The Free

by Lauren McLaughlin

  “Jesus, kid, I thought you were smarter than this.” His voice is low.

  I match it. “It was never about protecting Healy, was it? It was about protecting you from Healy. That’s why you asked me to take the rap. You knew Healy would never go down quiet.”

  He sneers. “Really? You put that together yourself, did you? Must be some kind of genius.” He drops his voice to a sharp whisper. “Of course I had to protect myself. Who’s gonna run the operation if I’m behind bars?”

  “Your own f lesh and blood?”

  “You’re the one that lost your nerve and ratted him out,” Flannery says. “For chrissakes, Isaac, I put my trust in you. And what do you do? You roll over like a little pussy the second things get tough. What the hell did you think was gonna happen?”

  He’s right. I should have known. I can see that now. I can see a lot of things now. My eyes are wide open for the f irst time in my life.

  Strange, I once believed in Mr. Flannery. It seems like a lifetime ago, back when he f irst took me onto his crew, bigged me up on account of how I passed that drug test, told me how mature and focused I was, how I was wise beyond my years. He seemed so smart to me then, like he had it all worked out. I never f igured him for a murderer. A thief, sure. An ex-con. But not this. It was a clean operation. No violence. No guns. No druggies, no thugs, no bangers. That’s what I thought. Because that’s what he wanted me to think. I’ve got to hand it to him. He played me like a stolen car radio.

  “So I guess I can’t trust you after all,” he says to me.

  I know exactly what he means, so he can lose the cold stare. I know where I stand with him. And, yeah, I’m scared. Sure I am. But that’s not all I am. Something inside of me has died, something vulnerable, the part of me that believed I was special to him, the part of me that turned this degenerate car thief, this murderer, this killer of his own damn family, into a father f igure. Yeah, that’s dead now. I was never special to him. I was useful. Now I’m a threat. And I know how he deals with threats.

  “Sure you can trust me, Mr. Flannery,” I tell him.

  His eyes narrow. He’s looking for my angle. He knows I’m not stupid enough to think I can bluff my way to safety, pretend I’m cool with the new plan of serving my sentence and returning to Donverse. He’s right too. I’ve got something else in mind, something I stayed up all night cooking up. It’s the reason my nerves are so jangled, the reason I can’t stop bouncing my knee under the table.

  “You sure about that?” he asks.

  “I’m sure.” I take a breath and do my best to calculate the wisdom of what I’m about to say next. But there’s no reason. The whole world has just shifted on me too. “You can def initely trust me, Mr. Flannery. For ten thousand dollars.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I look around at the nearby tables. “You really want me to speak up?”

  Flannery leans forward. “What the hell do you need ten thousand dollars for?”

  “It’s probably best if we keep that on a need-to-know basis. But I can guarantee that I will not tell anyone about your involvement in stealing that car or murdering Pat Healy as long as you get me that money.”

  An icy smile spreads across Flannery’s face. He leans back and slides his hands along the edge of the table, like he’s making sure it’s still solid. “You’re blackmailing me? Is that what this is?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what they call it. Yeah.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He arches his eyebrows. “You sure this is a road you want to go down? Because I don’t think you do, kid.”

  “No, I’ve thought about it. And, yes, I do.”

  “How am I supposed to come up with ten thousand dollars?”

  “How much did you get for that Escalade?”

  Flannery laughs out loud. “Damn. The kid’s grown a pair. What are they feeding you in here? Bulls’ nuts?”

  “No. Just the usual. Chicken, pork. Those little mini pizzas sometimes.”

  “Listen up, kid. We had a good thing going here. But you pull this shit on me, it does not end well for you.”

  I know I have to stay hard here, keep my game face on. I’ve just declared war on a guy who’s not afraid to kill his own relatives, a guy who’s connected enough to f ind out when someone’s snitched.

  “You have until Wednesday to get the money together,” I tell him. “Come back then, and I’ll tell you where to send it.”

