by Ginger Scott
My lawyer is a young woman who looks my age. She’s fresh out of college and desperate for work, clearly. There’s no reason anyone would be a public defender here if they weren’t. I start to prepare myself for the worst options—not to be heard and to go to prison and never see my mother, or Lauren, or Riley again—when fortune somehow throws me a fucking bone.
“Tristan Lopez.” A new man has entered the room along with the one who came in earlier. I nod, ready to hear my rights or some other bullshit line I only know from television when he pulls my entire world in another direction.
“I’m sorry about your dad. I think we can help each other.” I stutter through a breath and sit a little taller, my body aching from the restraints that have my arms pinned to my back.
“I’m Agent Herrera, and I know you better than you think I do. So, before we get started, I need you to get this…I know everything you’ve done, but I also know everything you haven’t.” His eyes are cunning, like all police officers. I don’t trust him, but I understand that he’s my only option, so I nod.
“I will help you put them all away, but you have to take me in too,” I say, and my lawyer slides in closer, leaning forward and whispering loudly, which isn’t really much of a whisper at all.
“Tristan, let me talk for you,” she says, but I shake her off.
“No, there aren’t deals that will keep me alive other than this one. They need to believe that Paul did all of this, otherwise someone will kill me and you can’t stop them.” My eyes shift from my lawyer to the agent. “You said so yourself. You’re sorry about my dad.”
An understanding veils Agent Herrera’s eyes. My chest opens just a little, so I’m able to fill my lungs. The attack on my insides has slowed, unlocked by the truth. My heart beats on its own will, to its own rhythm—one not dictated by the man who marked me, by the man who gave me life, or by the woman who birthed me. Everything now is my choice, and I’m going to go down swinging.
I’m going to do something Dub never thought I would.
I’m going to be disloyal.
Chapter Eighteen
Riley
* * *
Tristan was right. I can’t just quit on things, on dreams and all of the work I put in. I’m good, and I know I’m good. My mom will look down on me proudly from heaven one day, and I want the arena she sees me in to be big and grand. That won’t happen if I stay in this room all day, every day.
My dad drowned himself in work for two years, instead of looking for something better that paid more; he just filled in the hours. It cost him sleep, cost him his health, and it cost us time.
I down the mixture of protein and milk, trying not to taste it. Vanilla never really tastes like vanilla. My dad is up early, scrounging the cabinets for something to eat, because I didn’t cook last night. I wait for him to close the last cabinet on the left, the one that has cans of soup and green beans, and I slide the paper under his sightline.
“What’s this?” he says, picking up the torn page that I’ve scribbled on. All I had was the corner of one of my homework pages, but I knew I had to write the number down for him. He would never take a text seriously.
“It’s a job. It’s delivery, and nothing is out of state, but there’s a lot of driving. It pays twice your salary, and you work for as long as the delivery takes and still get paid for forty hours. I want you to call,” I say, leaning into the counter with my hip while he looks back down at the number I found surfing the classified ads on my phone at about four thirty this morning.
“Sounds good, I’ll get on it,” he says, dropping the paper on the counter and spinning to grab his jacket and hat.
“Get on it now,” I say, picking it up and walking the paper over to him. I meet him as he turns to face me, and I grab his hand and push the paper in his palm, closing his fingers around it and leaving my hands on his.
“Riles, I haven’t driven commercial in a few years,” he says, and I shrug at his response.
“So, renew your license. You drove a bus. It’s good experience. You’re qualified,” I say, waiting for his next argument so I can shoot that one down too.
“When am I going to have time to interview?” I saw this one coming.
“You’ll make time,” I say.
“I don’t know…” His eyes lower to his hand and he opens his palm. He’s going to find a way out, or he’s just not going to do it at all. Driving gives his mind too much time and being here feels empty. I get it, because I’ve felt my mom’s presence missing, too. But I also feel my dad’s, and that isn’t right at all because he’s alive. He’s just not here—not…present.
