Command: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World)

by Amélie S. Duncan

  “Shana’s not a screw-up. She’s lost,” Maeve said. “She acted out for attention when she was younger, but she turned her shit around. You don’t know what her life’s been like since she’s been gone. She deserves the same benefit of the doubt you give everyone else. You’re angry, I get that. But Shana is different. She’s a friend who needs a friend. But you already knew that, which is why you brought her up. You already intend to help her.”

  “She doesn’t want my help. I already asked her,” I told her, taking a bite of her homemade bread, which reminded me I needed to ask her for Liv’s soda bread.

  “That’s never stopped you before. She’s on your list. You have people all over town you’re a guardian for.”

  Maeve knew about a list I made for people I believed were trying their best and just needed some extra help to achieve their goals. I did whatever I could to help them. The list had grown over time, but I could trace the origin back to Shana. After Jackson died, and she needed help, I put her on my list then. And in truth, I never crossed her off.

  Shana

  Nathan came to see me in jail. Maybe he came out of obligation—some exemplary commitment that he had to do right by Jackson. But when we looked at each other, that wasn’t what I saw. His big heart overwhelmed me like it had done so many times in the past.

  He said he’d never leave me. That I knew for sure. And that was why I left. To give him a chance to make his own life without trying to fix me. Our pain still felt fresh, and I didn’t know where to put it. I couldn’t run from it. I couldn’t run from anything here. I was trapped like a mouse on a sticky mat, alive, afraid, and anticipating the coming danger.

  I’d been placed on solitary watch, which meant I had nonstop checks on my status by officers, not that I could sleep. The thin sheets and board mattress beneath me felt gummy on my arms from sweat. My skin itched all over, and I couldn’t help but scratch. To distract myself, I turned on the water-stained faucet, splashing my arms to cool my skin. I next cupped my hand under the tap and sipped the water. My stomach lurched, and I gagged. Yuck, metallic aftertaste.

  The whining of the artificial lights outside the cell, timed alarms, and creak of the officers’ shoes on the concrete floor amplified every hour.

  “Checks,” the officer yelled, and a flashlight blazed inside the cell.

  I covered my eyes and pressed my lips together. The guard could already see I hadn’t moved since the last check. What time? Minutes? Hours?

  All time became the same. I thought back over the night for the thirtieth time, restless in wondering why, out of the whole group, I was the only one in jail. The others drank, popped Mollies. And yet . . . only my purse had drugs in it. I knew something was very wrong . . . and of course, I was in the middle of it. The fuck-up.

  After forever, heaviness filled my limbs, and I lay on my side and closed my eyes.

  A vision of Jackson came. He stood by the cell bars wearing the T-shirt and jeans he had on the night he died. His hands took mine like he’d done before we reached the bridge.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Don’t come here. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand to try to redirect my mind.

  The corrections officer appeared again. The lights shone on me, over and over.

  It became a routine: I’d drifted and slept. Tremors rushed through my body as I moved around the mat to find comfort. The nightmare came. I forced myself to stay awake. I drifted . . .

  A loud alarm and the creak of the cell woke me with a start. “Showers and breakfast.”

  The guard appeared and ordered my cell open.

  I rubbed my eyes and unfolded my stiff limbs to comply, stumbling to my feet to follow.

  “Use this one.” She pointed to a mildew-covered tile stall with grime on the drain.

  My stomach lurched. No choice.

  I stepped and shuddered as cold water fell down my body. The small soap broke in my hands as I moved fast to clean myself.

  “Time,” the guard yelled behind me.

  “What?” I still had soap on me before the water stopped.

  “Dry yourself and change.” She pointed to another set of prison clothes to change into. “Special treatment,” the corrections officer murmured when I collected them.

  This was special? Far from. My jailhouse review of the suite’s special treatment wouldn’t be flattering.

  Shit, this is real.

