Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  Before I can respond, the agents and investigator are coming back in, all three of them with friendly smiles. Aunt Lorraine smiles, too. The air is hard, pressing on my ears like hands trying to crush my skull.

  “We’ll be recording this,” Investigator Randall says. “Okay?”

  “Fine,” Aunt Lorraine says. “Whatever you need.” She pats my hand.

  “Mrs. Blake,” Agent Washington says, once they are settled into chairs across from us, “it’s our understanding that you wish to act as Bex’s guardian, and that her mother has asked that you be allowed to do so. There are certain formalities we need to observe. I need to read you and Bex these rights, and make sure you and she understand, before we proceed.”

  “That’s fine,” Aunt Lorraine says again, smiling, still patting my hand. “We’re ready.”

  We. Like she’s in this, too. They read her the same stuff they’ve read me. They ask her if she understands, and she says, “Oh, yes,” like it’s easy peasy, as she would say. Then they all look at me. They’re hopeful: Aunt Lorraine gives me an encouraging nod.

  “Bex, do you understand these rights that I’ve just read you? Again?” Agent Washington almost chuckles, like this is not at all serious.

  “Bex?” Aunt Lorraine prompts.

  I’m supposed to stay silent. That’s all I know for sure. Aunt Lorraine nods at me. The go ahead look. Go ahead and help Mom. No matter what’s happening, they shouldn’t have Mom. Or Uncle Skip. But you always stay silent. Always.

  “Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer our questions without an attorney present?”

  Does staying silent mean saying no? Or just, literally, saying nothing?

  Everyone stares, and blinks, and looks at each other.

  “I don’t think she understood.” Aunt Lorraine turns in her chair. “Bex, just say yes, and we can get this cleared up. For everyone.”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Do you need me to go over it again?” Agent Washington asks. Investigator Randall clears his throat, and the agents shift in their chairs.

  Mom. Aunt Lorraine wants me to get Mom out.

  Stay silent. Stay silent.

  “Bex,” Agent Washington says, a hand on Menendez’s arm to stop whatever he was about to say. “If you choose not to talk with us, then we can’t help you.”

  She and Investigator Randall drone on, tag-teaming me, all the bad stuff that will happen, state and federal and prison and how they just want to help me. Help me and Mom.

  Stay silent. Always stay silent.

  But . . . I didn’t do anything. If I tell them I didn’t do anything, they’d have to let me leave, right?

  Stay silent.

  “You can certainly wait for an attorney to be appointed before talking to us,” Agent Washington says. “But by then, you’ll be in adult court, and our hands will be tied. We’ve explained to your aunt,” she says, looking over at Aunt Lorraine, who is agreeing with every word, “that once an attorney gets involved, your options are limited. But right now, if you want to talk, you can, and we can just figure out this whole thing. Maybe if you tell us your side, we can explain to the U.S. Attorney,” she says, looking at Investigator Randall, who pauses, then nods. “But if you don’t tell us your side, we can’t help you.”

  I didn’t do anything.

  “And I’ve got to tell you, Bex,” Agent Menendez says, pulling some papers from a file in front of him. “If you can clear any of this up, it might go a ways to getting you out of here faster.” He shuffles the papers, like he’s going to show me, but then decides not to. Then he lays a few of them down. Pictures of stuff — wires, guns, ammunition, some I recognize and some I don’t. Dad’s truck. Mark’s truck. My ammunition, in the space under the floorboards in my room, but with the floorboards pulled up. The farmhouse and the station, both surrounded by police tape. “Because once you have a lawyer, they’re not going to let us talk to you. They’re going to argue and stall, and then there’s no way we can avoid trying you as an adult. Going full out with all the possible charges. Conspiracy. Treason. Intent to murder people. Weapons of mass destruction.” What the —? “But if you can clear some of this stuff up, then maybe something can be worked out.” Weapons of mass . . . ? “I mean, you’re a kid. I look at who all was involved in this, and you just don’t seem to fit.” He picks up the picture of the guns, and then another from the file, looks at them side by side, and then places them facedown in front of him. What do they show? “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you were in on this plan. But it feels like maybe not. Maybe you weren’t really part of it. But you knew about it, or you got roped into it, or Mark asked you to do something,” he says.

