A clock high on the wall, its face protected by a metal cage, indicated it was just after eight, and judging by the darkness outside the row of rectangular shaped windows above the top bunks, it was night, not morning. In the corner of the room, mounted to the ceiling, a camera continuously rotated left to right and back.
At the end of the bunk on which he sat, Jake found a plastic water bottle resting atop a neatly folded white sheet, green blanket, and thin pillow, but the simple task of reaching for the bottle brought pain pulsing through every inch of his body and it took three tries to reach it. The knuckles of his hand ached when he twisted off the top, and the lukewarm water stung his lips and burned his throat but he drank greedily, until he felt a hollow pang in his stomach and thought he might heave. He fell back, one leg
dangling over the edge of the bed, forearm covering his eyes. Another image came to him, this one of him being pulled down the mountain by a chain, stumbling and falling frequently.
Mercifully the images faded and his mind drifted. His aching body, craving sleep more than even food, gave in to fatigue. He did not know whether five minutes or five hours passed when he heard the first voice.
“Hey, who’s that?”
“Fuck if I know. He’s a newbie.”
Too tired to care, Jake tuned the voices out, pretending to be asleep.
The bunk shook, someone standing on the bottom bed frame to get a closer look. “What happened to his face?”
“He looks like shit.”
Jake ignored them.
Someone tugged on his leg. “You’re on my bunk.” The voice, high pitched, sounded almost girlish. The person shoved Jake’s shoulder. “I said you’re on my bunk.”
Jake wasn’t in the mood to make friends. He kicked out, striking something solid. “Fuck off. It was empty.”
The response was a blow to the chest that hit him like a jackhammer and knocked the wind out of him. Before Jake could react the hand that hit him grabbed his coveralls and lifted him as if the bunk were spring-loaded and ejected him. Jake had the sensation of flying, but it was brief. His shoulders and the back of his head hit the block wall, bringing stars. When they cleared Jake was looking at a head as big and round as a pumpkin, the face acne pocked with a jagged red scar that extended from the left eye to the corner of the mouth and caused the eyelid to appear half-closed.
“I said, this is my bunk.” The behemoth discarded Jake like a rag doll, tossing him across the room and throwing the neatly folded bedding on top of him. “You sleep on the floor.”
The others in the room, each dressed in the same red coveralls, stood watching. Some smiled, as if this were part of the camp entertainment, but most looked equally terrified. Then one of them shouted.
“Officer in the barracks!” They scurried to the ends of their bunks and snapped to rigid attention.
Atkins walked the aisle between the beds, stopping at the bunk beside which the man-child had taken position. He dwarfed even Atkins, a foot taller and a good hundred pounds heavier.
“Any problems, Clarence?”
“No sir, Officer Atkins.” The boy spoke with a pronounced lisp.
Atkins’s sunglasses were clipped to the front pocket of his shirt. Jake was surprised the man’s eyes were green; he’d expected them to be pitch-black or something equally demonic, yellow or red.
Atkins considered the bedding on the floor before raising his eyes to Jake. “Inmate Stand-up, I see you’ve made friends with Big Baby.”
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Tom Molia entered the room carrying two bags and balancing a tray with two Styrofoam cups. “We have company.”
Sloane took the tray and looked out the door but did not see anyone or any suspicious vehicles in the parking lot or parked along the highway.
“Wade,” Molia said, placing the bags on the bed closest to the door. The other bed had papers scattered across it. “He followed me to Dry Creek. I didn’t see him, but he was there.”
“How do you know it was Wade if you didn’t see him?” Sloane asked.
“Because we played bumper cars on the drive back. I was the bumpee.”
Lynch sat at the computer. “Who’s Wade?”
“Friendly Truluck police officer,” Molia said. “He likes us so much he’s trying to convince us to leave.”
“Why?” she asked, concern creeping into her tone.
“It’s just a power play,” Sloane said, then to Molia, “But it sure seems like overkill, doesn’t it?”
