by Claire Adams
“Whoa… Who died?” Brent asked, straightening up a little.
“Have you heard?” I asked.
He frowned. “Heard what?”
“About Phil?”
Brent looked even more confused. “What about Phil? Did he save another cat or something?”
“He’s in jail,” I said, in no mood for jokes.
Brent stood up. “What?”
“He called me from there,” I stammered. “He was caught with drugs.”
“No fucking way,” he said, shaking his head.
“He says he’s innocent—”
“He’s not.”
“What?” I said, looking up at Brent’s confident expression.
“You really didn’t know he was dealing?” he asked me.
I looked at my brother in shock. “Wait… He was dealing? You knew this?”
“Of course.” Brent nodded. “Where do you think I got my pot from? But trust me, all I ever get from Phil is pot. I don’t buy any of the harder stuff he sells.”
“Oh my God,” I said, feeling light-headed.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Brent said.
I sat down slowly and shook my head after a moment. “Are you saying that Phil was your dealer?”
“Yes.” Brent nodded. “I thought you knew.”
“Why would you assume that?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “You were sleeping with him, weren’t you?” he said. “And, you seemed so close, I thought he had already told you, and you were cool with it.”
“You know I hate drugs,” I said. “That’s why I leave every time you smoke.”
“I just thought you hated me,” he said. “I figured that’s why you avoided me.”
I looked at Brent and wondered if I’d been unfair to him this whole time. Had I been a terrible sister, so involved with my new romance that I’d forgotten all about what he might have been going through?
“I don’t hate you, Brent,” I assured him. “I was just…”
“Preoccupied with Phil?” he said before I could finish my sentence.
“You should have told me.”
“You spoke to Phil more than you spoke to me,” he pointed out. “How was I to know that he hadn’t told you?”
“How long has he been your dealer?” I asked, scared to hear the answer.
“Since we met,” he replied. “That’s how we met, actually.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what Phil told me,” I said, feeling the tears resurface.
I felt more than betrayed, I felt completely and utterly disappointed. The perfect image I’d had in my head of the kind of man that Phil was had completely disintegrated and I wondered if I had myself to blame for all this. I had obviously been naïve. I had obviously been so thrilled that a guy like that had been interested in me, that I’d shut my eyes and believed him wholeheartedly.
I remembered the ex-girlfriend that we’d run into on our first date together. I wondered if he had told me the truth about her, too. What if their relationship went deeper than Phil had first told? I started to question everything…and it scared me how perfect my memories were.
“Hey don’t feel bad,” Brent said. “Phil’s always been a dick. He’s always lied to his girlfriends—it’s why he and Anna broke up.”
“Anna?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I sighed. “Is that the reason your friendship with Phil has been a little strained lately?” I asked.
Brent raised his eyebrows infinitesimally. “That’s exactly the reason,” he nodded. “I wanted to make sure he was treating you right, and I guess he didn’t like the fact that I was checking up on him all the time.”
“Did he tell you he had told me about the drugs?”
“He implied it,” Brent nodded. “Which is why I just assumed…”
“Right,” I said, turning away from him. “This day is the worst.”
“Hey, how about we make something to eat and just chill?” Brent suggested. “We’re both in need of some comforting.”
“You need comforting?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “My business turned out to be a bust.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry, Brent.”
He shrugged. “I’ll try again one day.”
I gave him a half-hearted smile, wondering if I would be willing to try another relationship again one day. Somehow, I felt that even if I did, I would never feel about another man the way I felt about Phil.
Phil
The interrogation room was small and dark. There was glass on one side, and I knew a bunch of men and women staring at me from the other side, but all I could see was my own reflection. I sat there with my hands together, despite the fact that they’d taken off the cuffs when they’d brought me into the room.
I kept thinking about the call with Megan. I didn’t know what hurt more: the fact that my life was going up in smoke or the fact that she so easily believed that I was capable of what they were accusing me of.
I had to admit that actually finding the drugs in my apartment was pretty solid proof for anyone who didn’t know me—but I thought Megan and I had a connection that transcended normal relationships. I had assumed she would be here, demanding to see me and trying to convince everyone who would listen that I hadn’t done what I was being accused of doing.
So when I told her, and her immediate reaction had been anger and disappointment, I hadn’t been prepared for it. Which was why I probably didn’t handle the call as well as I would have liked. I hadn’t affirmed my innocence with any sort of persuasiveness because I didn’t think I’d ever have to persuade Megan to believe me. I had just assumed she knew me.
Apparently, I had overestimated our bond. Or maybe the sad truth of the matter was that I had overestimated her feelings towards me.
I kept replaying the conversation over and over again in my head. How could Megan of all people not believe me? She knew how hard I’d tried to turn my life around. Why would I risk everything, including my career, to deal drugs? It didn’t make any sense.
