by Don Aker
A horn blew somewhere up ahead, followed by a squeal of tires as a blue Durango beat a yellow light. The Camry turned right and a minivan took its place, the air around it throbbing with bass. A boy about her age played air drums and bobbed his head to the beat of an urban rap. Too easy, she could hear Ellen say. Leeza shook her head, rose to the challenge. “Kyle. Just got his license. First time out alone without his mom.” She grinned. “Tough to be cool in a minivan, Kyle.” She imagined Ellen laughing, her teeth perfectlywhite. Before the medications darkened them, turned them the sallow color of legal notepads.
Leeza gripped the steering wheel, tried to swallow around a sudden fist in her throat. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the other drivers jockeying for space around her.
Reef took another look over his shoulder. Nothing. He hadn’t seen the guy with the cellphone since he’d cut through the vacant lot behind Fishman’s. About time. The man had stuck with him long after Reef had figured he’d give up and go home. Pain in the ass. Reef hated it when things interfered with his plans. He waited another moment just to be sure, then turned left on Belcher.
Leeza listened to the steady tink-tink-tink of the turn signal as she waited for the light to change, grateful to see traffic flowing steadily on Carver. She’d decided to shortcut her way home, no longer interested in the extended-play version of the drive. Without realizing it, she glanced at her watch again, grimaced, leaned back against the headrest. The traffic light glowed immutably red. She fought to keep from drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.
Reef stood on the overpass above Birmingham, his hand in his jacket pocket squeezing and releasing the rock. The thing he liked about Park Street was its lack of traffic, especially during rush hour. Most of the traffic was on the multi-lane outbound highway that ran perpendicular to it. The people who used Park Street and this overpass were mainly those who lived in the few houses scattered along its length and people heading toward the green belt at its south end. And rush hour wasn’t a time many people headed toward the park, which suited Reef just fine. He didn’t need an audience for what he was about to do.
The stone fit in the hollow of Reef’s palm like a piece of a puzzle, an extension of his own hand. Reef had loved rocks for as long as he could remember. Not that there were many around the places he’d lived. The tenements he’d called home over the years had been surrounded by concrete and asphalt, oceans of hardness. It was his grandmother who had somehow made the hardness bearable, and it was she who had placed the first stone in his hand.
He’d been almost five and they’d been on the way to Truro in the old Dodge Dart his grandfather drove. Reef had grown carsick, and his grandfather had had to pull over on the 102 so he could puke. Car after car whizzed by as he retched on the side of the road, his grandfather cursing him, warning him he’d better not throw up in the car if he knew what was good for him.
During the tirade, Nan slipped down into the ditch, where she moved aimlessly about in the long grass like someone lost. When she returned she had in her palm a small, round stone as smooth as glass. “It’s a sickstone,” she explained when his grandfather had gotten back in the car. She placed it in Reef’s hand and closed his fingers over it. “When you feel like you’re gonna throw up, just squeeze it hard. It’ll take the sick feelin’ away.” It worked. Each time the waves of nausea rolled up over him, he gripped that stone like a lifeline, trying not to watch his grandfather’s thick fists pound the horn at whoever was stupid enough to cut him off. And each time he squeezed that rock, he felt stronger, like he was somehow in charge.
Like he felt right now.
There had been other sick-stones after that. And stones whose purpose was to prop open doors, to hold up windows to let the breeze blow through, to level a chrome table whose leg had bent when his grandfather had rammed it against the kitchen wall. And then there had been stones that had no purpose except to be stones. In the months following that afternoon on the 102, he’d started bringing home rocks he found on the playground, adding to the collection Nan helped him hide in his closet. When his grandfather wasn’t home, the two of them would take the rocks out and arrange them on the kitchen table, sorting them according to color and texture and size. There were always rocks that didn’t seem to fit into the groups Reef would devise, and these they loved the best. “These are special stones,” Nanwould tell him. “Just because they don’t fit with the others don’t make ‘em less important.” It was then he’d realize she was talking about more than just stones, and he’d wait for her to get that faraway look in her eyes when she’d begin to speak about the girl who had been his mother. The girl whose deafness had made her different, had set her apart, had trapped her in a world of silence and shame.
