I should talk like that.
Hey, Jason, why are you in jail?
The law-abiding thing’s gotten a bit weird. Freedom’s gonna take the year off.
“Tattoos, though,” Jay said. “Stay away. Straight up. No matter how bored you get. You want a tattoo, go to somebody on the outside, a pro with a real kit. Man, if I…” He grinned, hoisted his leg up on the table. “You wanna see how dumb your fa—how dumb this guy is?” He pulled up his jeans to show a pale, pimpled calf. Torquing it around, he pointed to a blob. “Guess what that is?”
I shrugged.
“Seriously, guess. What’s it supposed to be?”
“Whale?”
“I get that a lot. Whale, fried chicken leg. One girl said it was the bubble in comics where the characters talk. Said I should write something in it. Anyway, this dude had no business inking anybody. I assumed it would fade out, but the thing’s clear as ever.” He slid his leg off the table. Then, quietly: “So stupid.”
Makeup Woman started wailing. “Heaaaaaaaaaahhhh…” Long, wet, high-pitched. Skinny Guy looked at the floor. Neither one spoke or moved. She wailed till she ran out of breath, gulped some air, and started again. “Heaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh…”
Jay pursed his mouth, sniffing his top lip. I remembered that from when I was little. Huge man tensing up, smelling himself.
“So what’s the answer?” I said.
“What’s that?”
“What was it supposed to be?”
“Fighter jet, a guy in the cockpit unloading on some target. I made a drawing. Dude just couldn’t copy it.”
I felt for him. A little. He went to jail when he was nineteen, but he was really just a kid, scribbling cartoons of fighter jets, asking some clown to ink it on his leg.
I imagined describing that to Meili.
They’re all lost, Jason.
Some more than others, Meili.
“Heaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh…” the woman wailed again.
“Jeezus,” Jay said, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. “You see what I’m saying?”
Uh, no. Jail is hard? Prison tattoos are stupid? I should do a “statement piece” on this bawling woman?
“I put some cash on your commissary,” he said. “I know how important that is. Five or ten bucks at the commissary can save the whole day, right?” I shrugged. “I’m gonna do that every month. I don’t want you having to trade for stuff or fall behind with any—”
“Heaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh…”
“Are you kidding me?” Jay looked around for someone to make the woman be quiet or at least agree that it was ridiculous. “Come all the way here for visitation, and this is what you do? Come on.”
She looked over at Jay, tears striping her face, sob aftershocks puffing out her cheeks. But she got quieter.
Jay threw a couple indignant shrugs for a nonexistent audience. “I mean, come on.”
“I won’t be in here next month,” I said. “It’s a big misunderstanding.”
He nodded the slow nod that means: nah. “A lot of guys think that. Hell, I thought that. Realistically, though? You might need to put in your time.”
It’s a bad sign when a lifelong bullshitter like Jay tells you: “Don’t bullshit yourself.” Or maybe not. Maybe he was the one person who could spot it.
“Anyway, you get out eventually,” he said. “What then? You been living here without your mom, huh?”
“Not supposed to talk about that,” I said.
Jay leaned in. “That’s a lot, man. How do you do it?”
“How do I do what?”
“Doing this all alone. It’s a lot for one guy to carry. Your—”
“Heaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh…”
“Seriously?!” Jay stood up like the woman was specifically wailing at him. “What the hell?” She started another wail, this one seemingly inspired by Jay, and he shouted over her, “Enough!”
Skinny Guy looked up for the first time, but not at Jay, at me. Dammit.
The door buzzed, a guard came in, a burly woman with a grandma face. Your third-grade teacher in body armor.
“We should go, Jay,” I said.
“Is there a problem?” the guard asked Jay.
“Yes, ma’am, there is. Trying to have a dignified conversation with my son here, and these people are making that impossible.”
“Sir, this is not a private space. You share it with other visitors.”
“Exactly. That’s why we are talking in normal voices and keeping our problems between us. But these two—”
“Jay, you should just go. It’s late,” I said.
“This is not a private space, sir. If you’re not comfortable, I can escort you out.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable. It’s these people who are making me uncomfortable.” Nice Jay logic.
“Sir, you need to keep your voice down.”
“Keep my voice down? What about her? She’s been screaming since we got here.” Not true.
“Sir, keep your voice down, or I will escort you out.”
“Fine, I’m leaving. I’m out of here. I’m not gonna sit here with people screaming and crying. ‘Oh, poor me! I have to come visit someone in jail! Boo-hoo!’”
Mocking a woman who’s crying in jail. Damn. That is dark.
The guard put herself between Jay and the crying woman and, without touching him, herded him toward the door.
“We don’t need this. We don’t need this shit, Jason.” He yelled over his shoulder. “Push-ups! Push-ups and sit-ups!”
Push-ups and sit-ups. Wow, Jay Wilder. Nice to see you, too.
The door closed. And there we were: me, Skinny Guy, and Makeup Woman.
Oh, god.
I stood, waited to be buzzed out. For a long time.
It was silent. Jay’s ejection had the surprising effect of quieting Makeup Woman.
I had to say something.