I was still brooding over the phone call with Megan when a new cop walked through the door. I hadn’t seen him before, but I could tell by the way he was dressed and the way he held himself that he was a detective. He was tall and lean, with a swimmer’s build and dark hair that was on the long side.
“Phil Roberts,” he said in greeting as he sat down opposite me at the little rectangular table. “I’m Detective Corey Jones.”
“I’m innocent,” I said immediately.
He smiled. “You can understand why that doesn’t count for much.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Because of the drugs in my apartment?”
“For starters, yes.”
“I was framed.”
“Convenient,” Detective Jones said.
His smile was starting to irritate the crap out of me, but I knew that pissing off the detective in charge of my case was not the right way to go about this. I suppressed every irritable emotion I was feeling and kept my cool.
“I know that sounds like a convenient excuse,” I said. “I know it sounds like an excuse period—but I don’t do drugs!”
“Fair enough,” Detective Jones nodded. “You don’t do drugs. I can believe that easily. With pounds and pounds of hard drugs stored away in your closet, I never thought for a second that you were going to take the lot yourself. You don’t look like you do drugs, in any case—but that doesn’t mean you don’t deal. Now dealing is very believable.”
“The drugs were found in my closet?” I burst out, ignoring everything else he had just said.
“Oh, right,” Detective Jones said, raising his eyebrows at me. “You had no idea they were in your closet, am I right?”
“I’m not acting.”
The detective only smiled. “Have you retained a lawyer yet?”
I tensed a little. I had no way of contacting Sarge and asking about the lawyer he said he would set up for me. I had used my one phone call on Me
gan, and that turned out to be a huge mistake.
“I have to see about getting one,” I said.
“We can set you up with a lawyer.”
“Not necessary,” I said quickly, pinning all my hopes on Sarge and banking on him keeping his promise. I wondered if he would let me down, too…much like Megan had. “Sarge will pull through. He’s a man of his word.”
“This is your boss, Sargent Green?” the detective asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s been my boss for years now, and there’s no Sergeant more diligent about shit like this. He expects the highest ethical standards from every man under his command. Do you really think I would have kept my job this long had I been dealing drugs all this time? The fire station conducts random checks, too…”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Detective Jones replied. “I already told you, I didn’t believe you were doing drugs, so why would random drug tests be a problem for you?”
I shook my head. “While you’re wasting time with me, the real drug dealers are still out there. This is just a temporary distraction, you realize. They were scared of being caught, and they decided to palm the buck and frame someone else. That person goes to jail, the focus is off them, they get to lay low for a little while, and then they start dealing again.”
Detective Jones was about to say something, but I was on a roll, and I didn’t want his cynicism to get in the way of my logic. “And another thing… They say they found pounds of drugs in my apartment. Well, if I had been dealing for a while, don’t you think I could have afforded a better apartment? Hell, don’t you think I could have afforded a nice enough engagement ring for my girlfriend?”
“You have a girlfriend?” Detective Jones asked, zeroing in on that bit of information.
I suppressed a sigh, realizing that they would probably send a cop in to see and speak to Megan to ask her if she saw any signs that I was dealing while we were together.
“Yes,” I said tightly.
“Her name?”
I hesitated for a moment, and Detective Jones seemed to notice the pause. “Come now, Mr. Roberts,” he said. “If you have nothing to hide, then you won’t have a problem with us talking to a few people in your life, right?”
“Her name is Megan Jacobs,” I replied.
“And her address please?”
“Three-two-four, Hightower Apartments, Block C, Elvin Street,” I rattled on.
“And where does she work?”
“Bradshaw’s,” I said. “It’s a local retail company.”
“Excellent, thank you,” said Detective Jones, giving me another one of his annoying fucking smiles.
“My pleasure,” I said darkly.
“You have a brother, don’t you?” he asked suggestively.
I tensed a little, but I nodded immediately. “Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Paul.”
“And where is Paul?”
I gritted my teeth together. “He’s in jail,” I said, without mincing my words.
“Hmm…interesting,” Detective Jones nodded. “What is he serving time for?”
“Drug possession and drug dealing.”
“I see.”
“My brother being a drug dealer doesn’t make me one,” I pointed out.
“No, but sometimes these things, they run in the family.”
Before I could respond, there was a tap on the door, and Detective Jones stood up and left the room without another word. I sat there, wondering how on earth all those drugs ended up in my apartment. This couldn’t just be a coincidence—this couldn’t just be a random sequence of events. Whoever had put those drugs in my closet knew me. Something was nagging in the back of my head, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
My thoughts were interrupted when the door opened again, but this time a familiar face walked through. The sight of Officer Manolo made me feel just a tiny bit relieved. He closed the door behind him and sat down in the chair that Detective Jones had just vacated.
