The Set Up

by Kim Karr

  “Please don’t kill me,” I beg through desperate sobs.

  Those eyes, shrouded by his mask, blink.

  It’s too dark and I can’t see their color, or maybe it’s the overabundance of tears in my own eyes that is causing my vision to go blurry. “Please,” I repeat, violently shaking from head to toe.

  “Where’s the key?”

  This monster wants my father’s papers. He must not know where the storage unit is or I’m sure he would have broken into it.

  Screw him.

  I blink and blink and blink until his face comes into clear vision. One blue and one green eye stare down at me. I was wrong—it wasn’t Hank behind it all. “Uncle Tom?”

  He turns his head. Says nothing more.

  Tears once again fill my eyes, but even through my hazy vision I somehow manage to see his arm lift in the air. The vase is held tightly in it. I know what’s coming, and I have nothing left to do but close my eyes tightly and try to force away the fear. I can’t block him, I can’t stop him, and it seems to take forever before he smashes it against my head.

  My eyes fly open on impact. My body is drenched in a cold sweat and my brain is swimming. Suddenly, there are two of him—no three, maybe four. Too many monsters to count. I flail and try to escape, but then his hands are around my neck.

  My lungs start screaming for air.

  That’s not all.

  The room is shaking.

  The earth is tilting.

  The walls are closing in on me.

  I’m scared.

  I’m alone.

  But I’m not eight and this isn’t a dark closet.

  Nor is it my dark room.

  No one will be coming to let me out.

  “Where is the key?” he yells.

  He’ll kill me once I give it to him.

  Instead of answering him, I turn my head to the side and bright blue flowers fade in and out of my vision. I try to hold on to the memory of them. To Jasper. But I can’t seem to hold on any longer.

  His grip is tighter.

  Stronger.

  There is no air left for me take in.

  There’s a knocking in the distance. I think I hear my name. “Charlotte!”

  Hope blossoms somewhere deep within.

  “Charlotte!” It’s Jake voice.

  That hope quickly diminishes when I realize the lack of air is quickly draining the life from me.

  I try to scream but I can’t.

  “Charlotte, open the door. Tory Worth’s body was found and Jasper’s been arrested.”

  I try to process what he’s saying but his words don’t make sense. It’s as if he’s speaking in a different language.

  All I know is his voice sounds frantic. Desperate. Then it’s gone.

  Don’t leave me alone.

  From one heartbeat to the next, everything seems blacker. Darker. I never knew that was possible.

  The grip around my neck loosens, but it’s too late.

  All I can do is close my eyes and accept the darkness.

  Forget me not.

  The End

  For the adrenaline-filled conclusion of Jasper and Charlotte’s story, don’t miss:

  Turn It Up

  Coming soon!

  ALTHOUGH I TRIED to stay true to Detroit’s financial and socioeconomic situation, I did take some liberties with facts, locations, dates, and timing.

  In December of 2013, the city of Detroit officially became the largest municipality in U.S. history to enter into Chapter 9 bankruptcy. They filed for bankruptcy because they were flat broke. The city was in duress.

  Before filing:

  The city of Detroit owed money to more than 100,000 creditors and was facing $20 billion in debt and unfunded liabilities.

  Between December 2000 and December 2013, 48 percent of the manufacturing jobs in the state of Michigan were lost.

  There were approximately 78,000 abandoned homes in the city.

  About one-third of Detroit’s 140 square miles was either vacant or derelict.

  Sixty percent of all children in the city of Detroit were living in poverty.

  Forty percent of the streetlights did not work.

  Only about one-third of the ambulances were running.

  The size of the police force in Detroit had been cut by about 40 percent over the past decade.

  When you called the police in Detroit, it took them an average of 58 minutes to respond.

  Due to budget cutbacks, most police stations in Detroit were closed to the public for sixteen hours a day.

  The violent crime rate in Detroit was five times higher than the national average.

  The murder rate in Detroit was eleven times higher than it was in New York City.

  Cited from: www.theeconomiccollapseblog.com

  DOWN SHIFT

  Jasper

  THE FEELING OF metal scraping against skin is unmistakable.

  At first the coolness might fool you into thinking there isn’t going to be any pain. Something so cold couldn’t possibly hurt. But then the object tears open your flesh and it feels like you’re being cleaved in two.

  Sometimes you yell out in pain. Sometimes you persevere and keep going. And other times you have no choice at all in the matter.

  Once I thought the space beside the transmission tunnel of my prototype car, the Storm, could accommodate both my hand and a seat track.

  I was wrong.

  It couldn’t.

  At least not while I was trying to wrestle the seat into position and bolt it to the floor at the same time. The feel of the cool metal track as it ripped open my flesh, followed by the sharp sting of searing pain, forced me to yank my hand away. Even before I had freed it, I could see blood welling from my palm. There was no doubt that the rather large slice required stitches. With absolutely no hesitation at all, I grabbed a rag, wrapped it around my hand, and forged on.

  The pain was irrelevant—I wanted to get the job done. The raised scar I have today reminds me constantly of that dumbass decision.

