by Erin Huss
Just Vance?
He must not know.
“So, um, there’s something I need to tell you about your roommate.” I give him a thirty-second briefing of what I know. That the blue truck involved in his mother’s car accident belonged to Portia. Sheriff Vance had the car towed from the scene before he called in the accident, making it seem like Brenda hit the deer. Handhoff knew this information, which is why he has had a free pass by the sheriff. Margo knew. Sheriff Vance could have stopped the burglary, but he didn’t respond immediately to his wife’s first call. “The reason Sheriff Vance invited you to live with him was so he could keep an eye on you.”
“You can’t be serious? Why would he need to cover up the accident?”
“I don’t know for sure. But there had to be an big reason why he couldn’t allow Portia to be blamed for the accident,” I say.
“No way. He’s been totally cool to me since my mom died.” The blue and red lights alternate across his face while he takes this all in, and it clicks.
Mike is the brown-eyed child that haunts Sheriff Vance’s memories. It’s the night of Brenda’s accident, and the woman in the blue must have been Margo.
And the reason this memory pops into his head when he’s around me is because he knows Mike and I have the same gift. Margo must have confronted him about the accident, saying Mike had the ability to speak to the dead!
I slam on the gas.
“What are you doing, Zoe?” Mike puts his hands on the dash. “Stop the car!”
“We can’t. He knows about our gifts, and he knows that we know about the accident with Brenda and Portia. He’ll find a way to arrest us. Pin the fire on me and have me locked up forever.”
“You’re talking crazy, Zoe. And what fire?”
“Your dad burned down the storage place!”
“That sounds about right. Everyone knows my dad is a pyro, there’s no way anyone would blame you.”
Honestly, it’s like no one listens to me around here! “Sheriff Vance will not arrest your dad, he wants to keep his secret safe!”
“You can’t outrun the police.”
I put the car into sport mode, and we’re off. “Guess we’ll see what she can do.”
Mike isn’t laughing. “We’re going to get arrested. We’re going to jail.”
“Not helpful information right now!”
“Please tell me you have a plan,” Mike says, holding tight to his seat belt.
“Um … sure.”
“You don’t. Do you?”
No, I really don’t. All I know for sure is that I can’t let Sheriff Vance get ahold of me. If he does, no one will ever know the truth.
“W-we need to explain what really happened to someone who isn’t Sheriff Vance,” I say. “Which … um … means we need to go to … Trucker!” I make a hasty U-turn and speed past Sheriff Vance.
“Now we have multiple police cars following us, Zoe,” Mike says.
I grip the steering wheel with both hands. “Again. That’s not helpful information right now!”
“Do you have run-flat tires?”
“What’s that mean?”
“In case they put down spikes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind. Just keep your eyes on the road.”
“Okay!”
We zoom down the highway. I’m going close to 120 MPH, and I have no idea what speed this car caps at.
“Dude, there’s a helicopter above us!” Mike says.
Yikes! We sail across the border, officially in Trucker. And there are even more cop cars waiting for us.
“We’re in Trucker, Zoe.” Mike bounces his right knee. “Now what?”
“We’ll go to the sheriff station, get arrested, tell our truth, and hopefully they’ll let us go.”
And use the restroom. Because I still really need pee, and this high-speed chase is not helping the situation at all!
I flip on my signal as we near the exit.
“You’re not supposed to use your blinker when you’re being chased,” Mike says.
“Ah! I’ve never done this before!”
“Me neither!”
I take the East Road exit and turn right onto W Street. The sheriff station is straight ahead, and I pull up and over the curb.
Mike and I share a look. “What now?” he asks.
“Get out of the vehicle with your hands up,” comes a voice over a PA system.
“I guess that answers your question.”
Chapter Seventeen
In the Hot Cops of Atlanta series, they made getting arrested sound so seductive.
In reality, it’s not.
Mike and I are accused of arson and felony reckless evading, which I suppose is a fancy term for high-speed chase. I’m cuffed, escorted into the station, searched, fingerprinted, allowed to use the restroom (hallelujah!) and a woman with big hair takes my picture. Getting a mug shot is awkward. I don’t know whether to smile or act serious.
In the end I opt for a grin. Since I hear these things follow you around for the rest of your life.
Once done, I’m granted a phone call. My parents have likely heard about the chase, and I imagine they’re on their way. I should call a lawyer, but I don’t know any … wait. That’s not true. That’s not true at all. I do know a lawyer. His name is Jackson Anderson, and he helped me with Willie’s case.
Jackson answers on the first ring, as if he was waiting for my call, and he comes right over. I’m sitting in a stiff chair, my hands cuffed to the table, and I’m in a gray room. Just as Mike said.
The door opens, and in walks Jackson.
Here’s what I know about Jackson Anderson: He’s in his thirties, has dark hair, dark skin, light eyes, a beautiful smile, and he could easily grace the cover of Sports Illustrated Abs Edition. He helped me with Willie’s case, and he knows about my ability to speak to the dead. At least, he knows I believe that I can speak to the dead. Per Willie, he has a terrible golf swing. I just hope he’s a better lawyer than golfer.
