My Beloved Michael (UC, ALL, MATURE) [COMPLETE]

[Midwest Max]

Hey everyone. Thanks for your patience - it's been a hectic week for me. I will answer fb later - I'm on my way out the door to take my Jeep in for maintenance.


Part Ten

Exhaustion finally claims Max around daybreak. I had offered that he could sleep in my bed or Michael’s but he’d refused, saying he didn’t want to impose and that he’d never be able to get to sleep anyway. That was ten minutes before he slumped onto the couch and fell sound asleep. As for imposing, how can he even consider that he is?

I don’t think I could sleep. I feel like I’ve already lost a day and I’m too nerve-racked to even think about relaxing enough to fall asleep. So I sit in the chair, watching my brother do so instead. He sleeps flat on his back, one leg bent at the knee, one arm cast over his head. I muse that even in slumber, his brow is slightly furrowed, a little too serious. My intense brother.

Watching Max sleep becomes mundane, so I move about the apartment quietly, feeling the need to straighten up since we now have a guest. True, it’s just Max, who can be a slob in his own right, but I still want the place to be presentable. I pick up the dried, bloody washcloth by the corner and fling it into the garbage – no way am I even trying to clean that thing.

In the bathroom, I find more blood, in the sink and on the rim of the toilet seat. I quickly use my powers to clean it away, then scour both fixtures with some bleach-based bathroom cleaner. I tidy up the rest of the room, then move on down the hallway.

Something in Michael’s doorway catches my eye and I stop in curiosity. Upon closer examination, I see that it’s the shirt he was wearing the night he came to pick me up at the soup kitchen. Odd that it’s lying there half in the hallway. When I pick it up, I see why – a flash comes back to me, of Michael holding something against my face in the cab, something that smelled familiar. It was his shirt. I feel uncontrollable tears leap to my eyes. I was so out of it after Robert’s attack, so woozy from loss of blood and possibly a concussion – the only thing that made me feel safe was the scent of this shirt, so close to me.

Whereas I threw out the washcloth, I will do my damnedest to fix this for Michael. I use my powers to remove as much blood as I can, then I put it in a bucket with some cold water and laundry soap. Hopefully the stain hasn’t set in permanently.

With the shirt soaking, I return to the living room and wad myself into the easy chair. Max is still sleeping in the same position, so I guess my cleaning didn’t disturb him. He still looks serious, too. Maybe he’s dreaming of what’s to come, of going to the courthouse for Michael’s bond hearing this afternoon at one o’clock. Of course, I could walk into his head and find out, but dreamwalking carries its demons as well – I would hate to stumble upon one of my brother’s less-than-innocent fantasies. That’s enough to put someone into therapy for a good long time.

I try to tell myself that soon this will all be over. Max will go to the hearing and post Michael’s bail and then he can come home where he belongs. Max will stay for a couple of days and all will be well.

But I know it won’t be that easy. Robert has relatives imbedded in every branch of public service in this city. Michael has no one.

No one except for me and Max.

Absently, a run my fingers over my cheek, which feels as smooth and healthy as it did two days ago. But just one day ago, it was a gaping wound, inviting infection and permanent scarring openly. If it weren’t for Max, I’d still be bleeding…

A horrible thought crashes through me. All evidence of Robert’s attack is gone! If Michael told the authorities he beat Robert in defense of me, they’re going to see that nothing is wrong with me! Panicked, I sit up quickly, surveying the rest of my body for any noticeable bruises or abrasions. There aren’t any. Damn my brother and his flawless abilities!

I’m examining my belly when something in the room shifts; it takes me a moment to realize that it’s the rhythm of Max’s breathing. He’s awake, looking at me curiously.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“We did a terrible thing,” I tell him dropping my shirt back over my stomach.

“We did?” His eyebrows rise comically.

I jab a finger into my cheek. “This, Max.”

He blinks a couple of times, twists his fists against his eyes, then struggles to sit up. He looks horrible – there are bags under his eyes and the whites are tinted with red. “I don’t understand,” he admits.

“We destroyed evidence,” I tell him.

“Evidence?”

“Who’s going to believe that Robert attacked me?” My voice cracks. “Who’s going to believe Michael hurt him in defense of me?”

Max teepees his fingers together. “Isabel, I don’t think anyone believes Michael beat Robert in self defense.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think Michael has even offered a defense. From what I gathered, it’s not like someone stumbled across them and saw them fighting. Michael apparently got away clean, but was apprehended later after Robert fingered him.”

My brow furrows. “Apprehended? Where?”

Max works his mouth. “Here,” he replies quietly.

“Here?” Surely I would have remembered that, even if I was injured. And surely any police officer in my apartment would have realized that I was hurting and in need of medical attention. “Max, that can’t be. I would have known about it.”

“He never made it upstairs, Iz.”

I swallow hard, waiting for the rest of the story.

“He made it all of the way back here, had just walked to the top of the hill when the police pulled up and cuffed him.”

I feel the unwelcome sting of tears behind my eyes. So close to safety. So close to an alibi.

Max laughs ironically. “He thought he was lucky.”

“Lucky how?”

“That they weren’t a few minutes later. Then he would have been up here, with you. Then he would have had to let them take you to a hospital and he knew there was no one to cover up the evidence of what we are. He knew that you’d be captured or worse. He was grateful, Iz.”

That simply breaks my heart. I bite my bottom lip and look away from Max, tears stinging my eyes. Maybe he was right – maybe Michael is no stranger to being behind bars and it didn’t seem such a big deal to put himself there to protect me in more ways than one. I’m sure he could have eluded the cops if he wanted to. It would have been easy enough to slip into the shadows, but he let them take him, diverting their attention away from me. Michael’s got a tough shell, but beneath it all is a true softie who would sacrifice himself at the drop of a hat.

“Isabel.”

I look to Max, who has risen.

“I’m going to do everything I can.”

“I know,” I say, offering him a weak smile. “I know you will, Max.”

He retreats down the hallway to take a shower. He reappears a half hour later, freshly shaven, dressed in crisp dress slacks and a white button-down shirt. As he sits down to put on his shoes, I study him hopefully.

“Max, I want to come,” I announce.

He stuffs one shoe onto his foot and shakes his head as he ties it. “He doesn’t want you to come, Iz.” There’s no malice in his tone, he’s just stating a fact.

“After what he did for me, I can’t just ignore the situation.”

“You’re not ignoring it. Or him.” On to the next shoe. “Just let me bail him out, then I’ll bring him back here and we can decide what to do.”

I fight with myself, debating whether that’s an acceptable compromise. When Max rights himself, I see sympathy in his eyes.

“Okay,” I say. “The three of us will decide.”

Just like old times. Just me, Max and Michael, in a pickle and trying to find our way out of it.

Max leaves and I think about all of the times that Michael ended up behind bars. There was the time that he broke into the UFO Center. Then the time that Hank went missing. That guy never did show up, so God knows where he ended up. Of course, there was the whole thing with Agent Pierce’s body being found in the desert, found by Grant Sorrenson. I wasn’t sure we were going to get out of that one, but we did. And the last time Michael was incarcerated was in Vegas, after picking a fight in a casino.

That’s a pretty hefty rap sheet, accumulated over a short period of time. I’m glad Michael has grown out of his angry stage, that he was a very young man when all of that happened. I frown. In light of recent events, am I kidding myself that he’s grown out of his anger?

I busy myself with getting something ready for dinner. I’m sure jailhouse food isn’t the best and when they get home, we’ll need to have a little celebration. Oh, I know that Michael won’t be out of the woods entirely, but at least he’ll be here, safe in our home.

I watch the clock move slowly. One o’clock comes and goes and I start to feel a little anxious. Two o’clock passes as well and I tell myself that just because Michael had a bail hearing at one doesn’t mean the court wasn’t behind schedule. Then I argue that the one o’clock hearing is probably the first after lunch and probably wouldn’t run late. I feel sick, then I convince myself that the delay could be caused by Max needing to go get more money or something. And surely there must be paperwork to file.

A little after three, I hear the front door open and I jump to my feet, my heart leaping with excitement. As soon as Michael walks through that door, I’m going to throw my arms around him and squeeze him so tight! I hear footsteps on the stairs, so I know that it’s Max and Michael and not just Heidi returning to her apartment. As the sound grows louder, a pull open the door.

Max looks like he’s about to tell me my puppy was hit by a car. I quickly look past his shoulder, but there’s no one there. There’s also silence on the steps, so it’s not like Michael’s straggling way behind.

“Max?” I question, my heart falling with a thud. “Where’s Michael?”

My brother’s expression is one of anger, regret and apology. “I’m sorry, Iz. The judge denied him bond.”

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Will post comments later - on my way to a baby shower.


Part Eleven

No, no, no, no, no! This isn’t happening!

“What happened?” I bark at Max. “What did you do wrong?”

Max blinks, then clears his throat. “Can I come in? I don’t want to have this conversation in the hall.”

I hadn’t realized I was still blocking his path. I step out of the way, then close the door behind him. Inside, I’m seething. And scared. I cross my arms over my chest and await an explanation. My brother takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair and he simply doesn’t answer me fast enough.

“What did you do wrong, Max?” I repeat.

He turns around with a sigh, defeat behind his eyes. “I didn’t do anything, Isabel. I already told you that I can’t represent Michael in this. It was all up to his attorney.”

My brow furrows. “Attorney? Where did he get an attorney?” After all, Michael can barely afford to pay his half of the rent.

“The court appointed one to him,” Max replies levelly.

“What?!” I drop my arms and approach him, meet him eye to eye. “You left Michael’s fate to a court-appointed attorney?!”

“Isabel, calm down.” His voice is soft, like he’s trying to soothe a wounded animal. It only inflames my panic more.

“Calm down! How can I calm down! How can I –” My words cut off in my throat as I begin to hyperventilate. Another wave of panic races through my body. I can’t breathe!

Max’s dark eyes grow round as my vision starts to blur. Hurriedly, he puts a hand on my arm and helps me to sit down. I immediately double over, putting my head between my knees so that I don’t pass out. Max rubs my back in slow circles, trying to comfort me.

“Deep breaths,” he says softly close to my ear. “Nice and steady. That’s it. Just relax.”

I follow his instructions, knowing that I’m about two inches from losing my mind. I draw in deep, cleansing breaths, feel my muscles start to relax and the tension in my chest abate. Finally, I sit up and wipe my eyes clear – I hadn’t realized I was crying.

“You okay?” Max asks softly.

I nod, feeling stupid. And ungrateful. And bitchy. “I’m sorry, Max,” I manage, swallowing away my hysteria.

“It’s okay.” He smiles, always willing to forgive. “I did the same thing in the court room – caused quite a scene.”

I look at him incredulously for a moment, then snort a laugh. The mental picture of that alone is ridiculous. Then I let out a sigh and ask him to explain in a more civil tone. “What happened?”

“His bond was denied based on the severity of the offense and his prior record.”

My brow furrows. I get that beating someone into a coma is not a good thing. But -? “What prior offense?” I ask.

