by Shawn Inmon
Jameson jumped out of his chair like his hair was on fire. “Objection. Your Honor, please. The defense is presenting evidence that was not entered into the court’s log.”
“Sustained. Mr. Belk, these theatrics may work elsewhere, but I advise you to follow my rules while you are in my court, or I will find you in contempt.”
As if astonished, Belk returned the necklaces to his pocket. He seemed to wink at the jury as he returned to his place at the table. “No more questions, Your Honor. The defense rests.”
The judge looked at the large clock at the back of the room. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is 3:45. You may retire to the jury room and elect a foreman. You are to consider only evidence heard in this courtroom over the last two days. If you haven’t reached a verdict by 5:00, you may return to your homes, in which case you must be back here at 10 AM tomorrow to reconvene.”
The jury stood and filed out. Thomas looked at Zack. “Okay, ready to head out?”
“Hell no! I think they’re gonna fry his ass, and I want to be here to see it.”
“They can't fry his ass, genius. We haven't had the death penalty for over ten years, so the most they can do is lock him up for life. They probably won’t come to any kind of a verdict today, then we’ll just be sitting here for another hour for nothing. How’s your leg?”
Zack shrugged. “It hurts, but you know what? I haven’t thought about that all day, and that’s more than I can say when I’m home laying on the couch.”
Gerald Copeland approached. Thomas stood. “Hello, Mr. Copeland.”
“Hello, Tommy. I’ve seen you here the last few days. I wanted to let you know I appreciate it. I know Carrie would have too.”
“Mr. Copeland, I’ve been meaning to stop by to talk to you. I…” Thomas looked at the front of the courtroom, where Michael was being led away. “I’ve felt guilty about what happened that night. If I had been there when I was supposed to, or if I hadn’t started things with Michael to begin with—“
“Stop.” Gently, but firmly. “Just stop. There’s nothing good down that road, and it doesn’t do either of us any good to think about it, although I have a hunch we’ve both lost a lot of sleep doing just that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, then. Just wanted to tell you that.” He turned and walked back to his seat, where he would have a perfect view of Michael if he were led in to hear the verdict.
At 4:55, while Thomas and Zack were getting restless, the bailiff came back in the room. “All rise.”
Judge Galvan entered. “Be seated.”
The jury filed silently back into their seats. The spectator section was nearly empty. Finally, the bailiffs led Michael Hollister back in. They escorted him to his seat amongst his defense team. His usual arrogance was gone. He looked tired and scared.
The judge banged his gavel. “Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
A matronly, grey-haired woman stood up. “We have, Your Honor.” She handed a slip of paper to a bailiff, who passed it up to the judge.
“Very well. I’ll read the verdict." Judge Galvan paused. “We the jury, in the case of The State of Oregon versus Michael Hollister, Case #736-452, find the defendant, Michael Hollister, guilty of murder in the second degree.”
Thomas looked from Michael Hollister to Gerald Copeland. Both hung their heads at that exact moment.
“Ho-lee shit,” Zack whispered. “They got him.”
Chapter Sixty
THOMAS WASN’T ABLE to attend Michael's sentencing hearing. At that moment the sentence was handed down, he was struggling through a Plane Geometry test. He read about it in the next day's paper: “Michael Jepson Hollister, 18, of Middle Falls, was sentenced to twenty-six years in prison for the killing of fifteen year old Carrie Copeland last May. He will serve his sentence at the Oregon State Prison in Salem.”
That’s it, then. I’ve done what I can to stop that maniac. I’m done with him. I can let him go.
Thomas dropped the paper into his lap. He thought back to the list he had written, laying on his bed, what felt like so long ago.
Don’t kill Zack. I got that one done.
Stop Michael from killing people. I failed that one, but I’ve made it as right as I can.
Help Carrie Copeland. She didn’t need any help, but she sure helped me, and I let her down.
Help Ben be who he really is. That was a joke. Ben will always be who he is. He’s my friend, now, and that’s all I could ever ask.
