“Fresh Start adopts certain military-style practices. Attendees are given a uniform and assigned to a communal bunkhouse within a supervised unit. Each attendee is treated equally. Their drill sergeant is responsible for their physical training and seeing that they maintain their daily schedule. Again, however, I can assure you there is no physical or verbal abuse tolerated, if that is your concern. The emphasis is on promoting self-esteem through positive reinforcement.”
A former marine, Sloane knew well the emphasis on breaking down the individual and building up the unit. He had been seventeen, not much older than Jake, when he walked away from his final foster home and signed on the bottom line at the Marine Corps Recruitment Center. Boot camp had been the most physically demanding and mentally difficult challenge he’d ever endured. He had not remembered a lot of positive reinforcement, and something about employing similar tactics to juveniles as young as thirteen did not sit well with him. Tired of the sales pitch, Sloane cut to the chase. “When can we see them?”
Buchman responded by handing them another form. “Each attendee is allowed one phone call upon arrival and one outgoing letter per week.”
Sloane read the next sentence out loud. “‘There are no visitations during the attendees initial thirty days.’ Are you kidding me?”
“What?” Molia snatched the brochure from Sloane’s hand.
“Are you telling me we can’t see our sons for thirty days?” Sloane asked.
“They are allowed a phone call—”
“I don’t care about a damn phone call. I want to see my son,” Molia said, standing. “Do you have any idea the size of the new one my wife is about to rip me when I call to tell her that our son is in prison?”
“Fresh Start is not—”
“I heard the spiel. It’s a regular summer camp. I should be jumping for joy T.J. is so lucky to be one of the chosen few. I’ll tell her he’s going to be sitting around the campfire roasting marshmallows and singing Kumbaya.”
“Why are we not allowed to visit them?” Sloane asked. “Why can’t we see this facility?”
“It is important for the program to establish a system of authority, for the attendee to understand that he is responsible for himself. Studies—”
“Enough with the studies,” Molia said. “I know about studies and how remarkable it is that most studies prove the premise the person conducting the study sets out to prove. I also served in the military and I have been a police officer for more than thirty years, and I am having a very difficult time understanding how that concept can be applied to a fourteen-year-old boy who has never even been to an overnight summer camp.”
“As your son progresses through the program he earns an increase in visitations from one a month to one per week,” Buchman said, undeterred. “It is intended to ease the juvenile back into the familial living environment while maintaining a system of discipline and authority. It reduces the chance that a juvenile will slip back to his old habits once he leaves the program.”
“I don’t need to establish a system of authority and discipline in my home,” Molia said.
Buchman folded her hands; her silence intended to convey that she had heard more than one parent make the same statement. “I will make sure your sons call each of you after they are processed.” Her tone conveyed it was the best she could do and all she could offer.
Seeing they were getting nowhere, Sloane slid back his chair. “Thank you for your time.”
Buchman reached for another form. “Before you leave we’ll need to discuss payment.”
Molia turned his head, as if he had not heard her. “Payment? Payment for what?”
She looked up from the forms. “For the cost of the program.”
“We didn’t volunteer our kids for this,” Molia said. “Judge Earl sentenced them.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Buchman said. “Fresh Start is a private facility.”
“Private?” Sloane asked. “Someone owns it?”
“The county leases the facility. Now, most insurance companies cover the cost because it is considered therapeutic. You will likely only be personally responsible for any copayment and portion not covered…”
Sloane couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took the forms, reviewing them as he spoke. “How much is it?”
“The cost is six thousand dollars a month, but as I said, insurance covers a large percentage, and we can bill you in equal installments over a twelve-month period.”
Molia used a finger as if cleaning out an ear. “I’m sorry. Did she say six thousand dollars a month?” He looked to Sloane. “Did I miss the part about them earning a college degree while attending this fine institution?”
“And if we refuse to pay?” Sloane asked. “Then what?”
Buchman finally lost the smile. “Then your sons will be removed from the program and assigned to a county juvenile detention facility.”
Sloane set the forms on the desk, leaning into Buchman’s personal space. She leaned back. “Let me ask you a question, not as a ‘parent liaison’ but as a parent of those two young men in the pictures on the shelf behind you. I assume those are your boys?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding off routine.
“So I’m asking you, parent to parent, do we need to be concerned about the safety of our sons at this facility?”
FRESH START YOUTH TRAINING FACILITY
SIERRA NEVADA MOUNTAINS
The barber had said one word: “Sit.” Jake sat. The man hit a button and the clippers buzzed to life, blades vibrating over Jake’s skull, great clumps of hair tumbling to the ground. His head freshly shaved, Jake was issued red coveralls that he slipped over white boxer shorts, a white tank-top T-shirt, and white socks. The boots he was issued were worn and a half size too big for his feet.
Atkins and Bradley met them outside what Jake learned was the “Administration Building.” Jake suspected this would be a recurring nightmare. Atkins wasted no time barking more orders, directing them to zip up the fronts of their coveralls and to move quickly down a dirt path behind the corrugated block buildings. When they reached a small amphitheater with split-log benches on three sides of a firepit and facing a wood plank stage he separated them, T.J. to Jake’s right, and ordered them to sit. Rays of sunlight slid through the canopy, dust motes dancing in the light. The shade offered little relief from the oppressive heat, and with each passing minute Jake did not eat or drink he felt more and more weak. It made it next to impossible to comply with Atkins’s next order.