Max cocks his head as if to say, “Do I really need to list them?”

“But he was a minor when those things happened,” I protest.

Max shakes his head slowly. “Not when we were arrested in Vegas. Not when Pierce’s bones were found. He was legally an adult, Iz.”

My heart sinks. The only reason Michael was an adult was due to the fact that Hank was such a prick to him. The only way Michael could avoid being shuffled back into the system was to proclaim himself an adult. Because the Evanses found me and Max and not Michael, he is now behind bars.

“But he was never fully charged with Pierce’s murder,” I offer as a weak last defense.

“It doesn’t matter,” Max explains quietly. “He was still detained on suspicion of murder. Then he displayed publicly his propensity for violence in that casino – the DA’s words, not mine. Given how badly Robert was injured, and the history of violence on Michael’s record, the judge denied him.” He works his mouth. “I’m sorry, Iz. There wasn’t anything I could do.”

“I know,” I reply glumly, looking to the carpet. “So, is that it? We can do nothing? That can’t be it, Max. There has to be something we can do.”

“I’m going to call Dad,” he announces. “Maybe he knows someone in California that can help. We’re not going to let Michael go so easily.”

I frown. Our parents love Michael – they gave him what nurturing they could when he came to our house seeking shelter from his foster father. They know about his struggles with the law. I’m sure they thought he’d straightened himself out and it’s going to disappoint them to no end to find out what he did.

“I have to tell you something,” I say to Max.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not sure we can win this one.” I can’t look at him as I tell him this. “Robert has a relative in every branch of public service in this city – actually, more than one relative. A bunch of brothers, his father, generations worth of relatives. If they want to bury Michael, they can.”

Silence finally prompts me to look at Max. He appears very sullen.

“A conspiracy,” he says.

I nod. “And depending how deeply their reach goes, it might be impossible to get Michael out.” There’s a lump in my throat and I have to will myself not to cry.

“Well, I’m not too keen on that kind of corruption,” Max says, flicking some lint from his pants. “I’m not going to let that deter us.” There’s finality in his tone and he moves on to the next subject. “What smells good? Did you make dinner?”

I nod. I’m not hungry in the slightest. “There’s some pasta and fresh bread, salad in the refrigerator.”

Max stands and goes to the cupboard, takes out some plates. “You’re joining me, right?”

I shake my head, but find a plate of food before me anyway.

After dinner, I decide to do my shift at the soup kitchen. I can’t help Michael tonight by sitting on my couch, but I can help others. And it will take my mind off the mess we’re in. Max doesn’t want to stay home, either, so he goes with me.

Eva meets me at the door, all big eyes and big nose. “What happened!” she demands, her voice a conspiratorially loud whisper.

I’m still dealing with being in the alley, where the attack happened. There’s a memory just at the corner of my mind that I can’t quite get my fingers on and it’s troubling me.

“There were cops here,” Eva continues. “Asking all kinds of questions about – well, hello! Who’s this?” Her tone does an abrupt one-eighty, falling into flirtatiousness as she spies Max.

“My brother,” I say, wishing she’d move so we could enter.

“Your brother,” she repeats, grinning coquettishly. “I’m Eva, what’s your name?” She holds out her hand, like he’s expected to kiss it or something.

I reach down and yank up Max’s left hand. “This is Max. He’s married, has two kids and is baking another one.”

Eva’s face falls and she scurries away.

Max lifts an eyebrow in my direction, puzzled at my rudeness.

“You’ll see,” I tell him. “It’s the only way to deal with her.”

He gives a shrug. “Okay. Where do I start?”

“You can help clean and set up the tables,” I instruct, motioning to the dining area. “There is a clean roll of those plastic banquet table cloths in the closet over there, as well as cleaning supplies. Twelve chairs to each side of the table.”

Max nods, sheds his coat, rolls up his sleeves and sets about his work.

In the kitchen, I find Eva vigorously scrubbing a pot. I feel a twinge of guilt for having yelled at her.

“What were you trying to tell me?” I ask her. “Who was here?”

She stops, pushes her glasses up her nose. “The police were here, asking a bunch of questions about Robert and your friend.”

“Michael?” I tie my apron around my waist.

She nods, then motions toward Max. “Where is he, anyway – your room mate?”

“He’s in jail,” I sigh.

Eva’s dark eyebrows shoot up. “No kidding.”

“No kidding.” For some reason, I don’t want to tell her about what happened in the alley. And it’s not because she’s nosey, there’s just something at the back of my head telling me to keep my mouth shut.

“What happened?” she questions when I don’t reply.

“I don’t really know. I just heard that Robert’s in the hospital and now my roomie is in jail. I haven’t talked to him to get his side of it.”

“Wow. I wonder what happened.”

“I guess it will all come out eventually.”

I busy myself making the soup and warming the rolls. Some nights we don’t have time to warm the bread, but I want to make time to do that tonight. I want to do something nice for someone because maybe it will make me feel better about things I can’t make nice.

“Isabel, who’s that girl?” Max’s voice, behind me, amused.

I straighten from the oven. “What girl?”

He points into the dining room, where that little goth chick is rolling out table cloths. I’d totally forgotten about her.

“Oh, that’s…” My brow furrows. For some reason, I can’t remember her name. It comes back to me in a snap. “Bethany! Her name is Bethany.”

Max looks over his shoulder, watches the girl, then gives me an amused grin. “She just walked in and started helping like she knew who I was or expected me to know who she was.”

“She’s harmless,” I assure him. A little odd, but harmless.

“I assumed she was harmless,” he tacks on. “I just found it funny.”

Max returns to the dining area and I move on to the stove, stir the large pot of brew. After a few moments of watching the carrots swirl to the top of the broth, I look out of the kitchen window and watch Max and Bethany set the tables together.

For one moment, I’m taken back, as if in a loop of déjà vu. There’s something familiar about seeing the two of them together, but I can’t put my finger on it. Suddenly Bethany’s assumption that they already know one another doesn’t seem so far-fetched. But it is ridiculous – as far as I know (and judging from Max’s reaction to her) they’ve never laid eyes on one another until tonight. The hairs on my neck stand up, but I ignore them – déjà vu is supposed to give you the creeps and isn’t supposed to make sense.

I return to the pot, stirring the soup and think about what Michael might be eating tonight. I hope it’s better than this, I hope he’s even eating at all. I had intended to have a nice dinner with him tonight, and now I don’t know when I will ever have another meal with him. Maybe never.

Frowning, I glance at Max, who is fumbling with the roll of plastic, much to Bethany’s delight. I don’t care what he says about Michael not wanting to see me – I’m going there tomorrow, regardless.

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Hey everyone! Here's the new part. Not sure it turned out the way I wanted it to I know I owe fb responses and I will try to get to that this weekend.


Warning: Contains suicide references.

Part Twelve

I can’t find Max.

I’ve been here before, I know it. I run through the halls, turning corner after corner, calling for my brother. I know he’s here. I know when I find him, it’s going to be horrific. But I can’t stop my feet from moving, from reaching my destination.

As predicted, I find him alone, dressed in hospital scrubs, facing a darkened window. I know what’s coming.

“Please, Max,” I beg, my voice sounding far-away, like it belongs to someone else. “Don’t do it this time.”

My body shudders as I start to sob. Max rotates slowly from the window. Only this time, there is no Alex to act as antagonist. This time, Max already has the razor in his hand, poised over the artery in his wrist.

“Not this time,” I plead. “Please, Max, don’t hurt yourself this time.”

“Let me go, Isabel.” His voice is flat, monotone.

“I can’t let you go, Max. Please put down the razor.”

His clothes transform from the scrubs to the remnants of the suit he wore to Liz’s funeral. Panic flares within – my time is running out!

“Stay here with me,” I offer, trying to move forward but stuck in one spot.

“I don’t want to,” he replies, his tone dead. “I want to die.”

Before I can utter another word, the blade flashes and blood spurts from the wound in his wrist. A maniacal grin twists his features and I immediately try to back pedal. I can’t do that either and I’m trapped here, dodging the spray of blood. The blade swipes again and his other wrist is cut. At that, he lets out a laugh, a cruel, taunting laugh. I see bones and skulls and he’s no longer Max. He’s a demon, consuming my brother, taking him to an early grave –

Something punctures my ear, something so piercing that I gasp in pain. I pant, trying to catch my breath, trying to calm the frantic thumping of my heart. My blood is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can barely detect another sound – footsteps in the hallway. I think I must have screamed.

And from the look on Max’s face, I know I did. Immediately, he’s beside me, my worried, protective brother. His hair is disheveled from sleeping on the couch, and even though there are bags under his eyes, he’s wide-eyed nonetheless.

“What happened?” he asks, his words hurried and breathless.

In the pale moonlight, he seems but a ghost. In my mind, I relive tonight’s nightmare and the ones that have preceded it. I’m haunted by those things that chase me in the dark - things in alleyways that aren’t really there, see things in bathroom mirrors that don’t exist. Ghosts, all of them.

It’s too much and I start to cry. I pull my knees up to my chin, bury my head against my legs and there is nothing I can do to stop the tide. I feel so much energy draining out of me with every tear, like my entire being is dissolving. Everything seems to cease to exist and nothing is real anymore – not this room, not this bed, not my brother trying desperately to comfort me.

“Please, Iz,” a soft voice against my ear. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I pull my head up if for no other reason than to affirm that I’m still here in this world, that Max is real. “Why did you do it?” I ask. My words make perfect sense to me, but I wonder if I mumbled or something because Max looks confused.

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

“Why?” I sputter. “Everyone loves you, Max. Why did you do it?”

He blinks a couple of times, then realization fills his eyes. I see pain and remorse and guilt there, as his posture deflates slightly.

“Why did you do it?” I repeat, my eyes filling with tears again.

“Isabel…” He’s struggling for words. I supposed that his suicide attempt was so many years ago that he’s put it behind him, even though the scars remain to this day.

“You had a perfect life,” I continue, no control over what is coming out of my mouth. “You were young and attractive and smart. You had people who cared so much about you, Max. People who would have willingly taken your pain for you. But you wouldn’t let anyone help you. You wouldn’t let me help you. And I-” My voice catches in my throat. “And I couldn’t stop you.”

Another wave of tears flood from my eyes, my throat feeling dry and constricted.

“Isabel,” Max says again, his voice sounding like it’s about to crack.

“I couldn’t stop you!” I repeat. “And I couldn’t stop Alex from dying either! It’s because of me that he’s dead and that you were almost dead. It’s because of me that Michael almost died – and now he’s in prison!”

I bury my head in my knees again, sobbing so loudly that I can’t hear what Max is saying. I hear his voice, but not his words. My emotions pull a rotten trick on me and assault me all at once – I feel anger and pain and guilt and blame all at once. So many bad things have happened because of me. So many people have been hurt. Alex is dead.

I’m a horrible person.

Max’s arms are around me, holding me tightly, rocking me. He feels warm, alive, healthy. This is not the man I knew seven years ago, the man who tried to drain away his life. I can only rationalize that he recovered only after blocking me out of his life.