Jackson unbuttons his suit jacket, takes a seat across from me, and unpacks his briefcase, pulling out a notepad and pen, moving with precision. “You burned down a storage facility and were in a high-speed chase.”
Guess we’re skipping the pleasantries. “I didn’t start the fire, Handhoff did. And I was only speeding because Sheriff Vance was chasing me.”
“He was chasing you because you ran away.”
“It’s sort of a chicken or egg thing, right?”
“It’s sort of a stupid thing”
He may be right. In the moment running seemed like our only option. Sheriff Vance wasn’t going to listen to us. But now that I’m here in this small gray room, staring at my lawyer, I’m rethinking this decision.
I suppose the right time to rethink would have been before the high-speed chase.
“Tell me what happened,” Jackson says.
I suck in a deep breath and launch into the story, leaving nothing out. After all, he is my lawyer. If he’s going to defend me, then he needs to know the truth.
Jackson manages to keep a straight face the entire time I’m talking, but I can feel that he’s conflicted on whether we should plead insanity or not.
“Stephen Handhoff said you don’t have a storage unit there and broke in,” he says.
“What? I didn’t break in!” I attempt to move my hands, but they’re still secured to the table. “I used Mike’s codes.”
Jackson writes this in his notepad. “And the ghost of Margo asked you to break in?”
“Spirit. Like I said, I didn’t break into anything! Also, you can't tell anyone that I can see dead people.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I won't be mentioning this at all.”
I ignore his tone. “Check my cell, there’s a picture from Margo’s notebook with the VIN number of the blue truck.”
Jackson sets his pen down and folds his hands. “How are they supposed to know you didn’t write the notes yourself and took a pictu
re?”
“A handwriting analysis?”
“That’s easier said than done,” he says. “This isn’t like in the movies, Zoe. Crimes aren’t solved in fifty minutes, and suspects aren’t always vindicated. Having the handwriting analyzed takes time and money.”
He’s right. I fall back against the chair. My cheeks are on fire, and my heart starts to pound. Dread slithers its way through my body, starting at my toes, going up my spine, and encircling my head. It hadn’t dawned on me that I wouldn’t get out of jail. Even as I was being booked, I was sure I’d get out soon. The ones who should be behind bars are Sheriff Vance and Handhoff. I mean, justice will always prevail … right?
“Handhoff has a history of burning things down,” I say. “Why would anyone assume I’d do it?”
“I’m going to give it you straight, Zoe,” Jackson says. “We have half of Fernn Valley attesting that you ran out of a city council meeting. There is one security camera on the property, and the footage clearly shows you sneaking into the storage place, and two hours later, running away when the building caught fire. What you gave me is a farfetched story about ghosts and talking deer and an extremely respected man who has served Fernn Valley for as long as I can remember. You sure you don’t want to plead insanity?”
“I’m positive,” I say with conviction. “I thought you were a good attorney?”
“I’m not good. I am the best.”
I suppose a self-assured lawyer isn’t a bad thing.
“Then figure out a way to get me out of here without exposing my gifts. Tell the police about Sheriff Vance and do so fast. I want to get out of here. You owe me one.”
“How do you figure?”
“Remember when I solved Willie’s murder, vindicated your client, and basically did your job but got none of the pay?”
A slow smile spreads across his face as if he’s just decided he might like me after all. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask … oh, that and that you represent Michael Handhoff, too. Then we’ll for sure be even.”
Chapter Eighteen
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting in the cell (hours, days, months, years … probably a day) when the police officer arrives to escort me to my arraignment. Being in the courtroom is surreal. My parents are sitting in the front row. They look about as good as I feel. I can’t imagine what they were thinking when they heard their child was leading the police on a chase through Fernn Valley.
Much to my horror, sitting behind them is Brian. Oh gosh, is he covering this for The Gazette? Is he here for moral support? Has he come to testify that yes, I ran out of the city council meeting, in front of everyone, and moments later the self-storage place was on fire?
This is bad.
The escorting officer removes my cuffs, and I rub my wrists.
Jackson greets me with a nod of the head, and we step behind a podium.
The judge is a small man with big teeth and wispy hair.
“Good news,” Jackson whispers into my ear. “I was able to get Mike out on a ten grand bail.”
Ten grand! How is that good news?
“That’s a lot of money,” I hiss under my breath.
“Bail bonds.” He nods as if to say don’t worry.
Yeah, sure, I won’t worry. Honestly! I’ve read the entire Hot Bounty Hunters of Chicago series, and I know how bonds work. I’ll still owe ten percent of whatever my bond is. And unless my bond is five dollars, I’m pretty much screwed.
“I can’t afford to pay on the ten-thousand-dollar bail,” I say, still whispering. “Also, I don’t have money to pay you.”
Jackson smooths down his tie, which is cream with blue stripes. “We’ll figure something out.”
Hopefully that something doesn’t require money.
The arraignment begins with the judge reading out the charges brought against me. I stand with my hands clasped and my heart thumping in my ears so loudly I can barely hear the judge. I can’t believe this is happening.
“How do you plead?” the judge asks.
