Faultlines

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  But she didn’t have a better answer. Had someone handed her a million dollars in trade for an explanation, she couldn’t have provided one. The woman, the wife and mother she was today, wanted to go back and choke the girl who’d lied. At the time, all those years ago, she’d done the only thing that had seemed right.

  “What am I supposed to tell Jordy?” she had asked Emmett.

  “The truth,” Emmett had answered, driving away.

  She had returned to Jordy’s room alone to wait for him to wake up, to be alert enough to take in the terrible news not only of Travis’s death but of his father’s departure. She had waited through Saturday night in an armchair beside his bed, jolted from snatches of disturbed sleep each time a nurse came to take Jordy’s vitals, every time he asked for water. It had amazed her when near dawn on Sunday morning, she wakened to find him much improved. The damaged right half of his face was still a carnival of reds, blues, and a sickly shade of greenish yellow, but the swelling was down, and the color had returned to the healthy side of his face. The white of his left eye was clear. He looked more like himself, and for the first time since the accident, she felt her fear for his physical well-being subside. But not her dread. No. It was pervasive, suffocating.

  Jordy knew; she had an immediate and visceral sense that he knew Travis was gone before she pushed herself up from the chair and went to his bedside to tell him. When she managed it, she stood for a moment, patting his arm. Delaying, she asked how he was feeling. “You look better,” she said.

  He rubbed his eyes, tried a smile. He needed a shave. It still startled her, the sight of dark stubble on his face.

  “Do you want anything? Water?”

  He shook his head.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said.

  He lowered his chin, still shaking his head, even as she spoke, quickly and quietly of the severity of Travis’s injuries and his failure to survive them. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  “I thought I was having a nightmare.” Jordy’s voice was hoarse. “The drugs—I didn’t believe it.”

  She smoothed his rumpled hair. She didn’t question his meaning, although he would explain it to her later, all that he’d heard, more than she suspected. In the moment, though, what consumed her was his need for comfort.

  He asked when it had happened; he asked if it was really true, and finally, when there was nothing to do but accept it, he buried his face in his hands, and the sob that came was ragged and hurt. It pierced her heart. Without thinking about it, she slipped off her shoes and climbed onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle him or the tubing that snaked out of his arms, and she pulled him against her. He was big, as wide shouldered and broad chested as Emmett, but she cradled him as if he were still small, her own tears dampening the hair near his ear.

  She had told Emmett later, while Jordy slept, how awful it was, but he hadn’t come home. Sandy had a feeling he wasn’t going to, either, not until she told Jordy the truth—all of it.

  She glanced at Jordy’s discharge papers now, and stowing them in her purse, she found her cell phone. He needed an attorney, a criminal attorney, someone to get him out of jail.

  The only one she knew was Roger Yellott. He’d been a client a year ago, an unhappy one. He’d moved to Greeley from somewhere in Florida. Tampa, she thought, and he’d hired her to design a look straight out of the tropics, using plants like date palms, brugmansias, cannas, and birds of paradise. It wasn’t a look she especially cared for, but that was beside the point. The fact was that none of those warm-weather, humidity-loving plants were really suitable for the often windy and dry, occasionally subfreezing, hill-country climate. He’d been annoyed when she’d explained she couldn’t give him her standard one-year, onetime replacement guarantee for plants so unsuited to their location.

  She scrolled through her directory, and finding his office number, she dialed it, and she was so relieved to have his assistant put her through to Roger, to have him actually take her call, and when he answered, she said so.

  “I thought we might not be speaking,” she said, and he laughed.

  Laughed!

  And for some reason, Sandy’s throat closed.

  “Water under the bridge,” Roger said. “I’ve been hunting for six months for the nerve, or whatever it is I need, to call you.” As if he sensed her discomposure, he hurried on in a warm voice. “You were right, you see. About the plants. After last winter the whole garden looks like shit. Especially the date palm. Jesus, there is nothing uglier than a date palm clinging to life by its frost-blackened fronds.”