I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually my tears fade and I’m left feeling empty and exposed. Max pulls back and brushes my hair away from my face. Always the gentle soul, he retrieves a Kleenex from my nightstand and wipes away my tears, then gets another tissue and hands it to me for my nose. While I do that, he touches my hair, his expression one of sympathy and apology.

“Are you okay now?” he asks quietly.

I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and sniffle, look away from him as I nod.

He pauses, looks to the comforter, then takes my hand in his. “Isabel,” he begins. “You know I love you, right?”

I look at him expectantly.

“You’re my big sister,” he says with a small smile. “How could I not love you?” He falls serious, letting out a tired sigh. “There’s nothing you could have done, Isabel.” He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

I won’t buy that. “I should have seen it coming. I should have intervened.”

“You couldn’t have seen it coming – I was grieving over Liz. My demeanor was natural to anyone who had lost a spouse. To the outside world, I’m sure that I seemed like any other grieving husband.”

“But I should have –”

He puts a gentle finger to my lips. “No, Isabel, you shouldn’t have done anything or foreseen anything. And you couldn’t have stopped me. I would have found a way.” He looks down at his wrist for a moment, like a man objectively examining a rock he’s found at the beach. “I can’t explain to you how I felt inside. There was so much pain and so much emptiness. I knew where Liz was and all I wanted was to be with her. Forever. I know it sounds stupid now, but at the time I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was an end to my grief, a quick out. And I took it.”

His blatant honesty is humbling.

Max tilts his head slightly to the side. “I get the feeling this has been bothering you for a long time.”

Haunting, is more like it.

“Don’t torment yourself, Iz. You aren’t responsible for my actions, no more than you’re responsible for Michael’s or Alex’s.”

At the mention of Alex’s name, I withdraw slightly. I did mention him, didn’t I?

“Why do you think you’re responsible for Alex’s death?” Max asks carefully.

Ugh, I don’t want to talk about this. Max was there – he should remember. “Because if I hadn’t called him to meet me at the Crashdown, he never would have been in that car accident.”

Max’s eyebrows pop up in surprise, then back down again. He looks at his hands again, like he’s searching for words. “Isabel…Alex didn’t die in that car crash.”

What? Is he trying to tell me Alex has been alive all these years without my knowing it?!

“You already know that,” he says apologetically. “He was already dead when Tess…”

He can’t finish the sentence and I’d rather he didn’t anyway.

“But I should have seen that there was something wrong with him,” I protest weakly.

Max shakes his head. “None of us saw what was happening to him. If anyone is to blame, all of us are to blame. And I don’t believe any of us are.”

That’s too easy. It’s too easy to let everyone off the hook like that, award them blanket amnesty.

Max sighs. “As for Michael, it wasn’t your fault that he wrecked his motorcycle. I know you two had a fight or something right before it happened, but he was reckless, Iz. You didn’t make him get on that bike while he was angry, you didn’t make him not wear a helmet, you didn’t make him go that fast. Those were all his actions. As for being in jail…” His voice trails off, like he’s considering maybe that is my fault.

I fill in the blank for him. “He’s in jail because of me.”

“No, he’s in jail because of him. He sought out Robert and assaulted him. You didn’t tell him to or ask him to. He did it all on his own. In case you’ve forgotten, Michael has a mind of his own – and he’s not afraid to use it.” He says the last with a lopsided grin.

I snort a weak laugh. Michael might seem blue-collar and uneducated to the rest of the world, but I know that he has a beautiful mind.

Max is serious again. “You can’t carry this kind of guilt, Isabel. It’s going to ruin you if you do.”

I feel my bottom lip start to quiver and force back my tears.

“I see the good things you do,” he continues. “Those people tonight that you helped feed – who else was going to feed them? I saw how short-staffed that place is. And when you lived in Roswell – how many old ladies did you help just by being there to show interest in their lives or to hold their hand when their pet died? You’re a wonderful, beautiful person, Isabel. Don’t let anything ruin that.”

I hang my head, the tears falling silently this time.

Max doesn’t crowd me – he puts an arm around my shoulder and kisses the side of my head. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he says softly, then he rises and leaves my room.

I don’t fall back to sleep even though I’m so tired my muscles are quivering. Instead, I lie atop my covers and watch the room start to lighten with the rising sun. I think Max must have fallen back to sleep because I don’t hear any movement from the living room.

I think about what he said to me, about my being unable to stop any of the tragedies in my life. While guilt is no fun to live with, being powerless is a cold comfort. Which is worse – to have the power and not recognize the opportunity to use it, or recognizing the opportunity and not possessing the power?

Stealthily, I rise and get dressed. One wave of the hand takes away the puffiness under my eyes and I look somewhat presentable. I silently retrieve my purse and pick up my shoes – I’ll put them on when I get downstairs. As I pass the kitchen, I long for coffee, but I know the sound and smell would definitely rouse my brother. I’ll stop at Starbucks.

Max is sleeping on the couch. On the coffee table, I spy his wallet opened and standing up like a picture frame. Even from the doorway, I can make out the reason he opened the billfold – a picture of Maria and his kids faces him. I feel a tug inside just knowing that he’s separated from them to be here with me and Michael.

I vow to get Michael out of this, so that he can come home and Max can go home. I’m on my way to the jailhouse, slipping out the front door to go exactly where Michael asked me not to.

tbc

[Midwest Max]

This part is a little shorter, but it seemed like the right place to end the chapter.


Part Thirteen

I should have skipped Starbuck’s.

Now that I’m here at the jail, my stomach is doing all kinds of flip-flops and I get the feeling my latte is about to be ejected. It’s not that I’m nervous – which I am – but there’s something else going on in there. I’m terrified to be here and my heart breaks to think of Michael being incarcerated, but ever since it truly sank in that I get to see him I’ve felt almost…excited.

I can’t explain it.

The deputy at the desk is nice enough, in a penal kind of way. He even manages to get a female guard to frisk me before letting me in. But I’m still not comfortable. I feel like my skin is crawling. I feel like everyone is looking at me like I’m guilty, though I have no idea why they would think that. Guilt by association perhaps? Or do they know that Michael committed his crime in defense of me? Once I leave for the jail area, will they talk about me behind my back, gossiping about the woman who brought Michael to ruin?

As I get onto the elevator that will take me to the seventh floor of the complex, I muse that the officers’ reaction is probably quite the opposite – I’m sure they see this kind of thing every day. Sadly enough, what Michael did is probably mild to them.

Then again, Michael beat one of their own and that can’t in any way make him mild in their eyes.

Can this elevator move any slower? My knees feel weak, my palms have started to sweat, and being trapped in this slow-moving box is only heightening my anxiety. Top that off with the fact that I have no idea what awaits me once the doors open and I’m about thirty seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.

The elevator does eventually stop and the doors creak as they slide apart. The facility is military-base clean, but it’s old, in need of a new coat of paint. I don’t suppose the city wastes money on sprucing up the place for the people who end up here. Outside of the elevator, there is a very short hallway and then a set of iron bars. Biting back my growing anxiety, I step out and the elevator doors close behind me. I hear the pulleys groan as it makes its descent.

“Step up to the bars, please,” a voice over a loud speaker says.

I look around and find no one, then realize there is a camera above my head. Obediently, I step closer to the bars. They start to glide slowly apart and I realize while I’m waiting for them that there is another set about six feet away. Once the gate is open, the voice returns.

“Step through the bars, please.”

I do as I’m told, then I hear the gate grinding closed behind me. For one moment I panic, trapped between the two sets of bars. I force myself to draw in a few deep breaths – they aren’t going to trap me in here forever. The bars behind me slam shut and automatically the ones before me start their slow journey to opening.

Once the last set of bars is open, a male officer, huge in stature, meets me. “Step inside and hold your arms out, please.”

Everything is so official and so military that I immediately feel like I’m going to do something wrong. I hold out my arms and the man frisks me – again. Like I was going to slip something under my clothes between the last frisking and here? I don’t say a word, though – this place has rendered me mute. If it weren’t for the promise of seeing Michael, I’d definitely be running for the doors.

“Remove your shoes,” the officer says, holding out his hand.

I blink in confusion, then pull off my boots and hand them to him. He doesn’t give them back and I’m suddenly very thankful I wore socks today.

“This way, please.”

I follow him down a hallway and to a stark, lifeless room. The cinderblock walls are painted an institutional light green, the floors made of the same kind of tile we had in high school. The room is divided in two, a pane of glass marking the territories. There are small stations with telephones on either side of the glass and my heart sinks when I realize I won’t be able to touch Michael.

“Please take a seat at station two,” the guard commands. He pivots around and stands with his back to the wall several stations down, but I know that his eyes are trained directly on me.

I sit down in the chair, a hard plastic, orange chair also like we had in school. I immediately remember how uncomfortable they are. I shift in my seat, fidget nervously and wait for something to happen. On the other side of the glass, I can see a doorway and I imagine that’s where the prisoners enter.

After what seems an eternity, the door opens and a guard walks through it. She says something over her shoulder, then for the first time in days, I see Michael. My eyes want to tear, but I force them not to. I didn’t come here to blubber like a baby and upset him. He shuffles through the room and I realize his ankles are shackled; he also has on one of those belts so that they can handcuff his wrists to his waist. There he is, my beloved Michael, manacled. Again.

Another guard follows him and I blink in surprise. Michael Guerin warrants double security?

While the first guard goes about loosening Michael’s wrists, he sneaks a couple of glances at me and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I don’t see fear or anger in his eyes, but he’s always been a genius at covering his emotions – especially in the presence of the law. Once the guard has his hands free, she motions to the chair opposite of me and Michael sits.

For a moment, we just look at each other through the glass. I want to touch him so badly that my fingers ache. His dark eyes drift over my face, over the place where Robert injured me. I see a touch of satisfaction in his eyes, but it’s gone quickly.

They told me downstairs that I only get ten minutes to visit, and sitting here staring at one another isn’t getting us anywhere. I pick up the phone and motion for him to do the same. He pauses a moment, then retrieves the receiver. My heart is beating so fast I’m having a hard time controlling it.

“Hi, Michael,” I say, trying to sound upbeat but only sounding nervous.

“Hey,” he replies.

“Are you okay?”

He gives a typical Michael shrug. “Well, I’m nobody’s bitch yet, so that’s a good thing. How are you?”

I brush my cheek out of reflex. “Fine. I’m fine, Michael.”

“And Max? Has he developed a learning disability?”

His words aren’t hostile, but I’m not sure what he’s getting at so I simply frown.

“Because I told him that I didn’t want you here,” he explains, a hint of anger in his eyes.

“Max doesn’t know I’m here,” I confess. “If you’re going to be upset at anyone, be upset with me.”

He sets his jaw and purses his lips. I know he doesn’t like this.

“Did you really think I was going to stay away?” I ask him.

“I was hoping.”