“Sorry about all that. It’s…” It’s what, Jason? What exactly is it? “He’s been under a lot of stress.”
What? Did I fucking say that? Apologize for a guy I haven’t seen in how many years? The absurdity bubbled up, and I started giggling.
Uncontrollably.
Just me in the shiny visitation room, laughing my ass off while a skinny sociopath and his devastated mom try—and fail—not to stare.
The door finally buzzed. I slipped through, back to my cell, my breathing calm, my hands no longer trembling.
Ah, jail. What a relief.
NINETEEN
What do you call sideburns on a girl?
Sideburns?
One more memory of Meili, not sure when or where. She’s looking down, reading, maybe writing. The tiny hairs by her left temple swoop down and up, converging as they tuck behind her ear.
The hairs spread mathematically, proportionally, like a scientific graph; like contours on a map, they split and merge. I stare, searching for the flaw, the stray hair.
Finally, Meili—absorbed, annoyed, resigned to being stared at by me and a thousand others—says, “What?”
She tucks the hair back, and the map is gone.
* * *
“We need to talk, Jason. And, for the purposes of this conversation, I’m going to ask you to be objective.”
Jeff was back Thursday, a day early, which was promising. He had papers in front of him, but not the notebooks. He was direct, stern, his frumpy clothes tucked in tighter.
“I want to consider the evidence,” he said. “And I want you to tell me what you make of it objectively.”
“OK.”
“What brought you to Stewart’s last Thursday, June first?”
“What brought me? Melissa. She called me.”
A thin rectangle of sunlight cut across Jeff’s papers, a little blinding. I had one of those from the tiny window in my cell, used it to track the day. Sunlight in the metal sink meant dinnertime.
“We’ll refer to her as ‘Meili Wen’ from now on,” he said.
Wow. He knew her secret name, though
he mispronounced it: “Mealy.”
“Where were you when you talked to her?” he said, glancing at his pad. I could only make out a few words of his loopy handwriting: parking lot, sergeant, transcript.
“At school, in the office.”
“What did she say?”
I sat up straight, mirrored Jeff’s posture. “She said this man came to find her, and she was scared and it was all wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“He came to meet with her, but she wasn’t expecting him that day.”
“They were having a meeting,” he said.
“Sort of. But really, he came to her home, and he was threatening her.”
“Her home.” His replies came quickly. This wasn’t a conversation, more like an interrogation.
“My home. Where she was staying.”
“He threatened her? What did he say?”
“She didn’t tell me. He was acting threatening.”
“Did she say those words: ‘This man is acting threatening’?”
“I don’t know if she used those words, but that’s what she was saying.” Ugh. You sound like you’re bullshitting, Jason. “She wouldn’t let him in the house, that’s how freaked-out she was. She would only talk to him at Stewart’s, in a public place.”
Somebody was singing in the cells. Badly.
“Why did she call you?”
“She needed me. She was going to Stewart’s, and she needed me.”
“Needed you to do what exactly?”
This was like we were in court, a practice run.
“Protect her?” I said.
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“No, that’s what she needed.”
“Did she say those words?”
The phone call was frantic. All I knew was what I felt afterward. Rage, panic.
“That’s what she meant,” I said.
He underlined something, moved down his list. “What did you do then?”
“I ran out of the school to my bike.”
“Uh-huh. And you rode to Stewart’s?”
It felt good to practice, imagining people listening intently, the prosecutor worried about his case, wondering if he should object. I was the serious, decent guy, answering every question.
“Yes. I mean, no, first I stopped at home.”
“Home?”
Was this news to him? Didn’t he read my stuff?
“Meili called me from my house. I was hoping she would still be there.”
“Why were you hoping that?”
“Because I could help her, I could protect her. Convince her not to meet the guy.”
“Why didn’t you want her to go to this meeting?”
Meeting. It sounds so official and appropriate. What about ambush, setup, trap?
“It was a terrible idea.”
“You addressed this in your … account.” Nice word for my stack of scribbles. “Meili wanted to return home to her family. Are you saying that’s a terrible idea?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t know this guy. She was going too fast.”
“Too fast for … you?”
“Too fast to be safe.”
“Who did you think this man was?” He came in close, got still. This was apparently a crucial question in his cross-examination.
“The whole problem was: we didn’t know. And in Meili’s situation, you don’t meet with someone you don’t know. But are you asking me to guess? Who do I think he was?” Jeff nodded. “I think he was after these buildings Meili owns. Her dad put buildings in her name, and this guy wanted them.”
Jeff leaned back, took his foot off the gas. “You’re not far off. Meili Wen does own considerable real-estate holdings, and many of those properties are in dispute. Mr. Holt indicated there is ongoing litigation concerning alleged fraud and the rightful ownership of seven properties. They’ve been trying to find Meili and work this out for over a year, according to him. So you can imagine the sense of urgency from his point of view.”
“See? I was right.”
“In part. But you’re assuming the meeting was somehow—”
“No, I was right. These corrupt assholes are after her. I told her if she came out of hiding, they’d be on her.”