  Now Sandy laughed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She found her truck and got in. “So, you’re ready to take my advice, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Eating crow as we speak. And yes, if you’re offering your services. Absolutely. What was it you recommended, other than the serving of bird, that is. Cactus and rocks, wasn’t it?”

  “I think we can be a little more creative.” She thought how genuinely nice he was. Even when they’d had their disagreement, he’d kept his cool.

  He sobered. “Somehow I don’t think that’s why you called, though, is it? I heard about that god-awful wreck your son was involved in. How is he?”

  “He’s why I’m calling, Roger. Jordy’s been arrested.” She paused, waiting for the breath—the actual nerve to put it into words, and then it came. “My nephew, Travis, died from his injuries on Saturday, and Jordy was arrested today when the hospital discharged him.”

  “For?”

  “They say he was driving.”

  “Intoxication manslaughter, then. Is that the charge?” Roger asked, gently.

  “Yes, and intoxication assault. Michelle Meade is still in a coma. But how did you know? The news? Has it been on the news already?”

  “I don’t know about the news; I heard it from Mandy, Augie Bright’s wife. She told me when I was getting a haircut earlier. That gal is cute, but boy, can she talk.”

  “Jordy says he wasn’t driving, that Travis was the designated driver. He says Sergeant Huckabee—that’s who made the arrest—has got it wrong.” Sandy waited. So did Roger. She went on. “I think Huck—do you know him? Len Huckabee? I think he’s got something against Jordy. Jordy won’t say what it is, but Huck has stopped him so many times in the past couple of years for nothing. He says Jordy has an attitude, a chip on his shoulder.” A drinking problem.

  Sandy let her stare drift. Jenna had said it, too. She’d accused Sandy of having her head in the sand about it. But all the kids drank. Even Travis. Perfect Travis.

  Oh God, where had that come from?

  Sandy had thought it before, plenty of times, but that was when Travis was alive, when Jenna was busy comparing him to Jordy, making it sound as if Jordy was inferior.

  Roger said he knew Sergeant Huckabee but not well.

  Sandy said, “Jordy needs an attorney, Roger. Can you represent him? Can you get him out of there? Arrange for bail?” She didn’t know what she was asking. What did arranging bail mean? Emmett would know, but he wasn’t here. Jordy had no one but her.

  When Roger said he would go to the Madrone County jail in Greeley and find out what was happening, Sandy almost cried from relief and exhaustion, and the constant wearing fear that she was on the brink of losing everything and everyone she loved, if she hadn’t already.

  He said, “Let me warn you, though, they might not set bail today. They will likely wait for the arraignment.”

  Sandy said, “Okay,” but how would she know whether it was? The word arraignment, the process involved—whatever understanding of it she had was from watching crime shows on television. How accurate could that be? “When would that happen?”

  “Tomorrow or Thursday. We’ll see. You want to meet me there, at the jail?”

  Sandy looked through the windshield. She was torn. “Travis’s funeral is today,” she began and stopped. Jenna didn’t want her there, Huck had said.

  Folks around town aren’t goi
ng to welcome you . . . His further warning stood up in her mind, and it hurt; it left her feeling bitter. But she didn’t have emotional space to spare for those folks and what they thought.

  “Yes,” she told Roger. “It’ll take me a couple of hours to get there, though. I’m still in Austin.” She keyed the ignition. Her mom and dad had brought her truck to her at the hospital after Emmett took off, leaving her stranded. At least they were still speaking to her. They would be with her, too, if Jenna’s need wasn’t greater. Jenna—who had lost her son, her only child. It fell over Sandy anew—the reality that Travis was gone. “Will I be able to see Jordy?” she asked Roger.

  “Depends. Let’s just get into it. I’ll call you.”

  Sandy got off the phone and sat clutching her elbows. The enormity of it—the incontrovertible fact of Travis’s death, what his loss would do—was doing to her sister, whom, in spite of everything, Sandy loved with her whole heart and self, frightened and sickened her. It stalled her heartbeat and stopped her breath. Her head swam, and for several moments, she couldn’t see. She should be with Jenna. Be there for her. Sandy needed to be with her sister, and her need was physical. She ached with it.

