by C. W. Trisef
Until the early morning hours, that is. Not long before dawn, as the lights began to fade from view in the face of the morning sun, so did the clone’s stamina. The clone’s pace slowed from a fast sprint down to a respectable run until it returned to a brisk walk. When the lights finally closed their curtains for the night, the clone stopped, its eyes went blank, and it fell to the earth.
Anxious to keep going, Lye manually brought the clone to life with a spark, hoping it would pick up where it left off, but it just stood there. It needed the lights. When night fell and the lights could be seen again, the clone promptly awoke of its own volition and resumed its trip.
Lye wanted nothing else than to know where his clone was going. What was its destination? He really hoped it wasn’t planning on going all the way to Antarctica on foot.
Nevertheless, Lye again followed all that night. As they continued to journey southwestward, the terrain became more difficult to traverse. The hills rose steeper, the waters sunk deeper, and the plants grew thicker.
Near the end of the night, when the clone’s stride slowed back down to a walk, they came to a thicket of trees. Without even glancing back at its maker, the clone plunged into the grove, which was too wooded for Lye to follow in the sled. Leaving the dogs at the edge of the trees, Lye chased after his clone, hoping he wouldn’t lose it.
Soon, Lye caught up to it. The clone had arrived at a clearing in the middle of the thicket and stopped at the edge of the trees. The Northern Lights were almost done for the night but were still present in the sky. The clone’s eyes still showed green, and it hadn’t collapsed into unconsciousness yet. Lye knew the clone had finally arrived at its destination, for, if it hadn’t, it would still be walking.
The clone was staring dead ahead. Lye turned to see what it was looking at. There, in a grassy area surrounded by trees, sat a little tin trailer.
CHAPTER 13
A HUNGOVER JURY
Ana was the first bystander to arrive at the scene of the accident. She rushed to Missy’s contorted door, but it was jammed. Then one of the rear doors began to open, and Ana heard two seatbelts being unfastened.
Stepping toward the backseat, Ana asked urgently, “Is anyone hurt?”
“I’m okay,” Paige responded, though she sounded a little shaken up.
Then Leo’s voice was heard, “Same here.”
There was no reply from Missy. Ana reached through the backseat and gently tapped her on the shoulder.
“Missy, are you okay?” Ana said, her voice unsteady. “Missy? Missy, say something.”
Ana placed two of her fingers on the driver’s neck and was relieved when she at least found a pulse. She felt so powerless to free the poor lady from all the warped metal and shattered pieces of the totaled automobile.
Paige and Leo slowly exited the car, both a little in shock from what had just happened.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Ana told each of them, followed by a desperate hug.
“I’ll call the police,” Paige said.
Meanwhile, the other vehicle was showing signs of life. A bit larger in size, it had not received as much damage as the car it collided into. The first occupant to emerge was Dusty, spilling out of the driver’s seat like a seasick sailor. One by one, the other riders followed, all in a suddenly-sober stupor as they tried to understand what was going on.
Within minutes, the police arrived, bathing the scene in sporadic splashes of red and blue from their flashing emergency lights. A fire truck and ambulance were also close behind. Ana stood arm in arm with Paige and Leo as they watched the personnel get to work.
The firemen swarmed the car where Missy lay unconscious. One of them cleared the remaining glass while two others brought out hydraulic tools. With the Jaws of Life, they pried open the driver’s door, only to find Missy’s legs crushed under the dash. Within seconds, they cut the cabin frames and pulled back the roof like the lid of a tin can. With great care, they extricated Missy from the mess and set her on a stretcher. Medical attention commenced before they even started rolling her toward the ambulance. They loaded her into the back, closed the doors, and sped off.
Meanwhile, some of the police officers were conducting interrogations. As much as they tried, Dusty and his friends couldn’t hide their drunkenness. After a few simple tests, the officers brought out their handcuffs.
“No, wait!” Dusty protested when he felt the cold clasp of each handcuff come full-circle around his wrists.
