“Because you saw it March twentieth when it arrived via Certified Mail.”
Al would get drunk—obliterated, eyes pointing in two different directions—and start throwing shit, bullying my mom. Put a hand on her a couple times, so, yeah, I put him in his place. And then I get the restraining order? Nah, fuck that.
I shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t remember.”
He sighed and sat back, giving me the what-are-we-gonna-do stare. “I need you to be truthful with me, Jason. I can help you.”
“I’ve told you the truth. I swear.”
“What you’ve told me does not align with the facts.” He opened his palms to indicate the papers.
“These are papers!” I swept a bunch of them onto the floor. “You want papers? I gave you fucking papers that prove I was right.”
He leaned down, out of range, and picked up his folders.
“These are not just papers. These are statements and eyewitness accounts from people with no reason to lie.”
That phrase. Everyone has a reason.
“How do you know they have no reason to lie?”
He sighed. “Why would they lie, Jason?”
“I don’t know. I’m just asking: How do you know? Are you inside their heads? Do you know everything? Do you know Meili’s dad? Do you know the people in Hong Kong who are trying to take him down? Do you know how powerful they are?”
“If you are telling me there is a conspiracy reaching from Hong Kong all the way to multiple eyewitnesses in Stewart’s, it is my opinion you are having trouble discerning fact from fantasy. And it’s therefore my recommendation, as your attorney, that we get you evaluated.”
The fuck? I shook my head slowly.
“An evaluation cannot hurt your case in any way,” he said. “And it can significantly help. There is no downside, no assumptions are made simply because an evaluation—”
“You need to find out the truth!” I slammed the table.
He realigned himself in his chair, feet on the floor. That wouldn’t matter. I could be on him so fast he’d never make it to the door.
“And how do I do that?” Someone looked through the narrow window. Jeff consciously ignored it, a gesture for my fucking benefit.
“Find. Meili.” What could be more obvious?
He flipped through his papers. Maybe this was progress.
“I know you felt a strong connection to Meili Wen. As I understand, you came to see her as a kind of lifeline, someone who could save you. Would you agree?”
“Ask her. It was more than that.” People don’t know. They don’t know how it feels to have that weight taken off you, that loneliness, that separateness.
“Uh-huh. Sometimes when we attach special significance to a person, when we see them as saviors, we begin to act in ways that are incongruent, even contradictory. They become, in a sense, too important. We can’t let them get hurt. Or let them out of our sight. Or, maybe, we can’t let them leave.”
Don’t let her out of your sight, that’s what Manny said. I think he did, anyway.
“Look, before you psychoanalyze me,” I said, “talk to her. She’ll tell you.”
I didn’t say this, but you know what? If Jeff had someone like Meili, someone amazing and ballsy, and they really connected, he wouldn’t want her to leave. He would do whatever he could to keep her. Would he smack around some city dude in an SUV who’s taking her away? I think so.
But Jeff never had anyone. Obviously.
“I can’t talk to her now, but I do have reports of what she said. First, this.” More papers. “I pulled out every eyewitness recollection of what Meili said during the incident. Repetitions are multiple witnesses reporting the same thing.”
He switched to courtroom voice, flat and overarticulated like a computer saying “Press one for the operator”:
“Jesus, what are you doing?
“Shit, Jason, what are you doing?
“Shit, Jason! What are you doing?
“Stop it!
“Stop it! What are you doing?
“Stop it! Just stop it!
“Stop it! Get out of here!
“Get out of here!
“Get out of here!”
Jeff cleared his throat, showy, like this was an important speech. My vision wobbled.
“Oh my god, look at you.
“This is not good.
“It’s no good.
“You’re out of control.
“Listen to me! You’re out of control.
“I’m not safe here.
“I need to get away from this man.
“I need to get away from him.
“I need to get away from him.”
He put the papers down. “When I read this—when anyone reads it—I hear a young woman who is frightened, but not of Anthony Holt. She is scared of you, Jason. She is trying to get away from you.”