He’s not making this easy. “There’s no point in that. You’re here because of –”

“Watch what you say,” he warns abruptly, his eyes drifting over my shoulder to the guard who ushered me in. “Assume you’re being recorded, even if you’re not.”

I nod in understanding. That certainly puts a damper on about half of the questions I wanted to ask him. “I’m going to be here for you, Michael,” I finally say, settling on a safe response. “I want to do everything I can to get you out of here.”

He doesn’t look very optimistic. “I have a court-appointed attorney, Iz. You might as well start making plans to visit me at Sing-Sing.”

“No, Max is calling Dad today.” I try to say it with hope, like there is light at the end of the tunnel. “He might know someone out here who can help.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can’t afford to pay him.” No self-pity there, just blunt realism.

“I can,” I say quietly, knowing it’s going to hurt his pride.

“What? No fucking way, Isabel.”

“Michael, I have a trust,” I protest. I have a big trust, thanks to my parents and their diligent financial planning.

“I don’t want you to dip into your money to get me a lawyer,” Michael snaps.

“You don’t have a choice,” I throw back, meeting him head-to-head. It occurs to me that all of us hybrids ended up really bull-headed for some reason.

“I do too! I can refuse your lawyer as council!”

I cock my head to the side, the ridiculousness of the argument reaching its pinnacle. “Michael,” I say dryly. “Are we seriously wasting our time arguing over an attorney that might not even exist?”

He stops short, some of the anger dissipating from his eyes. Typical Michael, however, he’s not willing to entirely give up the fight. “Regardless, I’m not accepting your help if the opportunity arises.”

“Michael, I feel the need to.” I give him a pointed look, trying to tell him that he’s there because of me and I need to help get him out.

“Don’t feel obligated,” he says, no bitterness in his tone.

“I don’t feel obligated,” I lie. “I can’t stand to see you here. I want you to get out. I want you to come home. I want you to be with me.” Something catches in my throat and I have to pause before I choke on it entirely. “I just want everything to be okay again. Michael, I need to know what you gave as a defense.” Surely he can tell me that – it should be a matter of public record.

“I didn’t give a defense.”

“What?” I panic, thinking he somehow pled guilty since Max was here last. Stupid, stupid Michael!

“I pled innocent on my lawyer’s advice,” he explains. “Don’t need a defense if you’re innocent, right?” This time, there’s bitter irony in his voice. He knows he beat Robert, he knows he’s guilty.

“That’s right,” I agree helplessly.

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause. I can’t stand being so close and yet so far, so I put my hand against the glass, like they always do in the movies. Michael’s eyes shift to it and he reaches out briefly, just long enough to brush the glass on the other side of my fingertips. For a moment, I feel a tingle and I know he used his powers to touch me. It brings tears immediately to my eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he requests, his voice sounding distant over the phone line. “I know you mean well, Iz. But there’s something you haven’t considered.”

I wipe my tears away and look at him expectantly.

“Given the past, given what we know, maybe I’m exactly where I should be.”

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Oy, late at night - will answer fb later *yawn*


Part Fourteen

“You deserve someone better than me, Isabel.”

Those words keep playing over in my head, like a record stuck in a groove. They’re not words that Michael spoke to me before parting – they’re words he spoke to me months ago in New Mexico. But I think the reason they’re with me now is because I’m once again confronted with the fact that Michael believes himself unworthy. Unworthy of me, unworthy of society as a whole.

Sitting in this busy coffee house, I wish I hadn’t gone to the jail. I wish I’d have listened to Max this time. Because now deep inside I can feel Michael’s defeat, his willingness to give up. Before, I had envisioned that he was frightened or determined or anything other than resolved to his fate. Now I know he holds no hope. He knows he’s going to stay in jail and he thinks he needs to be okay with it.

Yes, Michael has committed a crime. Yes, it’s true he committed crimes in the past. But there was justification for every one of those events, at least up until a few days ago when he beat Robert. In my heart, I’m not sure there is ever a good cause to hurt another person even if it is in retaliation for them hurting someone else. But it was an act of passion and I have to question the severity of that mistake in terms of punishment. Is no one ever awarded a reprieve, are we too unforgiving in our judgment?

I rub my forehead wearily. The answer is clear – if the tables were turned and Robert was the one who beat Michael, then I wouldn’t be feeling very lenient toward him right now. The fact remains that even though Robert is a dreg of a human being, he is still a person and doesn’t deserve to be beaten as severely as he was.

And yet, I’m still human – well, partially – and I didn’t deserve to be assaulted either. My emotions are a mess right now and I can’t straighten any of this out. Michael is guilty, but does he deserve to be punished? Robert is also guilty, but did he really deserve to be bludgeoned for his actions?

And if anyone is going to pay for causing the harm of others, how come I haven’t been put on trial yet?

I hold my head in my hand and try to shut out the rest of the world, try to calm the voices in my head. I went to the jail for answers, not for more confusion. My fingertips are still tingling where Michael touched me and I can almost feel the glass rippling beneath them.

“Isabel? That is you! Hi, Isabel!”

Oh, Christ. Sighing mentally, I drop my hand and find that Bethany girl standing by my table, all smiles and nose piercings. I force myself to smile in return.

“Hi, Beth – uh, Bethany.” Why do I keep forgetting her name?

“I thought that was you,” she says, waving her hand toward the counter as if her ghost is still standing there. The bangles around her wrist jingle with the motion. “I was waiting for my mocha and I looked over here and I thought that was you!”

God, why are you punishing me? I will gladly give my left ovary if you’ll please make her go away. She’s chirpy and perky and annoying.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I laugh uneasily. “Are you on your way to school?” Please, oh, please let her be on her way somewhere!!

“Nope! My boyfriend is meeting me here. Hey, you don’t mind if I sit down while I wait for him, do you?”

I don’t have time to respond as she’s already pulled out the chair and is flopping down onto it in a puff of black fabric. She looks like something out of an Anne Rice novel. I guess I’m stuck with her. Now I have to be polite. Dammit.

“So,” I begin, fighting for stupid conversion. “You have a boyfriend?”

She nods as she takes a sip of her drink. “His name is Matthew.”

Matthew. Bethany doesn’t seem like someone who would have a boyfriend with a name like Matthew. I kind of picture her with some guy named Spike or Killer, full of tattoos and body piercings. Matthew doesn’t fit the profile.

“Oh, look!” Bethany suddenly says. “There he is. He’s early!” She waves toward the door and I follow her gaze.

Matthew is tall and kind of geeky-looking. He bursts into a grin when he sees her, however and starts making his way over to our table. I was kind of hoping that once he got here, she’d want to leave with him, but it looks like she’s inviting him to join us. Oy. I’m paying penance for something awful I did in a prior life.

“Matt, this is Isabel,” Bethany says, making the grand introduction.

Matthew reaches out to shake my hand and I give him a smile out of politeness. He has an odd grip, not really firm, but not really limp either. Almost like it’s not even there at all. He’s wearing a baseball cap – Max has one just like it, a blue cap with a red C. I assume it’s for one of the Chicago teams, but I’ve never been up on my baseball logos.

“It’s great to meet you,” Matthew says as he takes the seat beside Bethany.

“You too,” I reply. Now that he’s sat, I don’t really mind his presence so much. There’s something calming about it, but I don’t know why. Whereas I’d rather Bethany had never sat down at this table, I don’t really want Matthew to go.

On that note, Bethany’s cell phone rings. She rummages around in that suitcase of a purse she carries, speaks briefly, then touches Matthew on the arm as she muffles the phone against her chest.

“Do you think you can keep Iz company?” Bethany asks. “I’ve gotta take this.”

Matthew nods agreeably and Bethany makes for the door, to the quieter outside world. I frown slightly – it was rather presumptuous of someone I hardly know to use my nickname like she’s always called me that. In fact, I don’t think anyone at the kitchen has ever called me that…

“So,” Matthew says, fingering the napkin dispenser. “What do you do?”

The question takes me off guard. “What do I do?” I spend my mornings at the jailhouse, skipping the college classes my parents are paying for. And you? “I’m a student.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rise in interest. “What’s your major?” He laughs at his question. “And no, that’s not a pick up line.”

I give a little laugh. I like this guy. “Nursing.”

“Wow. Lots of responsibility there.”

I nod, another pang of guilt in my gut at not being in class – I should be in biology lab right now.

“No classes today?” Matthew asks.

For some reason, I can’t lie to him. “I didn’t make it to class today,” I confess.

He has very dark eyes and they sort of shadow over for a moment, concerned. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

I look down at my fingernails. I should be able to blow him off, make up a lie, but I don’t want to. I don’t know why – but I feel the uncontrollable need to open up to him.

“My friend is in trouble.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Matthew has a very easy-going demeanor. He can’t be any more than nineteen years old, but he carries himself with the maturity of a thirty-year-old. While Bethany is flighty and eccentric, he’s very centered and earthy. God only knows how those two met. “Anything you want to talk about?”

I pick at my nail polish, finding it hard to look at him. “He – my friend – did something bad. I mean, I know why he did it, but he’s in a lot of trouble because of it. And none of it would have happened if it weren’t for me.”

Matthew looks a little surprised. “You got your friend in trouble?”

“Well, as a result of my actions, I did. I guess.” It sounds stupid out loud.

“So, he’s taking a fall for you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

He thinks for a moment. “Then how did you get him in trouble?”

“I dated the wrong guy.”

He blinks. “Okaay. Hmm. And what does that have to do with your friend again?”

I sit back in my chair. Why am I telling this stranger all of this? “It’s like this, Matthew – I have shitty taste in men.”

At that, he laughs, a familiar laugh that momentarily throws me. It’s familiar to me, and yet not so. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t pick a good one,” I say bluntly, tossing my hand in the air in defeat. “They’re all flawed in some horrible way.”

“Like how?” His eyes are creased at the corners, humored.

“Well, one guy turned out to be possessed by –” I stop myself before I can add the bit about the jelly fish.

“The devil?” Matthew concludes.

“Sort of, yeah.” Let’s put an end to that, shall we? “This last one tried to kill me.”

Matthew’s smile fades away. “What did he do?”

My eyes fall to the table again. “He attacked me. My friend defended me, then later went looking for him. Now he’s in jail.”

There’s a long silence at the table and I can’t bring myself to look at my new acquaintance.

“Well,” he finally says. “It sounds to me like your friend has a pretty big soft spot for you, to do what he did. No one who doesn’t feel passionately about someone would risk his freedom like that.”

I look up, surprised. “Passionate” is a term I’ve never heard applied to Michael, but I suppose this stranger is right.

“You feel passionately about him, too, don’t you?” Matthew asks.

I bite my lip. I’ve told myself for a very long time that I don’t feel anything but sisterly love for Michael. How this stranger can see that isn’t the entire truth is beyond me. “I can’t feel anything for him,” I say softly.

Matthew tilts his head slightly. “Why not?”

“Because everyone I love dies. Or they end up hurt because of me.”

His expression is tender. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s the truth. There have been two men in my life that I’ve thought I loved. I let the last one go because I knew eventually he’d get hurt because of me.” Or I’d get hurt because of him, poor Stephan.

