by Britt Morrow
“I have no idea how it came to be in his possession.”
“But it was never reported as stolen by Mr. Wright?”
“That’s true.”
“I’d like to talk about your questioning of Mr. Adams,” George continues. “He told you that he was provoked to kill Mr. Wight by what he witnessed when he arrived at the residence, correct?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, he told you that he witnessed Mr. Wright violently raping his daughter?”
Blockhead cringes before nodding. I can tell that this question genuinely pains him; I doubt that he would have done anything differently had he been in my position. It’s his job to protect the vulnerable.
“I’m going to need you to state the answer out loud for the record,” George requests.
“Yes, he did tell me that,” Blockhead admits, no longer defiant.
“And isn’t it true that a history of repeated violent sexual abuse was revealed by Ms. Wright in her confession to Officer Simmons?”
“Yes.”
“In the tape, she corroborates the fact that her father had been raping her at the time of the shooting, correct?”
“Yes.”
George doesn’t let up, asking about the condition in which they found Charlie - naked and bloodied - and how that could be construed as anything other than evidence that a rape had been taking place at the time of the incident.
“She might have attempted to perform CPR or other life-saving measures and become covered in blood in the process,” Blockhead speculates.
“You said before that Mr. Wright was missing half of his skull.”
Blockhead blinks rapidly before replying, “People react strangely in times of crisis.”
“So strangely that someone might strip nude to perform CPR on their clearly deceased father?”
“You never know,” Blockhead hedges, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.
“I have no further questions.”
George sits back down, smiling, having clearly emerged the winner of this round. At least as close to winning as he can get. There’s no way of denying that I did it; the best we can do is shake the prosecutor’s confidence in his ability to secure a second-degree murder conviction enough that he’s willing to give me a good plea bargain.
“I’d like to call my next witness, Mr. Colt Wright,” the prosecutor announces loudly, trying to regain his footing.
My stomach sinks dramatically. I wonder what everyone assembled in the courtroom would do if I puked in the middle of the aisle. Under normal circumstances, the idea of being nauseous in front of a roomful of strangers - especially, professional, intelligent ones - would be mortifying. Right now, though, it’s amusing. I can’t possibly sink any lower.
Colt strides in, in a suit even more ill-fitting and threadbare than the prosecutor’s. I’m impressed nonetheless; I wonder how much cajoling it took on the part of the prosecutor to get him into something other than a football jersey. Or maybe he did it willingly, relishing the opportunity to contribute to my most spectacular defeat yet.
“What is your relationship to the deceased?” the prosecutor asks once Colt is behind the stand.
“He is - was - my father.” The stumble over his words and the feigned hitch in his voice before he utters the word “was” is entirely put on. He’s a shitty actor. I hope the force of my glare burning into him is making him nervous, ruining his performance. And I hope just as fervently that the judge can see through it as well as I can.
“Please describe what your relationship with your father was like.”
“He was hard on me, but only because he wanted the best for me. He loved me - and Charlie…” Colt’s refusing to meet my gaze, knowing that he’s leaving out the most important part: he loved her - but not in the right way.
“Did your father ever demonstrate any abusive behavior towards either you or Charlie?” The prosecutor probes.
He’s not letting up, but he appears to have deflated slightly now that Colt’s on the stand. Where Blockhead was a consummate professional, Colt is a poor actor who hasn’t practiced his lines enough to be entirely convincing.
“Like I said, he was tough…” Colt replies uncertainly, pausing before continuing. “But probably not worse than most other parents.”
The prosecutor nods curtly, sensing that Colt’s unequivocal answers aren’t doing him any favors. I want him to push Colt further though, to find out which part of him will win out: his love for Charlie and the damage that denying her allegations will do to their relationship, or his hatred for me and desire to keep me as far away from her as possible. Our years on the field together made clear the force of his hatred. If the past few weeks have taught me anything though, it’s that humans are infinitely unpredictable - even to themselves.
“No further questions.”
“Your witness,” The judge pronounces, gesturing to George.
George rises quickly: a predator ready to pounce. “You said that your father wasn’t any tougher on you than other parents are with their children?
“Yes,” Colt asserts.
“However, you’re aware that there have been multiple incidents where your father was verbally and physically abusive towards you that have been reported to the Department of Children’s Services?”
“Maybe a couple of incidents,” Colt mumbles.
“You’ve been interviewed by a Child Protective Services investigator regarding your father’s behavior on four separate occasions, correct?”
“I remember talking to them a few times.”
“And on one occasion, you and your sister were temporarily placed under the care of your grandmother until your father attended mandatory parenting and anger management classes?”
Colt’s dark suit makes it impossible to tell, but I’m sure that he’s sweating. Instead of his usual aggressive stance - shoulders squared, chin jutted forward defiantly - he seems to have curled inward, his shoulders drooping slightly. He still refuses to look at me, whether out of spite or uneasiness though, I’m not sure.