  “And if that’s true,” Agent Washington says, “then it’s real important that you tell your version before anyone else points a finger your way.”

  “The others are all adults,” Agent Menendez says. “They’ve got a lot to gain from pushing as much of this off on you as they can.”

  “Otherwise,” Agent Washington says, “it could be weeks before an attorney is appointed and comes to see you. Months before the attorney has worked up an initial game plan on your case. And you’ll be sitting in here while he’s doing whatever, maybe even working other cases, and in the meantime maybe some of the other guys cut deals, deals that put you in the mix of this.”

  Months. Before anything . . . I try to swallow, but my mouth’s dry again. It’s always dry.

  “Bex,” Aunt Lorraine says, “talk to them. They can help.”

  Please.

  “Maybe we can start with something easy,” Agent Washington says. “Not even about you. Let’s talk about Mark. When did you last see him?”

  I don’t want to think about Mark. The last time I saw him, I thought he was going to choke me to death. He was so crazy. And scared. I know he was scared. I’m handling it. I should have told Dad. Made him listen. Aunt Lorraine said he ran, but they have him. For what? What did he do?

  A loud rushing sound in my ears makes everything distant. Everything except for my too-loud heartbeat banging into my eardrums and bouncing off my temples.

  What did he do?

  “I’ve got to be honest with you, Bex,” Agent Washington says, leaning on the table, her hands folded in front of her. “We just don’t think you were that involved. Maybe your brother, maybe he asked you to do something. Something you didn’t understand, even. Or . . .”

  I miss whatever she says next. I stare at the pictures of the house, of the station. They have Uncle Skip, too. His house. His station. Could he lose his station? Could they put him in prison, because of something we did? I did so much shooting on his property. I built the pipe bomb in his workshop. Could they think he was building things? The trunk. What did I leave in it?

  Or they could be lying: all of this could be lies. But why?

  “Bex!”

  I blink and sit up in my chair.

  Aunt Lorraine glares, points for me to look at the agents.

  Agent Menendez flexes his hands in front of him, to keep my attention. “Maybe you didn’t know that . . .”

  Something in my brain pops, and reason floods in.

  They don’t want to help me. They want to hurt me. Or someone else. They would never help me. That’s not their job.

  “No.”

  “No?” Agent Menendez repeats.

  Agent Washington leans closer to the table. “What do you mean by —?”

  “I don’t want to do this, to answer questions.”

  “Bex,” Aunt Lorraine says, grabbing my arm. “Enough being stubborn. Now, you do the right thing. Now. For your mother,” she stage-whispers. “Do what’s right.”

  I shake her off. Take a breath. Look at the agents.

  They all continue to look at me.

  Agents Menendez and Washington look at each other.

  “Just so we’re clear, Bex,” she says. “Once —”

  “I want a lawyer,” I sh
out.

  Those are the magic words. Menendez and Washington sit back and start to put their papers away. Investigator Randall lets out a breath and closes his notebook.

  “That’s it?” Aunt Lorraine says.

  “That’s it.” Agent Menendez grabs the papers from in front of me, takes one out from under Aunt Lorraine’s fingers. “Law says we have to stop until she’s had a chance to talk with an attorney.”

  I can see the disappointment in their faces. They’re trying to hide it, but they wanted me to talk. They thought I would talk. All the more reason to stay quiet. They thought I was a stupid kid. Unprepared. I’m not stupid.

  “Tell them!” Aunt Lorraine yells. “You tell them.” She’s unhinged. “Now! You do it now! Get your mother out!” Her nails are digging into my arms and pulling me almost out of my chair with each shake. “You ungrateful little . . .”

