by Sarina Bowen
"Are you really okay to drive?" I’d asked, tossing my bag in the back. He hadn't even answered. He'd just started the engine.
Now we’re driving up the right lane at a startlingly cautious sixty-four miles per hour in absolute silence, Rickie's eyes never leaving the road.
And I'm practically climbing out of my skin. “What happened ?" I finally gasp. “Do you remember Reardon?”
“Yes,” he grunts.
"If you remembered him, you should have said something. You should have stayed home."
At first I think he won't respond. But after a long beat, he does. "I was never letting you tangle with him alone."
My anger notches up another couple of levels, and my voice goes high with hysteria. “Oh, so this is better? Watching you try to kill him? Everything is fucked. He'll tell the dean I broke into his office, and that my boyfriend attacked him. He could have you arrested."
There’s silence from the driver’s seat for several miles. And when Rickie speaks again, his voice is pure ice water. "Take out your phone. I need to give you a number."
"Whose?" I gasp. There isn't enough oxygen, suddenly. Take out your phone. He’d said that to me before. On our first trip up 91.
Before I’d met Reardon. Before Rickie had been—
I’m afraid to finish that thought. The words Rickie had hurled at Reardon were terrifying. I put that thought in a drawer and close it. For now.
“Your phone,” he repeats.
“Whose number?” I gasp again. The air is too thin. I can’t think.
"My father's. Take this number. And try to breathe slow."
So I take out my damn phone, and I tap in the number he gives me. Then I plug my phone into Rickie’s charger.
And, as we drive up the highway, I eventually breathe more slowly. I close my eyes and I absolutely do not think about everything that just happened. I can't. Not yet. I put my fear into that same imaginary drawer and close it.
Instead, I picture Rickie's house on Spruce Street. In a few hours we'll be there, the door closed and locked. Nothing bad ever happens on Spruce Street.
And in the morning it will all be less terrifying. Maybe then I’ll be able to think what to do. Maybe I’ll be less angry.
I’m so angry.
“You should have told me,” I repeat. “When did you realize you recognized him?”
Silence.
“When, Rickie? Don’t lie to me. You said you’d never lie to me.”
“I didn’t,” he grunts.
“Really? Then tell me when you realized you knew Reardon.”
He sighs, which is proof—just barely—that he hasn’t been snatched by aliens and exchanged for a robot. “After your birthday,” he croaks. “I Googled him. I knew his face, but I didn’t know why. This week my Academy roommate finally wrote me back. And I learned some things about my accident.”
“You learned some things,” I repeat, while fury blooms in my chest, bright and dangerous. “You should have said!” I shriek. “You’re probably in trouble now. And I’m in trouble. I’m in worse trouble than I would have been alone.”
“I’m sorry,” he croaks.
But it doesn’t help, because I’m working myself into a real lather now. Anger is easier on my breaking heart than cold, cold fear. “You’re sorry,” I hiss. “That’s nice. That’s an uptick from the last man I trusted, who screwed me over without saying sorry. Yay, me! Screwed over again, but I get a sorry this time.”
“Daphne, listen—“
“Why?” I shriek. “So you can be sorry?”
“Listen!” he shouts. He also puts the blinker on and decelerates, even though we’re nowhere near an exit. “You say whatever you need to. You tell them whatever you want. Don’t spare me, because I don’t deserve it. But do not talk to them when you’re angry, okay? And don’t do it alone.”
“Talk to who?” I gasp. And then I notice a flash of blue in the side view mirror out my window.
A cop car. Holy shit. Rickie is being pulled over.
“We’re not speeding,” I say, as if I could make more sense of this.
“He works fast. Senator’s son.” Rickie stops the car. “It’s probably on every cop’s radio for three states.”
My head swivels like an owl’s, and now there are two cop cars. One of them pulls to a stop in front of us. The other behind us.
And the cop up ahead gets out of the car with his hand on his gun.
Slowly, Rickie lifts his hands where they’ll be visible above the steering wheel. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I can barely hear him over the sound of blood pounding in my ears. “Call your family, okay? They’ll help you. And call my father.”
The next few minutes are surreal.
“Step out of the car, sir,” the cops say. “You too, miss.”
It’s windy on the side of the road, and the cold goes all the way to my bones.
The cops are calm, in their commanding way. But I’m not. I watch them bend Rickie over the hood of the car. He doesn’t look at me. My throat closes up as they cuff him, his hands behind his back.
They read him his rights. They lead him away to the back of a cruiser, and shove him inside.
He still doesn’t look at me.
Again, it’s like I’m watching a film of someone else’s reality. Until the cops turn their attention to me. One of them, a woman with a tight ponytail, asks me for ID. I give it to her, and she makes a note of everything on my license.
“We’ll have questions for you,” she says. “You have to follow me to the station, back in Harkness County. Or else I’ll take you in the back of my cruiser.”
“I’ll drive,” I say, barely processing her words. I don’t want to go anywhere in a cruiser.
“All right,” she says. “You are right on my tail, then. If you’re not, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Got it,” I say, my good girl complex answering for me.
“I’ll give you a minute to get situated,” she says. “You flash the headlights when you’re ready for me to pull out.”
