Something in the Way: A Forbidden Love Saga: The Complete Collection

by Hawkins, Jessica

  Tiffany tilted her head at the magazine. She didn’t respond for so long, I assumed she’d forgotten I was here. Upside down, I read the title of the article she found so engrossing: “Best Autumn Makeup.”

  I was fed up. Either it was her narcissism that got under my skin, or the fact that autumn was practically here, pressing down on us when summer could so clearly not end this way. “Tiffany, you have to take this seriously. If you don’t want him anymore, fine, but he’s still a friend of ours.”

  “What makes you think I don’t want him?”

  “You said that at camp.”

  “And he’s my boyfriend, not your friend. Why do you want his lawyer’s name?”

  “Because I have to talk to him. I think I—I might’ve seen something that night.”

  Tiffany closed her magazine and sat up, catching the bottle of nail polish just as it started to tip over. “Okay, so tell me, and I’ll call him.”

  We stared at each other. I felt as if I were taking a quiz without knowing the topic. Tiffany was being weird and cryptic and I had zero time for that. I went over to her desk and grabbed the notepad.

  “Stop,” she said, swiping for it.

  I jumped back and read her handwriting. “Tuesday arraignment. One o’clock.” I looked up at her. “That’s today.”

  “So?”

  Manning was going to court for something he hadn’t done, and I still hadn’t told anybody my side of the story. For all the times he’d protected me, I owed him the same. I didn’t know much about the law, but I’d heard of attorney-client privilege on TV. I was almost positive Manning’s lawyer would need to know the truth, whether or not it could hurt Manning.

  I returned to my room and carried my phone to the bed.

  Making calls in this house was a dangerous business. At any moment, someone could pick up the line. Sometimes, you wouldn’t even hear the click, you’d just go on talking about stuff parents and older sisters could later tease you about. Vickie had once raved over Luke Harold’s hair, the ways in which it was better than even Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s. My dad had heard ten seconds of it and still hadn’t let me live that down.

  Tiffany was the only person home, but she of all people couldn’t hear this call. She’d have every right to demand answers if she found out I had sensitive information about the night her boyfriend was arrested.

  I read over her notes again—Arainment Tuesday. 1pm. Dexter Grimes public defender (lawyer).

  Once Tiffany had turned her music back up, I dialed four-one-one, got Dexter’s office number, and made the call. As I waited for him to pick up, I glanced around my room. It needed a makeover. My CD collection was a quarter the size of Tiffany’s. Like her, I also collected stickers, but they were confined to my school binders and a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. Sweet Valley High and Goosebumps had to go. I hadn’t even picked one of those up since sixth grade.

  Were they the last books I’d read for fun?

  The line clicked over to voicemail. “You’ve reached Dexter Grimes of the public defender’s office—”

  Shit, shit, shit. This wasn’t good. The arraignment was in less than three hours. The recording beeped, and I realized I had no idea what I wanted to say. “Hello, Mr. Grimes,” I started.

  Tiffany pounded on my door, and I jumped a mile high. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  I put my hand over the receiver. “Go away.” I lowered my voice. “Sorry, Mr. Grimes. I’m calling about a client of yours, M—Mr. Manning Sutter. I have information about the night he got in trouble.” I paused. How much should I tell him? I needed to see what he already knew, figure out if I could trust him. “I can’t say it in a message, but it might help him. Please, please call me back when you get this.” I hung up and immediately realized I hadn’t left a number. Or a name. My hand sweat around the receiver. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I needed to. For Manning. I hit redial, stood, and paced the room, back and forth, as far as the cord would allow. “Hi, Mr. Grimes. I just left a message but I forgot to give you my information. I’m Lake. Like the body of water.” I cringed. I hadn’t introduced myself that way since I was a kid. “Lake Kaplan. When you call back, if I don’t answer, please don’t mention what this is about. I live with my family, and they can’t know I’m calling. But it’s really important what I have to tell you.” I relayed my phone number twice and my name again.