“Ana, help me! Please!” Dusty continued to beg as the officers forcefully guided him and his friends into the cop cars. “Paige, Leo, someone—please!” Ana looked away in grief. The officers shut the doors and left to take the criminals downtown.
While waiting for the tow truck to remove the two crashed cars, the remaining police officers spoke with the three teenage civilians who were huddled together off to the side. Ana gave her account as the only witness while Paige and Leo were checked for minor injuries. The officers instructed them to call their parents to come and take them home. With heavy hearts, Ana called Pauline while Paige texted Mr. Coy, who was on his way home from the Arctic. Leo, however, stood in somber silence, thinking it a cruel (albeit unintentional) irony that the officer would tell him to call his parents at a scene like this. It wasn’t the first time the orphan boy had been involved in an accident caused by drunk driving.
Escorted by a member of the Manor’s staff, Pauline showed up in no time, taking the three distressed youth in her arms as a hen would gather her chickens under her wings. As they watched the final shards of broken glass being swept from the street, the four of them wished their worry and fright could be swept just as easily from their hearts and minds. They returned home, where they had a long night together, sharing their thoughts and tears.
The first thing Mr. Coy did when he got back from the Arctic was visit Missy in the hospital. She was in bad shape—or, as the nurse told him, “critical condition.” Although not in a coma anymore, she still wasn’t quite her fully conscious self. The head-on collision had left her with several broken bones, a couple bruised ribs, and a severe cut to the head. She lay in her hospital bed like a mummy in a sarcophagus, nearly her entire body wrapped in white bandages. Mr. Coy dropped off his bouquet of yellow roses and only stayed a few minutes after that. Missy was asleep, and he wasn’t very fond of hospital rooms anyway.
The first thing Thorne did when he got back from the Arctic was visit Dusty in the city jail. He was in bad shape—or, as the warden said, “lacking remorse.” Dusty was in a downcast mood, of course, but only because he feared the trouble he was in, not the trouble he had caused others. During his father’s visit, Dusty never asked about Missy or anyone else involved in the accident. He was only interested in himself, begging his dad to pay his bail and end his time behind bars. With tough love, Thorne told his son he’d think about it.
Two chairs were empty at the group dinner the week following the accident. Pauline prepared a hearty beef stew, hoping the warm broth would help to stave off the chilling events of the past few days. Coy reported on his visit to the hospital, explaining Missy’s stable condition. Then Thorne discussed his visit with Dusty, expressing dismay at how his son did not seem to have learned his lesson. Such impenitence was disturbing to all at the table, and it gave Mr. Coy an idea, the details of which he hammered out with the group for the remainder of the meal.
The next day, Mr. Coy went down to Tybee Island’s little jailhouse. It was more like a correctional facility than an actual prison, a place where under-age or small-scale offenders paid their penalties through service if no one came to bail them out.
“Good morning, Ben,” the warden welcomed him. “Here to rescue another prisoner from a life of crime, are you?” Speaking in somewhat of a smart-alecky manner, the warden was referring to the occasions when Mr. Coy would drop in to talk with the inmates to see if there were any who sincerely wanted to change and might be interested in coming to the Manor.
“You kn
ow me too well, Jim,” Coy replied in the affirmative.
“Have you come to see one louse in particular or the whole lot of them?” Jim asked.
Always disappointed by the warden’s hardness, Coy smiled, “Just one today: Dusty Thorne.”
“Oh, his old man was here just a few days ago,” Jim recalled, sifting through his assortment of keys. “That boy’s a mess—still a minor and already causing trouble. Mark my words, Ben: that boy’s a bad egg. He’ll make a fine career criminal.”
“We’ll see,” Coy said unconvinced as he followed Jim through a sturdy door.
They entered a long hallway with cells along each side. As Jim walked by, he purposely banged on the bars, alarming the inmates who were behind them. Mr. Coy’s pace slowed. He knew several of the prisoners. He called them by name and asked them how they were doing. To his delight, they remembered him, too, and without contempt.
