CHAPTER TWENTY
THOMAS
G
etting arrested in front of the church sucked.
Getting dragged out of bed, thrown up against the wall, and handcuffed, sucked
more
.
Two cops are interrogating me. I don’t know either of them, but I’ve lost track of who I know and who I don’t. They’re not related to Charlotte and her brothers, and that’s pretty much all I care about. I’m exhausted, and my head is pounding.
All I wore to bed were some threadbare sweatpants, so that’s all I’m wearing now. Well, sweatpants and a pair of sneakers. The cops let me shove my feet into those. No socks, though.
The air conditioning is blasting, and I’m
freezing.
A woman in a white jacket came earlier and scraped the junk out from under my fingernails. She had a police escort, but she treated me like a specimen. My fingernails weren’t as clean as they could have been, what with the sketching in the car and the course of my day. I kept apologizing to her, as if acting like a gentleman would get me out of here.
She ignored me.
I was allowed a phone call, but the only person I could think to call was Stan. He didn’t answer. I don’t know anyone else. What am I going to do, call the library?
The cops keep shuffling me through different procedures. Mug shots. Fingerprinting.
Interrogation.
“What happened in the car?” asks Officer Franzen. He’s tall and blond and practically sneering. He’s probably an average guy in real life, but in here, he’s been a real asshole. “She kept turning you down? Couldn’t take it?”
“It was fine. We were fine. I told you that.” I keep my eyes on the table. They haven’t asked anything about our trip to Crisfield, and I’m not offering any information. I don’t know what happened. Did Charlotte’s family find out? Did she tell them? Were we followed?
I don’t want to get her in more trouble if she hasn’t volunteered where we were.
“But you wanted to go back for more, is that it?”
I raise my eyes enough to glare at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The other guy, an older man with graying hair and darker skin, named Officer Danesh, frowns at me. He’s sitting more casually, tapping a pen on a notepad. “You understand you’re being charged with burglary with intent to commit a crime of violence, don’t you, Thomas?”
“She let me drive her car. I didn’t break into it.”
“No one is saying you broke into her car.” He pauses. “We’re talking about her house.”
“What about her house?”
“You broke into her house, asshole,” says Franzen. He looks like he might flip the table, just for effect.
“I’ve never been to her house,” I snap.
Officer Danesh won’t stop tapping that pen. “Then where were you tonight?”
“Sleeping! You found me in bed!”
“Uh huh.” A mark on the notepad that I’d swear was a doodle. “I think it’s time for you to be honest with us, kid.”
“I am being honest!” I want to pound my hands on the table, but I’m handcuffed, and the little chain rattles every time I move. It’s humiliating and terrifying at the same time. I grit my teeth. “I’m so damn sick of you people hassling me.”
A knock strikes the door, and another cop sticks his head in. “Danesh. The DA called. They’re changing the charges.”
Danesh steps out. Franzen whistles through his teeth. “I’m guessing attempted murder.”
Blood freezes in my chest. Attempted murder?
“Is she hurt?” I whisper. “What happened?”
“Save it, kid. Probably the same thing you did to your mother.”
I jerk hard against the handcuffs and try to go after him. The restraints do their job—but he falls back anyway. His ass hits the ground, and he’s got a hand over his face. I see blood.
I freeze. I didn’t touch him. I swear I didn’t touch him.
“You little shit!” he yells. “You little—”
The door opens. “Franzen. Get out here.”
My eyes are wide. It’s like with Danny. I lost a moment of time somehow.
Franzen finds his feet and storms through the door. I’m left alone. Boo hoo.
Blood was on his face. Had I gotten close enough to hit him? I don’t think so. Nothing on
me
hurts. Idiot probably poked himself in the nose while he was trying to get away from the local killer.
Danesh comes back in, and he’s alone. I watch him as he sits. This time, the notepad is dropped on the table, with the pen on top of it.
“The District Attorney has adjusted the charges,” he says. “Burglary with intent to murder. It’s a felony.” He pauses. “Officer Franzen is trying to add assault on a police officer.”
