by Avelyn Paige
“Fine, Buzz Killington. Her father, one Ronald Boatman, has filed for bankruptcy three times in the last twenty odd years. The most recent of those files was last year. But what’s interesting to me is that his bank account doesn’t appear to be empty. The secret one that is.”
“Dude, how in the fuck do you even find this shit out,” I blurt.
“Magic. Stop interrupting me. About four years ago, her dad started working for the local hospital, and that’s when the large deposits of cash started showing up into this other account. The funny thing about this account is that his name isn’t on it. It’s Asher’s.”
“Son of a bitch,” I exclaim.
“It gets worse. Not only does he have this bank account in Asher’s name, there is also a corresponding life insurance policy for over a million dollars. Looks to me like daddy is planning a one-way ticket to the six feet under hotel for little Asher.”
“That’s why he wanted him so badly. He has all this money in his name, but for what purpose? Where did the initial sum even come from?”
“Boatman is about to be served with a summons to appear for court regarding a missing drugs case at the local hospital. He worked part-time as a chaplain there during the period in question.”
“You don’t think?” I ask Raze, who nods in return.
“It would explain the drugs. If he’s selling prescription drugs, he would have access to non-controlled substances. It makes sense to me.”
“The part I don’t understand is if he has a bank account with Asher’s name on it, and a life insurance policy, how did he get those without claiming the kid? Don’t you have to be a legal guardian to set that shit up?”
“That’s the other part of this. He didn’t set them up. The mother did.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. Ricca’s mother is the reason this wheel of insanity started rolling. Was this all her idea or did he play a part in it? The only way I’m going to find that out was to ask him myself.
“Give me that address for him, V. I think I need to make a house call.”
It’s been two days since my arrest, and with each day, my will to fight starts to slip away. The confidence, in which I came into this hellhole with, has been stripped away from me piece by piece. I had hoped that my stay here would be short term, but even the backwoods lawyer who sits before me thinks I’m fucked.
The case against me is a mockery of the judicial system and has been orchestrated by my father’s drive to ruin my claim on Asher. The false charges that are listed next to my name mean nothing, but jail time to the buffoon representing me.
“Mrs. Azzo, I understand that you want to enter a plea of not guilty, but you have to understand. In the eyes of the law, you are. The drugs were found in your purse, in your vehicle, and in your presence. Even with the lack of fingerprint evidence and the negative drug test results, you still are being charged with possession with intent to sell.
I slam my shackled fists on the table in front of me. Possession with intent to sell? How in the fuck have they fabricated such a claim against me? Intent implies that I had buyers, and to have buyers, I would have to be a dealer. None of which I did nor I am. I’m not sure who educated the man in front of me, but he needs a re-education on simple terms in the dictionary. None of this makes sense.
“Mr. Gibbs,” I start.
“You can call me Leroy, Ma’am.”
“Whatever. Listen, Leroy. You went to law school, right?”
“Of course, I did. I am a licensed public defender for Hancock County. How could I be sitting here with you if I didn’t have a license?” he throws back into my face.
“It seems to me, Leroy, that you should be more attentive to the truth, instead of trying to get me to admit guilt when there is no guilt to be had. I am innocent, and no matter what you, or anyone else says, that is the truth. There’s no evidence that I intended to sell. You just admitted that my fingerprints weren’t even on the bag. It could have been easily planted by someone else. Explain to me how I didn’t leave a shred of evidence behind on the bag. Were rubber gloves found at the scene?”
“I do admit it is quite odd that there is no DNA or fingerprint forensic evidence that links you to the bag of cocaine found in your car. But you still were in possession of it, and that in itself is against the law. The judges in this area are hard on first time offenders, and I just want you to be aware that a guilty plea may be the better odds of staying out of jail.”
I want to reach across the table and strangle this incompetent asshole. The evidence says I’m guilty? Not in my fucking book. It’s as if this man watched Law and Order and called that his education. His ineptitude is going to get me locked away without a doubt. Is this all a running joke that no one has let me in on yet? How is any of this even legal?
“Admitting guilt to something I didn’t do is just as bad as false admitting to doing it on the principle that it would be easier for you. Furthermore, what was the reasoning for the officer pulling me over and searching my car? Was there suspicious activity involved? Do your fucking job, and get me out of here,” I demand of him, before calling for the guard.
He shoves his papers back into his worn, leather satchel and sneers back at me.
“Fine, you don’t want to listen to your attorney then you can represent yourself. I will not work with someone who chooses to do things the most difficult way possible. Good luck with your case, Mrs. Azzo.”
Leroy stomps past Lydia, the guard, waiting in the doorway. She shakes her head at me, before stepping in and releasing me. Unlike the other guards, Lydia is gentler when she un-cuffs me and doesn’t shove me at every turn. Had I been more of a noncompliant inmate, I would understand the rougher treatment, but this is fucking ridiculous. Nothing I have done has warranted such brutality.
“If it’s any consolation, Mrs. Azzo, you convinced me of your innocence. The man is an idiot, and you’re better off without him.”
