Someone Else's Fairytale (22 page)

“If the media tailed you to this-” Doug began.

Jason held up one hand to ward them off, took me by the arm, and pulled me aside.

“I can leave if you want,” he said. “I just wanted to at least show up long enough to let you know I'm here for you. I don't have to stay.”

I was speechless.

“You can be mad.”

“Uh...”

“Okay, I'll leave. Just-”

The door of the chambers swung open again and in walked a woman with silver hair and a tailored suit, and a guy in jeans and a t-shirt. My heart felt like it'd stopped. The guy turned to scowl at me and I stared back at the face I hadn't seen for ten years. He had a tapered jaw just like me and Beth, and dark brown eyes that ought to have seemed deep and insightful, but just looked mean.

Jason turned around. Chris's gaze flicked to his face. He stopped in his tracks. “Jason?”

The lawyer looked at him, then at her client. “Who is this?”

“We knew each other in high school,” said Jason. His hand on my arm tightened a little.

The lawyer gave him another uneasy look, but she didn't say anything else. She went to her table, got out her briefcase, and started laying documents out neatly.

“So, you're like a movie star now,” said Chris.

“How are you?” said Jason.

Chris turned his gaze back to me and scowled. “Been better.” He shifted his shoulders in a move to look intimidating and angry.

My first instinct was to shrink away, but I didn't. That wasn't me. It never had been. I looked him over and sized him up. Last time I'd seen him, he'd looked like a giant. Now he just looked like a guy, and a slightly chubby one at that.

He flinched. Like a dog who'd been stared down by a house cat, he looked at the wall as if to say, “Never mind. I wasn't looking at you. Go away now, all right?”

“Right,” said Jason. “Leaving now-”

“No,” I said. “Stay. Please.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” My mouth was dry.

The chambers were small, with seating for only about twenty people. In front of that was a low wooden banister, then a table for each party to the lawsuit. The front of the room was dominated by the hardwood stand where the witnesses and judge sat. The jury box was empty. There were no windows, just fluorescent lights bleeding the color out of everyone and everything so that the place felt anemic. The judge was a youngish Hispanic woman with gorgeous eye makeup that went so well with her robes that I couldn't help but stare and wonder how she'd applied it.

I sat in my chair and only half listened to Chris's lawyer blather on about how Chris hadn't done anything and had served his time and felt real remorse for the past.

Doug's intro had been short and sweet. He just said why we were here, thanked the judge, and sat. I liked that. It wasn't until I glanced over at Steve's notepad and saw it covered with doodles, that I picked up on the fact that he was nervous.

Chris's lawyer sat down. Doug looked over at me. “You ready?”

I nodded.

He got up. “First witness, your honor, is Chloe Winters.”

The judge nodded and Doug motioned for me to take the stand. I did. The padded seat was quite comfortable and the microphone moved easily into position as I manipulated it. The court reporter gave me a small smile while I composed myself.

“What is your relationship to Mr. Winters?” Doug began.

“I am his half-sister.”

“And would you care to tell us a little about your history?”

“We grew up estranged, and about ten years ago he kidnapped and tried to kill me-”

“Objection,” said Chris's lawyer. “There was never a conviction for attempted murder.”

“Fine, strike it,” said the judge.

“You can go into more detail in a moment,” Doug assured me. “He attacked you, though?”

“Yes.”

“Did he cause bodily harm?”

“Yes.”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

Doug frowned. “How did he make you feel during the incident?”

“Like my life was in danger.”

“Objection!”

The judge waved it away, lazily. “I understand your position,” she said. She nodded at Doug, who turned back to me.

“Okay, Ms. Winters, why don't you tell us about this incident?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Your honor,” said Doug, “the reason she is asking for this restraining order is because the defendant's previous history of violence towards her is so severe, it warrants special precautions.”

“My client hasn't done anything. Not since he served his time. This whole request for an order is frivolous.”

“Your honor, you've read our complaint and this testimony lays the foundation for our current claims, that Mr. Winters vandalized my client's vehicle and house and her mother's house.”

“I'll hear it,” said the judge.

Chris's lawyer sat down, not looking particularly surprised.

“Go ahead, Miss Winters,” said Doug.

“I was eleven,” I began. “And I was on the playground at school, when my brother drove up to the fence.” I didn't look at Chris, but as I spoke, he seemed to grow larger and larger in my peripheral vision, until he towered over me once again.

I'd never been a sociable kid. Just like now, I had only ever had a few close friends, and during recess in elementary school, I'd played by myself. That day I was playing right by the fence. There was a clump of dandelions there and I'd been trying to weave them into daisy chains, only I didn't really know how to weave a daisy chain.