  Now though, I have no choice in the matter. Which sucks, because I can’t ignore the feel of the cool metal as it scrapes against my wrists any longer. I glance over my shoulder in hopes that coming eye to eye with the blunt force is going to make it feel better.

  It doesn’t.

  The cuffs are so tight they are rubbing my wrists raw. Trying to ease the throbbing pain, I twist my hands.

  Wrong move.

  My skin long past welting bursts open and starts bleeding. Although I can’t see it, I can feel the warm liquid oozing down my hands, and if I really listen I can hear it dripping onto the wood floor beneath my feet.

  “First up is the State of Michigan versus Storm,” the bail commissioner announces into his microphone.

  The sound of his booming voice causes my head to snap in his direction and then to the empty place beside me. Sitting on the hard chair, I give another quick glance over my shoulder, but this time toward the back of the closed courtroom.

  Where the fuck is Todd?

  As the bail commissioner recites the docket number, I find myself cursing low under my breath. It’s quarter til eight in the morning and I haven’t seen my attorney in over twelve hours.

  Last night was long.

  Too long.

  After being wrongly accused and falsely arrested with the murders of both Eve Hepburn and Tory Worth, I was taken from my apartment to the police station. With the memory of my stint in juvie resurfacing, I fought the urge not to lose it—literally.

  Also emotionally combatting my fuck this attitude, for my own sake, I remained eerily silent while I was charged, processed, searched, photographed, and fingerprinted. Soon after, I was handed a light-blue jumpsuit and ordered to change. In it, I felt more like a mechanic than a convict, but I remembered that faded color all too well, and it was no grease-monkey suit. Always wondered why the uniforms weren’t orange, but never asked. Didn’t ask last night either.

  Escorted by two guards, th
e three of us got into an elevator. One floor down, we got out. The tiled corridor felt more like a basement—the sounds were muffled and the air damp. We passed a glass window that looked into a small room and then we stopped at an electronically-controlled door with a camera aimed at it. The lock clicked and I entered. Todd Carrington, my attorney, was already inside waiting for me and immediately started spewing legal mumbo jumbo I couldn’t bear to listen to. Not even five minutes later, some all-out bulletin was issued stationwide. They had a runner was all I had heard. This emergency brought the visit to an abrupt end and forced me into premature lock up.

  The isolation cell was simple: a bed, a toilet, and a sink. The walls were beige, the blanket on the bunk was green, the fixtures white. Isolated in detainment for more than twelve hours, I thought I might lose my mind. I felt twisted and turned worrying about Charlotte.

  I still do.

  Sweet, sexy Charlotte—a kitten and a lion.

  Mounds of dirty-blond hair.

  A beauty that is more than skin deep.

  My friend.

  My lover.

  Unexpected.

  How did she take the news about Tory?

  About me?

  The entire time I’ve been in lock up, I keep thinking about what Todd had said just before he left. “I’ll get you out quickly.”

  Quickly.

  I wanted quickly more than I wanted air to breathe.

  I need to see Charlotte. Get to her. Hold her. Touch her. Protect her. Make love to her.

  It has yet to happen.

  And it’s all I’ve been able to think about.

  Feeling knotted and useless, I found myself brewing over the situation. The facts. The murders. The known. The unknown. Nothing made sense. Why me? Why was I in here? I wanted to dig the deepest hole, climb the highest wall, bend the strongest bars to get out of here. Never had I wished to be invincible until those long hours spent alone.

  It wasn’t until early this morning that the cell door finally slid back. By then I was ready to hurl myself at whoever came into sight. My fingers felt like claws and my body was a live wire. I was ready to dig, scale, bend—everything and anything. When the guard saw me he grinned like a motherfucker. “Easy now,” he teased as if trying to jerk my chain, “I won’t be taking you to your bail hearing until you calm down.”

  Calm down!

  Was he fucking insane?

  He just stood there, at the entrance to my cell, and I knew I had no choice but to do as he said.

  With a deep breath, I forced the malice away.

  I knew I had to keep my cool.

  Still allowed no contact with anyone other than the transport cops, I was handcuffed and escorted out of the station, where I was stuffed into a waiting police car to take the short ride to the courthouse.

  “All rise, the Honorable Judge Joshua Patterson,” calls the bail commissioner and I focus on why I’m here.

  To be freed—to get the fuck out.

  I slowly rise from behind the table on unusually weak knees and watch the older black-robed man enter the room to take his position. The judge’s dais is made from sleek dark wood and topped with a panel of gold electroplate. The American flag on one side and the blue state flag on the other flank the dais. Behind it is a bronze seal of the State of Michigan.

  On the judge’s desk sits a pile of folders and a wooden gavel. “Good morning,” he says to the assistant district attorney at the table adjacent to mine.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” the ADA replies.

  “Please sit down.” Judge Patterson takes a seat in his tall leather chair, glances at the top folder, and then at me. “Mr. Storm, it appears your counsel has not yet arrived. I am rescheduling this arraignment for Monday morning—” he says while he places my paperwork to the side.

  “No!” I interrupt.

  “Mr. Storm, that tone is—” he starts to say sternly. Before he can finish, I hear a door swing open and turn. It’s Todd and he’s rushing in to take his seat beside me.