  I dropped the receiver into its cradle, flopped onto my bed, and looked up at the ceiling. I practiced breathing with my diaphragm as if I were back on the lawn at USC. I tried forcing myself to appreciate what I had around me like Gary had taught us to do. But Manning only grew bigger in my mind.

  I had no idea about arraignments. My dad would, but I couldn’t ask him. It’d only been three days. Maybe that was good—I wanted Manning out of there—but it almost seemed too soon. Was an arraignment the same as a trial, like the ones I’d seen on TV shows? In class, we’d watched To Kill a Mockingbird last year. Some of my classmates had fallen asleep, the movie black-and-white, slow-moving, but if the trial scene had been happening in front of my eyes, it would’ve felt fast, with words meant to confuse. Overwhelming. My heart began to race just thinking of Manning in there all alone. Did he even know what to do in an arraignment? How could he, in only three days? If I had information that could help, shouldn’t I be there just in case he needed me?

  I sat up quickly, went downstairs, and found Tiffany in the kitchen. “We have to go to Big Bear,” I said.

  She pulled her head out of the refrigerator. “What?”

  “We need to drive there for the arraignment. Now.”

  She took out a carton of orange juice. “Are you kidding? Dad would kill us.”

  “Then we won’t tell him.”

  She raised a manicured eyebrow as she put the OJ on the counter. “Wow. Since when do you lie to dad?” she asked, unscrewing the cap. “Must really be important to you.”

  “You said it yourself—Manning’s all alone. He has no family. You told me,” I swallowed, “you said his sister died. So who’s there with him?”

  She took a glass from the cupboard, set it on the counter, and looked back at me. “Nobody, I guess. But he . . .”

  “What?” I asked. “Why are you acting so flippant about this? What has he ever done to you besides be nice? You said he was a gentleman.”

  “He was.”

  “So? That’s not good enough for you?”

  “He’s innocent,” she said, staring at the empty glass. “Why does it matter if we go? They’re just going to release him.”

  I didn’t have time for this. I had to make a choice. Nothing would happen to Manning; he hadn’t done anything. I had to believe that. But if there was even the slightest chance he might turn and look for me . . . if he needed me to speak up, and I wasn’t there . . .

  “Fine.” I turned to leave the kitchen. “But I’m taking your car.”

  “What?” She followed me upstairs. “You don’t even know how to drive.”

  “I know enough,” I said on my way into my room.

  “You’re such a brat,” she said through the door.

  I ignored her and changed into the nicest sweater and slacks I owned. I found a pair of pumps in my mom’s closet. They were a size too big, but I put them in my purse. By the time I’d brushed out my hair and attempted a little makeup, Tiffany was downstairs waiting by the front door.

  “You’ll come?” I asked.

  “He’s going to need a ride back anyway. Like I’d ever let you drive my car,” she said, opening the front door.

  She acted annoyed, but I knew my sister well enough to recognize the look in her eyes. She was just as nervous as I was.

  26

  Manning

  Forty minutes before my arraignment, a brown-haired man in his early forties entered the courthouse interview room and slapped a briefcase on the table between us. “Manning Sutter?”

  “That’s me.”

  I stood to shake his hand, but he
stopped me. “No time for formalities. I’m Dexter Grimes, your public defender.” He pulled out a handful of manila file folders, put on his glasses, and rifled through them. “Richards, Rosenblatt, Stephenson,” he muttered, reading them off. “Here we are—Sutter.” He opened my file and frowned. “No, this is wrong.” Fanning them out on the table, he picked one labeled Sweeney and swapped the contents of our files. “There we go. Sweeney was in Sutter, and Sutter was in Sweeney. It happens.”

  I’d had my personal effects taken, been fingerprinted, photographed and stood in a line-up, then held in a cell—all within seventy-two hours. All as an innocent man. I’d been told I’d meet my lawyer before my arraignment. This was the one I’d been assigned. Upon closer inspection, I decided he was mid-thirties with deep lines around his eyes. He looked as if he’d been through the grinder. There was a mayonnaise stain on his lapel, or at least I hoped that’s what it was.