“Ya know, Ben,” Jim bellowed as he strutted down the aisle, his proud voice echoing against the stone walls, “it’s a noble thing you try to do with these scumbags, but an intelligent man like yourself should know a leopard never changes his spots.”
“Well then,” said Coy optimistically, catching back up to Jim, “it’s a good thing there aren’t any leopards here, isn’t it?” Several cheers emerged from behind the bars.
Jim leaned in close to Mr. Coy and said softly, “Come on, Ben, stop wasting your time.”
Mr. Coy smiled and told the cold man, “I don’t want to change the spots, Jim; I want to change the leopard.”
The old warden was silenced. He had never thought of it that way before.
A few more steps brought them to Dusty’s cell.
“Now you let me know if you need anything,” Jim told Coy after unlocking the cell. There was a little less rudeness in the warden’s voice, a little less swagger in his walk as he paced away.
“Good morning, Dusty,” Mr. Coy said cheerily, stepping into the dingy cell.
“Hey,” was all the young man said, hardly looking up as he lay on the bed.
“I’ve come to pay your bail,” Coy told him.
“Really?” Dusty replied with great enthusiasm, immediately sitting up.
“Under one condition,” Coy said sternly.
“Sure,” Dusty welcomed.
“I’ll be holding a trial of law at the Manor in a few days,” Coy explained, “and I need you and your friends from the other night to come and help me.”
“Done,” he thoughtlessly accepted.
Mr. Coy studied the eager lad for a moment and said, “Very well then.” They gathered his very few belongings and left to find Jim.
The warden seemed subdued as he watched Mr. Coy fill out the usual forms and write out the hefty check. Mr. Coy knew the procedure well, as he had gone through it with Jim on several previous occasions. It was during this instance, however, when Jim realized for the first time that none of the prisoners who were bailed out by Mr. Coy ever returned to his jailhouse to serve time for another crime.
“Good day,” Jim pensively told them after all the paperwork had been taken care of.
“Till next time, my friend,” Coy beamed, knowing he was finally beginning to leave an impression on the warden. Then he put his arm around Dusty as they strode out the door.
“Thanks,” Dusty said somewhat insincerely as they pulled away from the jailhouse.
“You’re welcome,” said Coy, “but remember my condition.”
“I know,” Dusty asserted. Then, realizing he didn’t know, he asked, “Remind me of the specifics again?”
“I need you and your friends—all of them from the night of the dance—to come to the Manor,” Coy restated.
“When?”
“Next Friday at twelve o’clock noon.”
“Where exactly?” Dusty inquired, knowing something of the building’s intricacies.
“The courtroom,” said Coy. “If you have trouble finding it, just ask someone.”
And so it was that, while Dusty and his friends were wandering the Manor that next Friday just before noon, they needed help locating the courtroom. Since his friends were totally bewildered by the Manor, Dusty was the one who flagged someone down and asked for directions.
“Oh, I’m on my way to the courtroom right now,” the arborist said, having just come from the grounds where he had been trimming trees. “You can follow me.”
Dusty and his friends went out on a limb and followed the man, even though he smelled like sawdust and was splattered with sap. The newcomers marveled at the heights and depths of Coy Manor. The further they progressed, the more crowded the corridors became. Soon, the halls were filled with people from wall to wall, all moving in the same direction as the teens and their tree friend. They eventually came to a grand entryway and followed the throngs of people through its large double doors.
The courtroom was alive with chatter. Dusty scanned the gallery to find some empty seats for him and his friends, but nearly every chair was taken. There was even a balcony that wrapped around the back half of the ceiling, but it was filling up fast.
“What are we doing here?” one of the friends asked Dusty with an air of annoyance.
“Yeah, can we go now?” another whined.
“Let’s just watch the first few minutes and then leave,” Dusty told them. “That way I can say we were here. Come on, we’ll stand in the back by the door.”
When the last of the spectators finally filed into the courtroom, a man rose at the front of the room. He had been standing against the wall, dressed like a security guard.