Of course he will. I slouch back in my chair and glower. “Fuck him.”
Danesh ignores me. “You’ll be held until your bail hearing, which will probably be this afternoon. If you’re denied bail or if you can’t post the funds, you’ll be taken to the county detention center to await trial. Do you have any questions?”
The words are dropped so simply, like he’s reading me a shopping list, not telling me that I’ll be in a cage for who knows how long. A vise grip encircles my chest and somehow squeezes the anger right out of me. Fear slides into place.
“Is she okay?” I say softly.
His mouth is a line, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment.
I stare at him beseechingly until he sighs. His voice is very low and quiet. “Physically, she’ll be fine.”
Charlotte.
What happened? My eyes fill, and I try not to blink so tears won’t fall. When I speak, my voice sounds husky. “Do I need a lawyer?”
He hesitates. “Yeah, kid. You need a lawyer.”
Sunlight finds the small window at the back of the cell. I hear the rumble of people arriving for work, people departing, normal daily activities.
Back here, I’m alone.
For a while, I thought about Stan, hoping he’d come to see me, to have a few words about how we’re going to handle everything this time.
Stan doesn’t appear.
When the sunlight fills the window completely, a thin black man in a uniform comes to the cell door with a tray.
“Breakfast,” he says dispassionately.
He sets it on the floor and slides it toward me, then slams the gate, all in one fluid motion.
I glance at it. A biscuit, a sausage patty, and a short yellow cylinder that might be eggs, plus a bottle of water.
Fifty bucks says they deconstructed a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich to bring me this food.
“Hey!” I yell.
“Bail hearing is at noon,” he yells back. “Eat up.”
Bail hearing
. At least I won’t have to wait all afternoon. “Hey!” I yell again. “Hey! I’m supposed to get a lawyer! What’s going—?”
“You’ll get a lawyer.” The officer stops at the edge of the cell. “He’ll be here in half an hour.”
My lawyer is hung over. Actually, he might still be drunk. I can smell whiskey on his breath, and he desperately needs to wash his face. He introduces himself as William She-valevsky. He’s fifty if he’s a day, and he’s sporting a comb-over that’s not fooling anyone.
Still, he’s my key to finding out what’s going on.
“What’s happening?” I demand, when we’re moved into a little room with a tiny table and two metal stools attached to the floor. My hands are chained to my stool, like I’m the Texas Tower Sniper and not some kid who’s had some really shitty nights lately. “I didn’t do anything. Don’t they need some proof? Why have I been arrested?”
He clears his throat and actually has to check a folder. He burps. Definitely whiskey. “Ah. Um. Attempted murder. Burglary. Have you thought about how you want to plead?”
“I didn’t try to kill anyone. Charlotte and I went to Crisfield last night. She dropped me off. I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t put my hands on her.”
He has to check the folder
again.
“It says here that you broke into the home of Charlotte Rooker. Attempted to kill her through manual strangulation.” William looks at me as though I’ve just sat down in front of him. “Where’s your shirt?”
“What did you just say?” I almost come out of my chair. “What happened to Charlotte?”
“I just told you. Your shirt?”
“They arrested me at two in the morning. I wasn’t wearing one. What happened to—?”
“You’ll need one for the hearing.”
“Would you shut the fuck up about a shirt?
What happened to Charlotte?
”
He looks pissed. “I’ll ask you to watch your language, young man. I’m here to help you. How would you like to plead?”
“Not guilty! What the hell do you think it’s going to be?”
He purses his lips, shoves the folder in his briefcase, and stands.
“Wait a minute!” I cry. “I need to know what’s going on!”
“You tried to kill someone. You got caught. Now you’ll be charged, and you’ll either get bail, or you won’t. I’ll see you in court.”
The cops give me a shirt. It’s bright yellow, and it says CCDOC on the back. I have no idea what the CC stands for, but the DOC is plain as day. Department of Corrections. This is a jail shirt.
This will totally help me seem innocent in front of the judge.