“Do not slouch. Slouching is a sign of physical weakness. Physical weakness is a sign of mental weakness. Are you mentally weak, Inmate Carter?” Atkins had commenced calling them “Inmate Carter” and “Inmate Molia” after they had been processed.
Jake sat up, but it was with effort and he could not maintain the posture long. When he slumped Atkins tapped his lower back with the baton. Otherwise Atkins and Bradley stood with hands clasped behind their backs, staring at the stage, as if awaiting some show. A flicker of light through the trees caught Jake’s attention. Diamonds of light reflected off the surface of a distant body of water.
Atkins voice drew him back to the amphitheater. “Eyes front.”
The man standing on the stage wore the same khaki shirt and shorts, as well as the dark sunglasses, but that was where the similarity with Atkins and Bradley ended. Pear-shaped and pale-skinned, the man had straw-colored hair that appeared to emerge from a single spot on the crown of his head, cut in a bowl shape. Methodically, the man removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes so pale they were nearly clear, and slipped the glasses into the front pocket of his shirt.
“I am Captain Overbay,” he said, his voice higher pitched than Jake had expected. “You will address me as such. I am the chief operating officer here at Fresh Start. That means I am in charge of this facility. But I do not just work here. I eat here. I sleep here. I live here. This is my home as well as my place of business. My home.” He emphasized his words. Then he paced le
ft. “You are neither a resident of my home nor an invited guest. You have been discarded, left on my front porch by others who could not raise you. You have demonstrated an inability to adhere to and live by the laws that govern society. Therefore, that task now falls to me. I make the rules in my home. Disregard those rules and you will be disregarding me.” He stepped to the edge of the stage, into one of the rays of light, as if finding his mark in the spotlight to deliver his next line in a near whisper. “It is impolite to disregard a man in his own home.”
It was all very dramatic, but having just heard a similar spiel from Atkins it no longer held Jake’s interest, and the lack of food and sleep and the oppressive heat continued to chip away at his reservoir of energy. His body began to shut down, without the resources to even lift his hand to swat at the fly rubbing its legs against the hairs of his arm. His eyelids rolled shut, opened, closed again. He shook his head, sat up straighter, but each reprieve was brief. Captain Overbay continued to talk, something about the need to instill discipline, about a rigid daily schedule, privileges and punishment. His voice faded to a hollow echo.
The noise of the baton against the log brought Jake back to attention. Atkins stood over him. “Are you having a good nap, Inmate Carter?”
“I’m trying,” Jake said, “but it isn’t easy with Captain Kangaroo going on and on up there.” Jake had stumbled upon the show one night while flicking through the television channels and finding a station showing reruns from the 1970s and 1980s.
Atkins appeared momentarily taken aback, uncertain what to do. He looked to the stage.
Captain Overbay moved so that he stood in front of where Jake sat. He was grinning. “Was that a joke, Inmate Carter?”
Jake did not answer.
“Officer Atkins,” Overbay said, “I think we have a comedian in our midst.”
“I think you might be right, Captain.”
“Are you a comedian, Inmate Carter?” Overbay asked. “Because I have always enjoyed a good joke. Do you wish to tell me another joke?”
“Not really.”
Overbay looked offended. “Why not? You don’t think I have a good sense of humor, Inmate Carter?”
“I don’t think you’d find my jokes funny.”
“How would you know? People tell me I have a marvelous sense of humor.”
“I can’t think of any.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re sitting. Maybe what we have, Officer Atkins, is a stand-up comedian.”
“Maybe we do, Captain.”
“Stand up, Inmate Carter.”
Jake stood.
“Now, tell us all another joke.” Overbay spread his arms then folded his hands at his waist.
“I don’t know any.”
Overbay looked to Atkins. “Inmate Stand-up does not appear to have any more jokes, Guard Atkins. Maybe there are other interests we could cultivate.”
“Maybe there are, Captain.”
“Do you have other interests, Inmate Stand-up?” Overbay asked.
“Not really.”
“None? No outdoor interests?”
“I used to like to fish.”
“Did you? But not any longer?”
“Not really.”
Overbay looked troubled. “Inmate Stand-up has no other interests, Officer Atkins. We should rectify that. A boy without interests is a boy with too much time on his hands, and a boy with too much time on his hands is a boy who gets in trouble.”
“I was thinking the same thing, Captain.”
Overbay looked down at the first row of empty benches, pacing left, right, back to center. He raised a finger. “I’m betting a young man like Inmate Stand-up would enjoy hunting. Would you enjoy hunting, Inmate Stand-up?”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“No? Have you ever been hunting?”
Jake shook his head. “No.”
“Well then don’t be so quick to judge. You need to be receptive to trying new things. How would you like to go hunting with Officer Atkins and me?”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“But you haven’t even asked what we’d be hunting.”