“Okay.”
She heads to the cruiser, and I get into the driver’s seat. My phone is right there on the charger. I pick it up, noticing that my hands are clammy and slick. I wipe my hands on the skirt I put on hours ago. A lifetime ago, really. And I unlock my phone.
Rickie wanted me to call his dad. But as my eyes fill with tears, I realize there’s someone else I need more right now. I hit a different name on my contacts list. The family lawyer. And then I hold my breath, listening to it ring.
“Daphne?” my sister’s voice says. “What’s up?”
“May?” I gasp. “I need your help. So badly. I fucked up. The police have Rickie!”
“What? Slow down. Tell me where you are. Exactly where you are.”
Instead, I burst into tears.
“Whoa, Daphne. Honey,” she says, her voice steady. “Are you in Burlington?”
“C-C-Connecticut,” I stammer between sobs. “On the s-side of the highway.”
“Where is Rickie?”
“Arrested! He punched Reardon!”
“Who?”
“My ex.”
May blows out a breath. “Okay, first I need you to move the car to a safer place, and then wait for me.”
“I can’t! The police expect me to follow them to the station.”
“Wow. Okay. First up, don’t drive until you’re calm, and you can see clearly. Then you can follow the police to the station, but do not talk to them. Wait in the car. No interview room for you until I get there. You tell them you’re waiting for your lawyer. You have no obligation to answer their questions. Got it?”
“Yes,” I sob. “Thank you.”
“Share your location from your phone, then wait for me.”
She hangs up before I can say anything more.
I put my head on the steering wheel and cry.
Forty-Two
Rickie
The holding tank smells like piss. It’s
hard to focus on deep breathing exercises when every new breath is sharp with the scent of urine.
It’s also hard to breathe deeply when your nose is broken. Which mine is, thanks to the cop that brought me into this cell and punched me in the face when I asked to make a phone call.
“That’s for fucking with the senator’s son,” he’d said.
Spoiler: I didn’t get that phone call. And my nose is killing me.
Now I’m seated on the floor at one end of the cell. On the other end, there’s a bunk with nobody on it. Even though I’m alone in here, and exhausted, I can’t go near that thing.
At least now I know why. Halsey tied me to one—the bottom bunk. My roommate was up top, the poor guy, when some number of cadets climbed up there with him.
And then? I think it broke. I’m pretty sure the bed fell on me, and the weight of those guys is what broke my bones.
I’ve worked this out while sitting here all night, thinking over everything that happened to me. I don’t remember the moment I suffered the injuries. But Paul’s assault is coming back to me in bits and pieces.
I couldn’t help him. And then I woke up in a hospital with injuries consistent with falling from a high wall.
But there never was a wall. I remember watching that bed sway like a hurricane. I remember hearing the splintering of wood as the frame gave way.
After that, nothing.
So it’s been a long, difficult night. I’ve had a lot of time to sit on this cold floor remembering. There were some moments when the memories got darker. There were chills, and trouble breathing. But I’m feeling pretty calm now, especially for a guy who’s probably going to be convicted of assault.
Since I demanded a lawyer immediately, I’m stuck here ’til business hours, waiting for a public defender, or for whomever else shows up to help me.
Before they abandoned me in here, I overheard a policewoman saying that Daphne was waiting in the parking lot for her sister to show up. “She came inside to use the ladies’ room and to tell me that her sister—a lawyer—was on her way down from Vermont.”
That’s helped me relax. I already knew Daphne was sharp. She probably hates my guts right now, and I don’t blame her. But at least she called her family instead of letting fear and anger get the best of her.
Not that I can say the same. Beating on Halsey was a stupid ass thing to do. So fucking stupid. I completely lost my shit. And, yeah, my reasons were solid. But they don’t matter very much right now.
If I’m convicted of assault, I can kiss my career as a clinical psychologist goodbye. It’s pretty much a given that no state would want to license a violent felon. And no graduate program will want to take me on, either.
So this is what it looks like to hit bottom. It looks like screwing your own future. It looks like letting the Reardon Halseys of the world win.
Daphne was right. I should have leveled with her about my brand-new realizations. And I never should have come to Connecticut. But I couldn’t quite put it together without proof. I wanted to see his face in person. I wanted to take measure of my own reaction. I wanted to walk toward the flame even if it burned.
But it burned too hot. I snapped. And now I’ll pay the price. I’ll lose my career path. I’ll probably lose Dylan. And I’ll probably lose Daphne. That’s the worst part of all.
Hell, I might be starting over in a new place. Again. And this time my memory won’t fail. So I’ll be able to recall every single foolish thing I did, and every opportunity I’ve squandered.
I close my eyes and finally nod off.
And for once, that big fucking lock on the door of this cell isn’t making it easier to sleep.
When I wake up, a uniformed officer is unlocking the door. At least it’s not the guy who punched me. It’s a new guy. My neck is so stiff I can barely lift my head to look at him. “Your counsel is here,” he says.
I get up slowly and follow him into an interview room, where a guy in a suit waits. “I’m your lawyer,” he says without preamble. “And I’d like some time with my client.”