Garretts Mill doesn’t have many criminals, so I’m taken to the county courthouse alone. It’s a forty-minute drive from the middle of nowhere to the middle of somewhere else. When I get there, however, I have to wait. I’m put in a tiny holding cell that has a bench on one wall, and that’s it. There’s barely enough space to turn around. I’ve seen a few of the other guys they’ve shuffled past my cell, and I’m glad to have the space to myself.
For the hearing, I don’t get to stand with my lawyer—if I can even call him that. I stand with a uniformed officer, and William speaks for me.
I don’t recognize anyone in the courtroom. Stan isn’t here. Neither is anyone from Charlotte’s family. Some people look vaguely familiar, but maybe I saw them at the funeral.
Or at the wedding.
The weight of the past few weeks falls onto my shoulders like someone dropped it from an airplane. I want to collapse under the strain of it all.
Charlotte.
What happened last night? Is she okay?
The judge is a slender Asian woman with bright red lipstick. She listens to the prosecutor explain that I allegedly killed my mother three weeks ago, and due to a lack of evidence, I was allowed to remain free. The prosecutor is slick, polished. His suit is pressed and looks expensive. If he weren’t talking about me personally, I’d believe him. He goes on to explain that I’ve been secretly seeing Charlotte Rooker, and after she rejected me sexually, I snuck into her room and attempted to strangle her.
I’m choking, gasping, unable to form words.
Finally, I do. “None of that happened!” I yell. “I didn’t touch Charlotte!”
The judge looks at me. “You’ll be quiet or I’ll have the bailiff escort you from the room. This is not a trial. This is a bail hearing. Am I clear?”
I clamp my mouth shut. My breathing is so loud and fast that I’m worried I’m going to hyperventilate.
William is glaring at me from across the courtroom. “Shut up,” he mouths.
I glare back.
“How does your client plead?” she asks William.
He checks his folder
again
. “Not guilty, your honor.”
She bangs her gavel. “Bail is set at one million dollars. Next case.”
Thank god the bailiff takes me by the arm. I almost collapse.
One million dollars.
I don’t have that. Stan doesn’t have that—if he would have paid bail in the first place.
I’m going to prison.
I’m going to prison.
The room spins. I don’t register the double doors. I don’t register the tiny holding cell—more of a closet—where they leave me, awaiting transport to the correctional facility.
I’m going to prison.
Fear constricts my chest. I can’t go to prison. This isn’t supposed to happen. This is too fast. I didn’t do anything. They can’t send me to prison without proof, right? Without evidence?
I remember Stan’s story about the kid who was convicted based on nothing more than a witness testimony.
Everyone in town hates me. They probably wouldn’t even require a witness.
I’m going to be sick. I shouldn’t have eaten breakfast. I should have left that stupid egg on the tray. I clutch my arms to my stomach.
Charlotte. Charlotte, what happened?
Not for the first time, I wish I had a phone. I wish I could talk to her.
I wish I knew if she was okay.
I rub my hands over my face.
Metal grates against metal as the locks to the door are thrown. I choke down a sob. This is it. They’re going to take me to prison.
An officer holds the door open. “Thomas Bellweather?”
“Yeah?” I croak.
“You’ve made bail. Follow me.”
I what?
I
what
?
I stumble to my feet and follow him. Did Stan do this? I’m going to owe him a million dollars. I’m going to mow his lawn every day. I’ll clean his kitchen floor with my tongue. I’ll never say anything nasty to him again. Ever.
But Stan isn’t in the waiting room. There’s a long counter with cashiers behind barred windows and three rows of plastic chairs. A few cops are around, a few men and women of varying ages, and one guy in the corner in a wheelchair.
I don’t recognize anyone.
My heart hasn’t stopped thundering in my chest. I look around a second time. One of the cops peels himself away from the wall and approaches. He’s not in a uniform like the rest of them, but he’s obviously in law enforcement because he’s armed and he’s wearing a vest with BEA in gold letters across the left breast. He’s young, with short dark hair and dark, appraising eyes. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.