“I had to waste a perfectly good chocolate shake, but I bought
us time if we want to move; it will take an hour or more before the tow truck pulls his car from the ditch.”
Sloane looked at the two remaining Styrofoam containers and deduced the rest of the story.
“You think this guy is dangerous?” Lynch asked, standing now.
Sloane shook his head, though after what Molia had just told them he was no longer certain. “He’s just testing the waters.” He addressed Molia. “We’re set up here. And remember what Barnes said. Wade has no jurisdiction outside of Truluck.”
“Yeah, I keep hearing that,” Molia said. “And he keeps ignoring it.” He opened a bag and removed one of the food containers, handing it to Lynch. She didn’t open it. Molia picked up the small stack of papers from the bed and glanced through them. “So what do you think? Should I get my hopes up?”
Sloane shrugged. “We’re swinging in the dark a little bit without a transcript of the hearing. Without it we can’t be certain exactly what Jake and T.J. said in court.”
“Can we get it?”
Lynch handed him a second document. “That’s the next motion, to get a copy of the transcript. The proceedings are supposed to be recorded.”
“Should we wait to file the motion for a new trial until we do?” Molia asked.
Sloane shook his head. “Better to file the motion tomorrow and have it heard as soon as possible. Otherwise we’d have to wait until Monday. And if Boykin is going to deny it, the sooner he does the sooner we can file the appeal.”
Molia sighed, frustrated. “What does it matter what they said? They’re kids. T.J. wouldn’t even know he had rights to waive.”
“A juvenile can confess and waive his right to counsel just like an adult,” Lynch said, “but it has to be done knowingly and intelligently. We need the transcript to determine if that was the case.”
“He’s a fourteen-year-old boy; fourteen-year-old boys don’t do anything intelligently.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Lynch said. “I have two, sixteen and eighteen.”
“So who decides if it was intelligent?”
Sloane answered. “The judge.”
Molia dropped the papers. “Oh, that’s just great.”
Lynch continued, undeterred. “Boykin still has to show he considered the totality of the circumstances: Jake and T.J.’s ages, their intelligence, and the circumstances under which they made their confession and waived counsel. We know they were likely hung over and hadn’t slept much and that they were rushed to court early on the morning of their arrest without counsel, or the chance to speak to either of you. Those are some strong circumstances and no judge wants to be overturned on appeal.”
Molia shook his head. “It still leaves an awful lot of discretion for a guy we already know plays fast and loose with the rules.”
“No doubt,” Lynch said. “But in this instance we have a real case of piling on. The failure to accord Jake and T.J. an attorney calls into question the validity of their confessions, especially because Boykin proceeded without a parent or guardian present. It makes it that much more difficult for the prosecution to meet the knowing and intelligent standard.”
Sloane knew Lynch was doing what any lawyer would, focusing on her strongest legal arguments, trying to be an advocate, but he also knew that too often in the judicial system the law got ignored. So did common sense.
Molia knew it, too. “Maybe so,” he said. “But I don’t get the impression Boykin lets a little thing like the law get in the way of what he does. He’ll do what he wants and then find a way to justify it.”
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Jake followed Atkins across the dirt yard to the Administration Building. Atkins had not explained the purpose of this visit, just told him to move, and Jake wasn’t about to ask the guard any questions. He struggled to keep up.
Entering the building Atkins knocked on a Plexiglas wall to gain the attention of a civilian seated at a desk behind the wall. The lock
buzzed. Atkins pushed in the door and escorted Jake down a sterile corridor past two doors with narrow windows. Jake slowed to look in and saw a kid in red coveralls sitting alone on a bunk.
“Eyes front,” Atkins ordered.
At the end of the hall Atkins used a key to open another door and led Jake into a room with nothing but two blue plastic chairs. He directed him to sit and exited the opposite side of the room, leaving Jake alone. His imagination provided any number of scenarios as to what awaited him.
After several minutes the interior door opened and T.J. walked out, tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyes puffy and red. Officer Bradley stepped out after him.