“You’re going to miss everything,” I say, nudging his hand with my own. His chin lifts and our eyes meet. “You’ve missed a lot already. I have my first game soon, and I’ve started up the scouting website again for colleges. I practice with some cool kids down the street, and my friend Lauren—you’d like her. I want her to come over for dinner one night. And I…I had my first kiss.”
My smile is faint and my dad’s eyes shift. It isn’t angry or protective, but it’s sad—his baby is growing up…and he’s missing the milestones.
“Who am I supposed to talk to about things? She’s gone, Daddy. And I know that I’m mostly about shaved heads and basketball and carbs and butter,” I chuckle, referencing the ingredients I know my dad likes best. “But I’m also about talking to my dad…about the game…about boys…about my future and all of the questions I know I’m going to have. I need you home. I can’t rely on your poor texting ability. It won’t do the job.”
His eyes are glossy as he nods at me, eventually pulling his phone from his pocket and moving to the table, dragging over his rolling chair. He flattens the paper and dials, glancing at me while it rings.
“Hello, my name is Michael Rojas…I’m calling about your posting, looking for drivers. I’m renewing my CDL…” I squeeze his shoulder as he leans over the table to concentrate, and I bend forward to kiss his cheek.
I leave him with his big step so I can go take more of my own. My ball is a little flat. I stop in the garage and add air, bouncing it a few times for a test before leaving my pump on the bench that I should be using for bench press. A thin layer of dust has formed, and rather than blow it away, I leave it there and write the words GET IT with my finger on the dirty vinyl. I’ll see this and know I have work to do.
I grab my ball and lift the garage door, spotting my friend Jaden on his bike across the street. His backpack is bursting at the seams with his ball, and I smile because we’re going to the same place.
“What, you’re just gonna pretend you don’t see me?” I shout, and he stops with his soles of his shoes dragging on the ground for brakes.
“You coming?” He squints at me, the sun high above.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I say, jogging over to him and walking with him the rest of the way to the park. He rides, but steadies himself at a slow speed, circling around when he gets too far ahead. I think in another life, Jaden was supposed to be my brother.
“You been working on your layup?” I ask as we step onto the court, DJ and Lotus already drenched with sweat from some serious one-on-one. I nod to them and they glance at me to acknowledge me. That’s more than before.
“I have, wanna see?” Jaden says, dropping his bike at the corner of the court and fishing his ball from his bag. He dribbles with full speed toward the other rim and slows when he gets close, pushing hard and the ball almost making it over the metal this time. In a month, he’ll be strong enough to sink those every time.
I clap, then poke my fingers in my lips to whistle; Jaden smiles and waves at someone behind me. I turn to see Tristan, and I want to run to him and hold him tight but I know this isn’t the place. People will give us shit, and I don’t want anyone making fun of how I feel or how he feels.
Something is off in his eyes, though. He wasn’t expecting me here this early, I guess, even though he’s the one who told me I should show up. Not that we had
a date, but he told me to keep pushing myself—to use these courts and play hard. He said he wanted to see me today.
It’s as if I’ve travelled back to the beginning when he speaks, only his words are in slow motion now.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
My heart slows and a weight pushes me down from inside, my shoulders sagging, lips frowning. This can’t be what I’m hearing. We’re past this.
Tristan’s eyes scan the court behind me, and I open my mouth to protest when time suddenly brakes. The ball falls from the place where it’s tucked under his arm, and he reaches for me, grabbing my upper arm and pushing me down to the ground. I land heavy, bones bruising and skin breaking wide open. He covers me, and the faint shrill of screams becomes instantly vivid as my senses catch up with what’s happening.
Someone is shooting at us.
“Stay down!” Tristan yells, his body heavy on top of mine, his rapid breath pushing against my back and feeding the rhythm of my heart. I can feel him moving, scanning like a wolf back home protecting his pack.
“Jaden,” I cry out, bending my neck as much as I can to search along the ground surface. I call his name again, louder this time.
“Jaden!”