These words, these hateful words, he gathered them all together and put them in my face?
No.
Sorry, Jeff.
You can’t do that, Jeff.
“I also spoke with Sophie Jenkins, Meili’s so-called aunt. She had a phone conversation with Meili after the incident.” He pulled a page out of his stack.
What? Why didn’t you start with this? My vision shook harder.
He leaned back with the precious paper. “Ms. Jenkins paraphrased the call, and she was quite clear on certain points. Quote: ‘Melissa was very upset, she was worried that she might go to jail.’ Et cetera, et cetera. Quote: ‘She said she hadn’t done anything wrong, it was all that Jason boy’s fault. I asked her…’ Here it is: ‘I asked her why he would do something like that.’” Jeff looked up. “Meaning you. Quote, ‘Melissa said he completely lost it. He was totally off it.’”
Even through my growing head rush, I could hear Meili say those words. They sounded ridiculous in Jeff’s boring American voice. Ridiculous and weak.
“Quote, ‘He was out of control. I’ve never seen him like that. I’ve never seen anyone like that. He was vicious. Terrifying and vicious.’ End quote.”
I couldn’t let this pass. I couldn’t let Jeff or Meili or Mrs. Fucking Jenkins get away with this.
We’re done here. You’re fucking done, Jeff.
“Give me that paper,” I said. My voice must have sounded different, because Jeff froze.
You want to say I’m a brute, I’m that violent boy? Fine. Take a fucking number.
But don’t come between me and Meili. Don’t say shit about us. Don’t you dare step between us unless you want to get hurt.
“Excuse me?” He couldn’t hear me, couldn’t accept he was no longer in charge.
My mind was made up. There’s a moment when you just know what comes next. We had passed that moment.
“Give me. That fucking paper.”
In the end, Jeff gave himself up. He chose this moment to lean in and do a stern, I’m-in-charge move. Incredible.
“You need to listen!” He pointed his hairy finger in my face.
Come here, Jeff. You’re making it easy.
He poked the air in front of my eyes, barking, “If Sophie Jenkins testifies in court, you are going down, and there’s nothing I or you or…”
Blah blah blah. So weak. Who listens to someone like this?
I watched his finger.
Poke, poke, poke. In and out of the rectangle of light. I had to time it right.
“… and if you continue making…”
I shot my hand up and grabbed his wrist. I flipped it over, pinned it to the table, twisting him sideways. He screamed, fell off his chair.
And I saw the pen.
Jeff’s Bic on the table. They didn’t allow pens in the Rubber Room because they could be weapons, right? It’s weird, but I never would have thought of the pen if the Rubber Room didn’t have that rule.
A squeal from Jeff, the kind of sound that guys who never get hit make. I thought lawyers loved a good fight. Dude was useless.
I gripped the pen, thumb o
n the pointy blue cap.
Footsteps. Yelling in the hall.
Jeff fought to stand up, his free hand flailing, papers scattering.
They’re right about pens. The blue tip of a ballpoint is sharp enough to pierce a shirt and blunt enough to do real damage when it hits.
An alarm went off.
Maybe five or six clean hole punches before Jeff’s shoulder muscle holds on to the ink part.
Someone was on the door.
But no one talks about that. Judges, lawyers, all they talk about is what I did.
Jeff screaming.
No one talks about what I didn’t do. They don’t give trophies for Not Stabbing Your Lawyer with a Pen, but they should.
I didn’t stab Jeff. I didn’t. Even though it took a while for the guards to get in there. They might could practice a bit.
I was still looking at Jeff, pen in hand, still not hurting him, when the door flew open.
Three guards tackled me.
I watched from the bottom of the pile as they picked Jeff up and hustled him out.
Eventually, they tased me, more pain than I’ve ever felt. A lot more, like exploding in slow motion.
They added “attempted assault with improvised weapon” to my charges. And took away all my pens.
