
“Yes, I know.” Winona squeezes her husband’s hand. “I’ve been demoted,” she says through a conflicted frown accompanied by an understanding chuckle.
“No worries, love,” Alonzo consoles. “You always be da number one lady in ma eyes.”
Winona pecks him affectionately on his familiar smooth-shaven cheek, taking a moment to inhale the sweet scent of his aftershave before wrapping her hand around his elbow, accepting his chivalrous escort.
In the hallway just outside the courtroom, Lon notices Brianna. She stands at the far end, a phone tucked to her ear as she paces nervously.
“You’ll find what you’re looking for at the marsh,” Brianna instructs the individual on the other end of the line. “You remember where that is, don’t you,” she adds accusingly. There is no answer, only dial tone.
“What are you doing?” Lon questions as he nears her.
She jumps, her body rattled and on edge, returning the phone to its receiver. “Just…ah…taking care of some business, that’s all.” Swiping at the spiky auburn bangs that hang just above her eyebrows, she attempts to shift his focus. “It’s really great that they released you, huh?”
“Yeah,” he dismisses. “You wouldn’t know anything about how that happened, would ya?” Awaiting her explanation, his arms cross one over the other against the maturing thickness of his chest.
She turns away from him, making her way toward the exit of the courthouse. “There’s no need for details.”
Lon hustles up beside her. Talking out the side of his mouth, he attempts to avoid a scene as they pass people coming to and fro. “Dr. Bernard Shaw. ETNA Laboratories. Mean anything to you?”
Brianna’s body stiffens, preparing to lie to her life-long friend. “No,” she chokes, shaking her head as they walk out the revolving glass door of the courthouse into the suffocating heat. She squints her tired eyes at their contact with the sun.
“Now you’re going to lie to me?” he questions, offended, keeping up with her hurried pace along the sidewalk.
His gaze settles on a black Triumph Bonneville motorcycle backed into a space in front of a parking meter. The tank on the powder black bike exhibiting an elaborate chalk white dragon decal. His memory works diligently having seen the bike before in the school parking lot.
Brianna stops as they near it, grabbing up the helmet resting on the handlebars. “Trust me, the less you know about all of this, the better off you’ll be.”
“You’re riding motorcycles now? Hanging out with Johnny Vito?” He snatches the helmet out of her hands. “Where were you two last night?”
“Lon,” she scoffs, holding her hand out begging of the helmet.
“You know they brought him in last night. Put him up in a cozy little cell, too,” he speaks sarcastically.
“Oh, thank God.” She exudes a relieved sigh. “So, he’s okay? Johnny?”
Lon’s rigid body language coupled with stifled commentary is enough to portray his jealousy at her concern with the notorious bad boy.
“Did he say anything?” she continues, ignoring his unspoken displeasure.
“As a matter of fact, no, he didn’t. Mums the word.” Lon shoves the helmet off to her. “Seems your secret is safe with
Johnny,”
he bites.
“He helped me,” Brianna defends. “He helped
you.
If it wasn’t for
Johnny,”
she emphasizes his name much the same as Lon did, “you’d be going to trial.”
“I didn’t ask for his help. And don’t kid yourself. His investment in my cause is certainly not spurred by his intention to help me, or you, for that matter. The only person Johnny Vito’s interested in helping is himself.” He looks at her inquisitively. “You didn’t let Johnny help himself to you…did you?”
She rolls her eyes, as if that question even deserves an answer. “As a matter of fact,” she grows defensive, “I hired him, but he wouldn’t take my money. And then he took the fall…for everything. That could be me sitting in that jail cell.”
“Oh, so now he’s a martyr.” Lon runs his hands agitatedly through his thick dark hair, his steel blue eyes conflicted and mostly hurt. “And I’m sure he
didn’t
take your money. Has all the right moves, doesn’t he?”
Brianna softens at his wounded inflection. “He’s really not a bad guy, Lon.” She plops the helmet onto her head, the chin strap dangling, unhooked.
“Where are you going? To check on Johnny?” he prods, knowingly.
“It’s my fault he’s there in the first place. I don’t even know if he has anyone who will come for him.”
Lon’s arms fling out to his sides before dropping against his muscular thighs. “Well, do you want me to go with you?” he asks, hopeful.
Brianna looks away. “Probably wouldn’t be very productive,” she attempts to deny him with reason.
He nods, his body language fully contradictory to the approving head gesture as he bites down on his lip stifling further protest. Stepping to her, he secures the chin strap of her helmet, his steel blue eyes refusing to meet hers directly.
“I’m sorry.” Her apology falls flat as Lon turns from her, walking the other way.
He forces a smile, spotting his parents’ happy faces from down the street, waiting for him outside their car. The sound of the motorcycle firing up bites at his ears, his fist connects softly with the interior of his other palm, fighting the urge to stop Brianna.
Let her go,
he rehearses internally as the two-wheeled machine engages, whizzing by him.
At the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office, Brianna is led to Johnny, who resides in his temporary cell awaiting his arraignment with the judge. The deputy escorting her quickly intercedes between Johnny and his current visitor, his father. His father’s hands wound around his shirt collar, pulls Johnny’s frame roughly against the steel bars separating the two.
“You’re one more phone call away from getting your ass kicked out of my house, boy,” his father threatens through gritting teeth. “I know I raised you better.” He pushes Johnny away before pulling him forward again, his chest slamming into the iron bars.
“Mr. Vito,” the deputy calls, grabbing hold of his arm, prying it from Johnny’s shirt collar, the fabric tearing underneath the pressure.
“I know, I know,” Mr. Vito sputters. Backing away from the cell, his hands retreat to shoulder level. “I’m leaving.” He looks at Johnny, his expression somewhere between disappointment and loathing, his finger flexed and pointing at his son. “I’m fresh out of bail money. Guess you’ll just have to sit here and rot.”
Brianna stands off to the side, her body shocked with nerves and anxiety at the scene. She holds her hands together in front of her body, an attempt to cease their shaking. Mr. Vito finally aware of her presence, his glare seemingly burning a hole through her, she looks away. He mutters angrily to himself while being escorted from the premises by the deputy.