There’s a screeching sound, and in seconds, car doors fly open, shoes rush the pavement, the chain link sounds and bodies are collapsing on top of both Tristan and me.
Heavy blows kick at his sides, some hitting my ribs, and I feel them crack and bend. Stabs burn at my sides as fists pummel into Tristan and miss.
“Traitor! Where the fuck did you take him? What did you do?” A voice is growling in Tristan’s ear, in mine, but I can only see the ground. My lip cuts against the rough surface of the concrete as our bodies shift.
“I didn’t do anything. I did what you asked! What I always do!” I feel Tristan’s body rip away from me as he grunts, his body being flung onto the ground several feet away while a man jumps on him and holds his shoulders down, shaking him hard enough that his head busts open on the court.
“Don’t you lie to me, you disloyal little shit, I know you…you’re just like your dad…what did you do?”
It’s Dub. I recognize him even with a rabid face that’s spitting at Tristan. His muscles are engorged and his hold on Tristan’s shirt is so tight, he’s tearing the fabric in several places. It hurts to breathe; I’m pretty sure my ribs are broken, and my body is in shock, all of my muscles useless, my voice powerless, my lungs empty. This nightmare is happening, and I want to survive it.
I need to run. I need to save Tristan. I have to find Jaden. I miss my dad and want my mom. I hate this place!
It booms. The shot fired reverberates so loudly off everything around us that it penetrates the inside of my ear, burrows into my brain. I smell the smoke and I taste its acrid stench in the air. What was just slow motion now stops completely, and it feels like it takes me several minutes to focus on the world only ten feet in front of me.
Jaden is sitting on his bag, the zipper pulled all the way open, and a smoking handgun clutched in both of his hands. He’s screaming nonsense and his feet are kicking wildly. His eyes are scrunched closed so tight the tears are being forced down the crease of his nose.
My eyes flash to Tristan, to the body splashed with blood that lays over him. Dub’s silence must mean it was him who was shot. It can’t be Tristan, but I hear Tristan moan. I crawl along the pavement, trying to get closer to him, but everything is useless. I flail and gain inches, stopping when I see Dub’s body roll off his legs. His eyes meet mine and they are made of nothing but sorrow and guilt, even when he winces with pain as he pulls his leg out to the side. Blood soaks his jeans, and I can tell by the speed by which it grows that it’s his own. Jaden shot Dub, he shot through Dub, and the bullet hit Tristan.
“Tristan!” I finally gain my breath enough to shout his name, and it brings his eyes to mine one last time before dozens of armed officers, cloaked in tactical gear, flatten him and every other person on this court, including me.
“Tristan Lopez, you are under arrest under the Racketeer Influence and Corrupt Organization statute. You have a right to remain silent. If you do say anything…” The officer grunts through his words as he jerks Tristan to his feet. He limps and groans from the pressure on his right leg, and I try to push myself up from the new hold on me.
“He’s hurt! He was shot!” I scream but nobody listens.
Tristan’s eyes rake over me, pain and anguish the paint of choice as they haul his body away and off this court—our home. I watch him for as far as my eyes can stretch to see, my head pounding from the abuse and from the strain of trying to look more than I’m able.
I’m held like this until more cars arrive, and eventually I’m greeted with my dad’s voice. I’ve been given a blanket, as if that will make everything better, and all I want to do is find out answers—to find Tristan so I can defend him, so I can explain. They took Jaden away, but I gave a statement while the medics assessed me, and I hope it’s enough. His life is forever changed because of what he did, and despite how awful it was, it was also brave. He saved Tristan’s life. He saved all of ours maybe.
The gun was Dub’s. He’d stolen it. That’s all I heard before I was carried away and driven to the hospital with my dad following close behind.
I shouldn’t be here.
That’s what Tristan said. But I can’t help thinking what would have happened if I wasn’t there. One less body on the court, one less person to defend—maybe he would have fought Dub harder without my distraction, or maybe he wouldn’t have fought him at all. Maybe that bullet would have missed.
Chapter Nineteen
One Month Later
Tristan
* * *
Two years.