“You didn’t love him,” Matthew says casually.

“I did,” I argue lightly, to which he shakes his head. “How would you know?”

“Because if you really loved him, you wouldn’t have been able to let him go. Tell me, did you let the other man you loved go, too?”

I blanch slightly. “No,” I answer quietly. “He, um, he’s not here anymore.”

“No? What happened?”

I feel a stinging at the back of my eyes and I know it’s just because I’m tired and I don’t want to think about Alex right now. “He was killed, because of what – who I am.”

“Oh, that can’t be the case,” he says lightly.

“No, it’s true.” I shake my head, look into the distance for a moment. “Do you know what the worst part is? The worst part is that I can’t even ask for forgiveness. I will never be able to tell him I’m sorry and beg him to forgive me for bringing him to this.”

“Do you know what I think?”

I shake my head, watch this stranger curiously.

“I think that your friend is in a better place.”

“Oh, that is so cliché!” I expected more from this guy.

He laughs and holds up a hand, in the universal signal for stop. “I’m not done, don’t critique my choice of words yet. I was going to say that I believe your friend has moved on to someplace where blame doesn’t matter, not that he would have blamed you in the first place.”

I snort lightly. “That would be nice if that were true.”

“Then why don’t you let yourself believe it could be? Why not assume the best instead of the worst this time?”

He’s got a point there. But I’ve spent my entire life never believing the best.

“I don’t think your friend would want you torturing yourself,” he concludes, sitting back in his chair. “Do you know what else I think your friend would want?”

I shake my head. “No, what?”

“He’d want you to move on, to allow yourself to love. To love the person you know you already love.”

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Part Fifteen

“Are you being a good girl for Mommy?”

I pause outside of my apartment door, Max’s voice drifting softly into the hallway. I hear a high-pitched reply, its timber distorted by a DSL connection. I smile to myself, then silently open the door and slide inside. Max is seated at my computer, his back to me; he’s engaged the webcam. On the screen, his beautiful little girl is babbling in the nearly incomprehensible language of a two-and-a-half year old. I think there’s a secret connection between parent and child because he seems to understand her.

“I miss you, too, baby,” he replies, smiling at her image.

The image on the screen moves in typical jerky webcam fashion as Allie looks over her shoulder. I hear someone whisper something to her, then she nods and looks back into the camera. When she tells Max she loves him, I feel a lump in my throat.

“Ah, sweetie, Daddy loves you too.”

At that, Allie giggles, then waves goodbye. A few seconds later, Maria appears on the screen.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Max says, his eyes showing much affection for his wife. “Miss you.”

“Right back at ya,” Maria replies in her normal flippant way.

“Are you feeling okay?” There is so much concern on his face it nearly breaks my heart.

“I’m okay. I haven’t thrown up today, so that’s a good thing.”

There is a blur of movement and Mae-Ling appears beside Maria. I’m very happy to see her – she brings so much joy with her and I’m glad she’s there with Maria while Max isn’t.

“Don’t you worry about her,” Mae says happily into the camera. “I’m taking mighty fine care of her, papa.”

Max laughs. “I have no doubt you are, Mae.”

“And get a load of these!” With that, she reaches over and cups one of Maria’s breasts. “Quite a handful, huh!”

Max turns about fifteen shades of red, but he’s laughing anyway.

“You like it when she gets pregnant, don’t you?” Mae teases.

“Alright,” Maria says, patiently pushing her friend’s hand away. “My kids are sitting right over here.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Max retorts playfully.

“Ugh!” Maria groans. “Men! You’re all alike.”

Max suddenly swivels in his chair and catches me standing by the door. At first he looks a little embarrassed at my having heard his conversation, but then he smiles and beckons for me to join him. I shake my head. I love Maria and Mae, I really do, but I’m just not in the socializing mood.

“Hey, guys, there’s someone at the door,” he lies. “I should go.”

“Okay,” Maria says, stooping. When she stands, she has Brandon in her arms. Mae hoists Allie upward and all four of them are fighting to get within the webcam’s small window.

“I love you guys,” Max says sincerely, to his wife and children.

“I always knew you loved me,” Mae replies, bursting out laughing. “I’m glad you could finally admit it.”

Maria rolls her eyes and ignores her friend. “Keep us informed, okay, Max? We’re all worried.”

“I will, babe. Take care of yourself.”

“We will.” Maria moves to turn off the cam and in the moment before it goes dark, with only her image on the screen, I see the concern in her eyes. It’s touching that she still cares about Michael on some level.

Max sits back in his chair, an aura of homesickness about him. I drop my purse into the chair and circle the couch, sitting down facing him. He stares out the window for a moment, then turns to look at me. He knows I’ve been to the jail. He’s going to yell. I’ll take it like an adult because I blatantly defied Michael’s wishes.

“I talked to Dad,” he announces, blowing my theory of retribution out of the water.

“What did he say?”

Max picks up a legal pad, covered in scribbles – has he spent all day working the phones, working Michael’s case? At a totally inappropriate time for such observations, I realize what meticulous, almost girlie handwriting my brother has.

“I’ve got a name,” he says. “Someone Dad went to college with.”

I feel a burst of hope inside. “And he can help us?”

“I don’t know yet – I’ll call him in the morning.” He drops the pad onto the desk and looks out of the window again. I sense a storm brewing.

“How did Dad take the news?” I ask gingerly.

Max sighs. “He didn’t say much in way of editorial. Of course, he doesn’t know all of the facts, either. It’s not like I could tell him you were injured and your wounds were miraculously cured.”

I frown. I recall broaching the same subject not long ago. “That’s going to cause problems, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Iz.” But something in his face tells me he does know. “I’m stuck with telling this attorney only half of the facts. The story isn’t going to make sense. He’s going to know that I’m leaving stuff out – any jury is going to see that, too.”

So, the gravity of the situation has finally pulled Max down from his silver-lined cloud. I think he sees it now. I think he sees that Michael is fucked.

“I went to see Michael.” My voice is quiet, barely there.

Max looks at me, but there isn’t any surprise or anger in his eyes. “How is he?”

“Resigned to stay in jail.”

He frowns, shakes his head slightly. He knows Michael as well as I do. On top of the legal battle, we now have to deal with the war with Michael’s self-esteem.

“Max. What if…what if Robert dies?”

At that, he does look a little surprised – that I would ask the question, or that Robert dying is a distinct possibility, I’m not sure.

“I mean, does California have the death penalty?” It hurts to even ask that question.

“I don’t know,” Max says, his voice wistful. “I’ll ask the attorney tomorrow.” He looks at the paper for a moment. “Do you want me to make sure he doesn’t?”

I lift my eyebrows in question. “Make sure who doesn’t what?”

Max looks a little sick. “Do you want me to make sure Robert doesn’t die?”

My blood runs cold at the very thought. While I don’t want to see Robert die and while I don’t want to see Michael executed, the thought of Max using his precious gift to prevent the situation just reeks of wrong. In my head, I imagine him sneaking into that hospital, risking exposing himself, to save the life of someone who didn’t value mine. I shake my head vehemently.

Max looks relieved that I haven’t requested that, then sick again as I know he’s thinking about the consequences of a fatality.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, abruptly changing subjects.

I shake my head.

“Let’s go out,” he suggests. “I could stand to get out – and I’m starving.”

I frown. “It doesn’t feel right, Max. Going out while Michael’s locked up in there.”

Max snorts lightly. “He won’t mind, Iz. I’m not in the mood to cook and unless you are, then I suggest we go somewhere before I waste away to nothing.” He winks at me and I applaud him for at least trying.

So I take him to Chinatown, to Michael’s favorite restaurant.

Afterward, we return home, both exhausted from the stress of the last few days. Max camps on the couch, clutching the remote like a true couch potato. I give him a kiss on the cheek, then take a shower and head for bed.

I lay under the covers for a while, listening to the television coming from the other room. Rain starts to pelt the window, drowning out the movie Max is watching, and eventually drumming me to sleep…

I’m looking for something, though I don’t know what. I’ve been here before, in this endless series of hallways. It’s dark in here and I have a feeling my prior trips here haven’t ended happily. I take cautious steps, turning one corner after another.

At the end of the hallway, I see a glowing light, pale in this abyss. I’m drawn to it, like I can’t stop my feet from moving even though I know something bad is awaiting me. Then I’m at the doorway to an empty room, a room with only one dark window. Before the window is a man with his back to me.

It’s Max. I’ve had this dream before. I try to backpedal, to get out of here before he can cut himself before me. My heart jerks in my chest, panicked at the carnage to come.

But then the man turns and it’s not Max. It’s Alex. And not the Alex of my prior nightmares – there is no blood, no gore, no sinister antagonist here to coerce my brother into an early death. This Alex is handsome, young, the boy I loved so many years ago. His blue eyes are clear, his soft smile genuine as he holds his hand out to me.

I look down at his hand and take a step back. I look behind myself – I now have backward mobility and I understand completely. It’s my choice to take his hand or flee, nothing is keeping me here.

Alex gives a nod of his head and beckons me again. I see promise in his eyes and I suddenly want to be with him more than anything. It takes a couple of steps to reach him and when I do, I willingly let him take my hand in his. At that moment, the window glows a rich, warm gold, the light flooding the room.

I look questioningly at Alex, who only continues to smile. I’m confused – I don’t know what this all means. But he gestures toward the window, inviting me to look. I turn that direction, but I can’t see anything past the glow. I look back to Alex, needing an explanation. With his free hand, he reaches up to cup my cheek, his blue eyes soft, and it feels very much like a goodbye. I want to cry, but he shakes his head slowly, telling me it’s not the time to grieve. When he removes his hand from my face, he motions toward the window again.

The window is gone and in its place is a door. I must go through it. I look at Alex uncertainly; he releases my hand and takes a step backward. And even though I don’t want to see him leave me, I feel compelled to cross the threshold, to see what awaits me.

As my foot clears the doorway, I turn and look behind me. Alex is still there, though fading, and he gives me another nod. Go, Isabel. I swallow, then turn my attention to the door.

I step into the blinding light, shield my eyes with my forearm. Once I’ve cleared the doorway, the light weakens and I can focus again. I look behind me and find that the door is now gone – there is no going back.

With nothing to do but go forward, I look ahead instead. I’m in the desert, the sand giving lightly beneath my feet. I’m wearing a black formal dress, my feet clad in pink ballet slippers. I’ve been here before, too. At my feet are symbols, alien characters, begging me to translate them. Above me soar the peaks of the pod chamber.

And across from me, waiting patiently, waiting to fulfill a destiny, is Michael.

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Hello, all *waves* Thanks for reading - I will answer fb later today. For now, here is the next part. It's the first time I've written courtroom drama, so I make no promises I borrowed a name from Charles Dickens


Part Sixteen

The attorney’s name is Jacob Marley. I’m not kidding. Sixty years ago, a set of cruel parents named this poor man after a Dickens character. And then I had to meet the guy and shake his hand without laughing while quotes from A Christmas Carol filled my head.