“We stayed with her on and off when we were kids,” he admits.
“So, it’s fair to say that your father did demonstrate abusive tendencies?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”
“Well, that’s what the professionals at CPS who regularly handle these types of situations called it.”
Colt doesn’t reply. His gaze is trained on a point somewhere above George’s head, and his face is drawn. Over the course of the questioning, he has lost all of the swagger that he came into the courtroom with.
“Did you ever become aware of the fact that he was sexually abusing your sister?”
It’s the first time that George has asked a question that didn’t require a yes or no response. The first question that he didn’t already definitively know the answer to. There’s a collective sharp inhale by everyone gathered in the courtroom with no accompanying exhale: we’re all holding our breath.
Colt’s eyes are wild with an emotion that I can’t immediately identify. It’s one that I’ve never seen him wear before: fear. This time though, the emotion is entirely genuine; he’s not nearly talented enough to feign it.
“No, never.”
It won’t help my case any, but I believe him.
Chapter 26
“Charlie, phone for you,” Shayna drawls without even waiting for me to say hi.
Most of Pete’s waitresses have come to anticipate my near-nightly calls. I wonder if Pete makes enough money to be oblivious to the increase in his phone bill, or if he just sees it as his contribution to his favorite quarterback’s defense fund.
I can imagine the rest of the staff slowly gathering around Charlie, finding excuses to ignore their customers’ raised voices and linger in the kitchen just a little bit longer than necessary for the chance to hear the latest scoop on my case. The only thing sexier than the high school quarterback is the high school quarterback turned felon. As soon as the call
is over, the waitresses will rush over to Charlie, heavily mascara’d eyes wide to ask, “How is he doing?” The guys in the back of the kitchen will pretend not to care but, without fail, the radio will be silenced. Charlie said that she always tells them the same thing: He’s been through worse.
“Hey, how did today go?” The question comes out in a single, breathless rush as if she’s been waiting to ask it of me all day.
“It went pretty well. George was on fire. I think that we’re in a pretty good position for a decent plea bargain.”
“Thank God,” she exhales. “Colt told me that your lawyer is pretty fierce.
“You talked to him?” I’m shocked, although I know that I probably don’t have reason to be. He’s the only family that she has left now.
“Briefly,” she amends. “I couldn’t wait to hear from you.”
“Did he tell you that he initially tried to deny the abuse?”
She’s quiet for so long that I ask, “Charlie?"
“He despises you.”
“Because of some old football rivalry? Because I got his sister pregnant?” I ask incredulously.
I always thought of Colt as small-minded, but allowing me to rot in jail for such relatively minor transgressions is a level of pettiness that I can’t even believe him to be capable of.
She laughs, but it’s without mirth. “Of course not,” she replies. “Because you beat him to it. You did what he should have done the first time that piece of shit put hands on him. Or at least when he was old enough to shoot a gun. He has to hate you. An individual can’t survive that much self-hatred.”
“Do you wish that it would have been him in this position instead of me?” It’s probably not a fair question, but I ask it anyway.
She answers immediately, taking no time to think it over, “I wish it would have been me.”
I don’t want to think about the implications of this statement: what it says about her and her self-perception, what it says about us, what it says about our child’s future.
Instead, I tell her, “My visitation list has been approved. Visitation day is every second Thursday, starting next week.”
“I’ll be there. The gossipmongers are dying for a prison update,” she laughs.
“Has there been a lot of talk?”
I’ve been so focused on my own hardships that I haven’t given any thought to what she’s been experiencing on the outside.
“It’s been the only talk,” she sighs. “It’s been great for Pete’s business, though. People have been coming in from other counties just to stare at me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“That’s been the fun part. This must be what Dolly feels like.”
I can picture the impish grin on her face. I know it probably isn’t easy to be treated like a zoo animal or a sideshow curiosity, but I appreciate her making the best of it for my benefit.
“The tough part has been the reporters,” she continues. “Guys from as far as Nashville have been camped out outside the trailer for over a week now.”
“Have you talked to any of them?”
“No.”
I don’t blame her. I can’t imagine revealing those personal details to a stranger, even though I’m pretty sure that an exclusive interview would probably be worth more than what she makes in a month at Pete’s.
Her refusal to give a statement has only increased the media frenzy. Without her story to lend context to the events, it’s an incomprehensible act of violence. All of the media outlets want to be the first to actually give the incident a narrative. There’s nothing bored housewives love more than a salacious tragedy involving the young and beautiful. It allows them to feel better about being overweight and under-stimulated. In the absence of a narrative, the papers have been publishing all of the gory details from the police reports.
“Did you get the latest article that I sent?” She asks. “The one in the Sun?”
She’s been sending me the newspaper clippings as a joke. I have to admit, a clean-cut university student who shoots his future father-in-law has made for some pretty good headlines. They’ve even given me some great monikers: Quarterback Killer, Student Shooter, and - my personal favorite - Football Player Slayer. I thought you had to achieve a BTK or Green River Killer level of infamy to get a catchy nickname.