I lift my eyes. “Not guilty,” I say, just as Jackson had instructed.
“Your honor,” Jackson says and grips either side of the podium we’re standing behind. “My client has a clean record and lives in the small community of Fernn Valley with her parents. We ask that she be released on personal recognizance.”
This basically means I’ll sign a written statement promising to show up to future court dates and not engage in any illegal activities. It’s a long shot, as Jackson had said, being that I quite literally ran away from the cops once before. But worse case, I'd end up having to do bail.
The judge regards me for several seconds, and his emotions feel like a fist to the gut. I can see his thoughts. He had a lengthy conversation with Sheriff Vance moments earlier.
“Request denied,” he says.
There’s an audible gasp across the room.
“Your honor,” Jackson says. “This is my client's first offense. She has absolutely no criminal dealings. I’d like to request a bail.”
“Bail denied.”
There’s another gasp.
Jackson tightens his grip on the podium. “With all due respect, your honor. Keeping my client in jail is unwarranted.”
“I’ve reviewed her file, and I’ve spoken with the sheriff in Fernn Valley, and I believe Ms. Lane is too big of a flight risk,” says the judge.
“Your honor, the fire is still under investigation, and my client was running from the police because she believed Sheriff Vance was after her. She came straight to the Trucker sheriff station. This is not someone who is looking to skip out. My client wants her day in court so she can set the record straight.”
I turn to look at the judge. He softens, but not by much. I can feel it.
“Given the circumstances, I will agree to a bail.”
There’s a collective sigh coming from my parents. Oh, sweet relief!
“I set the bail at one million dollars.” The judge bangs the gavel as I frantically crunch the numbers in my head.
Ten percent of one million is … one hundred thousand dollars.
Well, looks like I’m going to jail.
I turn towards my escorting officer, refusing to make eye contact with either my parents or Brian. I can’t deal with the worry, shock, anger, and disappointment I’m sure they’re feeling.
“I’ll get you out. Don’t worry,” Jackson says into my ear.
Um, how can I not worry? Who is going to post my million-dollar bail? My fairy freaking godmother?
I hold out my wrists, ready to be cuffed, when my breath huffs out in a cloud and my hands go numb.
My escorting officer jerks her head back. “What the …” she starts to say when the doors to the courtroom slam open.
We all turn our heads. To everyone else, there’s no one there.
For me, I see Drew standing in the doorway with his damn hat on, smiling triumphantly. “Look what I found.”
I refuse to acknowledge him. “My cuffs,” I remind the escorting officer, holding my wrists together.
Drew appears beside me. “Do you know where I found it?”
The officer finally slaps the cuffs on my wrists, her brow deeply furrowed, probably because my hands are cold as ice.
“Some old homeless man took it right off my head when I died! I saw it in his grocery cart by the old drive-in in Trucker. Then suddenly, it just appeared on my head. Crazy, right?”
I continue to ignore him.
“Oh, okay, I see that you’re still mad. That’s okay. I’ll fix it. Hold on.”
Oh, no.
The officer leads me towards the side door, and I look over my shoulder at Drew, scared as to what he’s about to do.
He’s staring at the court reporter, holding his temples. The desk begins to rattle around.
“Earthquake!” someone yells.
“Duck and cover!” yells someone else.
The podium falls down and cracks in half.
The judge’s gavel sails across the room and crashes against a window, shattering the glass. The lights fall from the ceiling one-by-one, and the chairs tip over and spin around in circles.
It’s like I’m standing in the middle of a bad horror movie.
“Is this a ghost?” Jackson asks from under a table.
I nod then duck as a clock comes right for me.
“Can you ask him to stop?” Jackson clutches the table leg to keep it from tipping. “Now!”
I look around helplessly. I’m not sure why Drew thinks this will fix anything. But then again, making good decisions is not his strong suit. “Stop right now, Drew!”
“I’m creating a distraction,” he says. “Hold on.”
I look around. Most everyone has run out of the room, except for my parents, who are hiding under their chairs. And Brian, who is taking video with his phone. My escorting officer has a hand on her gun, not sure what she plans to shoot.
“I think everyone is sufficiently distracted,” I tell Drew. “You can stop now.”
“Just a … little … longer … okay.” He removes his fingers from his temples, and the furniture calms down.
The judge peeks up from under his bench. “That was a big earthquake.”
“O-okay, any doubt I had about your abilities are done,” Jackson stammers out. “You win.”
Not sure what my prize is … until I see her.
Portia Pepper runs into the courtroom, gasping for air. “Your honor!” She approaches the bench with her hand waving in the air. “Your honor! I have something to say … in defense … of … of … Zoe Lane.” She places her hands on her kneecaps and sucks in a breath.
“Ta-da!” Drew points to Portia. “You said she was lying. I screamed at her until she came to her senses and decided to do what was right. Took me awhile. She’s stubborn.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
“I don’t know who you are, ma’am, but this is not a trial. It’s a …” He searches around the desk. “Where is my gavel?”
“Your honor.” I timidly raise my hand. “It’s um … by the window.”
He turns to verify that yes, his gavel is lying beside the shattered window.