  I stared at him until he cleared his throat. “We’re a little overloaded,” he said.

  “No shit.”

  “But don’t worry.” His glasses slid down his nose. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”

  In my experience, having done something a lot didn’t necessarily mean you were good at it. But he was all I had, and at least when he talked to me, he looked me in the eye. I placed my forearms on the table. “I’m innocent.”

  “Of course.” He sat back in his seat, looking over my slim paperwork. “Do you know how arraignments work?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s going to be fast. The judge’ll read the charges, you’ll plead ‘not guilty,’ and they’ll set bail. You have anyone to post your bail?”

  I had nobody, period. Even if my mom had the money, I’d rather sit in jail than crawl back to her. My aunt and Henry, the officer who’d looked out for me as a teen, had done enough for me in one lifetime. “No.”

  “We can go to a bondsman. Depending on the amount, they’ll front you the money and take a percentage.”

  The money I’d saved over the years was a small sum by most standards, but it was all I had. I’d worked hard for it. “I’m not paying anyone anything for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Okay.” He made a couple notes. “So Friday night, you were pulled over.”

  “No. My truck stalled, so I pulled it over. The cop stopped to check on me.”

  “Says here he suspected you were drinking.”

  “No. I walked in a straight line for him and then we had a nice, friendly chat.”

  Grimes looked up. “Did he administer a Breathalyzer test on you?”

  “I wasn’t drinking.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then that’s irrelevant. It’s your word against his.”

  The officer and I had hit it off; there was no reason for him not to believe me. I opened my mouth to explain.

  Grimes checked his watch. “Your charge is attempted robbery. A felony.”

  “It doesn’t much matter what it is, because I didn’t do it.”

  “It does matter.”

  “I didn’t go in anyone’s house. I don’t even know which house it was. Look, all you need to do is tell whoever needs to know that there’s some kind of mix-up so I can go home. I work under contract. Every hour I’m in here is lost wages.”

  “I understand, Mr. Sutter. I’m moving as quickly as possible.” He darted his eyes over the page in front of him. “This officer says he saw you just before one.”

  “I guess.”

  “Witnesses have you leaving Phil’s around ten-thirty. Neighbors spot you driving in the dark around eleven. What happened between eleven and one?”

  “I went for a drive. Then when I got close to camp, my car stalled.”

  “So for almost two hours, you sat on the side of the road, waiting for a jump?”

  “Yeah, so fucking what? I drove around a while before that.”

  Grimes closed the file with a sigh. “Look, Mr.—”

  “Manning,” I said. “I’m not mister anything.”

  “Manning, I’m on your side. Anything you tell me is confidential. I can’t win this if you don’t work with me.”

  I ran my hands over my face and looked up at the ceiling. “There’s nothing to win. I didn’t do it.”

  “I’ve got news for you, Manning, and you aren’t going to like it. Your case doesn’t look great. The residents of that ritzy suburb want someone to go down for this, so the prosecutor will try to wrap this up as soon as possible. You’re the strongest suspect, and far as I can tell, you move from job to job and don’t come from the best background.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “You’re suspicious. I’m sorry.” He took off his glasses and set them on the paperwork. “If you don’t tell me where you were, if nobody can vouch for you, then the police are going to think you’re hiding something. They want guys like you to be guilty so they can close it and move on. Give me something to work with. Otherwise, guilty or not, there’s a chance you’ll go away for this.”

  I lowered my chin, meeting his eye. Under the table, my knee bounced up and down. I wasn’t naïve, not even when it came to the criminal justice system. It’d done right by me in the past, but I came from a line of bad men. Maybe based on that alone, I should be put away. Before I really did hurt someone the way my dad had. For fuck’s sake, I’d almost taken advantage of Lake that night. Maybe I deserved this, but either way, being charged with a crime I didn’t commit seemed like a cruel joke.

