by David Ellis
“How old are you, son?”
“Seventeen.”
The deputy grimaces. He is disappointed. He waves a finger at me. “Turn around, son. We’re taking you into custody. We’re transporting you to Summit County.”
“Why?” I plead, not moving. “What’s the charge?”
“Turn around right now, Mr. Soliday, and hold out your hands behind you.”
I comply. The deputy grips my hand and places a handcuff over my wrist. “The charge is murder, son,” he says.
16
“MIS-TER SOLIDAY.” TRU sings the words over the phone. “Grant—”
“I don’t know how you managed, my brother—”
“Listen.”
“—but I hope it was worth it.”
“Grant, shut up and listen to me. Just listen. I’ve been arrested.”
“What now?”
“Just listen—” I lower my voice an octave. I’m using the pay phone in a holding cell in the County Sheriff’s Department. “Gina Mason—that girl?”
Silence, at first. Grant can’t like a connection between law enforcement and Gina. “The girl from the other night,” he says cautiously.
“Right. She died. She’s dead.”
“She’s dead and they think you had something to do—”
“They think I killed her.”
A short burst of laughter from Grant. Then a pause. “Are you putting me on?”
“No, I swear—”
“Where are you, Jon?”
“I’m at the sheriff’s office, Grant. They’re sending me to Summit County for questioning.”
“Holy fucking—” A heavy exhale from Tru’s end. “This is for real, isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty damn real, all right.”
“Did you make it to Gina’s that night?”
“Yeah. I was there. I went—”
“Wait, Jon. Don’t say anything else. Hang on. Just—just hang on a second, okay? Let me think.”
I turn back and look at one of the officers, who is probably listening to what I’m saying.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get you a lawyer. Right now. A lawyer.”
“But I don’t know any—”
“Dammit, Jon, shut up a second. My dad knows a hundred of ’em. We’ll get one down there right now.”
I groan. “My parents are gonna die over this.”
“Your parents don’t need to be involved. If you have a lawyer, I don’t think you need your parents.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m not sure of much of anything right now, Jon. We’ll have a lawyer down there right away.”
17
I SIT AS idly as possible for two hours, awaiting the lawyer the Tullys are sending. I struggle to put the puzzle together, the whispers of memories from two nights ago.
You probably shouldn’t be here, Gina said.
You want me to leave?
You can stay awhile.
What’s your boyfriend going to think?
He’s not really my boyfriend. And he doesn’t own me.
The rest is bits and pieces. Our clothes off, first on the bed, then falling to the floor. Time is, was indecipherable, but I think in my intoxication I held out pretty long. It wasn’t like other times, awkward and uncertain. It was full throttle, passionate, hair-grabbing, nails on the back. When I was done, I collapsed on top of her. I think we fell asleep there, on the floor. That’s the last thing I remember, save falling back through the window at some point, onto the grass outside her bedroom.
But she wasn’t asleep. She was dead.
I shudder at the thought, but only as I might if I were watching a grotesque scene in a movie. I am numb. I didn’t know she was dead. I don’t feel connected to it. That doesn’t stop the tears—it hasn’t stopped them for the last hour or so. But I think the tears are for myself, not Gina.
Footsteps. An officer approaches my cell. “You’re getting out,” he says with little animation.
My jaw drops, but I keep silent as the deputy unlocks the door and leads me to a different room. A man is standing there.
“Jon Soliday?” he asks. “Jeremiah Erwin. I’m your attorney.” Mr. Erwin is a tall, grave man, a heavily lined face, salt-and-pepper hair. He is wearing a black pinstriped suit, white shirt, bright red tie.
I take his hand. “The Tullys called you?”
“They did, yes. I’m taking you home.”
I take a step back, momentarily taking in a surge of elation. “I’m free to go? I thought I was under arrest.”
Mr. Erwin shakes his head. “No, they just took you into custody to deliver you to Summit County. No one’s charging you with anything at this point. You’re just wanted for questioning.”
