by D. A. Maddox
It was a good case. Gibson thought she could win. She wanted to win. But these cases were typically slam-dunk guilty and usually plea bargains. In the three-year history of Consequences, Live! there’d never been one acquittal after they’d put in for custodial execution of alternative sentencing. Gibson so wanted to be the first to stick it to those sickos.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said, straightening his face, sobering himself. “My bad. Do-over?”
“There won’t be any do-over this Friday,” she said. “Remember that.”
“I will,” Peter promised, sufficiently humbled.
Ms. Gibson got back to work.
****
Buddy stepped back outside through the front door of the legal building. From there, everything was down—down the steps to the sidewalk, down the escalator to the underground subway, and down into the recesses of his dark, troubled thoughts. He couldn’t face his family today. At home, they hid their conversations from him, their disappointment. That went for not only his parents but also for Miles, his post-transitional older brother who was a Delta Kappa Epsilon legend.
They were all still in that building, but he, Buddy, and his fellow accused had been dismissed. I can’t look at them, he thought. Not even Mom. I’m running away from them like I always do.
Most of the time he could do it with the press of the power button on his computer or iPad, the bending of a book spine and the turning of pages. There, in the land of the unreal, he was lord and king of his book club, and all of his subjects were comfortably digital. Today, the retreat was real—and woefully temporary.
This was their stop. They’d be here to join him soon enough.
I’ve never been so alone in my life, he thought, sitting down on a bench. And that is saying something.
Usually, he didn’t mind.
****
Emma Jo watched him go. He hadn’t bothered trying to get in a word with his family before they were welcomed into the room with Ms. Tamara Gibson, defense attorney, their last hope against God-knew-what. And they—the parental unit and an older brother—hadn’t even looked his way.
Emma Jo, meanwhile, had taken all the family time she could get.
“I like her,” she’d told her sister, Carly. “A little bit scary, but I think she’s serious about helping us. Definitely doesn’t play around.”
Straight out of the building Buddy went, shuffling as though he’d been beaten.
Weird, she thought. He was pretty calm in the meeting.
“Look, I’ll see you at the Metro stop,” she said abruptly, and before her sister could stop her, she went after him.
****
Buddy leaned back in his seat, eyes upturned.
All about him—and above him, beyond the subterranean ceiling—the world went about its business. They sounded in such a damned hurry, their voices and footfalls, their conversations that quickly grew in his ears and just as quickly faded away. Stuff to do. Small stuff mattered. It wasn’t like they were being prosecuted.
We didn’t hurt anyone, he thought with a bitter blend of anger and despair.
And then there she was, standing right in front of him in her modest, deep blue ankle-cut jeans, business casual shoes, and her brown felt jacket, handbag over the shoulder. “Hey, Buddy,” she said. “You okay?”
He shrugged. “Hi, Emma Jo.”
It drove some people crazy, when they asked him a question and he didn’t verbalize the response or at least return the same question to them. But what was he supposed to say? The body was uninjured, the life in total turmoil, same as hers. What did “okay” really mean when you broke it down?
She crossed her arms. Waited.
“I’ll be okay,” he finally said, supposing it must be true. Eventually. “How about you?”
She sat next to him without asking, set down her bag. “This is so unfair,” she said. “I’m pissed, Buddy. More than a little nervous, too.”
There was half a foot of empty space between them. Typically, in a situation like this, he’d want more space than that. Hell, he’d want the whole bench. But somehow—no particular reason, or at least none he could articulate in his mind—he was grateful for her company. She could sit closer if she wanted.
Go ahead, he thought. Just scoot yourself over, Buddy, you coward. You’re a guy, and she’s a girl. You’re the same age. You both need each other for emotional sup—
She scooted right up next to him, hip to hip. Put her arm around him.
Together, they waited for their families.
****
Minutes later, with the abrupt departures of Emma Jo and Buddy, Peter extricated himself from Mom and Dad and stepped outside. Cassidy had left ahead of him as well, and he didn’t want her to get away from him completely.
The steps outside the legal offices of Kirkland, Maas, and Anderson were pure Washington DC, fifteen long white rows of stone that, going up, had felt like a hell of a lot of trouble and, going down, felt like only a brief reprieve. Peter couldn’t kid himself, much as he tried. He’d blown it in a big, big way—they all had—and this was one of those situations where being sorry wouldn’t cut it. That was good, in a way. He didn’t want to be sorry. The guilty ones were the faces in the Dare Dungeon.
But it was also a situation where Mom and Dad couldn’t help, much as they might try. And, he thought dismally, I just cost them a ton of money.
Now they were with Ms. Gibson, getting their own—probably shorter—session with counsel, where they would speak of things that he, Cassidy, Emma Jo, and Buddy were not yet legally allowed to know. Things that they might become prematurely acquainted with anyway, should the worst happen. Should they lose.
Emma Jo and Buddy were nowhere to be seen. Probably on their way to the Metro station, he figured. There were comfortable places to sit at this stop in the underground.
But Cassidy was seated right there on the lowest steps of the legal building. Her hands were folded primly in her lap. Her eyes were fixed on traffic, but Peter didn’t think she was seeing any of it. She’d be processing, same as him, how deeply the four of them had mired themselves in this shit.