  But Jenna blamed her and Jordy.

  I will never forgive you or him.

  Those hard, angry words were the last Jenna had spoken to Sandy before she’d left the hospital on Saturday on her way to the funeral home, Macintyre’s, in Wyatt. Sandy hadn’t needed her mom and dad to tell her that Travis would be buried outside town at Haven’s Rest, next to his dad.

  Sandy wiped her face and blew her nose now. She had heard of near-death experiences, where people who had faced death came back telling stories of having seen a beloved family member who had gone before. She prayed it was true, that John had been there when Travis passed from here to wherever. Sandy closed her eyes, and for a moment she imagined it, John holding his son. He’d been a big man, quiet and thoughtful. He’d been the love of Jenna’s life, the center of Travis’s world. Jenna had borne his loss with grace, the same way she’d borne the loss of her breast to cancer. But this? The loss of her only child? It was too much for her sister to bear, too much for any mother.

  But she could not sit here grieving over what she couldn’t change. Her son was still alive, and he needed her help.

  Greeley, Texas, the Madrone county seat, was north of Wyatt. Sandy had been through it on her way to other places. She was familiar with the town square and found the courthouse there with no problem. An old man dozing on a bench out front told her the jail was around back.

  “In an annex,” he said, and harrumphed. “Cost the taxpayers a bundle puttin’ up that building. Just so a bunch of criminals could sit around in air-conditioning.”

  Sandy thanked him, got back into her truck, and drove behind the courthouse. The annex was a squat one-story building faced in native limestone, nondescript in style. Walking through the entrance door, she was hit with a blast of the taxpayer-financed air-conditioning cold enough to preserve meat. A woman in street clothes sat at the desk. “Help you?” she asked, giving Sandy a short glance.

  She held the woman’s irritated gaze, the one that seemed to judge her for being stupid and somehow deficient, given that she was here, in a county jail.

  “My son, Jordan Cline, was brought here. His attorney, Roger Yellott—”

  “Oh yeah. He just got through booking. Lawyer’s with him now.”

  “Could I join them?”

  “Don’t know as it’s allowed.”

  “Could you find out? Please?” Sandy added, although the woman didn’t look as if she was the sort who was moved by politeness.

  She summoned a police officer, though, who escorted Sandy down a short corridor to a closed, windowless door. On the wall beside it, a sign read: INTERVIEW ROOM. She steeled herself, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her son dressed in an orange jumpsuit and wearing handcuffs. The pads of his fingertips were smudged black from being fingerprinted as part of the booking process. Jordy would tell her this later, washing the ink off at the kitchen sink at home. When he half rose from his chair, so did her gaze rise to his face.

  “Mom?” he said, and his voice was that of a bewildered child.

  Sandy didn’t know how she managed to withhold the frightened gasp that scraped her ribs. His eyes locked with hers, filled with pleading, that unfathomable confusion. Her need to touch him, to reassure him, was a reflex so strong she was barely aware of moving toward him until the cop barked, “No contact!”

  She looked over her shoulder at him, taking in his gray buzz cut, his lined and dour face.

  “Sandy,” Roger said, “why don’t you take this chair.”

  She did what he suggested, sitting beside him, opposite Jordy.

  The cop backed out of the room.

  “There’s a camera,” Jordy said, looking up at the corner of the room where the instrument was mounted. Its glass eye peered down, probing, empty.

  “They’re watching us?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Roger said. “Look, I was just telling Jordy we’ve caught a huge break. Ordinarily he’d spend at least one night in jail, maybe two before arraignment. But Judge Becker expedited the whole process. You can get Jordy out today, right now. You just have to put up his bail.”

  “It’s seventy-five thousand,” Jordy said.

  “Seventy-five thousand?” Sandy felt almost weightless with astonishment. She had no idea where she could get that kind of money. Not from their savings. There was maybe eighty-five hundred in there, last she looked. Sell their mutual funds? But why had the judge granted them favor? Sandy looked at Roger. “I was afraid Jordy wouldn’t get bail at all.”