“So I have to go there?”
“Let’s get out of here first.” Mr. Erwin places a hand on my back and escorts me from the station. I take a look back at the officers, my captors, but no one is watching me leave.
“I’ve spoken with the authorities there,” he says as we walk outside, the sun beaming in my face. “I’ve informed them that you won’t be providing any testimony today. We’ll agree to a meeting down the road, perhaps.”
“What are they saying?” I ask.
Mr. Erwin doesn’t look at me, just keeps his eyes focused on his path. “A young woman named Gina Mason was found dead in her home. They say you visited her the night before she was found dead. They think you raped and killed her.” He turns to me. “Just because they say it doesn’t make it true.”
I fight through the nausea and try to pull anything else out of that night. The rest of our short trip to the car is in silence. Mr. Erwin drives a Chevrolet, a luxury model, and the leather seats are quite a relief from the hard cement in the holding cell.
“Where are we going?” I ask, once we’re on the road.
“To the Tullys. We need to have a conversation.” He looks over at me. “You and Grant need to have one, too.”
Grant is waiting for me at his home, at the threshold of the door. He’s dressed more formally than usual, his Sunday best—a starched cream shirt open at the collar, nice trousers. His eyes are horribly bloodshot, his hair out of place, his face stained from the same tears that licked my face. He steps out of his house and greets me with an arm around my shoulder and a tremble to his lip. I stifle any overflowing emotion and maintain a solemn expression.
The Tully residence is not necessarily what you’d expect to be the home of a powerful family like that of Senator Simon Tully. It’s a nondescript, two-story house, half an acre of surrounding lawn, simple landscaping in the front with shrubs tucked in a bed of wood chips. That says a lot about the Tully family, or at least about Senator Simon Tully. He is neither flashy nor loud, but rather a quiet man, deadly serious, a man who elevates loyalty to the level of familial love.
I walk in with Grant but don’t see the senator or Grant’s mother. “I’ll be in here,” says Jeremiah Erwin to Grant, nodding toward the den near the front door.
Grant pats my back. “Let’s relax a minute and talk about this,” he says.
The living room is empty. I sit on the couch. Grant brings in a glass of soda and sits next to me.
Grant clears his throat and keeps his eyes cast on the floor. His hands rub together. “Mr. Erwin wants to hear your story,” he says. “So we need to get it clear.”
“I don’t really have a story,” I say. “There’s not much to tell when your memory is a black hole.”
Grant sighs. He struggles a moment, finally opens his hands. “Tell me what you do remember, Jon.”
I close my eyes. “I went there. I went with one of those guys. Lyle or Rick.”
“Lyle,” says Grant. “Must have been. Rick took me home.”
“Okay, Lyle then. So I went into her house. Her window, actually.”
“She let you in?”
“Yeah. And we—you know.” I wave my finger in a circle.
Grant grimaces. “Y
eah? All the way?”
“Well—yeah.”
Grant grabs a pillow from the couch, like he wants to throw it.
“I left behind evidence,” I say. “That’s what bothers you.” “They’ll be able to prove it was you.” He returns the pillow to the couch.
“Well, the sex part, yeah, it was me.”
“Where was Lyle?”
“In the car,” I answer. This seems confusing to Grant. “I mean, I assume he was in the car. But now that I think about it, why was Lyle dropping me off so I could have sex with his girlfriend?”
Grant allows for the contradiction with a nod of the head. “I think ‘girlfriend’ is a little strong. Anyway, that’s my fault, Jon. I bought the—the stuff that night—and Lyle owed me one. I asked him what he thought of Gina, he didn’t seem to think too much of her, so I said would it be okay if you hooked up with her at some point.” He smiles apologetically. “I didn’t mean that night.”
“So Lyle drives me to Gina’s house as a payback for free coke. Jesus.”
“So then what, Jon? After you two got it on?”
