Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  I am the main attraction.

  Scanning the crowd, I spot Mac, Jeremy, and Carter standing back behind some officers, who are keeping people at a distance. Behind them, there are more DIK brothers, Trevor and Damian, and Ember is just to their left. She has pity in her eyes, a wrinkle of concern in her brow… and something else, something that grips my heart like a vice… disappointment.

  An EMT approaches, his tired eyes studying me. “Pretty good gash you got there. Gonna need stitches,” he says, the officer nodding in agreement.

  Officer Piscotty, as his nametag reads, is a middle-aged man with a thick Sam Elliott mustache, salt and pepper, and he has the beginnings of a retirement gut. “You gonna need to take him in, I’m guessing?” he asks, and the EMT nods.

  “Yeah, do you need to get a statement still?”

  Piscotty shakes his head. “You alright to ride in the cruiser to the hospital?” he asks me. “It’s gonna be a bit until we can get another ambulance out here.”

  “I don’t mind,” I respond. “Do I need to be cuffed back up?”

  Officer Piscotty eyes me for a moment, an eyebrow quirked when he asks, “What service were you?”

  “Army Infantry. Six years.”

  “That how you lose your eye?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was Marine Corps Infantry. Desert Storm,” he says, reaching a hand out toward me, and we shake hands briefly. “You gonna run on me? Or try to fight back? Cause I still gotta take you in after you get stitched up.”

  “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I just want this fuckin’ burnin’ to stop.”

  “It’ll start to fade here soon. I probably should’ve just used my taser.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh. “I would’ve much preferred that experience.”

  After getting my head cleaned up, seventeen stitches put in, and engaging in the usual military chitchat with Officer Piscotty throughout, we’re at the police station now, in a stark interview room. My hands are still uncuffed and there’s a hot cup of coffee in front of me that tastes like brewed dog shit. The officer sits across from me with paperwork in front of him and a pen in his hand. Pulling a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, he perches them on the bridge of his nose and eyes me over the frames.

  He clears his throat. “So, tell me what happened … from the beginning.”

  “All I remember is standin’ at the bar, drinkin’ with my friends, and the next thing I know, this guy is hittin’ me over the head with a bottle. The bottle shattered, he tackled me, and I fought back. End of story.”

  “Not quite. Do you know why he hit you with a bottle?”

  “No idea.”

  “So, it was completely random?” He eyes me skeptically, as if he knows something I don’t.

  I nod.

  “Yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Had you ever met the victim before?”

  “The victim? Is that what we’re callin’ him? What does that make me then?”

  “I didn’t mean that how it came out. I just don’t think you realize the damage you’ve done. We just got an update on him from the hospital. Four missing teeth. Broken jaw. Broken orbital. You really messed him up good. He’s gonna have a long recovery.”

  A new nervousness sinks its teeth into me, a choking knot in my throat. “I don’t remember that.”

  “You don’t remember what?”

  “I don’t remember hittin’ him that much. I kinda blacked out, I guess.”

  He breathes out a heavy sigh, scratching at his chin, and his eyes study me. “We’ve collected video from the establishment. Statements from witnesses. One of those witnesses claims he witnessed you attack his friend, the young man in the hospital now. He said you beat him up a few weeks ago. There are reports that support his claim.”

  “He says it was me? Well, he’s sadly mistaken. I ain’t ever met that kid in my life. Not ever. And I haven’t fought since before my Army days.”

  His eyes are locked on mine. He seems to be plenty aware of the bald-faced lie I just presented him with. I don’t look away.

  “We have nothing on your involvement in the previous incident, but what you did tonight went too far. You’re a trained soldier. He’s a twenty-year-old kid. I don’t care what he thinks, a kid is just what he is. And now he’ll be lucky if he’s not drinking out of a straw for a while.”

  “He attacked me,” I say firmly.

  He nods. “Yes, and that’ll be taken into account.”

  “So, am I arrested?”

  “As of now, yes. We’ll set bail in the morning. You can make a phone call and have one of your friends or family post it.”