  They pull her away from me, drag her out the door.

  Then quiet. It’s quiet. And then the door is open again and Agent Washington is there. She reaches for me and I spring up, low, ready. She backs off, hands up.

  “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re —”

  “Agent?” Guards, in the door.

  “I’m fine. We’re fine. She was just scared. We’re okay. Please leave.”

  “Agent, I really think —”

  “Leave.”

  “Are you okay?” Agent Washington asks. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical care?”

  I assess my body, relaxing my muscles. My arm’s sore, but I can turn it okay. My elbow hurts — I banged it trying to get away from Aunt Lorraine — but everything is moving okay.

  “Sit down before they come in again.”

  “I don’t —”

  “I’m not going to ask you any questions. I’m just going to make sure you’re okay, and give Agent Menendez a chance to settle things outside.”

  She retreats to her side of the table, picking up the knocked-over chairs. I pick up mine and sit down, too shattered to stand.

  “Is there anyone else we can call?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Gran hates me, and she’s old, and in Arizona. There’s no one.

  We sit in silence. My juice is still on the table. It didn’t even spill. I reach out with shaking hands and pick it up. Tiny sips against my shaking mouth. Maybe the room is shaking and not me.

  There’s air hitting my skin, wet from the sweat around my hair, on my neck; it makes me shiver.

  “They won’t let you take these with you,” Washington says quietly, nudging a candy bar toward me. “Eat.”

  I’m not at all hungry. Or maybe beyond hungry.

  She shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. I want to go home.

  Agent Washington sorts through the pile. “Well, suit yourself,” she says, unwrapping a Snickers bar and taking a big bite, chewing slowly, and then swallowing. “If we’re chewing, we can’t be talking.”

  I can smell the chocolate, and the peanuts, and even I think that bit of salt that clings to the nuts. I can’t imagine dinner will be edible. I give in and unwrap a Twix bar, devouring each piece in two bites. Then I go for the crackers. They might actually have some nutritional value. Then the Pop-Tarts. Even cold, they’re pretty damn good.

  And then I’m in cuffs again. In another cell. In another room.

  A long night, with no idea what happens next.

  Then another car. And another room. A guy, a lawyer, who says stuff, but nothing I understand. A judge. Talking. I don’t understand any of it, except I’m not going home.

  And then another car.

  Guards.

  Stripped.

  Searched.

  They take my clothes. They take everything.

  I don’t know where my backpack is. I haven’t seen it since the truck.

  I don’t think this is the crisis, not like the whole government rounding up everyone. I think this is just us. But I don’t know how many of us, or why.

  I can’t stop the shaking.

  The cell they put me in is small. Bare. Concrete walls. Cement slab for a bed. Metal counter jutting out from the wall. Metal stool bolted to the ground. Metal toilet and sink and water fountain all in one. No bars like you see on TV. Solid walls and a solid door with a slot and a small window so they can spy on me. Blocking out all sound except for distant murmurs of life. Another small window, if you can call it that — really just mesh-glass covering the small spaces between metal slats in the wall. If I stand on the slab bed and crane my neck just right, I can see a little bit of the parking lot beyond the fences. Fences with razor wire on top.

  Someone is yelling. Distant. Approaching. Louder, right outside the door. Kicking, yelling, and then moving away again. A door opening and slamming somewhere. Still yelling.

  It’s so hot. Sweat drips off me.

  If I take a deep breath, I suck up all the air in the room and there’s none left. I gasp and choke until I realize there’s plenty of air, that the lack of air is all in my head. Still, I breathe shallowly.

  It’s a not even a room.

  It’s a cement box.

  We made dioramas in fourth grade. I can feel the unseen audience watching me, poking at the bolted-down furniture, at me, at my clothes that are not my clothes — the too-big orange jumpsuit, dingy shirt and socks and underwear, floppy scuffs.