  I stand up and walk away before any chickenshit thoughts get the best of me. When I glance over my shoulder, Flannery is still sitting there, running his hands along the edge of the table. He doesn’t look amused anymore, the way he always does when something unexpected happens—like he’s seen it all before, like nothing could ever surprise him. Because now, and possibly for the f irst time ever, a kid has surprised him for real.

  Chapter 42

  The next three days are hell. I know that if Flannery can come up with ten thousand dollars to buy my silence, he can come up with ten thousand dollars to have me killed. Even in juvie. Hell, there are guys at Haverland who’ll do it just to up their cred before graduating to Walpers.

  One day at lunch, Wayne starts making his way over to the geek table and I know—just know it in my gut—he’s got a knife in his pants. Deon picks up on how nervous I am and starts asking me who the hell Wayne is. I’ve got my hands on the bench so I can get out quick in case Wayne comes at me.

  “What’s up, Isaac?” Wayne says. He’s looking around, all nervous. “I don’t know what you said to Barbie, man, but she’s wicked pissed off about it. Keeps saying how you a traitor and shit ’coz of how you won’t come back to group. But you know some of the guys, we been thinking maybe we need to cut you some slack. Things got really out of hand in there. It happens sometimes.”

  Okay, so he’s not on the verge of knif ing me, which is the good news. The bad news is that he’s just as determined to get me back into group as Barbie is. These people are like junkies. Once they get a taste of your pain, they can’t get enough.

  I stand up and pull Wayne off to the side.

  “Look, man,” I say. “I’m real sorry about what happened. I never meant to hurt you or nothing.”

  “Naw, we’re cool. It’s just everybody’s worried. Like we’re responsible.”

  “No way, man,” I tell him. “For real. That was all me. And I appreciate what you’re saying. I do. I just . . . I got a lot on my plate. You know how it is, right?”

  Wayne grunts. He might know how it is, but that doesn’t mean he agrees with my way of dealing with it. He’s a goner for group, buys the whole package. At least he’s decent about it though. He gives me a quick f ist bump, then lets me get back to the geeks.

  When I sit back down, Deon waves his hand in front of his face.

  “Man, you stink.”

  He’s right. I’m sweating like crazy. I can feel it running down my sides.

  “What you scared of? You owe that dude money or something?”

  Wayne’s already on the other side of the room, sitting at his usual table.

  “Naw,” I tell him. “I don’t owe him nothing.”

  Chapter 43

  On Wednesday, Flannery’s a no-show in the visitors’ room. Instead this other dude comes to see me. I don’t recognize him—some middle-aged, fat white guy with a bushy gray mustache that looks like a rat’s living on his face. He has a big brown envelope in his hand, and I’m thinking, What an idiot. Don’t bring the money here. I have it all worked out with Cardo. The money’s supposed to go to one of his associates in Saugus. Some guy at a pizza shop. I was planning to give Mr. Flannery the address when he showed up today.

  “You Isaac?” the guy says.

  “Did Flannery send you?”

  He nods, keeps standing.

  “Aren’t you gonna sit?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so.” He tosses the en
velope across the table. It’s light. Lighter than it should be.

  “Aren’t you gonna open it?” he asks.

  “Here?”

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  I pull it under the table and peel back the two metal clasps. But when I reach in, there’s no money inside. Instead, I pull out a stack of photographs, around twenty of them.

  “What’s this?”

  My heart stops.

  There’s Janelle outside the middle school. Janelle walking home. Janelle at volleyball practice. Janelle walking down the street with some girl who must be Daniela. Janelle looking out her bedroom window. Janelle putting the trash in the dumpster out back.

  They have every minute of every day covered. They have her on the playground at school. They even have her inside the lobby of our apartment building.

  “I’m gonna need those back,” the guy says.

  I don’t move, so the guy takes them out of my hands, stuffs them back into the envelope and reseals it.

  “And I got a message from a mutual friend of ours,” he says. “He wanted me to tell you, with Patrick there was no pain. With her, there will be.”