But Jacob Marley is anything but a joke - he’s taken on this case like it’s the most important thing in the world to him. Jacob is intense, detail-oriented, sure he can get Michael off. I can tell by Max’s expression that he’s not so optimistic.

While they work the case together, I stay out of their way. It’s been a week now, and they’re preparing for Michael’s pre-trial. Apparently there is a trial before the trial to see if there is enough evidence for the trial. It’s very confusing.

This I do know, however – I’ve been warned I’m going to have to testify. I’m not afraid of getting on that witness stand, of defending Michael. I’m afraid of having to lie about my injuries. I’m afraid the world is going to see through me. Max tries to be reassuring, but how do you tell someone they’re a good liar and have it be a positive thing? There will be no sense of satisfaction out of this, no peace of mind.

I warn Jacob that I can’t remember anything after Robert came to the shelter that night – I blame it on post-traumatic stress, or something like that. Jacob says it doesn’t matter – all I need to do is be honest. Well, Max and I both know that I’ve failed in that already.

While my brother and Mr. Marley plot and strategize, I try to go about life in some semblance of normal. I go to class, but I can’t concentrate. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure I’m even interested in this career anymore. Moving to San Francisco seemed like a dream come true; going to college seemed like it was going to open so many new doors for me. Now I don’t want those doors to open. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I tell myself that it’s just my preoccupation with Michael’s case, but I have a nagging feeling I shouldn’t really be here.

Of course, it’s not just Michael’s case that’s preoccupying me – it’s Michael himself. If I don’t check myself, I drift into fantasies of things that have happened and things I wish would happen. I can’t forget waking in his arms, his hand mere inches from dangerous territory. In my head, I replay the day that he kissed me in his apartment in Roswell. I know I reacted badly that day, but I was terrified at what the kiss might mean. Now I ache to feel his touch again, to the point of distraction. My belly is constantly in knots, in a good way.

I haven’t told Michael any of this. Now is so not the time. There is a very distinct possibility that he doesn’t share my feelings and the last thing I need to do is heap another worry on his mind. I have to be patient. I have to wait until we get him out of jail. Then I will have to decide how to approach him, especially since I’ve already told him that I don’t have any feelings for him.

Max is standing before the bathroom mirror, tying his tie. He’s incredibly handsome in a suit, my brother. I feel a tug at my heart as I watch him from the doorway prepare for our day in court. He’s come so far from where he used to be, a fragile, depressed, broken man. Now he’s strong, vibrant, a force to be reckoned with. It brings tears to my eyes.

Max turns to look at me as he slides the knot of his tie upward, his eyebrows rising slightly. Then his gaze softens and he walks over to me, wraps his arms around me. He smells like aftershave.

“It will be okay,” he says gently. “You have to believe, Isabel.”

I push back and wipe away my silent tears. “That’s not it.”

He looks at me questioningly.

I take his lapels in my hands, straightening out his suit jacket, avoiding his gaze. “It’s just that you’re so different now, Max. You’re so much…better than you were.”

When I look at him I see regret in his eyes.

“They’re happy tears,” I clarify, to which he smiles softly. I kiss his forehead, then leave him to finish getting ready. Neither of us needs the family drama today.

In the cab, on the way to the courthouse, Max puts a hand over mine. “You don’t have to sit through this whole thing,” he tells me gently. “You can wait outside until it’s your time to testify, if you want.”

I shake my head. “No, I want to be there. I want Michael to see that he has someone on his side.”

Max smiles and squeezes my hand in reassurance, but I can practically feel the doubt coursing through his body.

At the courthouse, Max pays the cabbie and we head inside. In the hallway outside of the courtroom, Jacob is talking with a young man as he waits for our arrival. When he sees us, he breaks into a wide grin, then gestures toward his companion.

“Max, Isabel, I’d like you to meet someone. This is my son Bob.”

At first, I cringe at the name, short for Robert. Then I realize that Jacob’s son’s name is…Bob Marley.

I’m grateful that Max seems to have missed the coincidence and is shaking Bob’s hand, pleased to meet him. I don’t have any trouble smiling as I greet him – in fact, I would have had a very hard time not smiling. These people seem totally oblivious to what they’ve done while naming their children.

“Are you here to help?” I ask Bob, not remembering Max mentioning him in their prior meetings.

“No, Bob’s got a case going down the hall,” Jacob says proudly. “That’s my boy, a chip off the old block.” He claps Bob on the back and I can see the man’s patient indulgence and I have no trouble imagining my father doing the same to Max some day.

We bid Bob farewell, then enter the courtroom. Max sits down beside Jacob, unable to defend publicly, but still allowed to provide counsel to the attorney. I take a seat in the first row of benches so that I’ll be directly behind their table. Shortly, a couple of guards bring Michael in and I’m happy to see that the court allowed him to use the suit Max dropped off for him. He shakes Max’s hand and then Jacob’s. After settling into his seat, he looks over his shoulder and offers me a tired smile.

I smile back, trying to look supportive and not like my heart is about to jump out of my chest. Have I always reacted this way to Michael’s presence and simply ignored it – or is this something new?

The proceedings start and I force myself to stay calm. On the other side of the courtroom, there are my sour glances passed my way. I recognize some of these people, some of them were at the football game with us that Sunday. Others I don’t know, but they hold a familial resemblance to Robert. His posse is out in full force.

On our side of the courtroom, there’s me and a contingent of press that didn’t fit on the other side. That’s it. It makes me sad.

Opening statements are given, in which the prosecution makes Michael look like a Neanderthal. He doesn’t even flinch as harsh words are spoken against him. Max and Jacob don’t react either, other than to make notes on their legal pads. I take their lead and try to put on my poker face.

Jacob decides to forego an opening statement and I start to question his abilities. Who goes to court and declines to set the stage? My brow furrows, but then I see that Max appears relaxed and I try to make myself believe they know what they’re doing.

“Your honor,” the prosecutor, a man named DeWitt, says as he stands. “The prosecution calls Joseph Merrill to the stand.”

I watch silently as Robert’s brother takes the stand and is sworn in. He sits, adjusts his sport coat and stares daggers at Michael.

“Please state your name and relationship to the victim for the court’s records,” Mr. DeWitt requests.

“I’m Joseph Merrill. Robert Merrill is my brother.” Another cold look at Michael, who doesn’t react one way or the other.

“Mr. Merrill, will you please tell the court of your whereabouts on October eighteenth of this year?”

“I went out with some friends. You know, partying and the like.”

“Was your brother with you?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see your brother that night?”

“Eventually.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Outside of his apartment.”

“And what time was that?”

“Around three fifteen on the morning of the nineteenth.”

“And what was he doing outside of his apartment at that time?”

Joseph’s jaw set. “He was lying in the alley, behind some trashcans.”

“What on earth was he doing there?”

“He’d been beaten.” Joseph’s eyes shift to Michael again, anger behind them.

“Did you approach your brother at that time?”

“Of course! I mean, I wasn’t going to leave him lying there like that.”

“And when you reached your brother, what did you do?”

“Well, I made sure he was still alive, that’s how badly he was hurt.” More accusing glances that feel like a show for the jury.

“Was he? Alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I tried to help him. He was bleeding badly and begging me to help him.”

“Were you able to have a conversation with him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He told me who attacked him.”

“And who was that?”

Joseph glares at Michael again. “Michael something. A friend of the girl he was dating.”

“Do you see that person in the courtroom now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you point him out, please?”

Joseph points an accusing finger at Michael and I feel my hopes dip. We’re never going to get him out of this.

“Let the record show that the witness has identified Michael Guerin,” DeWitt says as he circles back to his seat. He has the air of a man with an open-and-closed case. “No further questions.”

“Mr. Marley, your witness,” the judge says.

Jacob fumbles around on his desk, rifled through some papers, and I completely lose my faith in him. He looks like a dufus, but Max doesn’t look worried so maybe I shouldn’t be concerned either. Finally, Jacob rises and approaches the witness stand.

“Good morning, Mr. Merrill,” he says affably, receives a nod from the witness. “I only have a few questions. You say that you found your brother in the alley beside his home, is that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jacob looks pensive. “Is it normal practice for you to check on your garbage cans when you come home from a night on the town?”

“Objection,” DeWitt says, rising slightly.

“Sustained,” the judge says in a flat tone.

“I’ll restate that,” Jacob offers, always congenial. “Can you tell the court why you were in the alley at that hour, Mr. Merrill?”

Joseph shrugs. “Only because that’s where Robert was.”

“And how did you know he was there? Surely it must be dark in an alley at three in the morning.”

“He called out to me.”

Jacob looks intrigued. “He called out to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Beaten that badly? And he still called out to you?”

“Yes, sir. He needed help badly.”

“Hmm,” is Jacob’s only reply. Then he grins and announces, “No further questions.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. That’s it? The person who pointed the finger at Michael is only getting that mild cross-examination? Oh, my God, what was Dad thinking sending this crackpot our way?!

But then I see Max turn his head slightly in my direction. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a tinge of victory in his eyes.

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Part Seventeen

“The state calls Omar Valenzuela.”

I watch curiously as a short, Latino man takes the stand. I have no idea who he is – I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before in my life. I look to Max and Jacob again, but neither of them appears surprised.

“Mr. Valenzuela,” DeWitt begins, “can you please tell us your occupation?”

“I’m a cab driver.” His English is clear, but his voice is heavy with accent.

“Were you working on the night of October eighteenth, Mr. Valenzuela?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did anything unusual happen that night?”

The cab driver looks nervous, his eyes skipping over the jury. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell us about that.”

He draws in a breath, concentrates his gaze on the prosecutor. “Around eleven fifteen, a man hailed my cab.”

“Is that man in the courtroom today?”

“Yes.”

“Can you point him out?”

As expected, the cabbie indicates that the man is Michael, and DeWitt asks that the record show that.

“Please continue, Mr. Valenzuela.”

“He was not alone. He had with him a woman, and she was badly injured.”

“How so?”

“She bleeds all over my cab,” Omar says, a hint of indignation in his voice.

My eyes snap to Michael. He left my blood in someone’s cab?!

But then Omar’s brow furrows. “Or at least she should have. When they get out, there is no blood.”

DeWitt doesn’t look pleased at the cabbie contradicting himself and he tries to recover quickly. “Why was she bleeding?”

“She had a wound on her face. A big cut. She seem to be – how do you say? – woozy as well.”

DeWitt pauses for dramatic effect. “Is she here today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you please point her out?”

The cab driver points directly at me and it takes everything in my willpower not to react. I can feel a hundred eyes on me and the reporters seated behind me start to murmur among themselves. Max looks over his shoulder, his expression passive, just to make sure I’m okay. I meet his gaze but don’t otherwise react.

“Let the record show that Mr. Valenzuela has identified Isabel Evans. No further questions.” DeWitt is grinning to himself as he takes his seat.

Jacob Marley gets to his feet quickly this time, circles his desk and rapidly approaches the witness stand. When he gets there, he leans on it if for no other reason than to rattle the witness.