  “Where have you been?” I snap quietly.

  “The fuckers at the station are going to be hearing from me. They didn’t notify me of the bail hearing until you were already on your way. I got here as fast as I could,” he whispers.

  “Good morning, counselor. Nice of you to make it,” the judge greets with sarcasm in his tone.

  Todd nods. “Good morning, Your Honor. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Diverting his eyes first to the bail commissioner, the judge gives him a slight nod and then glances down at this desk. He appears to be allowing the arraignment to proceed and begins the process of shifting my paperwork back in place.

  “Have you talked to Jake? How is Charlotte? Did he explain everything to her?” I fire my questions at Todd quietly, my worry over her too much to contain any longer.

  The courtroom is closed so I know she’s not in here. A fact I am both thankful and resentful over at the same time. It’s the selfish part of me that longs to see her blue eyes, feel her soft pink lips against mine, hear the sweet tone of her voice, wrap my arms around her and make her world just a little more right. Yet, the realist in me knows it’s better she’s not here, because not only would seeing me like this break her heart, it would break mine too.

  Todd looks over at me, and something in the way his eyes shift triggers a cause for concern.

  My heart starts to pound. “What is it?”

  This time I get a shake of the head. “I’ll talk to you after the bail hearing.”

  “Tell me now,” I insist.

  “Everyone rise,” demands a voice from the front of the room.

  “Tell me,” I hiss.

  “Quiet in the courtroom.” The order comes from that very same voice.

  Then to assure the command is followed, the judge bangs his gavel.

  The noise is loud and draws my attention to him. Subsequent to the sound, the courtroom falls abruptly silent and I’m forced to do the same.

  The bail commissioner’s voice silences the courtroom. “The State of Michigan vs. Jasper Storm.”

  No one in the courtroom says a word.

  Suddenly, sweat coats my brow. The reality that this is real hits me like a brick wall. I’m being accused of two murders that I absolutely did not commit. And in this broken city of Detroit, innocence isn’t what matters, but rather demonstrating to the people that justice has been served. It’s right here, right now, that a shiver crawls under my skin and stays there.

  The judge looks toward Todd in anticipation. For some reason, the great defense attorney seems nervous.

  Finally, Todd clears his throat and rises. “May it please the court,” he says, “Attorney Todd Carrington representing defendant Jasper Storm.”

  With a nod, the judge turns toward the prosecutor’s table. “Is the State of Michigan opposing bail in this matter?”

  The assistant district attorney gathers his papers.

  When Todd sits down, I nudge him. “What is wrong with you?”

  He draws in a breath. “This judge is a real hardass. I’ve only lost one case in my career and it was in his courtroom,” he whispers. “I just can’t fucking believe of all the judges, this is who we end up with.”

  Fuck me right now.

  The ADA stands. I look his way. He is glaring at me when he loudly announces, “The State is opposing bail on several grounds.”

  My heart comes to a squealing stop and my head darts in Todd’s direction.

  Todd looks taken aback, which is not a good thing. That shiver that is under my skin escapes.

  The judge clears his throat in surprise as well. “Assistant District Attorney Phillip Klein, please state your reasoning.”

  Klein is second-generation politics. A true urban politician. To be honest, his harsh stance catches me off guard. We’ve met. Chatted. Discussed Detroit and its failing economy in detail. And he knows my vision will bring this city one step closer to recovery. We’re on the same fucking side.

  Facing t
he judge, Klein proceeds. “Not only were the crimes, specifically the murders of two innocent victims, premeditated, but they were also vicious in nature.”

  Somehow I refrain from shouting out, “I didn’t do it.”

  “Furthermore, we have reason to believe this defendant is a flight risk.”

  A flight risk?

  Is he for real?

  He continues. “And therefore, we recommend that no amount of bail should be considered.”

  Yeah, so go figure—another hardass looking for a soapbox to make his stand.

  I’m so fucked.

  Dread coils deep within me.

  The judge nods, makes some notes, and then directs his attention my way. “Mr. Storm, since you have already obtained legal counsel, I am assuming you have been informed of your constitutional rights. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I answer in a shaky voice.

  “Counselor, do you wish to enter a plea on behalf of your client at this time?”

  Todd confidently answers, “Yes, Your Honor, I would. My client is clearly not guilty and hence enters a plea of not guilty.”

  “Objection!” the ADA calls out.

  The judge gives him a disturbed look. “This isn’t a trial, Mr. Klein.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor but evidence clearly shows that . . .”

  My gaze lands on the state flag and the memories of standing in this very position thirteen years ago are hard to bear. Sentenced. Put away. Sent away. Locked away. It all happened so fast. And now it’s happening again. I focus on the flag and try to suppress my past from haunting me. I focus on the blue shield where the sun rises over a lake.

  On the man with a raised hand who is holding a gun. Both depictions meant to represent peace and the ability to defend your rights.

  Funny, I don’t feel any of that peace now, and I didn’t years ago when I was in this very same position either, especially when the judge sentenced me to 365 days in a juvenile detention center as a lesson to all other youths who were on the street stealing cars.

  Back then I was used as an example to others.

  Is that happening all over again?