Redemption

by Shey Stahl

  I did as he said and Tallan took a step back, her body pressed to the side of the building.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney.” He continued through his entire speech. All the while, I stared at Tallan. I searched her eyes, desperate for an indication as to what she was feeling, thinking, anything, but I got nothing.

  With the cuffs on, the officer gave a tip of his head. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m really sorry to do this to you right now.” When I was by the car, Jared kept repeating himself as I ducked down inside, no doubt thinking if he said it one more time, I wouldn’t take out my residual anger on him.

  I never would, not on someone as nice as Jared.

  “Jared.” I sighed, dropping my head forward. “Can you make sure Tallan gets home, okay?”

  He gave me a nod before shutting the door. As the patrol car drove away, the last vision I had was of Tallan’s face.

  A haunting image where she held little hope.

  A detailed description used by broadcasters to describe the action as if unfolds in the ring.

  At the police station, they confiscated all my personal items, booked me, took my fingerprints and mugshots. They gave me my one phone call and I decided to call Emery, in case Tallan or Adam hadn’t. It was everything I could do not to call Tallan and check on her.

  “So, you’ve been busy.” Emery snorted when he answered the phone.

  I hadn’t spoken to him in a few months, and it wasn’t like I needed to. Since January, I’d done nothing but train. “Can you come down to the Seattle Police Station on Virginia Street?” I held the phone so tight in my hand my muscles shook in response.

  “What’d you do, pop someone again?”

  “No… well, yeah, but the guy died.”

  Wow, that felt weird to say.

  Emery was silent before clearing his throat. “I’m on my way.”

  By the time I was placed in my cell, waiting to be interviewed, I was nearly consumed with rage. Everything I’d ever remembered about being locked up rang true between the smells, acrid stagnant-tension, sweat-filled and loud-mouthed lost souls screaming obscenities, to the stench of guilt that spilled from defiant men.

  I chose to sit on the floor, across from a young guy who refused to look up. His head rested on his forearms as he wept over what might have been his first arrest. Tipping my head back against the bars, I stared up at the water pipes covered with dust, the humid air suffocating.

  Two hours later, the interrogation began.

  The first officer, who I assumed wasn’t a detective—based on his uniform—but merely an officer escorting me, led me to a small interview room with dark gray walls, a metal table and two chairs. In front of me was a cup of water.

  Cute. Unless I could manage to drink it with no hands, I wasn’t able to touch it since I was still cuffed.

  “I see here you’re no stranger to a cell, are you?” the officer asked, taking a seat in front of me as he set down a brown folder but avoiding opening it.

  I said nothing in response and refused to even look up.

  “Grand theft auto… vandalism… disturbing the peace….”

  “It was my car,” I mumbled.

  “And the vandalism?”

  Lifting my stare to his, I made sure he understood I wasn’t in the mood for this shit, especially not from a wanna-be detective. “If you’re any good at your job, you’ll see there has never been a charge that’s stuck, has there?”

  The officer snorted when the door opened. “You probably have a damn good lawyer.”

  That much was true, but regardless. I hadn’t been charged with anything. They questioned me endlessly about Silas and what I was doing at the club. The same fucking shit over and over again, expecting a different answer.

  For a while, I said nothing, hoping Emery would get his ass here. He said he’d be right down and that was two fuckin’ hours ago.

  A dark-skinned man wearing a suit sat in front of me, notepad in front of him and eyes on mine, trying to intimidate me into talking. He must have been the detective assigned to the case, which was better than the douche they had in here earlier.

  If you looked close enough, his eyes were hazy, glossed over as though he’d been up for hours. “What’s your name?”

  What a dick. He knew my fucking name. “Destry Stone.” My indignantly rude response was noted; his eyes squinted and focused a little more clearly.

  “Were you inside of Q Nightclub in Seattle on May eighteenth?”

  I wanted this to be over by now so I began to answer the questions, at least the ones that wouldn’t get me into trouble. “Yes.” Relaxing in the chair, I wished I had a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but it seemed that would have been the most appropriate thing to do right then—ask him for a smoke.

  “What time?” His hand adorned with the overly expensive gold watch never lifted from the notepad.

  “Don’t remember.” My eyes dropping to my hands still bound by handcuffs.

  “And you and Mr. Cade, had a physical argument?”

  Raising my cuffed hands, I scratched the side of my face that was now healing from where Silas popped me in the cheek. “Yep.”

  “What about?”

  I raised an eyebrow, still challenging his every question. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It does. He’s dead. I can’t ask him, now, can I?”

  Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.

  But in a way, it was. There I was sitting in a fuckin’ dingy-ass room being questioned over a murder I had nothing to do with. No way did those hits he took kill him.

  “I suppose not.” In fact, if you wanted to get technical about hitting someone in the head; it had nothing to do with force when you knocked someone out. It was all in where you hit them. Like the temple or the jaw. Both could knock them out cold with one hit. But it wouldn’t kill him unless I intended for that to happen.

  “So, what was the argument about?”