Attempted. Like I tried and failed.
I fucking chose not to hurt Jeff. He was a shitty lawyer. He had little balls of spit in the corners of his mouth. And he mispronounced Meili’s secret name.
But thank you, Jeff. You changed everything.
You’re why I can put down the Bic.
That’s my phrase.
Put down the Bic, Jason.
TWENTY
I can’t believe you said that.
[Said what?]
You said I lost it.
[You did lose it, Bug. You’ve got to admit. That poor man.]
I was protecting you. Protecting us.
[In your mind, you were.]
That’s weird.
[What?]
Same phrase my lawyer used.
[’S true, isn’t it? You just fit everything into your little story.]
It’s your little story. I’m not the one who started this.
[I forgot, it’s never your fault, is it? Like those boys you keep attacking and then claiming they started it.]
You wouldn’t understand. That’s not your world.
[Actually, I do. I understand when someone’s lying.]
I didn’t lie.
[Really? What about your mum and what’s-his-name, Al?]
I left that out. That’s not lying.
[Leaving out that they were so scared of you they moved a thousand miles away is a fucking lie. Sorry.]
I couldn’t talk about it. I’d end up back in jail.
[Well, now I see why.]
Why what?
[Why your parents were terrified. You really are scary.]
Sometimes you have to be scary.
[Is that what you tell yourself? Is that how you explain bashing that poor man’s head in?]
That guy was your problem, Meili. I was solving your problem.
[Solving my problem? Are you serious? You made it a fucking problem. And, to be perfe’tly honest, you might want to focus a bit on your own problems. Cause they’re major.]
Yeah, I have plenty of problems now. Thanks to you.
[Oh, please. I didn’t do this to you. You were like this.]
Like what?
[Angry. Violent.]
You’re not the sweetest person, either.
[So sorry. Should I smile more?]
You don’t even see it.
[Oh, I’m a bit twisted, I admit it. I’m up-front. You’re much more dangerous. No checks and balances, trying to play the hero.]
Don’t say that. After all I’ve done.
[All you’ve done is put a man in hospital and put me in danger.]
Don’t say that.
[I’ll say what I think, thank you very much. And right now, I think you should take a step back. You’re a bit scary up close.]
* * *
Alright, deep breath.
Put down the Bic.
Be honest.
* * *
I never thought you’d do that.
[Do what?]
Leave.
[Leave Stewart’s?]
Unionville. Everything. Me.
[Were we supposed to live happily ever after? Because, just to be clear, I don’t recall saying that. I don’t recall promising to spend my whole life in Unionville packing your lunches and raising horrid little babies. And I don’t recall saying: ‘Please come and savage this poor man I’m talking to.’ When did I say that, exactly?]
You just left.
[silence]
[What was I supposed to do, Jason?]
[silence]
Stay.
[silence]
You were supposed to stay.
[silence]
[silence]
* * *
Sob.
Jesus.
I should swerve, make a joke about how dramatic I am. Can’t think of one.
Sob.
Say something, Meili.
Sob.
Unbelievable, right?
Imagine you give up everything to protect someone. Imagine you are completely fucked, and she is free and clear. Imagine waiting a whole day for her to visit or call or write, an endless, excruciating day. Imagine the outrage, the are-you-fucking-kidding-me wound it opens up.
Multiply that by 107 days I’ve been in juvenile.
And I still can’t get an answer.
So I practice.
I’m getting better. At first, she barely said a word before I went off or started sobbing. Now, we have a good argument. A discussion.
I’m getting her voice well, really sounds like her. She makes good points, too. No checks and balances. Ouch. That’s nice, Meili.
My celly Glen said I had to stop “talking to myself” in our cell, so I walk the hall or sit in the square of sunlight by the commissary. I wear Meili’s leather necklace on my wrist—they confiscated the shark tooth—and carry her Big Don signature in my pocket. And I talk to her. (And I do push-ups and sit-ups. Seriously. Thanks, Jay.)