  But then reality hit me, as I walked from a shower block to a bolted table to consume food that was both bland and cold. Cold oatmeal, a mostly green banana, and two wheat-bread slices with a cup of water. I’d never felt like a herded animal before. No choices. No liberty. No . . . dignity. After I forced myself to eat the hard bread, I returned to my cell. A film clung to my skin, like wax. My nails scraped to soothe the itching, leaving lines of red welts on my arms and legs. I couldn’t take another minute.

  I did that twice during the first day. On the second day, no fruit. So often my thoughts drifted to things like, if only I hadn’t called Amber. If only I’d gone to my parents’ house and stayed there. Were Brit and Amber laughing right now?

  Most probably. But with routine and cold detachment by the officers my only company, I sat for hours on end, thinking. I thought about Pam and Bridget Birks, hating that Pam now understood the horror of losing a child. Far too young.

  Pam had motivated me to do my best in grade school and had celebrated when I made varsity when I reached high school. She even talked to me when I graduated, and joked about Bridget during practice. She’d been so cute and became our little sister and mascot—always smiling, cartwheeling, and laughing. And now she was gone. And Pam—

  A pretty pink princess with Goldilocks skipped past me.

  “Goldie,” I called out.

  I reached out and touched her hair.

  She laughed and yelled close to my ear. “I’m Bridget.”

  A young woman at the club had told me her name was Bridget, or had I imagined it?

  My head throbbed, and I massaged my temples, trying to remember everything that happened at the nightclub. But my mind worked like chasing paper in the wind. I could see something but couldn’t hold on to it to read what was on there. What did keep coming back to my consciousness was the ambulance outside. A girl screaming Bridget’s name on the ground, over and over. Had Bridget been in the ambulance dead at the time? And had I been outside laughing?

  Bile rose in my throat, and I touched the toilet I tried to avoid and vomited the little I’d eaten for breakfast—or was that lunch? I rinsed and used my sweat-damp shirt to wipe my mouth.

  The corrections officer yelled, “Get up. Time to go.”

  My eyes were bleary as I struggled to get my mind to focus. However, the guard wouldn’t wait for my brain to catch up. My body had to react.

  I forced my sore limbs to comply and followed the guard out of the cell. I thought more showers. But this time, I went through a security door and down a corridor to a man in a checked shirt, tie, and dockers sitting outside a polished brown door that read Magistrate’s Court Room. I’d been here for two days? I’d lost all sense of time and hadn’t been given the warning to clean myself up. Maybe they did tell me and I tuned it out? My hair was a mess, my jail clothes creased and baggy. Of course, jail didn’t provide designer outfits in the commissary, but I should have been given a comb so I wouldn’t appear messed up, or was that the intent?

  He pointed to the bench for me to sit next to him.

  “Which one are you?” he asked and leafed through the folders in his hands.

  “Drugs planted in purse at a nightclub, Shana Callahan,” I said and cleared my throat. “Maybe you should start by telling me who you are, so I know what’s going on.”

  He opened the folder on the bottom. “I’m Carter, your public defender.”

  My stomach knotted. My dad’s a judge, knew I was here, but didn’t even send a lawyer.

  He picked up a red file in the middle. “Callahan. Here you are. No priors, no record. Drugs
found in purse at a dance party. Not a strong case for prosecution,” he said while rubbing his jaw.

  “You don’t seem confident. Tell me straight: is it bad news?” My pulse sped up.

  “The drugs are class A, and the amount was above three point five milligrams. That makes this possession a felony. If you get bail today, and you’re able to pay it, you need to do whatever you can to get the judge to drop this to misdemeanor possession. If you stay with me or hire another lawyer, expunge it from your record.”

  My stomach muscles twisted in knots. “Oh, hell no. I’ll paint benches outside, whatever. I’m not going back to jail.” I was practically a zombie, sleep-deprived, and starved. My eyes felt like they’d been rubbed with sandpaper and my skin inflamed and raw. There was no way I could do another day in jail.

  “I can ask the judge for community service, rehab visits to see if he’ll let you go home. You listen and stay quiet, and you may have a good chance. Got that, sweetheart?” His eyes flicked over me.