You’d think with a chance to do everything over, I could do better than that, but life is still life. It still happens when you’re not paying attention.
Postscript
July 4th, 1986
THOMAS WEAVER DROPPED a final six-pack of pop into the cooler as the doorbell rang. He jogged from the back yard through to the front of the house. “Got it, Mom!”
Ben and Simon were at the door. Ben was holding a Pyrex casserole dish covered in foil.
“Oh, it’s just you two.”
“A fine greeting for your oldest, dearest, and hippest best friends. Look, I brought a little culture into your intellectual wasteland.” Simon produced a CD, Madonna’s True Blue. “It just came out this week. You’re welcome.”
“No, I meant, you two know you don’t need to ring the doorbell. Oh, hell, never mind. You knew what I meant. Shannon will love the CD, Simon. She’s really into Madonna.” Ten years in, I still haven’t gotten used to oldies being new again. “Come on in. Ben, let’s put the casserole in the kitchen for right now. I’m just getting the barbecue fired up.”
On the way to the kitchen, Ben said, “We don’t mind just barging in on you in your place, but since your mom moved into the country club, we figured we’d better find our manners.”
“Come on outside. Zack and Jennifer and the girls should be here any second. Shannon just ran to the store to get more buns. Ben, maybe you can set up the badminton net while I get the burgers and dogs on the grill. Or would you rather do croquet?”
Ben looked at Simon, whose growth had topped out one inch below five feet. “How about croquet. Simon will have an advantage, since he can walk under the wickets.”
“Ass,” Simon said.
A hurricane of brown hair, pigtails, and bright holiday dresses blew through the front door. “Uncle Tommy, Uncle Tommy!”
Thomas bent down and scooped up Zack’s identical twin girls, Mindy and Mandy, both of whom were pleading high-pitched cases about how the other had cheated at Aggravation that morning. Thomas laughed and hugged them both. He then set them down, patted them both on their bottoms and said, “Scoot. Lunch will be ready in a few. I’ll bet Grandma has a copy of 101 Dalmatians all queued up and ready for you two.”
They ran off, still chattering, bouncing off their parents, ignoring the latter's commands to slow down. Zack was dressed in tan shorts, a polo shirt, and a Middle Falls Track & Field baseball hat. If a few pounds heavier than when he established the school's still-standing record time in the 880, Zack looked every bit the young PE teacher and track coach he was. Jennifer, belly slightly swollen with baby #3, hugged Thomas. “Where’s your mom?”
“She and Paul were in the garage, trying to find the briquettes so I can get this barbecue underway.”
“And here we are, right on schedule,” Anne said. Ten years older, yes, but lovelier than ever. She and Paul Taylor, an ER doctor from the hospital, had been married for five years and it obviously agreed with her.
Paul, ten years older than Anne but in better shape than Thomas would ever be, handed the charcoal to Thomas. “I think my job here is done. It’s all yours now, Thomas.”
“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said. He spread the briquettes out in a heap, sprayed lighter fluid all over them, and tossing in a match. The fluid whooshed into flame. “And now, we wait.”
“Seems like I’m always waiting on you, Thomas.” Shannon emerged onto the patio, carrying a paper bag filled with hot dog and hamburger buns. She kissed Thomas l
ightly, then hugged Anne. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
“My fault. I forgot the buns.”
“Beer and pop are in the cooler," Thomas said. "What’s everybody want?”
Thomas acted as bartender, delivering wine coolers to Anne and Shannon, a sparkling water to Jennifer, and Rainier beer bottles to Paul, Simon, and Ben.
Thomas pointed to Zack’s cap. “How’s the team shaping up for next year, Coach?”
“Not bad. We’re not going to set the world on fire, but we shouldn’t embarrass ourselves. What I could really use is a couple of young Zack Weavers.”
“There are times I could use a young Zack Weaver,” Jennifer said.
Everyone laughed. “Looks like you've found someone who can keep you in line, brother," said Thomas.
“That,” said Zack, “is not a problem.”