“Officer Manolo,” I said, looking him right in the eye. “I didn’t do it.”
Manolo’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though he were trying to figure out whether I was lying to him or not. After a moment he sighed. “I don’t think you’re capable of doing something like this,” he said.
“So, you believe I’m innocent?”
“I do—and make no mistake, I’m going by instinct alone,” he told me. “Which is not something that will carry much weight with anyone else here. We need more than just my instincts to get you out of this. We need proof that you were set up.”
“It has to be someone I know,” I said quickly. “Because they managed to get into my apartment without actually breaking and entering. There was no disruption, nothing out of the ordinary, and the drugs would have had to be in my closet for a few days at—”
I stopped abruptly as suddenly the puzzle pieces came together in my head and I realized who it was that had framed me.
“Phil?” I heard Manolo’s voice call my name as if from a great distance.
I remembered that day, months ago now, when Manolo had stopped me for my broken taillight. He had let me off the hook out of respect for the work I did and the role I played in keeping the community safe, but I had hidden something from him that day. I remembered vividly, seeing the bag of pot fall out of Brent’s front jacket pocket and cursing him in my head for putting me in this situation in the first place.
I remembered going to his apartment and flushing the pot down the drain. He had been a little annoyed with me, but he hadn’t freaked out like I had assumed he would. It was almost as though he had a larger stash hidden somewhere, so the loss of the pot he had left with me was not a great loss.
Then I recalled the so-called “business” he kept talking about. He never gave me any details about it; he hadn’t even given Megan many details. He was always so shady. Megan had said so herself.
And then another little detail hit me, and I felt goosebumps erupt on my hands. Detective Jones had told me that the drugs had been found in my closet. I remembered Megan mentioning to me that Brent’s closet was always locked. It was the only place in the whole apartment that seemed to be completely off-limits to everyone apart from Brent. Everything connected in my head, and suddenly, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the person that was responsible for setting me up.
The saddest part of all of it was that I wasn’t surprised.
“Phil?” Manolo’s voice was louder this time.
“I think I know who did it,” I said.
Manolo frowned. “Who?”
“I have this friend. His name is Brent Jacobs,” I said. “I met him a few years ago. I know he smokes pot, but I thought that was the extent of it. He quit his job a few months ago to start his own ‘business.’ Except no one really knows what his business is in the first place.”
Manolo nodded. “You think he’s the dealer?”
“He could have gotten into my apartment easily enough. He paid attention when he wanted to, and he would have known that I keep a spare key under my mat outside my front door.”
“How would he have known that?”
“I’m dating his sister.”
“Fuck,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Manolo nodded. “I’m going to check this out. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.”
I sighed in relief. “Thanks, Manolo; I owe you big time.”
Manolo gave me a brief nod and headed towards the door. He was about to leave when he turned to me abruptly. “I think your lawyer just got here.”
“Thank God,” I sighed.
“Hang in there, Phil,” Manolo told me before he left.
I sat there with my head in my hands, cursing the day I met Brent Roberts. The fucker was trying to ruin my life, and if we didn’t get to the truth, then he would succeed, and everything I’d worked so hard to build would be gone.
Then I thought about Megan and re
alized that never meeting Brent would mean never meeting her. I wondered if that was for the best, especially given how easily she had believed I was guilty.
I thought about it for exactly five seconds and realized that despite everything, I still loved Megan and knowing her was worth meeting Brent.
Megan
“Why do you keep checking your phone so much?” I asked.
“No reason,” Brent said, looking towards the television.
I frowned. We had been together for thirty minutes since Brent walked into the living room and parked himself on the couch and he had checked his phone thirty-three times in that window of time. And that was only after I noticed and started keeping count. Was he waiting to hear news about Phil? And if so, why did he think he would get a text or call about it?
It was eight in the morning, and I had been up since five because I kept dreaming about Phil and jail and falling. It was unusual for Brent to be up this early, though, and I wondered if on some level, he was worried about Phil, too.
“Hey, how come you’re up so early?”
“Just wired,” he said, with a shrug. “And, I went to sleep really early last night.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, accepting his answer, even though he still seemed strange to me.
Again, I watched as Brent checked his phone. “Is something wrong?” I asked. “Because something seems to be on your mind?”
“Uh… I suppose I was just worried about Phil, you know,” he replied. “The guy can be a jerk, but he was my friend.”
“You keep checking your phone,” I pointed out again.
“Yeah… I have a cop friend,” he replied. “I told him to keep me posted.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t know that. What’s his name?”
Brent paused for a second, and I assumed the television had just distracted him. “Steven Rodriguez.”
“No news from him, then?”
“No,” he replied. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter whether we get news or not, right? I mean, Phil’s out of our lives now.”
I sighed inwardly, feeling a deep-seated pain in my heart. “Yeah… I suppose he is.”