“Jason, look at me. Nothing about this meeting was illegal or inappropriate. Mr. Holt was communicating legitimate business concerns to Meili Wen. I’m sharing this information about their business relationship, but, frankly, the court is not at all concerned with that. The court is concerned with the moment a criminal act began, the moment when you attacked Mr. Holt. That is what we are here to discuss. Is that clear?”
I hate when they do that. I hate when you explain the big picture, and they say: “That’s not what we’re talking about.” All the power of teachers and cops and lawyers and counselors comes from that one move: “We’re only here to discuss X.” Nothing I want to talk about ever fits into X.
“I was right,” I said.
For the third time.
Put it on my tombstone.
“Being right is easy, Jason.”
Good sentence, Jeff. A messed-up sentence, but a good one.
“Everybody’s right up here,” he said, pointing to his temple. “You have to be right out here.” He swept his hands to indicate the room, the world. He waited for me to protest, then sat up straight. “Let’s keep going. You arrived at your house. Meili was not there.”
Back in court. Answer the questions, Jason.
“She was gone. Her stuff was gone.”
“Because she was leaving?”
“She was thinking about leaving,” I said. “But not like that, not all the sudden.”
“From there you rode to Stewart’s?” I nodded. He slowed down, overenunciated. “And following a brief conversation with Meili Wen and Anthony Holt, you attacked him. From behind. Unprovoked.”
Not a question, a statement.
“No.”
“No what?”
“It wasn’t unprovoked.”
“Did he hit you or threaten to hit you?”
“No, it’s not that. He…” He started it wasn’t quite right. How do you say this to a judge? “They made their intentions clear.”
“How, Jason?”
“They blocked Meili’s car in. His driver was in this SUV, and it was right up against her bumper so she couldn’t leave.”
“You said this in your account.” He paged through the file till he found something. “Neither Mr. Holt nor his driver mentioned this, but assuming—”
“Of course they didn’t.”
“Assuming the driver did park there, did you ask him to move?”
“Yeah, I told him to.”
“And did he move?”
“Eventually.”
He spread his hands, little shrug. “That’s grounds for assault? And remember, we’re talking about assaulting Mr. Holt, who wasn’t even in the parking lot.”
Holt. Fucking Holt.
“Holt grabbed her.”
“Grabbed who?”
“He grabbed Meili’s arm when she tried to stand up.”
“Did he injure her?” I shook my head. “Did he threaten to injure her?” No. “Did he restrain her for more than a few seconds?” No. “Did Meili say, ‘Let me go’?” Nope. “So a car in the parking lot moves when asked, and a man touches Meili’s arm. That provoked your attack?”
“When you put it like that, it doesn’t—”
“How should I put it, Jason? Tell me.” He was relentless, like a real prosecutor.
“These guys were dangerous.”
“You made them dangerous, Jason. In your mind.” He pointed at my mind. “Look, I don’t care what you say outside this room, what you tell other people. I need to know what happened.”
Outside this actual room? Or outside the court? Jeff was confusing. Maybe that was on purpose. “OK, wait, are we still pretending we’re in court?” I said
.
A sigh. “We are not in court. This is a private conversation between you and your attorney, Jason, a completely protected conversation. I need the truth.”
“I’ve told you the truth.”
He grimaced, slow-blinked. “Jason, I read your notebooks, I looked into your story, and some of it simply does not add up. I believe Meili Wen was staying at your house. And as I’m sure you’re aware, her guardians, the Jenkinses, didn’t know that. I believe she called you at school on the day in question. I believe she was upset. I’m willing to believe Mr. Holt was pushy with her, even confrontational, based on the circumstances surrounding the meeting. But from the moment you arrive at Stewart’s, it does not add up. The violence, the anger do not add up.”
He waited for me to respond. I didn’t. Anyone who thinks anger can be added up, balanced out like an equation, has never been angry.
“When it comes to the fighting, Jason, nothing makes sense.”
I chuckled.
“What?” he said.
“That’s actually pretty true.”
“Your entire story checks out, except the fighting.” He opened my notebook, then thought better of it. “You say Ronald Bellman started fights, but school records indicate you threw the first punch. Repeatedly.”
“Landing the first punch isn’t the same as starting it.”
“In the eyes of the court, it is.” He liked that one, let it sit. “Here’s another question: Why did your mother go to Florida?”
“Ask her,” I said.
“I did. But why do you think she went?”
“I don’t know, to get clean, I guess. Her and her boyfriend, Al. And Al had some business idea, an old buddy of his who lives down there.”
He leaned in and spoke slowly. He had a whole repertoire for dealing with difficult clients, and he was using all of it. “On March fifth, Al Pettit, your mother’s boyfriend, filed a restraining order. You remember that, right?”
Fuckin Al. I shook my head.
“You’ll remember it because it is against you.” Two sheets of paper. “He alleges repeated acts of violence against his person and property, and verbal threats against him and your mother. The only reason it didn’t land you back in jail is that he filed it in Florida.” He turned it around to show me.
“I don’t need to see that.” Fuckin liar, that Al. From day one. I would never threaten my mom.
Wilder Page 20
