The Entitled

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Meanwhile the one who’d been shot in the leg—groaning and shouting profanities—was inching over to retrieve his rifle. Nicole fired at him again, but missed. She wasn’t sure how many bullets she had left. So far, she’d fired four times. Depending on the gun, a full magazine might hold anywhere from seven to sixteen bullets, and she had no way of knowing if it was full when she got it.

  She forced herself to take a moment and aim carefully.

  The man reached the assault rifle and started to pick it up. Before he could get it into position, she shot twice more. One of the bullets hit its mark. The man now lay as still as his partner. She stood. Her hands were shaking, and she felt sick at the prospect of having to look at the damage her bullets had done. Was it possible the men were still alive?

  She went around the car and forced herself to look. The scene was horrific. Both men appeared dead, one with a bullet hole in his forehead, the other with a huge bloodstain down the front of his shirt. She felt sick and had to lean against the car to keep herself upright.

  She opened the car door and turned on the dome light to check on Reinhardt. She almost stopped breathing when she saw the pool of blood on the leather upholstery. Trying not to panic, she climbed inside, murmured his name, and patted his face. When he didn’t respond, she put her face next to his and was relieved to feel his breath on her cheek. She reached for his wrist and located his pulse. She didn’t have a watch to check it with any accuracy, a skill she’d picked up in an office earthquake preparedness class. But she could tell his pulse was racing and knew this was a sign of major blood loss.

  She pulled the burner phone out of her purse and called 999. Talking fast, she gave the emergency operator her location.

  “I need an ambulance ASAP for a gunshot victim who’s bleeding out. And send the police!” Without waiting for the operator’s response, she tossed the phone aside, located the source of his bleeding, and applied pressure, praying the paramedics arrived in time.

  While she waited, she noticed movement toward the old inn. The moonlight was just bright enough for her to watch a light-colored vehicle with its headlights off move slowly toward where she was parked. It looked like a van.

  At the sound of approaching sirens, two men jumped out of the van and ran back toward the inn. Only seconds passed before half a dozen police cars—pale blue lights flashing, sirens screaming—pulled to a stop in front of the van. A throng of cops got out of their vehicles and gave chase.

  Nicole, still pressing on Reinhardt’s wound, was agonizing over the delayed ambulance. Where was it? Hadn’t the emergency operator understood that she needed both the police and an ambulance? She couldn’t put in another call without releasing pressure on his wound.

  She heard a siren, which quickly grew louder with a high-pitched wow-wow-wow! alternating with a slower, equally piercing warble. She hit the horn several times with her free hand, and the ambulance screeched up next to her. The paramedics grabbed their gear and took over Nicole’s efforts to stop Reinhardt’s bleeding.

  When her hands were free, she cleaned them with some sanitation wipes that one of the emergency workers gave her. She picked up her phone and called DCI Norton to fill him in on what had just happened.

  “I heard the alert go out,” he said. “I’m almost there.”

  While the paramedics were putting Reinhardt on a stretcher, Nicole got out of the car and went over to where the police had parked. The area was lit up with the headlights they’d left on. They’d caught the two men who’d been in the van, forced them to the ground, and were handcuffing them. Meanwhile several officers had retrieved the keys from the van’s ignition and opened its back doors. They helped half a dozen young women get out. These were the prisoners Sacha had talked about, plus three more who must have been added in the last day or so.

  The men the police had captured were now on their feet. One was tall and wiry, the other half a head shorter. Nicole was disappointed that neither was Rakib Ahmed. If he’d been caught here, it would have implicated him in the murders and helped clear Abigail.

  A stream of cars, vans, and motorcycles arrived. The drivers parked haphazardly and rushed toward the scene, only to be stopped by two burly cops who ordered them to stand back.

  Nicole gazed at them and felt a frisson of alarm. Paparazzi. But she had more important things to worry about. She hurried back to the ambulance, where the crew was still working on Reinhardt.

  “How does he look?” she said.

  “It’s hard to say,” one of the men replied. “He’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get him to hospital as soon as possible.”

  “I’m his fiancé. Can I ride along?”

  The paramedic nodded. Nicole climbed aboard and settled on a jump seat next to Reinhardt. When she picked up his hand, she was alarmed by how cold it was.

  Norton’s sporty blue sedan pulled up next to Reinhardt’s car. He walked around the vehicle, taking note of the line of bullet holes along the driver’s side. He stopped when he spotted the dead men, evidently checking to see if they were still alive.

  He hurried over to the ambulance. After a brief nod at Nicole, he asked the paramedics to take a look on the other side of Reinhardt’s car.

  “We have two chaps on the ground. I couldn’t detect a pulse on either one, but maybe there’s something you can do.”

  “Sorry, sir,” one of the paramedics said. “This man has lost a great deal of blood. We have to get him to hospital STAT if we’re going to save him. Call nine-nine-nine. It will only take a few minutes for more emergency workers to arrive.”

  “I’m riding to the hospital with him,” Nicole told Norton.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Graves, but I have to insist you remain here for a bit. Am I right that you witnessed the shootings?”

  Nicole nodded.