Atkins smiled. Overbay waited. Jake shifted from one leg to the other. “What would you be hunting?”
“Not ‘you,’ Inmate Stand-up. ‘We.’ This would be a group excursion. A team-building exercise. What would we be hunting.”
“What would we be hunting?” Jake asked.
Overbay nodded to Bradley, and with no further words Bradley disappeared behind the stage walls. When he reappeared he carried a wired cage and a rifle. Inside the cage a rabbit hopped about, nose and whiskers twitching. Bradley handed Overbay the rifle, walked across the stage and stepped off, placing the cage about twenty feet to the right. Then he bent and opened the front flap, clipping it to the top.
The rabbit did not immediately dart at its sudden and unexpected chance at freedom. Whiskers twitching, it cautiously inched forward until its nose protruded out the open door, sniffing at the air to assess danger. It hopped a third time, half its body now outside of the cage. Atkins cracked the baton against the bench. Jake flinched. The rabbit darted with a burst of speed as if shot from a cannon, powerful hind legs propelling it toward the underbrush. Seemingly just as quickly, Overbay spun the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The rabbit flipped in midair, its back legs having pushed off the ground and its front paws reaching forward at the moment of impact, spinning 180 degrees, dead before it hit the ground.
Overbay lowered the rifle, turned, and directed his attention to Jake, the diminishing echo of the rifle’s retort still carrying on the thin mountain air.
“Anything that runs,” he said.
EIGHT
HIGHWAY 89
WINCHESTER COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
Sloane tried to keep his mind moving forward as Molia drove the winding road from Winchester back to Truluck. He’d had trials that had gone completely offtrack, witnesses changing testimony or disappearing the day they were to appear in court. He felt now as he did then, off balance, struggling to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. He needed to think of options even while hearing Father Allen’s admonition that saving Jake was not a problem Sloane could solve by walking into a courtroom and outsmarting everyone.
And yet the law was all he knew, all he ever had.
He had placed a call to Lisa Lynch, and now relayed the substance of that conversation to Tom Molia. “We’ll file a motion for a new trial tomorrow and ask to have it heard on shortened notice.”
Molia did not respond.
“If that doesn’t work, we’ll file an appeal.”
Molia shook his head.
“We’ll seek to expedite it.”
Molia slammed his hand against the steering well. “Enough!”
The outburst startled Sloan.
“Enough, okay? Enough with the motions and the appeals. I’m not one of your clients you can placate with some bullshit legal jargon, all right? I know the chances of a motion for a new trial being granted and I know how long it will take to get an appeal filed and heard.”
“I didn’t mean to treat you like a client, Tom. I’m just trying—”
“What? You’re trying to what, raise my spirits? Give me hope?” Molia exhaled. His words came with a slight tremor. “What do I tell her?” he asked. “What do I tell Maggie? That’s her baby. That’s her boy. So you tell me. What do I tell her? That we’re filing a motion? Huh? That we’re going to appeal?”
Sloane did not have an answer and knew Molia did not seek one. They drove back to Truluck in silence.
When they reached the Mule Deer Lodge, Molia turned off the engine but did not immediately get out of the car.
“I’m sorry,” Sloane said, and it sounded as futile as it felt. “I never should have brought you and T.J. into this.”
Molia cleared his throat. “I’m not buying that whole camp Fresh Start crap,” he said. “Are you?”
; Sloane shook his head.
“Something stinks,” Molia said. “It’s why I became a cop; I can feel when things aren’t right and I can smell bullshit better than a hound.”
“Lynch already has someone working on the motion. She’s on her way here.”
“But it’s going to take time,” Molia said, voice soft. He glanced at Sloane. “It’s going to take time.”
“You tell Maggie the truth,” Sloane said. “You tell her this was not T.J.’s doing, and you tell her I’m going to get him out. No bullshit, Tom. I’m going to get them both out.”
Molia shifted his gaze. Though he did not speak, his drawn face spoke volumes.
Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
The man who had checked them into the lodge emerged from the back room, alerted to their presence by the bells hanging above the door. “I thought you’d skipped out on me,” he said
Music filtered in from the back room.
“We’ll need the room for another night, possibly longer,” Sloane said, reaching for his wallet.
The man shook his head. “Can’t. We’re full.”
Sloane looked past him to the mailbox slots. He counted the knobs of six keys. “What are you talking about? There are keys right behind you.”
The man didn’t bother to turn. “Those rooms are reserved. We’re busy summers here in Truluck. It’s tourist season.”
Sloane sensed the man was angling for more money. “How much do you want?”
“Don’t want your money.”
“Listen, I don’t know—”
Molia stepped in. “Okay, partner. Just give us the keys to our rooms. We’ll grab our stuff and get out of your hair.”
“Can’t do that either,” the man said.
“Why not?” Molia asked.
“Your stuff’s not here.”
“What do you mean it’s not here; we left it in the room.” Sloane said. “Where is it?”
The man looked at a grandfather clock hanging on the wall amid framed period photographs—the people depicted sharing the same solemn expression and coal-black eyes. “Checkout’s eleven o’clock.”
“So?” Sloane asked.
The Conviction Page 8