“You got fifteen minutes,” the officer says. Then he leaves, closing the door behind himself.
“Don’t tell me anything,” the lawyer whispers. He’s wearing a very natty pinstripe suit.
“Okay?” I’m so confused right now. “Who are you?”
“Robert Grant, attorney at law. Your father hired me on the advice of May Shipley.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say automatically, and my voice sounds all wrong because of my swollen nose. “So if I’m not supposed to talk to you, then who…?”
“Sit down. Your nose looks broken.”
“I noticed that. It wasn’t broken until my arrest.”
“Shit. Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to listen to my advice. I may ask you a question or two. But we can’t assume this conversation is private.”
“Oh.” I can’t help but glance around at the four solid walls surrounding us. There must be cameras in here?
I sit down, and my lawyer does the same. “Look, the charge against you is aggravated assault. But the state’s attorney is offering to plead down to simple assault. He says we have an hour to decide.”
“Really?” I feel dizzy with hope. Or maybe that’s just hunger and exhaustion. “Is simple assault a misdemeanor?”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
He holds up a hand. “You’re not speaking. You're listening.”
I sigh.
“Look, most cases I get called on are boring. There’s a bar fight. Somebody gets arrested. They set bail at the arraignment, or maybe I can wheedle a plea deal out of the busy state’s attorney because it’s a first offense and they don’t want to clog the docket with boring little cases. But your case is different.”
“I bet it is,” I grunt. Not everybody mauls a senator’s son in a public place, on the campus of a vaunted university.
“Look, my phone is blowing up with messages from the state’s attorney’s office. They're panting for you to plead this down. That is not how this usually works.” He grins.
But I don’t see what’s so amusing. “Is that good?”
“Yeah, I think it is. I can think of a couple reasons why they’re so hot to trot. The first reason is that maybe you’re not guilty. Maybe you were defending yourself against an attack from the senator's son. Maybe they arrested the wrong guy.” He winks.
“That’s an interesting theory,” I mumble. But of course it’s not true.
“It turns out there aren’t any cameras in that parking lot. The building is too new. It would come down to eyewitnesses. Those are thin on the ground, too.”
“Oh, hell.” I see where he’s headed, but this is a terrible idea. The only eyewitness was Daphne. And I’m never asking her to take the witness stand and lie on my behalf. “My girlfriend has been through a lot,” I say softly.
“Fine. Maybe you’d rather hear my other theory,” he says. “Let's say the senator's son is a top-level creep who had it coming. I notice he was real quick to call the police after you two fought. He memorized your license plate. He mobilized the entire police force in two counties to hunt you down. That's how an entitled schmuck behaves.”
“Sure.” He’s got that right. “But I don’t see how that helps me.”
“Right. So he did his thing, and now they've booked you on an assault charge that will derail your life for the second time in three years. That’s really bad news, so you'll have to fight it. And now it’s morning time, and daddy's lawyers have begun explaining what a trial will entail. For example, any history between the defendant and the victim will be examined in court. One potential eyewitness is your girlfriend, who used to be his girlfriend. So that will come out, too…”
My stomach lurches. "I won't throw Daphne under this bus. I'm never doing that."
“Uh huh. That's admirable. But I need you to think this all the way through. The Halsey family has got you in lockup. They don’t want you t
o hit their baby boy. But on the other hand, they don’t want a trial. Maybe you’re willing to delve deeply into your history with the Halsey kid. Maybe your girlfriend has a few things to say about him, too. So this morning they’re hoping you get a lazy lawyer who urges you to take this plea. You're still convicted of a violent crime, which you may or may not have committed. It’s a deal, but it’s not the best deal you could get.”
“What is the best deal?” I have to ask.
“I got a real sensitive nose, Richard. I can smell fear. And I smell a lot of it this morning. If you plead not guilty, the judge sets bail and gives you a trial date. Then I'm going to start digging into the Halsey boy to try to defend you. Now, court cases are very public. Everything is on the record. If you'd been, say, assaulted by the victim before, we could introduce that at trial. If the victim has been expelled from a prestigious educational institution, he may not want that made public. Maybe the pain of going to trial is greater for him than the pain of his own broken nose.”
Now I get it. And, yeah, Halsey doesn’t really want me telling a packed courtroom where I met him. He has plenty to hide. “Maybe he hurt people before. Like me. Maybe he also threatened his girlfriend, and he doesn’t want people to hear about it when she testifies.”
“Now you’re getting it.” His grin is smug.
“Suppose they don't want a trial at all. So how does that work?”
“You plead not guilty. And then bail is set and the state’s attorney has to dig in and make his case. So the newspapers get hold of this story and start writing about every motion that’s filed. That gets more and more uncomfortable for them until the senator asks for the charges to be dropped.”
“There’s a lot of maybes in your theory, here,” I point out. If I turn down that plea deal, then I have to expose myself to scrutiny, too. I’ll have to tell people what happened to me. And, by extension, to Paul.
Shit. He’ll get called as a witness. He’ll be asked to describe a horrible thing in great detail. The same horrible thing that landed him in a mental institution. I don’t know if I can ask that of him, just to avoid a misdemeanor charge that, let’s face it, isn’t frivolous.