  I lean forward, my elbows on the table. “Listen, he’s a twenty-year-old man. An adult. He hit me over the head with a bottle. A weapon. Cut me open. Then he charged me. I hit my fuckin’ head against the bar top. I’ve got the stitches to prove both. Eyewitnesses too. Instinct kicked in. Did I mean to take it to that level, no. But I was just defending myself. He was underage and under the influence. That’s gotta account for somethin’.”

  A look of understanding passes over his features as he takes in what I’ve just said, his head slightly nodding. “Well, nothing’s official yet. You spend one night in jail, and that might very well be the only one you do. Alright?”

  “Roger that.” I sit back in the chair and cross my arms, nausea taking hold as I think about the prospect of legitimate jailtime. My heart beats like a drum in my chest.

  “And Bishop.” He stands, putting out his hand. “Thank you for what you’ve done for this country. I mean that.”

  I stand too and take his hand in my own, shaking it for a moment.

  “From one vet to another,” he continues.

  “Thank you for pavin’ the way. And for bein’ cool with me tonight.”

  “Just get some sleep. Everything will be sorted in the morning and then we’ll go from there. Alright?”

  “Sleep?” I laugh. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

  AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT OF toss and turn-riddled sleep, in a cell with seven others—some coming down from drugs and mumbling throughout the night—I’m grateful to take in the fresh morning air and feel the warmth of the early sun against my skin. My bloody, torn suit is bagged and in hand, swinging along at my side. I’m aware of the hundreds of dollars it will take to repair it, but it’s of little concern at the particular point in time.

  “Appreciate you comin’ to get me,” I say, glancing over at Sarge as he walks beside me.

  He waves me off. “Don’t even mention it. I just wish I could’ve been there last night.”

  He digs keys out of his pocket and unlocks an M5 in the parking lot. As the headlights blink and horn beeps, I tilt my head toward him.

  “Damn, bro.”

  “You like?” he asks with a smile on his face as he opens the car door.

  “What’s not to like. She’s beautiful,” I respond, climbing in after him. It still has that new car smell, the leather and carpet spotless. “Jesus, bro. OCD much?”

  He grins. “Like a motherfucker.”

  As he pulls out of the parking space, I say, “I’m actually glad you weren’t there gettin’ wrapped up in that shit.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have gotten involved outside of pulling you off of him before you turned his face into a jigsaw puzzle.” He chuckles.

  “I just fuckin’ blacked out, man. Lost it.”

  He motions to the freshly stitched wound on the side of my head, the spot that still burns. “You had every right to lose it. And that’s what friends are for. To step in if need be. Whether you’re getting your ass beat too bad, or you’re doing the beating. Speaking of which, what the hell were your pledge brothers doing at the time?” he asks as he exits the police station parking lot, navigating the M5 toward Main Street.

  I shrug. “No clue. Next thing I knew, I came to and I had mace in my eyes. Come to find out, two officers were just strollin’ by when the fight started and these fuck clowns
shoutin’ ‘Fight, fight, fight!’ are the only reason they even came inside. Funny how that shit works. I’ve been in so many fights in my time, ones with far uglier outcomes than last night, and I never got caught. Always got away with it. I beat this kid’s ass in basic training, for Christ’s sake. I guess, you get away with shit and get away with shit and get away with shit until one day your luck just runs the fuck out.”

  “You’ll be alright, man. He attacked you first.”

  “I was arrested, bro. Booked. This shit’s for real.”

  “Well, like I said, I got you a great lawyer. He’s a dear friend of mine. He served too. You’re in good hands, bro.”

  “And you said he’s meetin’ us at the diner?”

  Sarge nods.

  “I really appreciate you settin’ that up, Sarge. Seriously. And thanks for the change of clothes.”

  “Hey, what are brothers for? I got your back. We’re going to get you out of this, man. Your luck hasn’t run out just yet.” He winks and passes me a reassuring nod. Pulling into the diner lot, he parks the car and lets out a heavy breath, adding, “Well, you ready for this?”