“Hey,” Jake said, but T.J. turned his shoulder and continued past, not uttering a word.
“Stand-up!” Atkins motioned Jake inside. He took a tentative step forward. Atkins shoved him the rest of the way in. “Move, I don’t have all night.”
The room contained a single chair and a metal table. On the table was a black, old-fashioned telephone except it did not have either a number keypad or a rotary dial. A window separated the room from a smaller room, the setup like a recording studio.
“You get one phone call.”
Jake sighed in relief. Then he asked, “How do I dial?”
“You don’t. I place the call. Before I do, let’s get a few things straight. I’ll be sitting in that room listening to every word you say. Understood?”
Jake nodded.
“There’s a time delay between the time you speak and when the words are transmitted. The person on the other end won’t know it, and you don’t tell them. I have a button. I press it any time you say something I consider inappropriate. Understood?”
Another nod.
“So unless you want to go hunting again in the morning I’d suggest you think real hard about what you intend to say.” He glared. “You get three minutes. At two minutes and forty-five seconds you’ll hear a buzz. That means it’s time to wrap it up. If you go
over your allotted time you lose your next phone privilege. Is that understood?”
“Understood.”
“Who do you want to call?”
“My father.”
“Give me the number.”
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Tom Molia disconnected the call and wiped his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself before he opened the interior door connecting the rooms to rejoin Sloane and Lynch. When he did, Lynch stood.
“I’ll be in my room if you need me.” She placed a comforting hand on Molia’s shoulder but offered no words before closing the door.
“He’s okay,” Molia said, still gathering himself. “He’s scared, but he says he’s okay.”
Sloane knew Molia well enough to know from his restrained tone that he didn’t fully believe that to be the case.
“I did fine until I had to hang up,” Molia said. He blew out a breath. “That was the hardest part.”
“Did he mention Jake?” Sloane had still not received a phone call, and given the status of his relationship with Jake he wasn’t sure he would. If, as the parent liaison said, Jake only got one call he might choose to call Frank.
Molia shook his head. “He said he’s not allowed to talk about anyone else.”
“What about the confession or the waiver of his right to an attorney?”
Molia shook his head. “He couldn’t discuss those either.”
“What could he say?”
Molia slumped on the edge of the bed, voice soft. “He has a bed in a dorm. They’ve fed him. They’re treating him okay.”
“You didn’t say anything about us filing a motion for a new trial.”
Molia shook his head. They had discussed it and decided not to
tell either boy and get their hopes up unnecessarily. “They’ve obviously coached them on what they can and can’t talk about, and most jails monitor phone calls and incoming and outgoing mail. I’d suspect this place does the same. There’s a pause. At first I thought T.J. was being hesitant, but it’s too consistent. It’s a time delay to allow someone listening in to edit what’s said and heard. I’d keep anything you don’t want broadcast under your hat.”
Sloane nodded. “I am sorry, Tom.”
Molia raised a hand and let it fall. “This isn’t your fault, David. I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier. I was tired and frustrated. I took it out on you. When I talked to Maggie she told me not to come home without T.J. It’s just that… I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to him, but I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost her.”
“We’re going to get them out.”
Molia didn’t comment.
“Jake’s all I got left, Tom. Tina’s gone. I don’t have anyone else. I’m not leaving here without him. I’m going to get them out. And no judge with an overinflated ego or security guard masquerading as a cop is going to keep me from doing so. A day. A month. A year. I don’t care how long it takes. They’re going to get to know me around here. They’re going to get to know me real well.”
Sloane’s cell phone rang. No numbers appeared on the screen, just the word “Private.”
“Blocked call,” he said.
“That’s Jake,” Molia said.
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David answered before the third ring.
“Jake?”
“Dad?”
“How are you, son?”
David’s voice had a strange, amplified tone. Jake looked to the glass behind which Atkins sat wearing headphones. Atkins pointed to his wristwatch and smiled.