  “He had my girlfriend trapped in his private room.” Resting my hands back on my lap, my glare remained on him. Speaking of Tallan, this fucker interrupted me when I was about to take her home. That alone had me angry. “She didn’t want to be there so I went in to help her get out.”

  The detective’s dark eyes waited for me to look at him, pausing dramatically. “And then it turned physical?”

  “Yeah, he shoved me.”

  “His bodyguards said you threw the first punch.”

  My jaw clenched. “They’re lying.”

  “Says who?”

  “Me,” I barked. “They work for him. Obviously they’re going to side with him.”

  “And do you have any witnesses?”

  “My girlfriend. She was there with me. There were about a handful of others standing around too.”

  My girlfriend? It was strange saying my girlfriend because I wasn’t even sure she was. I wanted her to be, Lord knew I did. But would she have anything to do with me after this? I was accused of murdering her ex-boyfriend. She might see me in a different light after this.

  And that had me livid.

  The detective jotted down some notes and then glanced up, raising his hand to rub his forehead, as if he, too, was tired. “What was the last thing you said to Silas Cade?”

  “Fucking sue me, you piece of shit.”

  “And he said?”

  “I didn’t wait for a response.” I shrugged. “I left with Tallan.”

  “Witnesses at the club said you came back inside the club after leaving.”

  “I did.”

  “And what transpired?”

  “I hit him again, said some things and made sure he knew you couldn’t treat women like that.”

  Drawing in a heavy breath, the detective stood. “Your attorney is on his way. I suggest you speak to him before you answer any more questions.”

  You’d think he would have mentioned th
at in the beginning.

  They led me back to the holding cell where I would remain for the rest of the night, and next day. The younger man in the cell stared me down, seemingly wanting to make conversation, but he never did. It surprised me. They either wanted to talk my ear off about my fights, or challenge me. For that reason, I avoided public bars.

  Which was how I got myself into this mess in the first place. We were in there alone, just the two of us, when I looked around the cell. Nothing had changed since the last time I was in one of these. Same cold concrete floor surrounded by a black cage and, in reality, a lot like my life these days.

  The is the line-up of bouts or fights that are scheduled at any given boxing event.

  By the time my attorney did come down to the Seattle Police Department the next morning, I wasn’t exactly in the greatest of moods. And fuck if I wasn’t livid with him for taking his sweet-ass time coming down here.

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  Emery drew in a deep breath and sat across from me in the mediation room we were seated inside of. Relaxing, he leaned back in the metal chair, watching me closely, as if he was trying to decide the tone he’d use with me. I’d known Emery since I was a kid. He was actually my dad’s attorney, too, and had managed to get me out of every mess I’d been in since I was sixteen and began my path down delinquency. “I was trying to arrange bail, if needed, and talking with the police about the charges against you.”

  “And that is?”

  “Murder, at the moment, but they failed to obtain a toxicology report before they made the arrest. Results should be back on Monday.”

  It was now Sunday evening. Which meant I was stuck here another night.

  “And then you’ll talk to the judge?”

  Emery shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll need to once the autopsy is done. From what I hear, the man was lit out of his fuckin’ mind that night. There’s no evidence to suggest a punch killed him; however, there are around five witnesses who can attest to the fact that you didn’t throw the first punch. Silas was high. Witnesses also heard the woman you were with, begging Silas to let her go before you arrived.”

  All right, he’s off the hook. He’d done his research, hadn’t he?

  Smiling, Emery stood and shook my hand. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  I should have thanked him, but I didn’t. Instead, I nodded to the officer who then escorted me out of the room and back to the cell.

  Some said after that night in New York I was ignorant, bitter, mad… I wouldn’t say they were wrong, but when you look at it from my point of view, my resentment was understandable.

  And I was to blame for it.

  A fighter is trained to never give up.

  It was in his nature to give it all he had until the brutal end.

  He could fight as dirty as he wanted and be a force no one could touch. He might be lazy, throwing punches with no intention of landing them. He might dance around the canvas, avoiding the inevitable. Or maybe he didn’t train as hard as he needed to.

  One thing remained the same in every situation. He never gave up. It displayed weakness.

  The image millions had of me was where I quit. I intended to show them otherwise.

  Some people say a fighter wasn’t born, he was created from years of hard work and discipline. I believed if you were going to fight for a living, you’d been fighting your entire life. Whether it be a battle of will, confidence, emotional stability, whatever the reason; the ones ready to use their fists for a living, they’d been fighting long before they decided to go twelve rounds in a ring.

  I could certainly agree to that. I’d been fighting since my first breath. I fought for myself, the desire deep within and the sense of confidence when I’ve trained harder than my opponent. I fought for my dad, who couldn’t tell you what day it was, let alone the name of the boy he said visited him every day. I fought to achieve greatness and for the urge to bury my pain with a drink. I fought to see a different person when I looked in the mirror.

  I couldn’t give up. I could never give up.

  This time wouldn’t be any different.

  No way was I going to let this stop me.

  Chapter 44 - Blow

  A blow is a hard hit. It’s synonymous with punch. For example: The fighters exchanged blows (exchanged punches, hit each other). The boxer threw a low blow (threw a punch below the belt).