  “Well, then you’re the only one still standing, aren’t you? It’s up to you to tell us what happened here.”

  Reluctantly, Nicole stood, leaned over Reinhardt to kiss him, and got out. A flash went off, then several more. One of the cameramen had snuck through the trees and was taking photos of the crime scene and Nicole.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he said, as an officer pushed him back in line with the other paparazzi.

  By now the paramedics had closed the ambulance’s back doors and gotten in. The vehicle made a U-turn and headed back down the road where the paparazzi was parked, waiting for a chance to follow it. The ambulance accelerated as its siren split the air.

  Seventeen

  Abigail was rearrested, this time for escaping from the group home. Once again she was processed, photographed and fingerprinted. Gemma, as her solicitor, was allowed to stay with her during this part of what they called intake.

  “You’ll appear before magistrates’ court tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you there and sit with you during your hearing. Just tell the truth. That you were frightened because of what those girls told you. Apologize to the court and say you’ll never do this again. That you’ll be on your best behavior if they allow you to return to the group home. That you left without permission decreases the chances they’ll allow you bail on the murder charge. But we’ll do our best. For tonight, I’m afraid they’re taking you back to the big youth detention center where you stayed before. During your hearing I’ll point out that you were assaulted when you were there before. I’m sure they’ll make arrangements to keep you safe from the other detainees.”

  Abigail was silent. She understood what that meant. She’d be locked in her room again, which wasn’t a bad thing. While she was upset by the prospect of being returned to the big lockup, at least Niamh and her friends wouldn’t be able to get at her.

  After being processed she was put in a locked interrogation room for what seemed like hours, waiting for a van to take her back to the detention center. By the time she arrived, it was past 9:00 p.m. The van driver handed her over to a female guard, whose ID badge identified her as Rose. Rose led Abigail back up to the floor
where she’d been before and into a room much like her previous one.

  As Rose started to leave, Abigail said, “Wait! I haven’t had dinner.”

  “The kitchen’s closed for the day,” Rose snapped. “Don’t expect anyone to cook you a special meal. Make your bed. You’ll find a nightgown with the bedding. I’m under orders to lock you in for your own protection.”

  Abigail hadn’t run into Rose before. She was tall and rail thin, with dyed black hair that turned her complexion sallow. With her thin lips, long face, and pointed chin, she reminded Abigail of the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Between her cough, sore throat, and anxiety about the upcoming hearing, she hardly slept. She was wide awake when Gretchen, the guard who’d been kind during her earlier stay, arrived with a tray of food. Hoping to get back in the woman’s good graces, Abigail smiled at Gretchen and thanked her for bringing her breakfast.

  Gretchen wasn’t so easily won over. “Sorry to see you back,” she said, in a flat voice. “I thought you’d be reunited with your family and on your way back to California by now.”

  Her words caught Abigail by surprise. How could she be released after a few days when she was charged with murder? It made her wonder if the staff here knew anything about the inmates or why they were here.

  Breakfast consisted of dry scrambled eggs, charred sausages, cold toast, and a small bowl of tasteless melon. There was also a mug of bitter tea, but no sweetener. Abigail drank the tea, which soothed her sore throat. But she couldn’t bring herself to touch the food.

  After she’d dressed, she was ushered downstairs. As she and Gretchen went down the corridor on their way out, they encountered Niamh, who stood and gazed at Abigail with an insincere smile.

  “Leaving so soon?” Niamh said. “You just got here. I heard that other place didn’t work out so good.”

  Abigail didn’t respond. The sight of Niamh made her feel sick. Even so, Abigail couldn’t resist a glance back. Niamh was making a crude gesture with her fingers and waggling her tongue in an obscene way. Pretending she hadn’t seen, Abigail kept walking.

  Gretchen took her out to the courtyard, where the same white van that had brought her the day before was waiting to take her to magistrate’s court. The driver opened the rear doors and Abigail got in. She was relieved to find herself the only passenger.

  It was a short ride. Gemma was waiting in the lobby. They boarded an elevator to the third floor, where they waited for almost an hour while other young people, each accompanied by an adult, passed in and out of the hearing room. Finally the door opened. A young man stepped out and called Abigail’s name. He gestured them inside and led them to the front table.

  The court wasn’t at all what Abigail expected. She’d seen movies and TV shows with British courtroom scenes and was always dumbfounded at how silly the lawyers looked in their robes and white wigs, as if they were dressed for a costume party. At the front of the wood-paneled room, three people were seated on a raised bench—a woman and two men. Instead of robes and wigs, they were wearing formal business attire—the men in suits and ties, the woman in a gray dress. She wore no makeup and looked as if she didn’t bother much with her hair either.

  At a lower bench in front of these three, a man was seated by himself. He looked younger than the others. He explained each of their roles to Abigail. The three behind him were the magistrates, although they had no legal training. He was their legal advisor, and his job was to make sure all the proper procedures were followed.

  When he was done with this explanation, one of the magistrates spoke directly to Abigail.

  “I understand from the prosecution that you escaped from a group home night before last. Can you tell me why you would do such a foolish thing when you had nowhere else to go? Furthermore you’d been placed there at your solicitor’s request.”