“I don’t know. We were done, I fell on top of her. I think I passed out. Then I woke up and got out of there, I guess.”
“But you don’t remember.”
“No,” I concede.
“What about her? Gina?”
“I don’t know. I don’t!” I chew on my lip. “I—you know, when I left, she was out. Asleep. I didn’t wake her up or anything. I just left.”
I burst into tears again, my throat choking. Again, I can’t pinpoint the source. Am I scared or remorseful?
Grant studies me. My collapse has emboldened him. “Okay.” His voice is surprisingly strong. “What did you say to Lyle?”
“I have no idea, Grant. I barely remember leaving out her window. I think probably Lyle helped me.”
“Lyle,” Grant mumbles to himself. “Lyle, Lyle, Lyle.” He runs a hand over his face. “Wonder what he’s saying about all this.”
I ask Grant if Lyle’s been arrested or questioned. He shrugs. He couldn’t know any more than me at this point. “But we need to find out what Lyle’s saying,” he adds.
“Well.” I roll my neck. My shoulders are as tight as they’ve ever felt. “I don’t suppose we can just call him.”
“You can’t, Jon. You have to keep your mouth shut.”
Grant’s right about that. I am probably the last person who should reach out to that guy. But Grant shouldn’t, either. Besides, it’s not like we even know this guy.
“A guy like Lyle,” says Grant, “he’ll probably say anything to keep himself clean.”
“I don’t know.” I drop my head. “I don’t know what to do.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Let me take care of Lyle,” says Grant. “You’ve got other things to think about. Or I should say, remember.”
“What does that mean?”
Grant brings one leg under another, propping himself up on the couch. His hands are together in prayer. “It means, Jon, that you can’t tell the police that you have no memory of anything happening. If the cops are saying you raped her and killed her, you can’t say, ‘We had sex but I don’t remember the details.’ And you can’t say, ‘I don’t know if she was alive or dead when I left.’ ” Grant reaches for my arm. “You have to say you had sex but it was with her consent. And she was definitely alive when you left.”
“Jesus Christ.” The words, even stated in my favor, bring a crisis to my bowels. I’m suddenly claustrophobic, my eyes darting about the room. “Did I force myself on her? Did I—did I rape—”
“No.” Grant’s voice is calm but firm. “That’s not you, drunk or not. This girl was digging your act. She let you in, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. That part I remember.”
“All right, then.” He waves a hand. “No way you raped her.”
“Then how did she die?”
He shrugs. “We don’t know. Did the cops say anything to you?”
“Nope.”
“Then we’ll have to find that out, too.”
“They—” My eyes drift to the ceiling. “They’re saying I forced myself on her, she struggled, and I killed her. That must be what they’re saying.”
“A lot of things will happen before they say that,” says Grant. “They’ll have to do an autopsy, right? They’ll have to have a witness.”
“Lyle,” I mumble.
“I’ll handle Lyle.” Grant exhales slowly. “And we’ll see about the autopsy.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “How will we—” I freeze. Grant doesn’t respond or look at me. This is something, I suddenly realize, that will never be fully explained to me.
“Your dad,” I say.
Grant nods solemnly.
“Your dad knows people out there? In Summit County?”
“My dad knows everybody.” Grant does not say this with affection.
“I don’t know about this.” I sigh. “I don’t want to get sent to some juvenile hall or anything, but why don’t I just tell them what happened and see what comes? I’ll tell them that I would never have forced myself on Gina. I liked her. And there’s no way I killed her.”
Grant’s look could freeze the sun. His face reddens. He wets his lips before starting. “First of all,” he says slowly, his voice trembling, “they’ll try you as an adult if it’s murder. You could get who-knows-how-many years in a penitentiary. Second of all, my friend, if you tell them you don’t remember things, then you can’t rule out the possibility that you did rape her, and that you did kill her. Telling them ‘it wouldn’t be like me’ is not a defense. Especially when you were drunker than I’ve ever seen you.”