  Chapter 44

  That night I stare good and hard at my bedsheets. There’s a bottom one, f itted, and a top one, f lat. But where would you hang them? The top bunk isn’t high enough to dangle from. There’s nothing sticking out of the ceiling. Would I have the balls to do it? I want to. It’s the only way I can think of to guarantee Janelle’s safety. I’m the threat to Mr. Flannery. Not her. Flannery’s only using her to keep me quiet. And there’s nothing quieter than dead.

  I put my head under the pillow and hug it to my face, feel my breath disappear. It gets hot, tight. My head throbs. Everything goes black. Then the blackness prickles with colored lights. Starbursts and confetti. Something expands in my chest. Not air though. There’s nothing going in. I hold on to this feeling for as long as I can, tasting death, teasing it. Can I do it? Can I hold on long enough?

  There are angels in this world. Angels like Janelle. Miracles of goodness in this shitshow of evil. Only they’re not here to protect us. We’re supposed to protect them, keep them pure, keep them gold, keep that goodness alive. I squeeze the pillow tighter, feel the world closing in. I can do this, I think. I can protect her like I’m supposed to.

  But my arms give out and I go on living.

  Lying in those bedsheets, staring at those springs, drenching my pillow with useless tears. I can’t even die right.

  Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll die in my sleep.

  Chapter 45

  The next day in the computer room I get an email from Janelle.

  Hey Isaac. I hope you’re holding up okay. Things are f ine here I guess. Mom’s still sober, but I don’t know how much longer she has. Yesterday she dragged me to the supermarket because I swear to God she forgot how to buy food. All she did was get like a million two-liter bottles of ginger ale. Then she picked a f ight with the checkout girl because she didn’t have enough money to pay for it and she couldn’t do the math to f igure out how much to put back. Then she got all weird and started to apologize to the checkout girl. She even tried to hug her, and the girl was all, um, no thanks, you can go now. I swear, Isaac, it’s like having a child around here. Seriously, it’s easier babysitting Daniela’s little brother. Sometimes I think Mom’s better when she’s drunk. At least then I don’t feel sorry for her.

  “Yo, Isaac.” Deon slides his chair over to mine. “I need that shit from you, man.”

  “Yeah, I’m on it,” I tell him.

  I shoot Janelle a quick email telling her to hang on. Try to appreciate this phase while she can. I know our mom will be back to her drunk-ass self in no time, and Janelle won’t be thinking it’s better. Right after I hit Send, my inbox pings with a new email from someone named jas1959@gmail.com. I f igure it’s spam, but I open it anyway, because I can’t break the habit.

  Turns out it’s not spam at all. It’s a photo of Janelle leaving some apartment building I don’t recognize. Alone. At night. Maybe Mrs. Rodriguez’s after babysitting.

  Jas1959 is not a name that means anything to me, but the meaning of the picture is clear enough. It’s got to be from one of Mr. Flannery’s guys, maybe the one who came to see me. She looks so innocent in the photograph, just minding her own business. She has no idea Flannery’s on her tail. And I don’t have the heart to tell her. It wouldn’t do any good. There’s nothing she can do about it.

  “Why the hell you just sitting there staring into space?” Deon asks, but quietly so Klein won’t hear. “I told you, man, I need that shit.”

  This gets Barbie’s attention. She’s sitting on the other side of Deon, snooping. “Aw, you know Ike,” she says. “He’s thinking those deep thoughts of his. Got to do it on his own too, ’coz none of us criminals smart enough to help him.”

  Actually these two, Deon and Barbie, are probably the smartest kids I know.

  “Man, you got to snap out of it,” Deon says. “You’ll waste your life. You got to start thinking about what happens after all this. When you’re back in the free.”

  “Aw, let him have it, Deon,” Barbie says. “The boy doesn’t have the nuts to stick it out in here.”

  “What do you know?” I ask her.