  “I don’t have any other choice.” I flash him a tight smile. Exiting the vehicle, with Sarge following suit, I motion toward the door. “He already here?”

  “Should be.”

  Sarge leads me inside, and just to the right, in a red pleather booth, an aged man sits, a tailored sport coat showing off a still impressive physique. As he notices our approach, he stands, smiling and putting out a hand.

  “Blake, what’s up, my friend.” He shakes Sarge’s hand, taking him in for a hug before turning to me. “Bishop, Adam Silver, good to see you.”

  I shake his hand. “I appreciate you meetin’ with me.”

  We take a seat in the booth and I notice the stack of papers in a manila folder at the table.

  “You’ve been busy.” I chuckle, pointing toward the stack.

  “I love my job. And I love helping veterans like you. When Blake called me this morning—early, I might add”—he narrows his eyes at Sarge with a grin—“he told me all about you and what you’ve given for this country. I’m making this my priority. I want to let you know that.”

  “I really appreciate that. Truly. So, I take it you’ve read up on the situation?” I motion toward the folder again, and he nods.

  “I have. And I don’t think they have a case here. The bottle became a weapon the moment he hit you with it. He should be the one with assault charges. Aggravated assault at that.”

  “How sure are you I’ll be okay here?”

  “Community service, maybe. A fine, perhaps, due to the excessive nature. But no jail. Nothing like that. I need a little more time as these surveillance videos are handed over to investigators before I can give you a hundred percent, but I’ll throw you a ninety-five percent certainty you won’t see another night in a cell. Not for this anyway.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  As the waitress fills coffee cups for Sarge and me, Adam digs through the pile. He mutters, as if to himself, “You’ve never had any run-ins with the law either.”

  “I’ve never been caught for anything, at least,” I respond, smiling.

  Adam chuckles. “Yeah, well, that helps us out. I really don’t want you to worry. I don’t know what Blake told you about me, but I’ve served my own time as a JAG lawyer, and I work pro bono for veterans now. I’ve helped a lot of guys get out of some shit. You’re gonna be one of them. I’m not promising no repercussions, but I fully believe we’ll be able to make a good deal here.”

  “And you feel good about no jailtime, right?”

  “Absolutely. You messed him up really good, no doubt about that. But they’re going to see you were just defending yourself here. You’re going to be okay.”

  “Thank you… so much,” I say, and he shakes his head.

  “Don’t even mention it. A friend of Blake’s is a friend of mine. And considering what you’ve done for this country…” He shakes his head stiffly, his brows furrowed. “You deserve some goddamn leniency.” He passes me a convincing look. “We’re going to get this handled. Just give me a week and I’ll have an answer for you as to what’s coming next. Okay?”

  “Should make for an interestin’ week,” I jest, taking a drink of my coffee and hoping that this man really can keep me out of a cell.

  I can’t help but think the worst.

  My anxiety rages.

  The bottle calls and I hate, now more than ever, that it speaks so clearly to me.

  THE NEXT MORNING, AT BREAKFAST with my pledge brothers, I have only one goal in mind: finding out what happened when I blacked out, beyond what the police report says, beyond what I already know, and, most importantly, why Ember hasn’t texted me back.

  As we’re seated at our usual table, they have solemn looks on their faces.

  “So, who’s gonna be the first to let me know what the fuck happened the other night?”

  With wide eyes, Mac says, “All I know is, that fucker came out of nowhere and busted the bottle over your head before I could even say anything. And then you went all UFC on his ass.”

  “Yeah, I remember that. I remember wrestlin’ him on the ground and hittin’ him a few times, but hell, the shit they said I did to him … no fuckin’ recollection.”

  “You went fuckin’ ham, man,” Jeremy says, shaking his head. “Like, remind me never to fuckin’ piss ya off.” He lets out an uneasy laugh.

  I wave him off. “Shut up, bro. I’d never fight y’all.”

  “Well, that’s a goddamn relief, because you’re a fuckin’ hooligan.”

  “What did I do?”