Thomas grabbed a Coke from the cooler, then sat down with everyone else around the patio. He heard the happy chatter of his nieces from inside the house. Anne and Paul sat close together in the shade of the umbrella. Zack and Jennifer were whispering something to each other and giggling. Ben and Simon were in the yard, pushing the last of the wickets in for croquet. Simon swung his mallet mightily, shooting his ball off the grass and skittering across the patio to land in the pool. "It's not golf. Can't you tell the difference?" asked Ben through gales of laughter.
"There's that cunning legal mind at work, drawing unimportant distinctions," said Simon. He was trying to fish the croquet ball out with a pool skimmer net, not very successfully.
Thomas looked at Shannon and smiled. It’s so tough, dating someone when you know you’re probably forty years older than they are. It’s getting a little less weird the longer I’m here, and the older I get, though. The question is, how do I marry someone who doesn’t know the truth about me? What do I do when I don’t know any way to convince her of the truth? “I know, Shannon, it sounds crazy, but ask my Mom. She’ll vouch for me.” I don’t think that will fly.
Well, a problem for a different day. For now, this is good.
No. That’s not right. Not just for now. For any time, this is good.
Postscript Two
August, 1977
MICHAEL HOLLISTER PUSHED his face against the bars of his cell. He was alone for a moment, a brief reprieve in an existence he could never have imagined. Beatings. Rape in its many varieties. More beatings. More rapes. An endless cycle of horror and ignominy. He wasn’t strong enough to fight off even a single hardened thug, much less a pack of them. The inmates of C Block found such a fresh young prisoner an unusual treat to groom.
Michael removed the sheet from his bed and twisted it. If he missed this opportunity, they would put him on suicide watch. That might make this much harder.
Now that the moment was here, he didn’t consider whether or not he really wanted to end his life. It was all he had thought about since his arrival, weeks ago. It had gotten him through ongoing cycles of physical and sexual assault, and now came his chance. He twisted the other end of the sheet, fixing it around the metal rung at the top of the bunk. There was nowhere to tie it at ceiling height, so he had to make do—and to make haste.
He tied the other end around his throat, paused for just a moment to remember the feeling of his hands around Carrie Copeland’s neck, and smiled for the last time. He jumped slightly and let himself fall, hoping to break his neck.
It did not. The sheet tightened and choked him. His bare feet beat a staccato tattoo against the concrete floor. His last thought before consciousness deserted him was, “Will this never end?”
Eventually it did.
Postscript Three
1963
MICHAEL HOLLISTER OPENED his eyes.
His childhood room was mostly dark, but he recognized it even so. He held his hand in front of his face. His long, thin fingers were gone, replaced by short, slightly chubby ones. He pushed his tongue forward and found his front teeth missing. He tried to get out of bed, but fell face first to the floor. It was much further down than he had anticipated. His bed seemed enormous.
He crept down the hall to where he remembered the bathroom was, closing the door behind him. He flicked on the light and blinked back the brightness. When his vision cleared, he gazed into the bathroom mirror.
Michael looked into his own childish face.
Now available:
The Redemption of Michael Hollister
Author’s Note
Some stories come from an author’s imagination. Some come from our lives. The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver came from both. In 2014, I released my Rock ‘n Roll Fantasy, Rock ‘n Roll Heaven, and I was trying to decide on my next project. I always have a number of ideas bubbling just under the surface, waiting their turn to make it onto the page.
I thought of my wife, Dawn, whom I had loved since I was fifteen years old. We had been separated in 1979 and didn’t really see each other again for thirty years. I thought back on our early years and wondered, “If I could go back and do it all again, what would I do differently? Could I find a way to change things so that we were never separated all those years?”
That was the beginning. I took this small wisp of an idea to Jonathan Kelley, who I fondly call my Editor For Life. To say he was not thrilled with the idea of me writing a third book about Dawn and I (Feels Like the First Time and Both Sides Now being the first two) is a vast understatement. He did everything he could to throw his body on the grenade that was that idea. I respect Jonathan’s opinion, so I put the idea to rest for a few months.