“Hey, Dusty,” one of the friends said, “isn’t that your dad?”
Dusty squinted at the guard. Sure enough, it was Thorne.
“My dad’s the bailiff?” Dusty said in shock.
Once the crowd quieted down, Thorne loudly proclaimed, “All rise for the honorable Judge Coy.”
The audience promptly rose to their feet as Mr. Coy entered the courtroom from a side door at the front of the room. With a regal look on his face, he walked with a dignified gait, his long black robes dusting the polished floor. He was wearing a peruke, that white wig from eras past with curls on the sides and a plaited tail in the back. He climbed the few steps onto the raised judge’s bench and sat down in the large leather chair.
“The audience may be seated,” Thorne announced.
“Is this some kind of joke?” one of the friends whispered to Dusty, who just shrugged.
“I welcome you, one and all, to our trial today,” Judge Coy began. “As we begin, I’d like to make a few introductions.” Motioning to Thorne, Coy said, “You’ve already met our bailiff, Walter Thorne,” who slightly raised his hand. “Our court reporter is Pauline Cooper.” Hearing her name, Pauline strode through the side door and took her seat at the reporter’s desk, where she prepped her fingers to start typing away on the stenograph.
Coy continued, “My daughter, Paige, will serve as proxy for the plaintiff,” Paige entered the room, “and the plaintiff’s case will be argued by Leonard Swain.” Leo followed, joining Paige at the counsel table nearest the jury box. Both of them, as well as Pauline, were dressed professionally and looked their parts.
“Yeah, this is a joke,” Dusty reassured his friends, preparing to depart.
“I will introduce the defendant in a moment,” Mr. Coy informed. “Today’s defense attorney is Dusty Thorne.”
Dusty froze. His friends discretely turned to look at him.
“Don’t move,” Dusty told them through his teeth. “Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here.”
“I see you, Dusty,” Mr. Coy said, “standing by the door at the back of the room.” Whispers filled the air as the audience members turned to look. “Come on, now,” Coy coaxed, “we need you to argue the defense.”
Too late to escape, Dusty started up the long aisle of the gallery toward the front of the room, every eye watching him.
“Oh, and bring your friends with you,” Coy added. Dusty looked back and bade
his friends to follow. With hesitation, they obeyed, and together they all crossed the bar and stood before the judge.
“Dusty will sit at the other counsel table,” Coy instructed, pointing at the desk next to where Paige and Leo were sitting. Then he said, “The rest of you will sit there,” directing their attention to the jury box. None of them moved.
“What’s the matter?” Coy interrogated. “Never seen a jury box before?” Still, there was no movement. “You’re the jury,” Coy told them. “This is a trial by jury—Article III, Section 2, of the U.S. Constitution. Read it sometime.” It was like talking to a bunch of rocks.
With a bit more firmness, Coy leaned forward and ordered, “Take your seats.” After a futile glance at Dusty, they entered the jury box.
“Now then,” Coy said, moving on, “bring in the defendant.”
That was the bailiff’s cue. Thorne stepped into the side room to retrieve the defendant. The audience strained to get a glimpse of who this person might be. Dusty watched with great interest to learn who he would be defending. Everyone was surprised, therefore, when Thorne returned holding an empty glass in one hand and a beer bottle in the other.
Thorne walked across the well and set the empty glass on the defense’s table. He opened the bottle and let the cap fall to the tabletop, sending a few sharp chirps through the silent courtroom like the bouncing of a small coin. While his son looked on with great vexation, Thorne filled the glass three-quarters full, the yellowish liquid foaming nigh unto the brim. Then he placed the bottle down next to the glass and returned to his post against the wall. It was all Dusty could do to restrain himself from taking a sip.
“I hereby call to order this trial on the sensibleness of alcohol as a beverage for human consumption,” Judge Coy convened.
“Are you serious?” Dusty interjected, considering the case an act of foolery. “You can’t do this.”
“Sure I can—I’m the judge!” Coy shot back. “And I’ve got the wig to prove it.”