  “You’re meant to stand,” Gemma whispered.

  Hesitantly, Abigail got up. She was so nervous she couldn’t remember the magistrate’s question or what Gemma had told her to say.

  Finally she said, “I didn’t do what I’ve been charged with. I didn’t kill Sami Malouf. But no one believes me.”

  “That’s a matter for the Crown Court,” the man said. “We’re discussing why you left the group home.”

  “I was scared. Some girls at the detention center told me that if I went on trial and was found guilty, the guards would take me out and hang me.”

  “Well, I can see how that would frighten you, but why didn’t you ask your solicitor?”

  “Because I remembered an English movie where a judge put a black cloth on his head and sentenced a man to death. They dragged him out and hung him.”

  “That must have been a very old film. The UK has abolished the death penalty. So you don’t have to be concerned about that.”

  “But what if I’m convicted of something I didn’t—”

  “As I said, that’s a matter for the Crown Court. The reason we’re here today is to decide where to place you while you’re awaiting trial. We’ve heard what you have to say. Does your solicitor have anything to add?”

  Gemma stood. “With your honor’s permission, I’d like to ask for leniency. Miss Fletcher was scared to death. She spent the night in a park in the pouring rain and returned to the group home voluntarily as soon as it was light. She isn’t safe in the main juvenile facility. A group of girls assaulted her and left bruises all over her body. I request that you return her to the group home. She’s very remorseful for leaving. If given a second chance, she’s promised to be on her best behavior.”

  The magistrates turned away to murmur between themselves.

  Several minutes later the man who’d spoken before said, “Given the grave seriousness of the charge, that Abigail willingly left the group home, and her flight risk as a foreigner with wealthy parents, we’ve decided she should be detained in the larger, more secure facility until trial. We’re sending instructions for special protection from the other detainees while she’s there.”

  Abigail put her head on the table and wept. She was terrified of going back. Locked up or not, Niamh would find a way to get at her.

  “It’s not what you want, I know,” Gemma said, in a low voice. “But I’m going to appeal the magistrates’ decision. You’ll be safe because they’ve ordered special protection. But that facility has a poor safety record in general. I can use that as a basis for our appeal. I’ll point out that you’d be more secure in a private residence with an electronic sensor to guarantee you don’t leave. There would also have to be a hired security guard and a responsible adult. I believe your parents have the means to meet these conditions. But I have to discuss it with them to see if they’re willing.”

  “No way,” Abigail said. “They don’t care what happens to me. They probably wish I was dead so I can’t disgrace their good name by being put on trial and sent to prison.”

  “I’ve spoken to your parents, Abigail. You should give them more credit. They’re worried about you, and they care about you more than you realize.”

  As two court officers led Abigail away, she was crying loudly. When the van pulled into the detention facility, Gretchen was in the courtyard to meet her. She took Abigail up to her new room.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to lock the door again,” Gretchen said. “This time it’s court ordered.”

  Once Abigail was alone, she turned on the TV. To her surprise, the picture was clear. The volume was low, but at least she could hear it.

  She was watching a film about a murder on a train when Gretchen came back. She unlocked the door.

  “The shower is empty right now, so it’s safe for you to bathe. Follow me.”

  With trepidation, Abigail followed Gretchen into the shower room. It was indeed empty. Gretchen handed her a fresh bar of soap, and Abigail used it to wash her hair, although she would have preferred shampoo. The water was barely lukewarm, but she was grateful it wasn’t freezing this time.

  She was just rinsing the soap out of he
r hair when an alarm bell went off.

  “I have to attend to this,” Gretchen said. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  No sooner than Gretchen left, Niamh appeared from the women’s toilets on the other side of the shower room.

  “Well, well, well. I didn’t expect to run into you here. Just kidding. I had one of me mates pull the fire alarm so we could spend a little time together. Here’s a towel. Dry off so we can go back to your room.”

  Instead of doing what Niamh asked, Abigail ran for the exit. Niamh easily caught up and grabbed Abigail from behind. She dug her fingers into Abigail’s throat. Abigail struggled to get away, but Niamh was too strong. She squeezed harder, making Abigail drop to her knees. She felt as if she was about to pass out. A whistle blew. Gretchen and several other guards came running. As they arrived, Niamh let go and stepped away, leaving Abigail lying on the floor.

  “Niamh’s been at it again,” Gretchen said. “This time I’m taking her to the director’s office. She doesn’t belong in this unit. She should be with violent offenders.”

  “Oh, come on,” one of other guards said. “We’ll take her to her room and lock her in. She’ll have to go without dinner.”

  Gretchen snorted in disgust. “How can you let her off when we all saw her assault Fletcher here?”

  “You know why, Gretchen,” one of them said.

  “Yeah,” Niamh said. “Who’s going to keep me mates in line if you give me the boot. I’m the only one who can do it. All of us know they laid off a bunch of you guards last month. Without me to keep order, me girls will riot. You’ll be working your arses off twenty-four-seven.”

  Without bothering to deny Niamh’s assertions, the other guards took her away, presumably to lock her up for the night. Gretchen waited for Abigail to dry herself, then took her back to her room.