Eventually, I thought of writing about my sister and nephew, who were never far from my thoughts. They had died within a few days of each other in late 2008. I knew that someday I wanted to write about them. My nephew, also Thomas, had died of alcohol abuse. His mother, my sister Terri, had died of a heart attack two days later. They were my two closest confidants. When they died, I was bereft. The idea that I could write a book about them and spend a year or so living with them again was intoxicating.
I knew the things that had caused my Tommy to turn to alcohol, but those were his reasons, and I wanted to leave them with him. I knew I needed something else. I turned to another piece of family history for the inciting incident of the book. When I was very young, I had two cousins, Carl and Eric. Carl was much like Zack Weaver—bright, athletic, a golden child. Eric grew up a bit in Carl’s shadow. I loved them both.
In the early sixties, they went skiing. On the way home, for reasons I never knew, Carl asked Eric to drive them down the mountain. Eric was quite a few years younger than Carl. I don’t know if he even had his full driver’s license. On the trip home, there was an accident. Carl died, Eric lived. Eric was haunted by that accident for the rest of his life.
Ultimately, I combined these two bits of family history, fictionalized them, and The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver was born.
Of course, Michael Hollister is a completely fictional character. As far as I know, I have no serial killers among my friends and acquaintances.
It’s been a wonderful experience, spending time with Thomas and Anne, echoes of Terri and Tommy. In many ways, I am sad that it is over. Thus, the short tease at the end of the book that will eventually be the beginning of a new book also set in Middle Falls, Oregon: The Redemption of Michael Hollister. At some point, I also look forward to telling additional stories in this world. I’d like to know what happened to Emillion/Emily after she was recycled, and Simon is a character who is fascinating to me, even though he is just a small player in this story.
If you enjoyed this story and would like to know when more Middle Falls stories are available, I would love it if you would join my New Release Alert List by clicking here. If you join, I’ll send you an ebook copy of Rock ‘n Roll Heaven absolutely free, no strings attached. Of course, I value your privacy as I value my own, and I will never sell or give away your email address.
Writing a book is very much a team effort.
As I mentioned earlier, Jona
than Kelley served as both developmental and substantive editor. That means that we discussed the book in advance, dissected each plot turn and character development and generally vetted the book before I even wrote it. Then, once I did write it, he took my prose and made me look like a better writer than I am. I will never ask for more than that. He is also my friend, and I thank him sincerely for his literary lessons, guidance, and invaluable advice.
The haunting cover for the book was designed by Maria Novillo Saravia of beauteBOOK. She took a small idea I had—the face of a young boy in transition to represent Thomas Weaver—and presented me with this cover. I loved it instantly. Maria also designed the new covers for Feels Like the First Time and Both Sides Now. She is an incredibly talented artist, and I know I am fortunate to work with her.
Prior to being released as a novel, I released Thomas Weaver as a six-part serial. The covers for those serial episodes were designed by Linda Boulanger of TreasureLine Books. Those covers were also wonderful and managed to catch the dichotomy of a fifty-four year old man living in a teenage body. I’ve been working with Linda since my very first book and look forward to creating many more projects with her.
Debra Galvan has served as my proofreader for my last few projects, and I never cease to be amazed by her work. She is thorough, sharp-eyed, and works so quickly that I honestly don’t know how she does it. Thank you, Deb!
I had a number of early readers on this book. My monthly writer’s group, including John Draper, Dianne Bunnell, and Dan Post, gave me many helpful suggestions and helped me shape this into the book it became. Likewise, the Meet and Critique group led by Michel King was exceptionally helpful in shaping the early chapters of the book. In addition to my groups, I need to thank my individual alpha readers: Zack Lester, my cousin Gene Inmon, Karen Lichtenwalter, Laura Heilman and my long-time friend Jeff Hunter. Many thanks to all of you for helping me knock off the rough edges of the story.