Reef shrugged, pulled out the rock he’d carried with him all afternoon. Turning it over in his hands, he thought of the night two years ago when Bigger had coined his name. They’d been passing around a joint, and Reef—who, at the time, was still Chad Kennedy—had taken the final shred of it from Jink for one more drag. Already high, he’d sucked too strongly on it, pulling the burning remnant inside his mouth. Jink and Bigger had rolled on the ground guffawing as he’d choked and spat and cursed, his tongue already swelling from the burn.
“Man, you’re one hell of a toker,” Jink had sputtered through his laughter.
“Yeah, man,” echoed Bigger, “you’re the Grim Reefer. Hey, Reef!”
Reef had liked the name, but not for the reasons Jink and Bigger thought. Years earlier, Reef’s fourth-grade teacher had shown his class a science film on coral, and while nearly everyone else had dozed or whispered in the dark, Reef had sat mesmerized by the images of the living rock that formed protective barriers aroundtropical islands. He liked what a reef could do, liked thinking of himself as living rock, liked pretending that it was possible to protect those you loved.
In the end, he hadn’t been able to save the one person who’d meant everything to him. Had had to watch the cancer burn her up, her body like an ember that crumbled into ash.
Horns below him on Birmingham brought him back to the overpass, and he looked down at the traffic through tear-filled eyes. He gripped the rock, seeking its strength, and chose a target.
The traffic was moving more steadily now, picking up speed as it neared the Park Street overpass. Leeza glanced up and saw two figures there, one on the end with his hand to his ear. the other in the middle with one arm up, waving at her. Amused, she raised her hand to wave back.
Then something hit her windshield and the world exploded.
Chapter 4
“And you saw everything, Mr. Ryan?”
“Yes, sir. After they trashed my truck, I chased all three of ‘em until they split up. Then I followed that one.”
Reef slouched in a chair by his lawyer, Hank Elliott, not even looking at the Crown attorney or the man on the witness stand. He longed for a drink or a joint or a line of coke, anything to make this interminable questioning more bearable. He imagined disembodied mouths moving wordlessly in space and thought briefly about his mother, craved the silence her deafness must have provided. He looked again at his watch, scowled, slouched farther in his chair.
Scott Phillips, the Crown attorney, addressed the judge. “Let the record show that the witness indicated the accused, Chad Kennedy.” He turned back to the witness. “Go on, please.”
“He thought he lost me. but the 911 dispatcher had told me to hold back, not to let him know I was follow-in’ him. I was keepin’ track of him so she could relay his location to the police.”
“And when he got to the overpass?”
“He just stood there for a minute or two, watchin’ the traffic pass under him.”
Reef glanced up to see the man staring at him. shaking his head in disgust. Screw you, Reef thought.
Ryan’s eyes held his as he continued. “I had no idea what he was gonna do, or I would’ve tried to stop him.”
“And what exactly did he do, Mr. Ryan?”
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Ryan turned to the Crown attorney, disbelief underscoring his words. “He took a rock out of his pocket and threw it into the oncoming traffic.”
A strangled sob rose from the back, but Reef didn’t need to turn to guess who’d made it. Probably the woman who’d stared at him when he’d entered the courtroom. He’d seen newspaper photos of her and the man sitting beside her right after the accident. The parents of the girl in the car. Screw you, too, Reef thought. He yawned, louder than he’d intended, and he could feel the judge’s eyes on him. Screw you most of all, bitch. He longed again for a drink or a hit. Or both.
“What happened then?” Phillips asked.
Ryan looked again at Reef, who recognized the I’d-like-to-kick-your-ass glare. Bring it on, dipshit, Reef telegraphed back, and was satisfied when the witness looked away. “The rock,” Ryan responded, “hit the windshield of a green Subaru. The driver lost control—”
“Objection.” Hank Elliott was on his feet. “Mr. Ryan doesn’t know what happened inside that car.”