“At least, you don’t think I’m crazy.” I offer to her as she ushers me back into my cell. The door shuts with a clang, and locks me into the tiny space that may end up being my temporary home for several years. Just the thought of calling this home sucks the air right out of my lungs.
This will not be it for me. I will show them.
Lying back on the paper-thin mattress, my thoughts drift to Ratchet. The way things ended is still haunting me. He may have said that he loved me, but the tone of his words had something lingering just underneath the surface. A promise. A threat. Maybe a combination of both. The endless possibilities of his intended words are enough to drive me crazier than I already am. What is it about a jail that makes those who inhabit it less mentally stable than when they arrived? Is it something in the air?
The fact that I had betrayed the trust that we had agreed upon ate at me. Why did I think keeping him in the dark was going to spare me from my father’s wrath? It has only made things more divided. Where we would have stood together and fought against him, we now stand on either side of the battle lines. Together we are strong, but together may not be the right word to describe our situation after my lie.
I took my father’s threats, and Ratchet’s pride for granted. Two mistakes that I never intend to do again.
My head falls back and soon, sleep takes me. My dreams are filled with horrors just like they have been, since my first night here. The veil between real and imaginary is the hardest to see in the dark spaces of one’s mind, and today’s nightmare show is the worst yet. Asher screaming for my help as my father drags him away. Ratchet destroying my love for him by fucking one of the club whores in front of me. But the worst comes in the last dream. The swirling fog clears, and reveals the scene that has haunted me for years. Not even the desert dungeon could touch the disgusting visions playing in my unconscious mind. I watch, as a ghost that is still watching their living family, as my mother sells me to a man three times my age. She sells me for his pleasure, and for my virginity. I could hear my o
wn screams and pleas from the room, but as I moved closer, a sound startles me from my sleep.
I shoot up from the bed, covered in sweat, and gasping for air. My eyes are wild as I try to convince myself that it was just a nightmare, and it’s not real.
“Inmate,” one of the guards barks.
I groan, when I see someone other than Lydia standing outside my cell bars, and flop my body back onto the bed. For days, it has been an endless slew of moving in and out of my cell. Between the visits from my father, Ratchet, my attorney, and the investigating detectives, I have hardly slept. It’s almost as bad as being admitted to the hospital with the constant round checks.
“What now?” I groan.
“Doctor is here to see you,” she offers, opening up my cell yet again.
I want to ask her again to make sure that I heard her correctly, but I don’t. Why would the guards call a doctor for me? I wasn’t sick or injured. The guard leads me down a different hallway into a regular room, instead of being placed into one of the interview rooms. No windows, no mirrors. Just a table and chairs.
“Hello, Mrs. Azzo,” Dr. Matthews voice rings from inside. I nearly jump for joy at the sight of her. If anyone would believe my story, it will be her. I hope.
I immediately place myself in the seat across from her, and send the guard on her way. As soon as the door closes behind her, I sob.
“Erica, are you okay?” she gasps.
“No,” I solemnly answer.
Dr. Matthews shifts in her seat, as I cry uncontrollably in my hands against the desk. Everything I had held back comes flowing out of me, as I force myself to choke out the story of my incarceration.
“I’m innocent, Dr. Matthews. I swear that I am. I wouldn’t jeopardize my chance with Asher for this.
Dr. Matthews reaches out toward me, and takes my hands into hers.
“I have been helping people for many years, Erica. Many of those patients lied to me on a regular basis and continued to abuse their vices. You are not like them,” she assures me, squeezing my hands at every word.
“You believe me?”
“Yes, Erica. I do.”
I don’t know what to say to her, and the urge to hug her comes over me. Not a single person has taken my story at face value, and seen the bullshit that clouds the truth underneath the murk.
“What about the new man in your life? The one from your past. Where does he stand in all of this?” she questions.
Dr. Matthews has obviously taken note that I had left him out of my story. I did it intentionally because that is not a can of worms I want to open up with a potential lynch pin in my fight for my brother. The less she knows about him, the better off we both are.
“I think he believes me Doc, but he’s seen me at my worst. He knows I wasn’t using, but we didn’t exactly leave on the most solid of terms. He was here the first day, but I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“The ones who love us the most are the quickest to condemn us, when their feelings have been hurt. Be patient with him, and I believe, in time, that he’ll see things your way.”
“God, I hope so. What can I do to make others see that I’m not guilty, Doc? The evidence is sketchy at best, yet they are trying to just throw me straight into the fire.”
“Continue to stand your ground, Erica. When the world seems the darkest, the brightest light will always shine through. Do not let this place takeaway from all the progress you have made over the last few months. They cannot define you. Only you can do that.”
“Thank you, Dr. Matthews. I needed to hear that more than you know. After a few days in this place, it’s like the fight and life are being sucked right out of me.”
“I know, Erica. I wish I would have been here sooner,” Dr. Matthews announces to me. “Maybe I could have stopped this from going so far.”
“There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. Trust me. I have my suspicions about who is really at fault, and with any luck, that is going to be taken care of soon enough.”
The doctor goes silent, and I realize that what I just told her could be interpreted so many different ways. Thankfully, this room doesn’t seem to be as monitored.
“Is your sick patient better now? I know you probably can’t tell me, but you look really exhausted.”