“Mr. Valenzuela, are you sure that the woman you have pointed out was in your cab that night?”

“Yes, sir. She very pretty.”

Jacob smiles. “Yes, she is. Some might say she’s flawless.”

Omar watches him silently.

“It’s only been two weeks,” Jacob points out. “You indicated that Ms. Evans was bleeding pretty badly, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is uncertain this time.

“Take a look at her now, Mr. Valenzuela. Do you see any evidence of trauma now?”

The cab driver squints at me, looks a little ill, then shakes his head. Jacob reminds him to verbalize his answers so that the court has record of them.

“Given the short amount of time that has passed and as badly as you say Ms. Evans was injured, does it seem possible that she could have healed so rapidly?”

“Objection!” DeWitt barks, his voice more terse than I’ve heard it all morning.

“Sustained.” The judge almost sounds bored.

Jacob takes a step back as if gathering his thoughts. He knew he was going to get the question stricken, but the impact has been made on the jury nonetheless. “Mr. Valenzuela, it’s obvious to anyone in this room that Ms. Evans is not injured. I believe you when you say that the woman who got into your cab that night was badly wounded. But it’s dark at that time of night, isn’t it? Could it be possible that it was some other woman who entered your cab?”

Omar Valenzuela looks down at his hands and nods his head. I feel bad for him. He knows what he saw and he’s become but a pawn in this whole thing.

“No further questions,” Jacob says as he returns to his table.

There is a pause as the prosecutor shuffles some papers, then stands. “The state calls Isabel Evans, your honor.”

My heart jumps in my chest and I feel a rush of heat, panic. Jacob, Max and Michael all turn to look at me, offering assurance. I stand, straighten my slacks and slide out of my row. At Jacob’s advice, I’ve simplified my appearance. Pretty women, he’d said, never gain a jury’s sympathy. Women who dress well, women who appear overly well-bred don’t do well either. I settled on a simple navy pant suit, pulled my hair back into a pony tail fastened at the nape of my neck, and I kept my makeup to a minimum.

On shaking knees, I take my place on the witness stand and mechanically take the oath. Then I sit and wait for DeWitt’s attack, if it comes at all. The man appears overly confident.

“Ms. Evans,” the prosecutor grins as he approaches me. I hate him, simply because I know his services have been bought with blood money, that he thinks he’s invincible because of who he represents. “Can you please state your relationship to the defendant?”

I clear my throat and remember Max’s words to try to appear calm, pulled together. “Michael is my room mate.”

I see judgment in the lawyer’s eyes. “Room mate. Is that all?”

“Objection,” Jacob says casually.

My attention is drawn in his direction, which in turn leads to looking at Michael. He’s passive, but I see encouragement in his eyes. He hates that I’m here, having to do this.

“I’m establishing motive,” DeWitt argues with the judge.

“I’ll allow it,” she says.

DeWitt looks at me again. “Do you have a romantic relationship with Mr. Guerin, Ms. Evans?”

“No, sir.” It hurts to admit that out loud.

“How long have you known the defendant?”

“Since we were children.”

“Since you were children.” If he insists on echoing all of my answers, it’s really going to start to piss me off – which of course is what he’s after. “So you must know him pretty well?”

“Yes.”

He paces for a moment. “What was your relationship with Robert Merrill?”

“He and I worked together at the sixth street food kitchen for a while. During that time, we went out on a couple of dates.”

“So you had a romantic relationship with Mr. Merrill, then?”

“No, sir.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift accusingly. “But you did date him.”

“Yes, a couple of times.”

“You dated him but didn’t have a romantic relationship with him. What’s your idea of a date then, Ms. Evans?”

“Objection!” Jacob again, this time rather irritated.

“Sustained,” the judge agrees.

DeWitt has a victorious smile on his face and I know that in the jury’s eyes, I now look like a liar. I hide my indignation.

“On the night of October eighteenth, were you working at the soup kitchen?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Merrill there as well?”

“He wasn’t working, no.”

“Walk me through the events of that night, starting when you first got off duty.”

I fold my hands in my lap to hide their shaking. “My coworker and I closed the kitchen and then I waited for Michael to come by to get me.”

DeWitt shows mock surprise. “To get you? Was this a common practice?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Why did he come to get you?”

My eyes shift to Michael. “Because Michael didn’t like the fact that I worked late in an unsafe neighborhood. He felt safer if he could walk home with me.”

“How noble.”

“Objection.” Jacob, weary this time.

“Sustained. Mr. DeWitt, please keep your editorial comments to yourself.” The judge sounds as drained as Jacob does.

“My apologies,” DeWitt says, though I can feel the insincerity dripping from him. “Please continue, Ms. Evans.”

I draw in a deep breath, tell myself to maintain control. “I saw Michael coming down the street, so I went outside to meet him. Before he could get there, though, Robert confronted me in the alleyway.” Something flashes inside of my mind, reminding me of that night. It’s all bit of images, really, nothing I can put my hand on.

“What did he want?”

“He was upset that I wouldn’t go out with him.”

“Did he threaten you?”

I look at Max, who has remained stoic. I have to tell the truth. I have to admit that there was a confrontation.

“Answer the question, Ms. Evans,” the judge advises.

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“What was that?” DeWitt says, holding his hand against his ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said yes.” I applaud myself for remaining patient.

“What did he threaten to do?”

“I believe he was going to rape me.”

“You believe.” Again the mocking tone. “What would lead you to believe so?”

I can’t help the small snort. “Because he said he was going to.”

There’s another buzz in the courtroom. DeWitt looks momentarily thrown, but then he’s back to business.

“Did he have a weapon?”

I can’t help it – I have to lie. If I don’t, then there will be credence to the cabbie’s story and that will open a whole new can of worms. “No.” I don’t even hesitate in answering.

“Tell me what happened next.”

“Michael arrived, words were exchanged and we went home.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“How did you get home?”

“We took the bus.” I know in truth we took that poor man’s cab. I hate this, I hate perjuring myself. But I don’t have a choice.

DeWitt looks displeased. “Did you witness an altercation between the defendant and Mr. Merrill?”

I shake my head. “No, sir.” And that’s the truth. Any contact between them happened after I was already unconscious.

“You realize you’re under oath, Ms. Evans?” Again the accusing stare.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you want to stay with that answer?”

“Yes, sir. It’s the truth.”

He glares at me for a long moment, then steps away. “No further questions,” he says in public disgust, walking back to his table.

Jacob rises, but looks at the judge instead of approaching me. “We have no questions for the witness at this time.”

The judge nods at me. “You may step down.”

As I head back to my seat, I feel an overwhelming need to cry. I can’t do it, not in front of all of these people. I paste on my neutral expression and sit, my eyes cast downward. Somehow I feel like I did more bad than good.

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and look up to see Max leaning over the short wall that separates the gallery from the proceedings. He’s smiling.

“You did well,” he says and I wish I could believe him.

My eyes shift to Michael, who is giving me a little smile as well. I frown slightly. I feel like I’ve let him down.

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Hopefully we can tie up the courtroom drama in the next part Although, dialogue is quick to write


Part Eighteen

We take a short break, during which I go to the ladies room and splash some cold water on my face. I think my stomach may erupt through my skin, that’s how upset it is. I want to be optimistic, I want to have faith, but a tiny little part of my will is wavering. I hate myself for that – what if the world rotates on positive energy and I just knocked Michael’s chances out of the water?

Okay, now I’m being paranoid.

In the hallway, Max is chatting with Bob Marley, their dispositions relaxed – I get the feeling their conversation is more about war stories of growing up with an attorney father than it is about the cases at hand. I like to see Max laugh, and to do so freely in front of others.

As I approach, Bob is beckoned away and Max meets me halfway. He’s still smiling and I still feel like I want to spew on my shoes. Reaching out, he rubs my arm reassuringly.

“Jacob and I have a favor to ask of you,” he announces.

I lift a curious eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“He’d like for you to make some reservations at –” He consults a piece of paper. “A place called La Provence Restaurant.”

Dinner? My stomach does a little flip and I think my nausea must show on my face. Max gives me a sympathetic look and rubs my arm again.

“You okay?”

I nod weakly.

“Okay, then. I have to get back to Jacob before recess is over. By the way, Bob is going to join us for dinner.”

“So, four then?” I say absently.

But Max grins. “Five, Iz.”

As he walks away, I cock my head in confusion. Five? Maybe Jacob’s wife is joining us. Whatever. I do as I’m asked, then get back into the courtroom just as the judge is entering.

“The state calls Officer Timothy Merrill,” DeWitt says.

In short order, another Robert-look-alike takes the stand, this one shorter, bulkier and with a buzz cut. He’s wearing a policeman’s uniform and that infuriates me – he couldn’t put on a suit before coming to court? No, that wouldn’t have given the impact they’re looking for.

“Officer Merrill,” DeWitt begins as he approaches the stand. “Were you on duty the morning of October nineteenth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen that night?”

Timothy shrugs. “Not for the first part of the night. The usual – domestic disturbance, loud party, etc.”

“What about the rest of the night?”

Timothy’s jaw sets. “I’d rather forget the rest of the night, Mr. DeWitt.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I was sent out on a call to apprehend my brother’s assailant. No brother should have to do that.”

“Can you tell me how you learned of your brother’s assault?”

“I received a radio dispatch, saying that my brother had been beaten and that he’d identified Michael Guerin as the assailant. Since his residence is in my district, I set out to apprehend him.”

“And did you?”

Timothy practically puffs up with pride. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“And what time was that?”

“Around four in the morning.”

“And where did you apprehend him?”

“Outside of his home.”

DeWitt looks pensive. “So, from earlier testimony, we heard that your brother Joseph found Robert around three fifteen. You apprehended the suspect at four o’clock. In your opinion, Officer Merrill, would forty five minutes be enough time for Michael Guerin to have fled the scene and made it all of the way back to his apartment?”

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

My stomach churns. This isn’t looking up any.

“I only have one more question,” DeWitt says, his voice coy. “Did you notice anything suspicious about Mr. Guerin’s appearance?”

Smugness all over Timothy Merrill. “Yes, sir. He had cuts and bruises on his hands.”

“Say, that he might have gotten in a fist fight?”

“Definitely.”

I wait for Jacob to object, but he doesn’t.

DeWitt looks to the judge. “No further questions, your honor.”

He and Jacob pass as one sits and the other stands. Jacob has a file in his hand, which he rummages through as he approaches the witness stand. Finally, he pulls out a paper and holds it up to the officer.

“Recognize that, Officer Merrill?” he asks.

Timothy’s eyes shift to it and he gives a short nod of his head. “Yes.”

“What is it?”

“My report of the incident.”

“What’s the time at the top of it say?”

The officer looks a little ill. “I can’t read it from here.”

“No problem.” Jacob smiles. “I can tell you what it says. It says you apprehended the suspect at three thirty.”

Timothy sinks a little in his seat, but looks undeterred. “It must be a mistake.”