  Sure, this is a great time to flirt, Carter, when I depend on you to save my ass in court.

  I pursed my lips. “It’s Shana, and, yeah. I’ll agree to whatever the judge wants me to do to get me out of jail now.”

  The officer took my arm to walk forward. My feet shuffled within the constraints inside the courtroom. There I took a seat next to the other row of inmates waiting for their hearing before the judge.

  My stomach sunk as I glanced around the courtroom and found no one from my family. I saw Nathan was seated behind the table labeled Prosecution with Officer Eileen, the woman from my arrest. His gaze was blank as he stared over at me, giving me nothing. My mind raced with uncertainty. Did he have to sit there, or had he changed his mind?

  The female officer turned her head toward him and followed his line of sight to me and glared. Behind them sat Pam. She wiped her face that looked swollen, red, and puffy. An older woman with a stony expression, who I believed was her sister, sat next to her, intermittently patting her arm.

  “She’s the one who sold Bridget the drugs,” Pam spoke loudly to the people behind her, glowering over at me.

  What the hell? Did Pam not recognize me? Why would she have thought that I had anything to do with Bridget? What has she been told? I brought my cuffed hands to my face and touched the tingling skin. Murmurs hummed as I dropped my chin to my chest. What was worse? At no point did Nathan tell Pam she was wrong. And that stung.

  My pulse jumped at the sight of my dad’s former friend, James Sullivan, who I think had a falling out about some club they were members of a few years back. I didn’t know all the details, but things could go either way.

  After some time, the bailiff finally called my name. The corrections officer moved me to stand at the table in front of his bench. Judge Sullivan glanced at the papers before him.

  The prosecution lawyer spoke first. “The arresting officers, present in court today, found Shana Ann Callahan in possession of over three point five milligrams of heroin, meth, and cocaine. She tested positive for drugs on her arrest. There was a fatality at the scene—”

  “How could you drug my Bridget, Shana!” Pam howled.

  My head jerked. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Carter cupped his hand by my ear. “You need to remain quiet.”

  Judge Sullivan pounded his gavel. “Order. Now, Mrs. Birks, you know how my court runs from when you came here for Bridget. If you can’t remain quiet, I’ll have you removed. As for the prosecution, you have not submitted proof before this court that the drugs taken by Ms. Birks were the same drugs found on Ms. Callahan. Prosecutors, the charges you submitted to this court against Ms. Callahan are possession with intent to distribute. What are the recommendations for this court to consider?”

  “Since Ms. Callahan has few financial means and doesn’t have a residence in town, we recommend she be remanded into custody until the investigation is complete,” the prosecutor said.

  I dug my fingers into the table in front of me. How long would this take? Weeks? Months? Maybe even years? I felt my legs shaking under the table. How could this happen to me? I jerked my head toward my public defender and tapped his arm to speak up. He gave a curt shake of his head and returned his focus on the judge.

  “Mr. Carter, do you have anything to add?” Judge Sullivan asked.

  “Your Honor, Shana Callahan has no priors. There are no witnesses, and the party had hundreds of people in attendance. Ms. Callahan admitted to the arresting officer her alcohol, ecstasy, and marijuana use. The pain relievers found in her system were by prescription. She has no prior drug charges or possession or criminal record. She’s not a flight risk. Her family also lives here. I recommend bail and a hearing scheduled later. In the meantime, Ms. Callahan has agreed to voluntary community service, drug tests, and rehab visits.”

  “Do you have anything to say, Ms. Callahan?” Judge Sullivan asked.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m not a dealer. I went to a party with friends when I returned to town on Friday. Someone placed drugs in my bag at the club. I have . . . I owned and ran my own effortless-style design app company in Los Angeles.”

  Mr. Carter nudged me and shook his head, but I wasn’t a dummy that would put all my eggs on his courtroom prowess. My dad taught me that judges were more lenient with professionals.

  “I am aware of your company,” he said. His first allusion to him and my dad being on speaking terms.