The doctor is visibly curious about my inquiry. I, the patient, am asking the doctor questions. It may be unorthodox in the practice of psychiatry, but even therapists need a chance to talk about themselves. How they stay sane listening to the problems of the world I will never know.
“That’s not exactly why I was gone. I have a special patient that I have to see immediately, when an appointment is requested. The call came shortly after our last session, and when I met with her, I knew that this wasn’t a quick one. She needed more time with me.”
As Dr. Matthews speaks, I sense fear inside of her. This patient may be special, but there’s something more to the story. I know that there’s laws preventing her from telling me anymore, and I respect her for following them. But she seems troubled by her admission.
“Are you sure that you are okay?”
Dr. Matthews hesitates again, but quickly regains her composure. She steers her questions back to my case, and away from her other patient. In doing so, she’s piqued my interest more. For someone who is tight lipped about her personal life, why would she share this with me? As our session continues, she never brings it back up again, but I cannot shake the feeling that this conversation is going to come back and haunt me some day.
We planned for two more days, before I finally was ready to make my move. My first priority was to make sure that Asher was out of harm’s way. If things were going to go as far south as I anticipated, I didn’t want him to walk in and see what was left of the man housing him. I would call him his father, but the jury was still out on that fact. If he was Asher’s sperm donor, it would make his intentions even more nefarious. How someone could plan to take his or her own son’s life is beyond me. A child should be cherished and not a means to collect cash. Had Ricca’s mother still been alive, I would have likely broken my no women rule just for her. A mother’s job is to protect their children, not to throw them into the pits of hell for their own gain. The pair of them deserved death. Her father was just not there yet, but I might just change that fact today.
Death was the only way to ensure that he would never come back for Asher or for Ricca. It was the permanent restraining order, and the only option I may have to protect them both. He was evil, despite his former religious inclinations that Voodoo discovered. A man of the cloth he may have been, but the harbinger of death was coming for him.
Raze and I planned, while Slider watched Asher. It was a divide and conquer approach, and so far it was working out in our favor. Voodoo’s information gave me the motive, but without a confession from the assholes own lips, it meant nothing. It was only connecting the dots that even a shitty lawyer could defend, as a mother trying to ensure her son had means to live after her death.
The day was set in stone, and with any luck, so would the man who drove a wedge between my wife and I. After today, no one would ever come between us again. I will make for damn sure of that.
Raze sits in the trailer, checking the few weapons we were able to scrounge up. Thank god for buy and sell sites on Facebook that skirted the rules. A few fistfuls of cash, and we had more firepower than we did to begin with. While I didn’t plan on just outright shooting him, I didn’t want to be ill prepared. Never go into a shootout with just your dick in your hand, was something I had lived by for years.
Raze blows into the chamber of the gun, clearing away the dust as he finishes checking it over. He clicks in the magazine, and racks one in the chamber. He shoves up from the table, that dwarfs his large frame, and hands the gun to me, butt first.
“Just in case,” he offers, before slipping the other magazines he filled into his back pockets.
“Thanks.�
�
I stow the gun into the waistband of my jeans, pulling my tee shirt over it. Not wearing my cut onto the battlefield feels so weird to me, but we can’t have the club’s name associated with this if we get caught. Today we are not the Heaven’s Rejects motorcycle club. We are brothers in arms.
“Ready?” Raze questions, and I answer with an affirmative nod. The text from Slider that Asher is safe comes in just as we step out of the door, toward the car we also purchased through Facebook. No records or traces of us. We will be ghosts in the wind once this was finished.
The tiny compact car barely holds the two of us. We swing by the school, grabbing Slider from his hiding spot, and head towards our target.
Boatman’s house isn’t far from the school, but it is remote enough from the town, that it would take time for someone to notice something is amiss. Raze pulls off onto a side road that is parallel to his modest, brick home. On the outside, it looks like the American Dream home that everyone wishes they had. It’s large, but not overwhelming. The front porch is wrapped with a white railing, with flowering bushes cascading around its curves. Though it looks perfect on the outside, it’s what’s on the inside that is not.
A black town car flies past us, and we duck down appearing as the car is just abandoned. It doesn’t even slow down, so we know we haven’t been spotted. At least that seems to be the case. This guy is either stupid or doesn’t pay enough attention to his surroundings.
Boatman pulls his car into the garage, and shuts the door behind him. We give him a few minutes to settle in, before we begin to make our move. Exiting the vehicle quietly, we give the perimeter a wide berth. Each step that I take closer to the house, my mind focuses on another way I can make him pay for this intrusion into my life.
Would I make my point with my knife? The gun at my waist? Maybe my fists. Whatever method I use, it’s almost a guarantee that he won’t like the results as much as I will.
Raze waves for Slider and I to break off, and head towards the back door. Raze has too much to live for with his newly expanded family, and I made it abundantly clear that if this went to shit, he was to leave me behind. Slider knew the risks on being on my team, but he was ready to take the plunge. After this, he might get his full membership status. Prospects need to prove themselves worthy of the title, and he was doing that by being here. I would make sure of it, if we made it out of this alive.