  When you’re in a cell, wishing for sleep but refusing to sleep on the mattress, you have an extraordinary amount of time to think.

  My thoughts always went back to one night.

  That night.

  The end.

  The night I lost myself, and my belt.

  It took me a while to grasp the significance behind that night, but I finally did. And it was all I could do not to feel the rush consume me knowing I gave it all up for a girl. To this day, I’d never spoken in detail about that night, but it didn’t stop the memories, and every single one of them hurt.

  MADISON SQUARE GARDEN – NEW YORK CITY

  STONE VS. LUCAS

  WBO HEAVYWEIGHT TITLE BOUT

  “Tell me I mean more to you than boxing,” Stella begged me, tears streaming down reddened cheeks. If I had to guess, they were fake tears. I could count the number of times I’d seen Stella Summers cry and it never involved me.

  I couldn’t look at her when she said that. I couldn’t because if I did, it would be the first time in my life she would have seen hatred from me. Did I want her to see hatred from me?

  No. I didn’t. I loved her. I would have done anything for this girl, but did she feel that way about me? She couldn’t if she was asking me to choose between her and boxing.

  The less I said back then, the more it showed on her face. Maybe I was to blame. No, I knew I was to blame. The sport had undoubtedly turned me into a different person.

  “If you love me, you’ll do what’s right.” Stella’s heels clicked against the tile floor as she exited the dressing room to take her seat ringside.

  Standing, I stared at myself in the mirror, confused as to who was staring back at me. The man glaring back at me was lost, wide hollow eyes focused a million miles away with no depth to them. They were vacant and disinterested in everything. A fighter’s eyes never lied. One look and you could tell whether or not he was tired, focused, wild or high. The body, two hundred and twenty pounds of muscles, cut, defined, powerful, and honed from months of training. I looked at my legs, my arms, my stomach, and back to my face, unable to shake the feeling inside.

  So why was I so lost? I was defending my heavyweight world title, but I knew what the outcome would be. No fighter knew until they stepped inside the ring, but I knew. I was about to throw the fight. Over a girl.

  There was a knock at the door and I knew it was fight time. Security guards led my boys and me down a long hallway to the familiar procession down the aisle and to the ring. Hungry masses looking for blood cheered me on. As the boys escorted me to the ring, I wanted to be anywhere but here. Everything felt wrong and I knew what that meant. Ringside, I told myself I wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Years of training didn’t get me here, giving it all up for Stella. Years of training got me here, the undefeated heavyweight champion of the world.

  Drawing in a deep breath, step after step to the ring, I climbed under the ropes. I gazed at Lucas in his corner. He was glaring at me, ready for the beat down he was sure to give. I then looked to Stella. Her eyes focused on me, waiting for me to do what she asked.

  Closing my eyes, I couldn’t look at her.

  Lucas watched me, the eyes of a man looking to take what was mine, focused, victory in his stare.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now that time… your feature event here at Madison Square Garden, twelve rounds of boxing for the World Boxing Organization Heavyweight Title of the World. Let’s get ready to ruuuuuuuumble!”

  The crowd roared in response, both Lucas and I now pacing in our respective corners.

  Across from me
, Lucas remained in his corner, bobbing his head, wild and hungry, head down and intent on the canvas as they began to introduce him. “Let’s go to the challenger, from Ontario, Canada, the man with quick hands, in the blue corner wearing red shorts and weighing in at two hundred twenty-six pounds. With thirty-two fights, including twenty-eight knockouts, former United Boxing Association World Champion… Ray Lucas!”

  “And fighting out of the red corner, wearing black shorts and weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds, with twenty-four fights and twenty-two knockouts, training out of Seattle, Washington, your undefeated World Boxing Organization Heavyweight Champion of the World… Destry “Southpaw” Stone!”

  After introductions, the referee delivered his speech and I couldn’t look at Lucas. All I did was stare at Stella. “I expect a good, clean fight. Protect yourself at all times….”

  Did Stella understand what this would mean to me?

  No, she doesn’t.

  I couldn’t shake that nauseous feeling the entire fight. The one that told me I was making the wrong decision. Round after round I attempted to talk myself out of it and fight Lucas the way I knew how. I didn’t fight him. Instead I covered up and refused to hit him. The crowd booed, unsatisfied with my performance and lack of aggression.

  Just when I’d talk myself out of it, and gave him a straight left and a jab, I saw Stella’s glare and I couldn’t do it. In round four, Lucas caught me, thrusting forward, almost recklessly with an uppercut that made my knees buckle and hit the canvas. I never liked getting hit. Believe it or not, no fighter did.

  The referee, Auzzie, stared at me and said, “Get up!” instead of asking me if I could get up. “Get the fuck up,” he whispered to me.

  We made eye contact. I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Knowing I was letting him down made my stomach churn at what I was doing. It was too late to stop now.

  As the fight wore on, my boys noticed what was happening. I was bleeding heavily from my eye. I could barely see out of my left and I was spitting more blood than water when I rinsed my mouth out.