“Not yet, prison mail is slow.”
I don’t tell her the second part: prison mail is slow, and I’ve been receiving letters by the dozen. It turns out that murdering someone garners you almost as many rabid fans as being a celebrity or an NFL player. I’ve gotten love letters, fan fiction, and even a couple of marriage proposals. According to one of the guards, there has also been an influx of suggestive pictures, but those get weeded out. Thank god. Having spent a lifetime around the women in the area, characterized primarily by meth teeth and the softness induced by malnutrition, I’m not amenable to anything that they’re suggesting.
“I should get going,” Charlie says apologetically. “All of the tables are full, and Shayna’s getting impatient. Talk soon?”
“Of course. I’ll call you before Thursday.”
It’s a promise that I don’t know if I can keep given that my phone privileges come at the whim of the guards. They’ve been pretty accommodating with me recently, though. I’m sure that at least a few of them have been enjoying the contraband photos.
“I love you,” she states.
She hangs up before I get a chance to answer. But she already knows that I would do anything for her.
I replay my conversations with Charlie endlessly in my head. Besides reading the articles Charlie sends and trying to decipher the grammatically abysmal letters that I’ve received, it’s my only form of entertainment. I’ve lost all sense of time in here. The hours between lunch and dinner, when I’m anticipating an opportunity to talk to Charlie, are sometimes endless. Other times, when I’m nervous or dreading the next step of my legal battle, entire days seem to disappear without me realizing it.
I’m disoriented and hesitant when a guard comes to collect me one morning - at least, I think it’s morning.
“Where am I going?”
“To the courthouse,” he replies tersely.
I guess it’s a stupid question. Other than court and, if you’re unlucky, the hospital, there’s nowhere else for inmates to go.
“Why?”
“Fuck if I know.”
He cuffs me impatiently before leading me out to the van. As confused and nervous as I am, I always enjoy the van rides. Watching the buildings pass and trees whip by almost feels like a carnival ride. When you’ve been trapped in a dingy 8x10 cell for weeks, if not months, on end, almost everything is overstimulating.
I’m relieved to find George waiting for me when we arrive, his suitcase of files in tow. I’d love to know what kind of secrets it contains. I bet it would make for even better reading than the articles written about my case.
“Are you ready?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
I just look at him blankly, unsure of how to respond.
“To plea bargain?” He clarifies.
Oh. I knew that was the next step in the case, and that we had a meeting scheduled with the prosecutor, but I thought it was still days away. I wonder if prison is making me lose it; my grip on reality - time, important events - already seems to be slipping.
“Right. I guess, yeah.”
“Your job today is to be likable. The prosecutor isn’t that much older than you are, and you want him to see himself in you: a hard-working kid doing his best to improve his circumstances. I don’t want you to say much. Just nod and smile where you can. Definitely don’t argue or reject any of his proposals outright; that’s my job. A little good cop, bad cop if you will.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
George already went over the game plan with me over the phone earlier - today? This week? He’s looking to plead the second-degree murder charges, which carry a punishment between fifteen to sixty
years, down to voluntary manslaughter, which could get me out in as little as three. He advised me that we should seriously consider anything under ten.
Ten years. I’ll miss my child’s first steps, his first words, his first wobbly bike ride, the first time another kid makes him cry. At ten years old, a kid is no longer malleable; he has his own personality shaped by his successes, disappointments. Ten-year-old me was already jaded. I was old enough to know that I was different from other kids, that I’d been cheated when it came to my family situation. I was old enough to know that Brandi was a piece of shit and that I wanted nothing to do with her. My ten-year-old will no doubt feel the same.
I trust George’s opinion, though. If he thinks that a deal is good, I’ll probably take it. All I can do is fervently hope that we can negotiate something significantly better than ten years.
The prosecutor is seated in his office when George raps on the door with me, and the guard charged with overseeing me, trailing behind. I see the prosecutor startle slightly at the noise; I hope this is an indication of his nervousness.
The office is small and sparsely decorated. Aside from a picture of a golden retriever on the desk, there are no personal touches. I take the retriever as a positive sign, though: they’re good-natured and eager to please. The office is lacking not only in decor but also in space. It’s not any bigger than my cell, and almost every flat surface is covered in haphazardly scattered documents. This, too, is reassuring. Hopefully, George’s meticulous organization and catalog-like knowledge of the case’s facts will give us the upper hand.
“Brett Trawick,” the prosecutor states, extending his hand to me.
He doesn’t do the same for George. I wonder whether this is the first time that they’ve been pitted against each other, or whether they’ve faced off in court on other cases.
“Levi Adams,” I reply, even though I know that he has probably spent the past few weeks poring over documents bearing my name.
He clears the papers from the two chairs in front of his desk, dumping them into a filing cabinet already brimming with documents, and gestures for George and I to take a seat.