“Cassidy,” he said, jogging down the last few steps, plopping next to her. “You meditating or something?”
“Funny,” she said, unclasping her hands, nudging him with her shoulder. “I do, you know. Weird, you saying that for a joke.”
“Sorry,” Peter said. “If I had a dollar for every time I put my foot in my mouth, I wouldn’t have qualified for scholarship.”
She smiled at him—a wan, unconcerned expression, tired from stress that was now unclenching. Just a bit. He could see it in her eyes.
“Don’t be,” she said. “Probably should have said cool, not weird.”
Peter held up a finger. “Cool is what I strive for.”
She took a breath. “Peter, aren’t you scared? Aren’t you terrified? Because I sure am.”
It wasn’t something he would have generally wanted to admit to. “Yes,” he said, dropping his guard with a sag of his shoulders. “This is some scary, grownup shit.”
Oh, damn.
Because that made her eyes glisten. She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and said in a helpless little croak, “Yeah, it sure is.”
“I mean,” Peter floundered, “you know, technically, we are grown up, but—”
“Doesn’t feel like it right now. I feel like the smallest fish in the bowl.”
“Cassidy,” he said, reaching out to take her hand, then stopping himself.
Instead, she took his with both of hers. “It’s fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I won’t break, Peter.”
Peter added his other hand. “You don’t mind?”
She shook her head.
He said, “If anything bad happens, I’ll be there with you. You’ll be there with me.”
She pressed his hands tighter. The warmth of her skin was like the last dying ember of a fire on a cold winter’s night, the final hope before darkness. �
�I’m glad. I couldn’t do this alone.”
“Me neither,” Peter wholeheartedly agreed, then decided to take a chance. “You want to hear something funny?”
Again with the eye roll. “Always,” she said—not sarcastic, exactly, but as though she understood that “something funny” was just part of who he was, and she was okay with it.
“I’d already made up my mind to ask you out before any of this happened.”
She drew back, skeptical. “We only got to school the day before.”
He shrugged. “Saw you lugging computer stuff up the porch steps of Alpha Chi with Emma Jo,” he said matter-of-factly. “Was just a thought. You know, one of those, ‘maybe we’ll like each other’ things. Hopefully not another one of those ‘weird’ things.”
And he waited. He let her study his face, hoping she found it as sincere as he felt in truth.
“That’s my problem,” he said after a few seconds of awkward. “I talk too much. Always saying the wrong—”
She leaned in and kissed him. Just a quick one, but on the lips, and she withdrew with a blush and another smile.
It rendered him dumbstruck.
“Now you can be quiet,” she said, adopting that tone he’d heard in the Dare Dungeon. “Just sit with me, Peter. Hold my hand.”
He did, loving every moment of it.
Soon enough, both sets of parents appeared at the top of the stairs to collect them. He stood, helped her to her feet. “When this is over, I am going to ask you out. You’ll say yes?”
She nodded.
Together, they went to meet their parents.
****
Thursday
Peter plopped down on his front porch. Watched the sun. He wasn’t sure for how long, but it was high over the horizon when he started. It had come halfway back to earth before his parents sat next to him, one on either side.
“If we lose,” Gibson had said, “you’re looking at six months to three years. Either that, or one to five days in the alternative program I can’t tell you about.”
It was a nice house, the one Peter called home on his furloughs from school. It was on the water, just twenty minutes from the university itself—where, right now, it would be the pre-dinner study session, he supposed. Or close to it. At present, he was wearing a court-issued tracking bracelet instead of his watch.
On the side of him facing the bay, his mother said, “If we lose, take the deal, honey.”
Peter turned to her, seeing for the first time the gray streaks in her autumn-brown hair, the sadness in her eyes offering no solutions. “You think we’ll lose?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
From his other side, the one facing their neighbors’ home—the Breyers, where they had barbecues on the Fourth of July—his father said, “You need to make up your mind about that now, son. You won’t be allowed counsel after the verdict’s read. They’ll tell you that you have to decide for yourself. Do it now. You don’t deserve to be locked up any longer than you have to be.”
“What happens then?” Peter didn’t especially like this hypothetical line of advice. It sounded way too much like the fight was already over. “Dad, I won’t—”
“No, son. I know you won’t mean to say anything. But you’ll have to answer a lot of questions. We can’t take that chance—not for you, not for us. You’ll just have to get through it. If we lose.”
He turned back to his mother. “Mom?”
She glanced away from him.
“Do you think we’ll lose?”
She didn’t look back, but she took his hand and squeezed it. “Yes,” she said.
****
Emma Jo rolled over in bed, reached for her nightstand, and nearly knocked off the porcelain walrus clock her mom had given her on her tenth birthday. She didn’t turn the light on. At last, she found her phone and picked it up.
Emma Jo? You there?
Cassidy.
“It’s not against the rules,” Ms. Gibson had said, referring to the laundry list of things they couldn’t do and places they couldn’t go while under house arrest, “but I recommend the four of you have exactly zero contact with one another unless you’re with me. Your phone conversations, your texts, all of it’s being monitored. Best you turn all your devices off and don’t turn them on again until this is over.”