  Mac laughs, saying, “You were using these crazy ass palm punches.” He throws a few hands in the air to demonstrate. “Next thing you know, his face is fucked, like flattened cartoon fucked, and cops are storming in.”

  “Ah, thank you, Bas Rutten,” I say, smiling. “That’s where I learned the open palm punches from. I’m surprised I actually pulled it out in a fight though. Never have before.” I shrug. “Always wanted to.”

  “Well, I guess you can say you have now.” Mac laughs. “Who’s Bas Rutten anyway?” he asks.

  Carter answers for me, “He’s a UFC fighter. I’ve seen videos of his. He’s an animal. Dude punches with his palms because it takes away the possibility of, like, rolling a wrist or getting a boxing fracture, or whatever.”

  “Yup.” I nod. “And it’s a smaller contact point, so there’s more force behind it. It’s supposed to be effective as fuck.”

  Carter laughs, shaking his head. “I’d say that’s a definitive now. He was down for the count about two seconds in.”

  “And how long after that did I keep hittin’ him?”

  Carter laughs. “About another minute until the cops arrived, I guess. Shit, I was as drunk as you were. Felt like I was in a movie, or something.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, it was gnarly, bro,” Mac says.

  “And why didn’t y’all help me? Pull me off him or somethin’?” I ask, and they look around at each other, none of them speaking.

  “We tried,” Carter responds defensively. “Jeremy and I both did. You were having none of it.”

  “Well, fuck.” My gaze drifts out the plate glass windows, coated in morning dew.

  “What did the lawyer say?” Carter asks, pulling my attention back to the conversation.

  “He thinks because the kid used a bottle on me and attacked me first, they really don’t have a case. The only thing I’m really in trouble for is the excessiveness.”

  “So, you’re going to be alright then?” Carter asks.

  “I think so, man. I’m convinced of it after meetin’ with the lawyer. Just hopin’ for the best and we’ll see what comes of it.” I take a sip of my coffee and then tilt my head, thoughts of Ember crossing my mind. “So, can anyone tell me why Ember ain’t respondin’ to my texts?”

  All of their eyes fall on the tabletop. It�
��s then I know for certain I did something foolish.

  “Well, speak up, fuckers. I’d really love to know.”

  Mac clears his throat, looking as if he’s searching for the right words. “It was when you started pounding him and after you pushed us off. I guess Ember knows him from back home,” he says, pausing, a look of trepidation crossing his face.

  “And?” I ask.

  Mac takes a thick swallow. “She tried to pull you off too. I’m pretty sure you thought it was us again and you pushed her away kind of hard.”

  “Well, fuck.” I shake my head. “Was it really bad?”

  “It wasn’t like overkill or anything,” Mac responds. “But you shoved her pretty good, dude. And she definitely wasn’t happy about it. If I had to guess, that’s probably what she’s pissed about.” He hesitates for a moment, and then adds, “Well, that, and you rearranged her friend’s face.”

  I shrug. “I mean, the asshole did bring a bottle to a fist fight.”

  “Do you remember him?” Jeremy asks, furrowing his brows. “I mean, from before the other night?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I did the moment the fucker attacked me.”

  “Well…” Jeremy lets the word linger. “I reckon you taught him two lessons now. But I don’t think he’ll be forgettin’ this last one.”

  “OKAY, BISHOP. LIKE I SAID, great news. The best news,” Adam says, sitting across from me at the diner, taking a drink of his coffee. I’ve been a anxiety-ridden mess over the past few days, waiting to hear back from him. When he called me this morning and said he had good news, I raced to meet him.

  “Yeah? What’s it lookin’ like?”

  “Well, you won’t get off scot-free, but after going over the evidence with the family, and them learning about your past, they agreed not to press any charges if you go through a VA substance abuse program. Their other son is in the Navy, I guess, so they have a lot of respect for you and what you’ve done. They don’t want you serving any time, and they understand their case is flimsy, regardless, but if you make it through this program, you won’t have to deal with any of that. No charges. No trial. Just a seven-week program, and you’re good to go.”