  “Shana shouldn’t get a free pass just because of who her father is. Bridget is dead, and dammit, Shana deserves to be locked away,” Pam cried out.

  Judge Sullivan hit his gavel against the lectern for order. “That’s your last outburst, Mrs. Birks. Bailiff, remove her from my courtroom.”

  Pam gripped the back of the bench in front of her and shook her head back and forth. “I’m not leaving.”

  “I’ll take her outside,” Nathan said, standing up. “Come on, Pam, I’ll let you know the judgment.”

  The bailiff looked over for permission.

  “I’ll allow it,” Judge Sullivan said.

  “No one needs to take me out. I need to hear what’s going to happen,” Pam screamed.

  “You don’t make decisions in my courtroom. You leave now, or you’re going to be charged with contempt,” Judge Sullivan threatened.

  “My Bridget is dead, and you’re treating me like I’m the criminal. Shana Callahan sold her drugs, and you’re letting her out because she’s rich.”

  Oh God. No, Pam. I didn’t. My shaking became violent as I imagined the worst. Manslaughter. She thinks I killed her daughter. I’d never harm her . . . Fuck.

  The bailiff came forward and took her arm, hustling Pam down the aisle to the gasps from the people on the benches. Nathan and the female officer rose and went after them. Once they were outside, the judge spoke.

  “Prosecutor, your request for remand is excessive. Ms. Callahan has family here, and you haven’t proven today that she’s a flight risk. I agree to include in my order that she’s not allowed to leave Sunnyville, but I’m releasing Ms. Callahan on ten thousand dollars bail, pending a hearing in sixty days. Make good use of your time out, Ms. Callahan. Next case.”

  The guard came forward to take me back to the bench, but before I left, I asked, “What does that mean?”

  “That means he’s giving you a chance to get the charges decreased or even expunged if you go ahead with the community service and drug tests. That’s if the prosecution doesn’t make a case against you. The bail is ten percent. Do you have one thousand dollars, or do you need a bail bondsman?” Carter asked.

  I nodded. “I can pay, but my bag is in custody.”

  “We can get a release for your wallet,” he said.

  “And my phone,” I added.

  The money didn’t wipe out my savings, but I’d miss having it. I couldn’t believe how close I’d come to a more extended stay in jail. Fuck this.

  “Thank you,” I said to Judge Sullivan and Carter.

  I remai
ned in custody and had to wait for all the other inmates’ cases before we returned to the jail to pay my bail. When the time came to free me, I snatched the bag with my possessions, scribbling my name on the sheet. Where are my parents? They hadn’t even sent a lawyer. I could’ve been ordered to stay in jail. Why didn’t they care?

  Did they ever care for me?

  I pressed my hand against my throat to block my thoughts. But the memory resurfaced, like a fresh cut to an old wound, of my varsity team regional championship baseball game. That night, I pitched a no-hitter and made history for Sunnyville High School. Jackson screamed my name and rushed on the pitch alone. I looked past him, and my stomach pitched. Mom and Dad weren’t there.

  Later, we arrived home at the same time as our parents came out of the garage. They were dressed up and had bags in their hands from a Sunnyville Gallery benefit they’d attended.

  Jackson stormed over to stand in front of them. “What the hell, Mom, Dad? Where the hell were you that you missed Shadow’s big game?”

  Dad frowns. “That was tonight?”

  Mom glances over at me. “We can’t go to every activity you two sign up for.”

  “Did you win?” Dad asks.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Of course she won. Shadow made history, and you missed it. You both suck,” Jackson tells them.

  “Watch your language.” Dad scowls.

  I ran across the bridge.

  “She lies and runs away. We can celebrate this weekend, Shana,” Mom yells to my back.

  I throw myself on my bed, and Jackson walks in. He tugs me to sit next to him. He grins, and his big whiskey-colored eyes, a mirror image of mine, meet my own.

  “You don’t need them. Fuck anyone else, you have me. And where would I be without my shadow? It’s you and me, then the world.”