Emma Jo couldn’t sleep anyway.
Hi, Cass.
Cassidy: No, Emma Jo. NEVER call me that, okay, lol? CASSIDY.
Emma Jo: Got it, Cassidy. Noted. You okay?
Cassidy: I’m scared. Like, really REALLY scared.
Me, too, Emma Jo thought, wondering how best to respond.
“If there’s a conviction,” Ms. Gibson had said, “and you choose to go standard sentencing, you’ll be gone a while. You’ll be with post-transitional adult prisoners in general population. I don’t like to say this, and I can’t tell you much—except I fucking hate this—but you take the quick way through if it comes to that. It won’t be pleasant. It shouldn’t even be legal. But you’ll take it. You’ll be in protective custody. There’ll be… Oh, hell, there’ll be safeguards. Of a sort. Don’t forget, we’re in this to win it. Remember your lines.”
Emma Jo had studied nothing else all week.
She texted back, It’ll be over tomorrow, Cassidy.
Time hung.
Cassidy: I don’t think so.
****
Buddy lay in bed, staring at the reflected track of the moon slowly working its way across his ceiling. If he couldn’t sleep, soon enough it would pass over his shelves, his vast collection of oh-so-precious action figures, toys, comic book memorabilia—basically all of the stuff he was glad Kevin Carter had no idea he owned. He was a private person. He didn’t mess with anyone (except on the lacrosse field, his outlet for that kind of thing), and he didn’t like being messed with.
“There’s a gag order,” Ms. Gibson had said. “And a media blanket, too. We make it through tomorrow—if we win—and no one in the world outside of your families, school, and the justice system will even know this happened. No, I can’t tell you why. I should be able to, but I can’t. It has to do with option B. Nothing you can do about it, so don’t waste any thought on it.”
It was a hopeful thought, though, whatever the reason. Clean slate, as far as the world was concerned.
But again, his phone, buzzing right there in his pocket.
Peter. Buddy rolled his eyes, contemplated ignoring him. He should be asleep anyway.
No, he said to himself. Bad idea. Peter is your friend, or he’s trying to be. You’re in this together. Don’t be a dick. It’s not like he ever talks about case details we’re supposed to keep quiet about. He’s not stupid.
Like we all were. God, why were we so dumb? Should have just said no.
Again with the phone. Jeez. He’d already talked to Cassidy earlier today, Emma Jo twice, and Peter four damned times. Ms. Gibson would shit if she knew.
Of course, she probably did know. Nothing she could do. No law against it.
Buddy lit up his phone. He’d keep it short. He had to sleep.
But he needn’t have worried. Peter wasn’t looking for another conversation. All he had was this:
It’s a sham. Everybody knows but us. Just brace yourself. We’re done.
Goodnight.
Buddy let his hand drop to his side. Watched the ceiling. Bit his lower lip, blinking.
Probably right, he thought. No surprise, really.
****
Friday
Just outside her bedroom door, Cassidy found her things hung up for her already.
“You go in uniform,” Ms. Gibson had said at the end. “You four need to look as Chesapeake University as possible, remind Judge Stephens where you should be, which is back in school. So wear it all and leave the shiny stuff at home. What you don’t want the judge—this judge in particular—thinking about is money and privilege.”
Cassidy was sure that was good advice, although she didn’t think any o
f the four of them were especially rich. Not the way they’d had to join forces just to have Ms. Gibson in their corner. Cassidy was sure she had tried her best. She was grateful.
Her expectations were not high.
A hand on her shoulder. Big sis. Collette, who was twenty-five years old and knew something about how the world worked. She was probably the one who had gotten her things ready. And she was trying to put on that “you’ll survive” face she always used to impart to her little sister the casual courage she would need to weather this crisis or that. Usually, it worked.
Today, Collette’s big brown eyes could not hide her own fear. It was terrible to see.
Fortunately, Cassidy did not have to see it for very long. Collette just gathered Cassidy into her arms and hugged her.
Hard.
****
Partial Transcript: The Office of Behavior Reformation VS Cassidy Lee Harper (CH)
(Closed proceedings, video archived, approved access ONLY)
Highlighted portions cited by Judge Corinne Stephens (JCS) in the official justification of Verdict
Prosecuting attorney: Ms. Abigail McCreedy (AMC)
AMC: I see. And how did you come upon this letter?
CH: It was in my mail cubby in the Alpha Chi common room, same as everyone’s.
AMC: It had no identifying signature? No given author?
CH: No, ma’am. It was… It was on university letterhead.
AMC: And you just took it on faith this letter came from someone in authority?
CH: Everyone did! Everyone! Look. I’m sorry—I mean…
AMC: I’m not asking about everyone, Miss Harper. Not everyone is on the stand. Not everyone ran naked in public after curfew. This question is for you. You believed the letter came from, what, a professor?
CH: No, ma’am. Of course not.
AMC: The dean?
CH: No. I thought it might have come from … I don’t know, maybe Farah?
AMC: Farah Belmont? Your sorority’s big sister?