“Sustained,” Judge Thomas ruled. Frowning at the Crown attorney, she instructed, “Please tell your witness not to speculate, Mr. Phillips.”
Ryan colored and turned to the judge. “If a rock the size of a fist suddenly hit your windshield hard enough to cave the glass in, you wouldn’t be thinkin’ straight either.”
Elliott was on his feet again. “Your Honor—” he began.
The judge nodded. “Just tell us what you saw, Mr. Ryan.”
Reef made no attempt to hide the smirk that played around the edges of his mouth, and he enjoyed watching its effect on the witness. Ryan glowered at him, ran a nervous hand through his hair, then began again. “The Subaru swerved right as it passed under the overpass and hit a van in the lane beside her. Rammed into the driver’s door.”
The Crown attorney moved over to three easels positioned near the witness stand and removed a large sheet of white cardboard from the first to reveal a poster-sized photograph. “Is that the van the Subaru hit?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Ryan nodded.
There were several audible reactions to the photograph, and even Reef was surprised by what it showed: a late-model Dodge minivan, its left front fender caved in and twisted so it nearly touched the battered driver’s door. Who knew steel could crumple so easily?
“And then what happened?”
“I guess you’d call it a chain reaction. The van veered to the right and hit the curb, then suddenly pulled back again. The driver must’ve panicked and overcorrected—”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Mr. Ryan—”
“Sorry, Your Honor. The van suddenly swung left and hit the Subaru.”
“And then?”
Ryan pulled his eyes away from the photograph and looked out across the courtroom, and Reef could tell he was looking at the girl’s parents, searching for some way to describe the scene that had unfolded below the Park Street overpass. For a moment, Reef saw the nightmare in his own head, then he pushed the images aside. Nobody had died. And only the girl had got hurt. Everybody else had walked away with cuts and bruises. Reef had seen worse.
Ryan was still looking out across the courtroom as he continued. “By this time, they were on the other side of the overpass. The Subaru ricocheted into the left lane and was struck by an inbound truck.”
“Is this the truck?” Phillips removed the white cardboard covering the second easel, exposing beneath it a picture of something that looked like a delivery truck, except the front end was pancaked into a tangled mass of hood and grille.
“Yeah,” Ryan replied softly.
Judge Thomas leaned toward the witness. “You’ll have to speak louder, Mr. Ryan. Is that the truck that struck the Subaru?”
“Yes.” Ryan took a deep breath before continuing. “It spun the car around so it was facing the oncoming traffic. At least three more vehicles piled up before the traffic finally got stopped.”
“And this,” asked the attorney, “is the Subaru that Chad Kennedy hit with the rock?” He pulled the white cardboard off the third easel.
Reef heard the girl’s mother dissolve into sobs, followed by the soothing tones of a man’s low voice. Angry muttering rose from several places in the courtroom but died when the judge scowled darkly.
“Yes, sir,” said Ryan, visibly shaken by what he saw. “That’s the Subaru.”
Reef stared at the third photograph, saw the shattered front end, saw the trunk rammed up into the back seat, saw how rescue workers had had to cut the door off to get the girl out. And he saw something else.
He felt Ryan’s eyes on him, and this time it was Reef who turned away. He looked at his watch again. How long was this shit going to last?
Phillips nodded at the witness. “Thank you, Mr. Ryan. No further questions, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded to the defense. “Your witness, Mr. Elliott.”
Hank Elliott got up and stood for a moment looking at the photographs displayed near the witness. Hefrowned. “All this must have taken place in a very short time, Mr. Ryan. A matter of seconds. Are you sure about everything you saw?”
Ryan was clearly annoyed by the question. “You ever work with explosives?”
The lawyer frowned again. “The way this works, Mr. Ryan, is that I ask you the questions. Now if you’ll—” “My work is demolition. I stay alive by payin’ attention to details.”