She makes me laugh. There was a hilarious bit about her aunt cursing like a sailor. Guys stared, I was laughing so hard.
And I get multiple sobs now. Every time it gets deep, or Meili makes a joke about us having sex, a gut sob rises up not once but a few times. That means something.
Know what my mom used to say? “It’s never too late.” She always told me that. Her favorite example was this guy Bear who lived down the street, big biker dude with the beard and the boots, sketchy people coming by at all hours. He had a girlfriend who did witchcraft, actual witchcraft, and a scary son named George. And Bear was dealing drugs, hard stuff, nobody messed with him. We used to dare each other to go to his house on Halloween. One day, Bear gets busted. Federal dudes, the jackets with the big letters on the back, they raid the house, and he gets eighteen years. It’s a lot, cause he’s gotta be fifty, right? He might die in jail. Then, a couple years later, little George murders a guy. Shoots him in the face with a shotgun.
Here’s what Bear does: he testifies against his son, tells the jury all the psychopath shit George did growing up. He’s like an anti-character witness, puts his son away for life, and, in exchange, Bear gets out. Comes back, kicks out the clean-cut family living in his house and settles down with this woman Carla. And you know what? He’s happy as hell, sweetest guy you ever met. They go to the Gulf every winter, bring back shells for the neighborhood kids.
My mom would see Bear planting a bush in his yard—he’s gardening, for god’s sake—and she’d say, “It’s never too late, Jason. It’s never too late for any of us.”
[Can I say: that’s horrible.]
What?
[I don’t … I can’t even begin. I hate everyone in that story.]
Snob.
&n
bsp; [Especially your mum. She’d actually tell you that story, like, at bedtime or something?]
She’d invite Bear over to tell it while he tucked me in.
[Piss off. Is it true? Is it even true?]
No, it’s true.
[Then what’s so funny?]
I’m picturing Bear rocking me to sleep, big old beard smelling like Kentucky Fried Chicken gravy and biker pussy, and I’m nestled in, sucking my thumb.
[silence]
[See, that’s it right there.]
What?
[Gravy and pussy. ’S fucking brilliant. You get me with the details, Bug. I’m all hot and bothered.]
[silence]
[Seriously, that nasty beard, it’s, like, erotic to me. Whot? You OK?]
* * *
Sob.
Another sob.
Another.
The commissary line is getting long, guys are right up against me, annoyed by my talking and now my crying. Time to walk. I’ll get stamps and tea later. Thanks to Jay for that, too. Dude’s actually putting money on my commissary. Never too late for any of us.
Back to my cell, see if Glen’s there. He’s decent enough, couple DUIs and a vehicular manslaughter, all by the age of seventeen. That’s what he says, anyway. Who knows? Nobody tells the truth in jail. Maybe anywhere.
I hear him down the row, practicing his “drumming.” He wears headphones and plays along with punky music, stuff I’ve never heard before.
I keep walking. If I’m moving, guys leave me alone.
I’ve stayed clean. And I didn’t have to do my statement piece, Jay. I’m peaceful, so far. Peaceful guy doing time for arson and assault.
I see dudes starting shit, sometimes with me, and I think: man, put down the Bic. Young guys in here stalk around, waiting for an excuse to go off. What’re you saying? You got a fucking problem? Uh, no. I don’t. You have a fucking problem.
Doesn’t feel like putting out a fire, either, feels like not lighting the match. Yeah, not the best analogy from someone with an arson arrest. Or maybe it is.
Hilarious, right? So many people must have watched me get into shit and thought: The fuck is wrong with Jason? I sure don’t know the answer to that. Yet.
And I can’t celebrate too much, cause it’s jail, and I don’t care about these people and their beefs. If it was outside? With people I care about? I honestly don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.
But I can say this. If my younger self walked in here—and I mean myself like four months ago—I’d think: that kid’s obnoxious, he’s trying to get hit.
Wilder Page 21