  I have no idea when anyone will come back for me, who they will be, what they will do. They stopped as soon as I said I wanted a lawyer, but that doesn’t mean some other agents or police or something won’t try again. Or try something else to make me talk. I don’t know whether I’m more afraid that no one will ever come to get me again and I will die here, in this room, maybe from a lack of air, or that someone will come and I’ll wish they hadn’t.

  A guard looks through the window every now and then. Maybe at set intervals, I don’t know. The first guard looked for a while, curious — the first time, at least. The second one just looked. The third guard sneered. I actually held my breath as I started to anticipate his return. The second time he looked, and the third, I could feel the shakes, the fear, like a deer sensing my sight through a scope must feel. Keys jingled on his fourth look, and I scurried back on the bed, scrabbling for anything to hide behind. He laughed.

  The tears came then. I knew they must be watching me, even if I wasn’t facing the camera, and I tried to hold the tears in. But it was either cry or scream, and I figured if I started screaming, they would definitely come in here.

  I curled up and cried as silently as I could. For a long time. My muscles stiffened up, and the shame made it all worse. When I heard footsteps or noises in the hall, I curled in tighter, buried my face in the sheet, and tried to hold the shakes inside, tried to stay still.

  I’ve read so many guides on dealing with the government, on knowing your rights and how to be strong. Guys who have been arrested —“detained”— offering tips and tactics. I’ve imagined the words I would say, about being a prisoner of war or a political prisoner. About demanding certain rights. I had always thought I’d be strong, like in the woods.

  But when they drag you from your uncle’s truck, plant you facedown, cuff you, put you in the back of a car, put you in a room, ask you a million questions, about bombs, about guns, about family, all of that leaves your head. All reason leaves your head. You are hardly even in your head. All speeches and plans and stands long lost in the sheer jumbled panic of your brain. How long did they talk at me, try to trick me, before my brain unjumbled long enough for me to remember the magic words I want a lawyer? How much longer could I have taken it without giving in if I hadn’t remembered?

  Until a door closes on you.

  I wash my face and count the steps across my cell, from one end to the other, and then from side to side. Calming myself with the repetition of action. Until I’m so tired I need to lie down.

  I curl up on the bed. For just a minute, I tell myself. So I can think, with my face to the wall, so they can’t see me thinking. But I must hav
e slept, because I wake up to the sound of the door being opened. I try to hurl myself up and away, in my mind seeing myself crouching low, ready to defend myself, like with Mark or in a drill. But I just stumble to the wall, whacking my knee on the bed, like I can’t even control my muscles.

  I can’t control anything.

  A woman guard stands in the open door, a male guard behind her, hand on a baton at his waist, but his face is calm.

  “You answer when spoken to,” she says. “At mealtimes you will be given a tray through the slot. You take it. You eat it. Understand?”

  I nod. Afraid to hear my voice but afraid not to respond.

  The door closes and then there is a tray of food through the slot. I take it, because I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t. If they open that door again. If the guy with the baton comes in here. Every muscle trembles with relief and the flood of adrenaline and the pent-up terror of the situation crashing down when they walk away.

  I put the tray on the metal shelf thing jutting out of the wall. Stare at the tray. I can’t eat it. Any of it. I go back to the bed.

  I’m in prison. When they said juvenile detention, I pictured, like . . . rooms. Kids. Locks, but like a school or something. Not this. This is a prison.

  I don’t know what to do. Except to stay quiet. And try not to cry anymore.

  I stare at the tray. Wondering when they will come back. Whether to trust the food.

  What happens when I haven’t eaten any of it? No one’s going to bring me snacks from a vending machine like Agent Washington did. I’ll have to eat what they give me eventually, right?

  The guys on the message boards would tell me to refuse it, that it might be drugged or tampered with. Someone might have spit in it, or worse. They’d trust no one.

  I couldn’t eat if I wanted to. But what happens later? I’ll have to eat sometime, and drink, right? Should I flush some of it down the toilet, just so they think I’ve eaten?