He pats his chest harshly. His eyes have filled, not from rage but regret. “This is my fault, Jon.” His face contorts, and more tears follow. But he continues through the pain. “I got you mixed up with these people. I got you doing drugs you’ve never done in your life. And then I left you. This is my fault, and I’m going to clear this up. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’m not going to lose you, too—” He catches himself. “I’m not going to let that happen.”
Grant’s talking about his older brother, Clayton Tully. Clay died in a head-on car accident three years ago. He was in the middle of an Ivy League education, an intelligent, clean-cut, ambitious twenty-year-old with classic good looks. Grant absolutely idolized him. In many senses, Clay completely overshadowed Grant. Far superior grades, a better athlete, much more involved in the political circles.
Clay did a lot for his little brother. Some of it was the obvious stuff, counsel and encouragement. But it was more than that. Clay sheltered Grant from the weight of his father’s expectations. Grant told me once that his father planned on handing his senatorial seat to Clay when the right time came. It was something Clay wanted. It is not something Grant wants. Grant is more of a free spirit, a rebel, someone who has taken advantage of the golden path he’s been given but who doesn’t want to cash in. I don’t know what Grant plans for his future, but a few years ago, I’d have pegged him for someone who would be, in any real sense, nothing more than the brother of Senator Clayton Tully and the son of the former senator, Simon Tully. That would probably be enough for a good living. Grant would con his way through school, get a law degree, join a prestigious law firm, and have a boatful of clients looking to get on Clayton’s good side. He would have an easy life.
But since Clay died, Grant seems to have been elevated to his brother’s spot. His dad has never said the words to him, but Grant thinks his father now wants him to succeed him in the senate. And Grant has never said the words, but I know it terrifies him. He lost more than an older brother in that car accident. He lost the life he wanted.
I remember that year, after Clay died. Grant hit the party scene even harder, started in on cocaine for the first time. He’d deny it to me, his more clean-cut buddy, but he seemed to be bordering on an addiction. His grades went downhill—they weren’t too spectacular
to begin with—and he dropped high school baseball, where he’d had some talent. It’s only in the last year, really, that Grant has truly rebounded. I think the thought of leaving home for college has energized him, the unconscious feeling that when he’s away from his father, his life is his own.
The look on Grant’s face at this moment reminds me of his expression after Clay’s funeral. A combination of pain and disbelief and despondence.
“But you have to do your part, too,” says Grant. “You have to tell them that Gina wanted to have sex with you, and you have to tell them that when you left, she waved goodbye to you with a smile on her face.” He gathers himself, leaving aside the emotion and focusing on the task at hand. “And let me take care of the rest.”
18
THE OFFICE OF the Summit County Prosecuting Attorney is located in a three-story, shiny new building that stands out on an avenue otherwise full of downtrodden structures. The symbol of justice in a humble community.
I take the dozen marble steps almost arm-in-arm with Grant. On either side of us are Grant’s dad, the senator, and Mr. Erwin, our lawyer. The pitched, pillared entranceway, the large state and county flags, the tiled hallways are quite successful in intimidating me.
Now we sit in the waiting room of a large office. Grown-ups in work shirts and ties hustle in and out with briefcases and files. They are holding more than papers. They are holding people’s lives in their hands. I try to steady my heartbeat by playing with my tie. Grant and I are in shirts and ties with slacks, on order of Mr. Erwin. Our attorney is in full lawyer gear, a dark pinstriped suit and a bright red tie. Senator Tully wears an oxford and khakis.
Grant is sitting formally, attentively. There is no contact between his father and him. Simon Tully has a leg crossed and hands resting comfortably in his lap. I have no idea what conversations have taken place between father and son over this incident. I imagine that Senator Tully has many thoughts in his head, including adverse publicity for himself and for the son who one day will take his place in the state legislature. I do not envision many warm feelings toward me dancing in his head.