  “Evidently your dad knows Judge Becker. This is his court. There was some conversation between him and your dad.”

  “Really?” Her dad did know a lot of people in the area; he’d employed many of them. He was known as the sort of man who’d give the shirt off his back to help someone. She didn’t know what he might have done for Judge Becker.

  Roger said, “Look, I know most folks don’t have seventy-five K in cash lying around, so you can see a bail bondsman and secure Jordy’s release for ten percent, if that works. There’s a guy down the street. He’s reputable. I’ve worked with him before. I’ll go with you, if you want.”

  “Yes, I’d be grateful.”

  “The only downside is if Jordy were to miss his court date—”

  “If I take off,” Jordy said, looking at Sandy, “if I go on the run, you don’t get the ten percent back.”

  She thought of her Internet search, the short list of marginal countries Jordy might escape to and be free. She was aware of his knee, bouncing erratically. She was aware of the camera, its blank eye pointing directly at them. Were there lawmen—Len Huckabee, for instance—listening in? Was that legal?

  “I’ve spoken to the DA’s office,” Roger said, and when Sandy turned to him, he searched her gaze, and while his eyes were steady and kind, she thought he was also trying to gauge the level of her composure. How close to the edge was she? How much more could she take? She wondered herself. But she had to take it. What would Jordy do if she went down? Who else was here for him, for them?

  Roger said, “I was just explaining to Jordy before you got here, word is they’re going to pursue this to the max. In addition to intoxication manslaughter and the DUI, they intend to try him for intoxication assault and aggravated assault.”

  “Because of Michelle,” Sandy said.

  “Her parents have spoken to the DA, too. Her condition hasn’t improved. It hasn’t worsened, either, but—” Roger’s expression, the lift of his hand, was commiserating. Michelle’s parents wanted justice. Who could blame them?

  “Yeah, it’s assault now,” Jordy said, “but if she dies, too, then it’ll be like Trav—God—” His head fell forward. When he raised his gaze, his eyes were red and scoured with panic and grief, and something hectic and sharp that might have been rage. “I did dri
nk. I was probably drunk, but I wasn’t driving.” He looked from Sandy to Roger and back at Sandy. “I wasn’t, I swear, Mom. You have to believe me. Do you?”

  Sandy thought back to the day last summer when he’d bruised Jenna’s car and sworn it was a total accident, not the result of his having consumed the contents of the empty pint bottle of peppermint schnapps Jenna had found. There had been other incidents: Beers had gone missing from the refrigerator. Even the occasional fifth of rum or tequila that they kept in a cabinet for friends had disappeared. Jordy always feigned innocence. But Sandy had known in the nether regions of her mind he was lying. The practice of deception came as easily to him as it once had to her. Like her, he would lie to get out of trouble or to endear himself. He would lie to fit in. To entertain. There were so many ways to lie, so many reasons when it made sense—when the truth would hurt someone, for instance. Travis was dead. Wasn’t it easier now to make him the scapegoat when he couldn’t defend himself? Even Emmett had expressed doubt.

  Roger said, “It’s what the jury believes that matters.” He set his elbows on the table. The sleeves of his suit coat rode up, and Sandy caught the wink of his cuff links, tiny diamonds and emeralds set in a horseshoe pattern. They were understated, tasteful. Sandy wondered how much they cost, what sort of money you had to earn to afford such elegant jewelry. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel the repercussions in her head. When Roger said he didn’t want to scare her, she almost laughed.

  “The DA is asking for the maximum in regard to punishment. If they win—not that it’ll happen, I’m just saying if they do—Jordy’s looking at a possible twenty to thirty years in prison. That’s if the jury was to find him guilty on every charge, and if the judge was to stack the sentences. If Michelle were to die, then the situation—”

  “What do we do?” Sandy cut him off.

  “We pay his bail and get him out of here. We start building a defense. I’ve already put in a request for a copy of the accident report. I’ll have a look at the accident scene, too, and interview any witnesses, other drivers who might have been on the road that night.”