“A mistake? You just swore under oath that you picked up Mr. Guerin half an hour after you really did. So, which is it – three thirty or four o’clock.”

“I don’t recall.” Shame, embarrassment.

“You don’t recall.” Jacob’s voice is flat. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that your report is correct and your memory is faulty.”

“Objection!” DeWitt’s face is red.

“Over ruled,” the judge sighs. “But, Mr. Marley, please mind your words with the witness.”

“My apologies, your honor. Officer, let’s assume that the report is correct. Let’s also assume that your brother gave an accurate time at which he found Robert injured. Is it possible for Mr. Guerin to have been outside of his apartment by three thirty, if he’d beaten your brother less than a half hour before?”

The officer averts his gaze. “No, sir.”

“No. So, what do we believe? What you wrote or what you remember? That’s a rhetorical question, you don’t need to answer.” Jacob stuffs the report back into the file, then holds it before him. “I must say, you’re fortunate indeed to happen to be in the same district in which Michael Guerin lives. Though I do have another question.”

Timothy raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“How did you know where he lives?”

The officer shrugs. “It came through on the dispatch.”

“Did it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would like to draw your attention back to your brother Joseph’s earlier testimony. He says that Robert was beaten by – and I quote – ‘Michael something. A friend of the girl he was dating.’”

Timothy looks at him warily.

“Is there a Michael Something listed in the phonebook?” Jacob asks.

“Objection!” DeWitt barks.

“No need your honor, I withdraw. I think I’ve made my point.” Jacob turns on one heel and starts back to his table, but then thinks better of it and spins back around. “Just one more question, Officer Merrill.”

Officer Merrill looks like he’s ready to spit nails.

“Do you know what Mr. Guerin does for a living?”

The policeman shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“He’s a brick layer,” Jacob announces. “He buildings houses and buildings. He works with his hands. Do you think, officer, that anyone who works with heavy, abrasive materials might bang themselves up enough that they might appear to have been in an altercation?”

The officer looks glum. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“It’s possible,” Jacob echoes. Then he turns a pleasant smile to the judge. “No further questions, your honor.”

The judge allows the officer to step down and when he does, he exits the room immediately, casting his eyes to neither side.

“Your honor, the prosecution rests,” DeWitt says.

I look at him in surprise. That was it? How long did it take him to prepare for this – an afternoon? The infuriating part is that he doesn’t even seem worried, like this one is in the can. In turn, it makes me nervous.

A few seconds later, I see a flash of panic in the attorney’s eyes. Jacob rises slowly, clears his throat, then announces, “Your honor, the defense calls Dr. Anthony Costello.”

tbc

[Midwest Max]

Part Nineteen

Councilor DeWitt’s panic is short-lived. As the newest witness takes the stand, I see the poker face fall back firmly into place, the arrogant man returning. It makes me sick. I watch him for a moment, then I see him look toward the jury. Several members are looking at him, one of them grinning. Shit.

He’s paid off the jury. I feel sick all over again. The fact that juror number six feels free to smile at the man who has paid him off makes my stomach churn. It only boasts that they’re going to get away with this.

I can’t think about that for too long or I’m going to really throw up. Instead, I look forward, to where Dr. Costello is being sworn in. I watch him sit and I notice that he’s a very professional, very attractive man of about fifty. While Robert’s officer brother carried himself like a brut, this man has an air of authority without oppression. I like him immediately – he reminds me of Sandy Koufax. (I only know who Sandy Koufax is because of Kyle’s baseball obsession – he forced all of his knowledge of the sport onto me, most times against my will)

“Dr. Costello,” Jacob says, his words unhurried, showing the jury that he’s not anxious. “Can you please tell us your occupation?”

“I’m a neurologist at San Francisco General,” the doctor replies, his voice also calm and professional.

“Are you Robert Merrill’s attending physician at this time?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Can you tell the members of the jury Mr. Merrill’s condition please?”

The doctor shifts in his seat to face the jury directly. I get the feeling he’s done this before. “Mr. Merrill remains in a coma, though he does show occasional signs of being aware of his surroundings.”

I swallow a lump in my throat and look at the floor. I can’t look at Michael because he’s already beating himself up for harming Robert and I don’t want him to feel any worse. But as soon as I start to feel an ounce of sympathy for Robert, I remember his saying that “the only good gook is a dead gook.” How much compassion does a person like that deserve?

“And, in your opinion, what put Mr. Merrill into his present state?” Jacob asks.

“Blunt trauma to the head,” Dr. Costello answers.

“Trauma that he might have received from a beating?”

“Yes, it would be consistent with that.”

“Is there any other way he may have sustained his injuries?”

“There was only one blow to the head. Though unlikely, it is possible that he was struck accidentally.”

“How? By falling debris?”

“Possible.”

Jacob returns to his table and flips through a legal pad. “Dr. Costello, when did you first see Mr. Merrill?”

“I was summoned to the ER the morning he arrived.”

“And do you know what time that was?”

“Without the papers before me, I don’t know when he arrived in the ER. I do know, however, that I arrived around four fifteen on the morning of the nineteenth.”

“So, given the earlier testimony, it seems that you were there pretty soon after he arrived, would you say that is correct?”

“It appears to be, yes.”

Jacob looks at Max, then to the doctor again. “What was Mr. Merrill’s condition at that time?”

The doctor doesn’t even hesitate, doesn’t even have to think about his answer. I know that he’s prepared for this day and I feel a flicker of hope. “He was unresponsive to outside stimuli.”

Jacob appears surprised. “Unresponsive? In other words, he couldn’t speak?”

“No, he didn’t speak, he didn’t move. He didn’t react to any stimulus.”

Jacob scratches his chin. “Was he already in a coma at that point?”

I feel my eyebrows drifting upward, daylight starting to shine through the haze.

“It’s hard to tell if he was technically in the coma, but he was definitely unresponsive.”

“Alright,” Jacob says, looking at his notes again. I have the feeling he’s pausing for dramatic effect. “You say you saw Mr. Merrill at four fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think his condition was an hour before that, say at three fifteen when his brother claims to have found him?”

Dr. Costello pauses a moment, then gives a light shrug, though not a shrug of indifference. “It would be hard to say. The brain is a funny organ, Mr. Marley. It could be that the swelling that put him into the coma didn’t occur until closer to his arrival at the hospital. It could be that it occurred immediately. There is no way to tell for sure.”

“Just for argument’s sake, let’s say that the swelling didn’t occur until he arrived in the ER. Given that, would you still have expected Mr. Merrill to have been responsive at the scene?”

“He may have been, yes.”

“Would you have expected him to remember who attacked him?”

“No.”

The reporters behind me begin to buzz again. Out of accident, I glance to the opposite side of the court room and find more eyes glaring daggers at me. I look away, fighting the childish urge to extend my middle finger.

“No?” Jacob is acting surprised again. “Can you explain why not?”

“I wouldn’t expect Mr. Merrill to remember anything prior to his misfortune. It’s the same with people who are in car accidents, or people who tumble down the stairs and sustain a head injury. The part of the brain that stores short term memory is impacted and those minutes are lost.”

I feel a twinge inside – this is why I can’t remember what happened after Robert cut me. I must have hit my head on something, making what happened directly before and after the attack one big blur.

“What if there was a confrontation or a conversation before the attack?” Jacob continued. “Could a victim erroneously identify his attacker?”

“I would suppose so, yes. Reality might blur, multiple events could become a single event in the person’s mind.”

“Is it safe to say that if Joseph Merrill did truly hear his brother accuse Michael Guerin, that the accusation could have been wrong?”

Dr. Costello offers a small, humored smile. “It would be safe to say that is a possibility. I, for one, wouldn’t hold much stock in the words of someone with head trauma.”

Movement in front of me catches my eye and I see Max tapping his pen on his legal pad. He’s hunched forward, like he’s waiting for his favorite football team to make a goal-line stand. I haven’t seen much emotion from him so far, but now he looks like he’s about to crawl out of his skin. And even though it flares excitement inside of me, I’m going to need to talk to him about showing his hand too early.

“Thank you, Dr. Costello,” Jacob says with a tip of his head. “No further questions.”

I watch for half an hour while DeWitt tries to rattle the good doctor, but the man is sure of himself and unflappable. Even though the lawyer comes across defeated, he still looks confident and my hope plummets again. I can’t stand this roller coaster ride we’re on.

The doctor is dismissed and before there can be any more witnesses called, Jacob asks to address the court. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Max put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Even from this distance, I can see that Michael’s shoulders are rigid, his jaw clenched. It all comes down to this.

“Your honor,” Jacob begins, standing behind his table. “I’m deeply saddened by what we’ve witnessed here today. We’ve got conflicting times on police reports and sworn testimony. We have a whole contingent of family members who just happen to be in the area or on duty when Mr. Merrill was injured. We’ve got death-bed confessions that couldn’t possibly be, but most of all, we’ve got a patsy.”

Jacob turns to look at Michael, gestures toward him. “Michael Guerin is a law-abiding citizen. I believe he had the misfortune of being a life-long friend with the object of the victim’s obsession. The victim is assaulted, someone needs to pay – why not someone without connections, someone that no one would care about if they went away to jail for a long time? I’ve done some research into Mr. Merrill’s past, your honor, and I’ve found everything from suspended drug charges to a slap on the wrist for beating a woman in a nightclub just this past summer.”

My stomach churns as I remember Robert telling me he was working at the soup kitchen as penance to a bar fight. He left out the part about his fighting partner being a woman.

“I have a theory about what happened,” Jacob continues. “Mr. Merrill has made many enemies through his actions over the past years. Someone caught up with him, someone made him pay. Maybe it was someone who shouldn’t be messed with. But you can’t hide this kind of injury, not when you show up in the ER in a coma. So, someone must pay. Why not Michael Guerin? Why not the guy who might be stealing the affections of the girl Mr. Merrill wanted?”

“I object!” DeWitt says, scrambling to his feet. “Mr. Merrill’s actions are not on trial here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jacob continues. “Strike it from the record if you want. What matters is that you don’t have a case. You have no evidence, Hal. You’ve got an accusation from a brain-impaired, unreliable witness. You have abrasions on the hands of my client, who is a brick-layer. You’ve got a motive for avenging a wound that Ms. Evans clearly never sustained. That’s all you’ve got. No eye-witnesses, no forensic evidence. Hell – Michael Guerin didn’t even have a drop of blood on him when he was picked up. I would think that he would have been covered in it.”

DeWitt’s face starts to turn red and I’m catching onto Jacob’s strategy. He knows the jury has been bought – he’s heading straight for the judge.

“Your honor,” Jacob returns his attention to the judge. “I believe we’ve shown through every means of testimony that the state has no evidence against my client. It is a crime to detain him for this offense. I’m asking that all charges against him be dropped.”

My mouth drops open as my whole body starts to quiver. He did it. He really did it! Behind me, the members of the press start to buzz in anticipation, so loudly that I can barely hear the judge’s words. As the gavel drops, everyone jumps to their feet and I see Max embracing Michael.

It’s over.

tbc