  I’d already given Grimes my story, though. At least what I was willing to share. I opened my hands on the table. “I got nothing, man.”

  Grimes nodded slowly, studying me. After a few seconds, he peeked in the file and back at me. “Who’s Lake Kaplan?”

  Time as I knew it came to a screeching halt. The air in the room evaporated, fluorescent overhead lights became blinding. Lake was off-limits. Period. How the fuck had he even gotten her name? My hands twitched with the urge to grab Dexter by his mayo-stained lapels.

  “I take it by your silence you recognize the name,” he said.

  “Where’d you hear it?”

  “She left a message with my office a few hours ago.” He opened and closed the arms of his glasses. If he was preparing to gloat, he didn’t seem happy about it. “I called back, but nobody answered. The machine belongs to a family.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Goddamn stubborn Lake. I knew she’d try to help, but I’d hoped the threat of making things worse would be enough to stop her. The thought that Mr. Kaplan could’ve picked up the phone made me sweat. I wiped my palms on my scrubs. “Please don’t tell me you left a message.”

  “Lake mentioned it was sensitive, so I didn’t. She sounded young, Manning. So now I have to ask why a young girl has information I need.”

  I looked at the table. “She’s nobody. My girlfriend’s little sister.”

  “How little?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I see.” He proceeded slowly, as if deliberating over his words. “What’s her involvement?”

  For what felt like the hundredth time in three days, Lake’s face came to mind, her big, blue, gullible eyes, the way her chin ended in a point, like a heart. She’d looked terrified when I’d last seen her. Then hurt when I’d dismissed her to get Tiffany. Making her feel like a kid was the only way I could get her to leave.

  Somehow, I’d dragged a girl, who was younger than Maddy would’ve been if she were alive, into my mess. I laced my hands together. “Nothing else to tell.”

  “Whatever you say stays between us, Manning. If . . . something happened with her—”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “But if I know what occurred in those two hours, I can start building your defense. I need the truth.”

  “I told you. Nothing . . . fucking . . . happened.”

  “All right, then.” He scooted his chair closer to the table. “We have to discuss your options be
fore they call us up. The way things are headed, I think we’d better talk about the plea bargain the prosecutor is offering.”

  I lifted my head, drawing my eyebrows together. “Isn’t that if you’re guilty?”

  “If you’re likely to be convicted, then it’s best to take a deal to soften the blow. Less time, for one.”

  “But I’m innocent.”

  “This is no longer about innocent versus guilty. It’s a game, and you need to play.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. “The law’s the law. I didn’t break it.”

  “We can argue mistaken identity,” he continued, “but since the victim ID’ed you in the line-up, and she claims she turned the lights on, I can’t promise it’ll turn out how we want.”

  “She picked me out?” I sat forward. “The other guys weren’t as tall as me. Maybe she’s remembering it wrong.”

  “Maybe. I’ll need more time to look over all this.” He scratched his jaw. “Luckily, you have no priors. The max for attempted robbery in the state of California is four-and-a-half years.”

  I laughed from my gut, harder than I had in a long time. “This is a huge misunderstanding.”

  “The D.A. is offering to reduce the charge to first-degree burglary with a low-term sentence of two years. With good behavior, you’d be out in less.”

  Whatever he was talking about went in one ear and out the other. I crossed my arms. “I’m not going to jail for something I didn’t do.”

  “Then we go to trial, but we risk ending up with a longer, more severe punishment. I’d definitely need to know the details of what happened that night—all of them. And I won’t be the only one snooping for information.” He tapped the top of the file. “I believe you didn’t break into that house. I don’t believe your story.”

  This conversation hadn’t gone anything like I’d expected. I thought I’d explain to my lawyer that this was a case of wrong place, wrong time, and be home by tonight. Now, we were talking jail time. I was in deep shit. I squeezed my hands together until my knuckles were a sickening, bloodless white. “If I tell you what happened, it stays in here? You won’t try to make me say it in court? Because I’ll lie if I have to.”