That was the bargain. I get swept up with everyone else and my lawyer pleads me to two years because I’m a minor and my only felonies that can be proven are firing a weapon in gang-related activity and concealing evidence. They tossed around the word coercion a lot, but what matters is I’m on the record as keeping my mouth shut in court. I never lied to Riley. I never killed anyone. Murder was my personal line, but that line stopped at my own hands. I never spoke up about any of the crimes I saw.
I was too scared.
That’s the argument that was made on my behalf, and I let it go through even though none of those awful things ever scared me. I wasn’t afraid of much until this year, until Riley gave me a glimpse of normal.
One day, years from now, I will be telling my story—long down the road when it’s safe to do so. I’ll talk about how lucky I was, how I could have gone to an adult prison but I had so much to give the authorities that the trade was worth it to them. I’m not the example—those twenty-two other men are. They didn’t get us all, but they got most of us. It was a quick sweep, warrants issued fast and evidence gathered quickly. Dub didn’t take great care of things—he relied too much on everyone else. Everyone else was sloppy. Messages weren’t deleted, pictures were taken at parties, guns weren’t put away. The Fifty-Seven waved their violence around on a flag—the FBI just needed to know where to look.
I gave them a map.
I won’t set foot in Corduroy. I would die in an adult prison. Everyone agreed. Sometimes cases like mine can go either way, when the defendant is close to eighteen—old enough to know better. It depends on the factors, and the people charged with deciding someone’s fate. Justice would have been right either way. I don’t deserve this chance, but I’m taking it.
The classes in here are daily, even Saturday and Sunday. It’s not a fancy degree like Ms. Beaumont was pushing for me in that honors classroom or whatever, but I understand the shit in here so much more. The teacher, Mr. Simms, is in his sixties. He’s angry most of the time, probably mad that he has to keep teaching at all. This classroom isn’t so bad, though. It’s not like my first classes at South High, where one or two kids got booted from their rooms for calling teachers cunts or mother fuckers. Do that here and I
’m looking at getting moved. Nobody wants to go to Corduroy, and that’s a good discipline policy for a high school class full of fuck-ups.
My mom came yesterday. The facility is about an hour and forty minutes away from home, otherwise she’d probably come every day. She told me Lauren would be stopping by again later this week. The last time she came, she talked the entire time, not letting me get a word in. I think she wanted to keep us off certain topics. I know she’s mad that I ended up in here, but I think more than that, she’s angry at herself for not being able to prevent any of this. She couldn’t have. I was a wide-eyed, awestruck kid who loved to watch his dad and his dad’s best friend play cops and robbers—or more like robbers and robbers. I probably wasn’t old enough to realize their games were real until it was too late and that life was all I knew. Lauren could preach at me until she was blue in the face, and I still would have gone to the movies every day and held that door open for Dub to slip through and sell drugs.
We study until three o’clock in the afternoon. The one thing about this place that’s just like South is the damn clock. I swear it moves backward, taking time away when I can barely keep my eyes open. The alarm sounds and we all snap our books closed and sit at our desks, waiting for them to be collected. I’d never read Huckleberry Finn, so that’s what I chose. We all got to pick a book, and something about this story called out to me. I see a lot of myself in Finn, and this is the first time I’ve ever really felt what I read.
The guards release us a row at a time, bookending us on the way out so that nobody can be unseen at any time. I’m getting used to the lack of privacy. I like the order. It’s too bad that I can’t join the military. I think I would have been a good fit…minus all of the criminal shit.
I get to my cell, which I try to pretend is just a really ugly dorm room. The walls are white, thick with multiple coats of paint and rugged with brick. The concrete floor is glossy making it easy to clean, and a wooden plank-type bed is fixed to the wall in the back. A thin pad serves as my mattress, and I get a pillow and a sheet. We’re allowed to check out books, so when the cart went by yesterday, I took Huck Finn so I could get ahead, as soon as they buzz to let us in, I move to where I left the book upside down on the floor and flip several more pages to where I left off in class.