Witnesses would later say that Chris's truck drove past three times, but I was oblivious. I was sitting on the grass, surrounded by decapitated dandelions. Their flowers kept popping off their stems when I flexed them too hard. One minute I was tying two stems together, the next a hand was clapped over my mouth and I was hoisted into the air.

I watched the dandelions fall out of my hands and scatter onto the pavement while I was jostled so hard I thought I'd throw up. The ground pitched and sprang away, beneath me. Looking back, I can figure out that Chris had thrown me over his shoulder and jumped the fence, but at the time I was just aware of being gripped so tight that it hurt, people shouting in the background, and feeling seasick.
 

Chris vaulted into his truck with me still over his shoulder. My head hit the doorframe, hard. Dark spots swam in my vision. He threw me down into the passenger footwell and I landed on a pile of garbage. Potato chip wrappers, an old t-shirt, some broken CD cases. Before I could get my feet under me, he'd slammed his door and hit the gas. I was thrown against the base of the passenger side seat. A siren started up behind us, but it seemed like a small and distant beacon of safety that faded fast. Chris drove like a maniac, and swore an unending stream of epithets.

He said he'd kill me, that I had to be quiet, that he'd bash my head in.

He was a steroid user, and this was one of his rages.

I was being kidnapped, just like they warned us about in assembly. And none of the safety advice they gave us applied. I could scream, but no one would hear, and Chris would probably kick me in the head. It was too late to run. It was too late to do anything.

We were going so fast and he was jerking the steering wheel so hard that I kept getting thrown against the car door, the dashboard, the seat, the gear shift. I tried to brace myself, and I started to cry.

“Shut up!” he shouted. “You shut up!”

But I didn't shut up, so he cracked me across the head so hard that I blacked out for a moment. I don't know what he hit me with, but it made my head throb like a sub-woofer. I could even hear the thrum of blood through my ears, like the sound of bass tones reverberating through a car body. I put my arms over my head and curled up tight.

The floor of his truck was filthy. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke and red and black wires dangled down from beneath the dashboard. I heard more sirens in the distance. Come get me! I thought.

I don't know how long we drove. The problem with being so little was that I just couldn't know that much. Things were happening to me and I had no control. We left the paved road and were now jouncing over a dirt road. Or maybe it wasn't even a road. Maybe it was a field. He didn't slow down, though, so I just stayed curled up tight, bouncing like a lotto ball.

“Chris?” I whimpered.

“You know my name?”

Well, of course I knew his name. I'd seen his picture at Dr. Winters's dental office. I'd even seen Chris, himself, a few times there.

“You know my name? Answer me!”

“No,” I lied.

He brought his fist down on my side, a glancing blow that startled me, but didn't hurt. I pulled in tighter into my fetal position, though, hoping that if I bluffed like it hurt, he wouldn't hit me again.

We tore across the desert, off to some unknown destination that I would later learn was out on the
West Mesa
. We drove and drove until Chris slammed on the brakes and got out of his side of the car. Warm air rushed in and cool, air conditioned air streamed out. A moment later the door on my side opened and Chris grabbed me by the collar and hauled me out onto the dirt and dry grass. I landed on my hip and skinned the heels of my hands. Dust swirled up and made me sneeze.

Okay, I thought, here's my chance. I'd run, I decided. I'd just take off and scream and-

Click-
clack
.

I lifted my head and found myself staring up the barrel of a shotgun, Chris's face was a blurry pink mass way beyond it.

“N-no...” I whimpered. “No!” I guess most people would have begged for mercy, but I was still a little kid, and my mind was in a strange place. Maybe I'd been hit in the head too hard, but what I was thinking wasn't, “Please don't kill me,” but rather, “This isn't fair! You can't do that. These aren't the rules! You don't just haul people off and shoot them for no reason. This is
wrong
.”

“Go away!” I shrieked. “Leave me alone! Go away!” I put my hands over my head, as if that would somehow save me from a bullet.

For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. The sun beat down, scorching the skin of my hands and neck. An ant crawled across my shadow, antennae rooting around in the loose dirt. Chris breathed a hard, panting breath. Then I saw the shadow of the gun lower.

I looked up.

Chris pulled a handgun out of the back of his jeans and,
pop
, a dull, burning ache hit my calf. I looked down and saw blood spilling out onto the dirt.
Pop.
It felt like he'd shoved a hot poker right through my shoulder. I fell back and my head hit the ground with a thud. Warm, sticky liquid soaked its way across the back of my shirt.
Pop.
My stomach blossomed with fire. I didn't fully understand that I'd been shot. The gun didn't sound like what I'd heard on television.

He stared down at me then, and I glared back up at him. “Go away,” I whispered.