  Barbie gets up and takes the empty seat next to me. Then she brings her lips close to my ear and whispers, “I know you’re a pussy-ass liar can’t face up to what you done. And what’s been done to you.”

  I jerk away from her. “You don’t know shit, Barbie. You have no idea what’s going on right now.”

  “So f ill me in, Ike. I’m all ears.”

  I turn to Deon, who f inishes up what he’s typing then faces me. “What is it now? You attack someone else in group? Add another year to your sentence?”

  “You really want to know?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, I want to know. But hurry up ’coz some of us have work to do, can’t spend all day wondering what the hell is up with you.”

  When I don’t answer, Barbie gets frustrated and IMs me:

  —Type it if you can’t say it.

  Ah, the magic of the written word. Like I said, people write down all kinds of crazy shit they’d never say out loud. So why not me?

  The only problem is, why should I trust these two? For all I know, they could be working for Flannery. I trusted that guy and look how it worked out. What is trust anyway? It’s just another word for risk, another word for gambling on people you don’t really know. If you can make it through life without trusting anyone, you’re better off.

  But there’s one thing I do know about Barbie Santiago. Group is deadly serious to her. The fact that I’m on her team means something. As much as I hate to admit it, it means something to me now too.

  “Go on,” she murmurs out loud. “We got you.”

  So I start typing. I tell them everything. I don’t spare the details. From Flannery ordering the theft of that Escalade all the way to him threatening my little sister. I put it all out there.

  Deon huddles close to Barbie so he can read our IM over her shoulder. When I get to the end, he gets on his own laptop, jumps onto our IM and types out:

  —Why don’t you go to the cops with all this? Bust that guy once and for all?

  Barbie shakes her head, then types:

  —Because they in on it, right?

  I shrug. I can’t be sure, but I have my suspicions about the police.

  —I knew it, she types. —I knew it when you told us that bullshit story about that guy hitting his head on a rock.

  —That was the story Flannery told me to tell.

  —Yeah, because he cleared it with the cops f irst, right?

  —Maybe.

  —What about your lawyer? Deon types.

  I shake my head.

  —You don’t trust your own lawyer? he types. />
  —Somebody tipped off Flannery when I tried to snitch on Healy in court. Happened real fast too. Like, that very day. Only people in there were the judge, Ms. Jomolca, and my stupid lawyer. It doesn’t take a genius to do the math.

  Deon shakes his head, then types, —So you need protection from this dude and the cops and your own lawyer? Damn I thought I had some shit.

  —Hey what about that ADA who was supposed to be getting you off? This is from Little Anthony, who’s all the way on the other side of the room.

  I look up from my laptop and he waves at us.

  —You breathe one word of this Ant and I’m on you like stink on shit.

  —Yeah, yeah. But what about that ADA? She seemed wicked into busting somebody else for that Sal Christaldi thing. Why you don’t hit her up?

  Barbie types, —The problem here is Ike’s Bossman got eyes and ears everywhere. So we go to the ADA with this we don’t know Bossman won’t hear about it, right, Ike?

  Barbie, completely getting it.

  —Yeah Ant, I write. So keep your mouth shut. For all I know Bossman’s got eyes and ears at Haverland too.

  Nobody types anything for a while. Then Anthony writes —Well, good luck with all that and adds a little smiley face.

  “Luck,” I say. “Yeah, that’s what I need. Like maybe a piano falls out of a building and lands on Flannery’s head.”

  “That shit can be arranged,” Deon says. “If you got the cash.”

  “If I had that kind of cash, you think I’d be in here?”

  Deon stares at his laptop where our IM has gone cold. “Sorry I can’t help you,” he says. “You think of anything, though, you let me know.”

  Barbie doesn’t move. She’s still staring at her laptop, her beautiful eyes narrowing to slits.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  So much for the power of the written word.

  The next day, Barbie shows up to the computer room with a vicious grin on her face. I wonder if this is what she looked like out in the free when she was about to stir some shit up. She practically sprints to the laptop across the table from me and starts IM-ing.