Elliott seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
Bigger and Jink were waiting with Scar on the back steps of the courthouse when Reef and his lawyer came out of the building. After sitting in that air-conditioned courtroom all morning, Reef felt the late-June heat hit him like a hammer. Even the breeze off the harbor hadn’t diminished its intensity. It was shaping up to be a hell of a summer.
“Kennedy!”
Reef turned to see a reporter coming out the door carrying a video camera. “How about giving us a statement?” the reporter called.
Reef was about to offer his favorite comment when Elliott shook his head. “You know better than that, Peterson.”
The reporter sneered. “He can’t hide behind the Youth Criminal Justice Act forever. How old are you, Kennedy?”
“And how old were you plannin’ on gettin’?” growled Bigger, moving up the steps toward the reporter.
The lawyer stepped between Bigger and the reporter, whose bravado had disappeared in the face of Bigger’s menacing bulk. He scowled at the group and shook his head, then took his equipment back inside.
Reef gave a low whistle of admiration as he high-lived Bigger. “How old were you plannin’ on gettin’?” he echoed. “That was premium, man.”
Bigger grinned as Jink slapped him on the back. “I wish I’d decked the little prick,” he said.
Elliott stared at them, his face a mask of incredulity. “That would’ve been a big help,” he said. There was no mistaking the scorn in his voice.
Jink looked at Reef and nodded his head toward the lawyer. “What crawled up his ass?”
Elliott wheeled toward Jink, his eyes blazing. “What crawled up my ass, as you so elegantly put it, is your attitude that all this is just a joke. An inconvenience.”
“Take it easy, man,” Bigger said. “Reef’s only seventeen. What can they do to him anyway?”
Elliott looked at the huge teenager’ and shook his head. “They can do plenty. Haven’t you seen all those reporters? What does it take for you to realize this case is very high-profile? You’re just lucky that witnessdidn’t get a good look at you, and that Reef didn’t name you and your friend as accomplices in the truck vandalism. Otherwise, you’d both be sitting through your own hearings.”
“We been in courtrooms before,” Jink bragged.
“I’m sure,” Elliott remarked. “And I see it’s done all of you a world of good.”
“Jesus, Reef,” Jink said. “Great to have this guy on your side.”
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Elliott exploded. “Haven’t any of you been listening to what was said in there?”
Reef, Jink and Bigger looked at him in stony silence. Only Scar nodded. “It doesn’t look good?” she asked.
“It never looked good, which is why I advised Reef to plead guilty.” A pager in Elliott’s pocket hummed, and the lawyer pulled it out, looked at the display and scowled. He clicked it off and returned it to his pocket. “The purpose of this hearing is to provide the judge with the relevant facts prior to sentencing. With eyewitness testimony like the kind we just heard, there was no defense. The best strategy was to admit the crime up front and hope for a lenient sentence.”
Bigger frowned. “You tell all your, clients to plead guilty?”
Elliott sighed. “This case was over the minute the details hit the papers. Why do you think this hearing was held so quickly?” He didn’t wait for a reply.
“Pressure from the public. People have zero tolerance for youth crime.”
“Some shit-hot lawyer you turned out to be,” Jink said.
Elliott shook his head wearily. “I guess you get what you pay for,” he said, his Legal Aid status reflected in his sarcasm. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a cellphone. “Look, I have a couple calls to make, Reef. I’ll see you back inside when this recess is over. Don’t keep the judge waiting.” He turned and headed back up the steps and into the courthouse.
No one said anything for a moment. Bigger looked down at his shoes, size fourteen Nikes he’d lifted from a store display at the Halifax Shopping Center. Jink had his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was checking for loose change. Reef stood motionless, staring at the courthouse as though seeing it for the first time, a tourist in downtown metro. Only Scar seemed capable of movement. She drifted over to Reef, stood in front of him as if waiting.
“Forget him,” Reef said. “This’ll all be over in a day or two.” He pulled a pack of Rothmans out of his shirt pocket and tapped out a cigarette, then offered the smokes to the others. Both Jink and Bigger took one. Scar did not. She watched as they lit up, the three glowing ends of their cigarettes like punctuation in the air.
