by Claire Adams
“Where are my doting parents?” I ask.
“I don’t keep track of my clients’ whereabouts twenty-four hours a day!” he comes back, almost yelling.
I blink a few times. “Mr. Witherton, who are you talking to right now?”
“I’m very sorry,” he says. “It’s just stuff like this makes me so mad!”
Okay, this guy’s in on it. I don’t know what part he played, but from the bizarre way he’s acting, he’s got to be in this deeper than just knowing about it.
“Mr. Witherton?” I ask.
“Yes?” he returns.
He’s not inspiring a whole lot of confidence right now.
“Two things: My bail and my parents,” I answer. “Which one do we want to discuss first?”
“I’ll go take care of your bail here,” he says. “Just wait in here. I had to pull some strings to get you some privacy while I’m taking care of getting you out of here.”
My suspicions that my parents are going to try to pin this all on me somehow are only growing. I mean, the man ended his last three sentences with the same word. Who trusts a person like that?
“The faster you go, the faster I get out of here,” I tell him and he finally leaves the room.
I lean up against the wall as there’s nowhere to sit other than the floor. Given that this room smells unmistakably of urine, I’d like to avoid that if possible.
Okay, so the lawyer’s in on this to some degree or another, and with as nervous as he seems to be around me, I’d say he knows that something pretty bad is coming my way. Maybe I’m just paranoid from being in the joint, but the world’s so much different than I remember it.
For one thing, I’m making jokes to myself while standing alone in a concrete box.
Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. comes back into the room after a few minutes, and I’m wondering why he didn’t just get this taken care of already. Still, I’m happy enough to get out that I’m not going to start asking too many real questions until I’m outside this building.
“I’m going to take you to see some people now,” Johnson says.
Seriously, did this guy tell my parents to just blame everything on me and he’s feeling that guilty about it or is he just not much of a people person?
“Fine,” I tell him. “Can we go?”
“Of course,” he says and goes to the door of the room. “Did you notice?” he asks.
“What’s that?” I respond.
“They agreed to leave the door to this room unlocked while we’re using it,” he says. “The chief owed me a favor, and I felt that you should be the beneficiary of it!”
“Would you mind giving me a demonstration and then maybe showing me some more doors that you can open?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says and finally opens the door.
We walk back to the room with the actual exit and we leave the building. I haven’t even been in here a day, but I could swear the air actually does smell a little sweeter than I remember.
Maybe it’s finally being out of the urine room my parents’ favorite lawyer was so proud of getting for me.
“My car is the platinum Lexus on the third row,” Johnson says.
“You mean the silver one?” I ask. I know my parents’ crowd well enough to know that question is going to be going through his mind until he sells the car. Maybe it’s a mean thing to do, but I really just don’t like this guy.
“Actually, I brought in a friend who specializes in color palettes and he confirmed that the color was clearly platinum,” Johnson retorts.
“Ooh,” I mock, holding up my hands.
I’m in a bit of a mood.
We’re no less than twenty feet away from the car when I start to make out the silhouettes of people in the backseat, obstructed by the car’s tinted windows. I breathe in slowly through my nose and take as close to an equal amount of time exhaling through my mouth.
Either the people in the back of the car are my parents or they’re hitmen. I’m not sure which I’d be less enthusiastic about seeing.
I open the passenger’s door and take a quick glance to see who’s in there waiting for me.
“You’d think with all your money you’d be able to afford better disguises,” I tell my parents.
It’s bad. Dad’s wearing a bald cap with tufts of fuzzy hair-like matter in a horseshoe pattern along the sides. The edges of the bald cap aren’t quite blended properly, so it looks like my dad has a farmer’s tan under his hair, but nowhere else.
My mom is in a white pantsuit, wearing Elton John glasses and a voluminous and very curly redhead wig. Both of them are holding handkerchiefs to their mouths.
“What are you doing?” I ask, getting in the car.
“We can’t be too careful,” mom says. “The way they just went after you like that—we don’t know how long it’s going to be before they come after us.”
“Dear,” my dad chimes in, “you’ve got to come with us.”
“I’m not putting on a disguise like that,” I tell them. “I’d rather be back in lockup.”
“Darling, she’s speaking like an ordinary criminal,” mom says to dad. She doesn’t lower her voice or shield her mouth. She says it just as loud and clear as everything else she’s said so far.
“Would you prefer I was a bad one like the two of you?” I ask. “At least ordinary criminals seem to have some kind of sense about them. You two—”
“We’re leaving the country,” mom interrupts. “You know the way the US treats its wealthy. We simply cannot weather the PR.”
“On the bright side, they’d probably give you a job in government after you served your week and a half in the Palm Springs Luxury Resort and Detention Center,” I taunt.
“You know, that doesn’t sound so bad,” mom says, turning toward dad.
“She’s mocking us, dear,” dad explains.
“What is your lawyer doing?” I ask.
Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. is standing in front of the car, pacing back and forth talking to no one.
“He’s used to a finer quality institution,” dad says. “Coming to a common jail is a bit of a step outside all our comfort zones.”
“Where are you going?” I ask. “Which country, I mean.”
“I don’t think we should discuss this until we’re already on the plane,” mom says, turning toward dad again.
I’m gritting my teeth. “Unless it’s a private plane,” I start, “it would be good for me to know before we walk up to the counter at the—”
“Of course it’s a private plane, dear,” mom says. “You don’t think we’re going to abscond to another country flying coach, do you?”
They both laugh their affected laughs and I really think there’s a chance the two of them were dropped on their heads as children…and then again as teenagers…and then another time when they entered adulthood.
As I was coming out of the jail, a thought began to occur, but I quelled it before it had formed entirely. I don’t have to go with my parents. I mean, I’m not leaving the country with them no matter what, but right now, I don’t have to be here in a car with them waiting for the press to show up.
Actually, it’s kind of weird that there haven’t been any reporters or cameramen at all.
“Did you guys pay off the press?” I ask. “Why haven’t they turned the front of the jail into a temporary red carpet?”
“John takes care of those things,” mom says, waving her hand as if swatting at a fly.
As if he’d heard his name, Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. opens the driver’s side door and gets in, saying, “All right, it looks like we’re clear for now at least. Is she going with you?”
“No,” I answer, though both my parents respond differently. “I didn’t do anything wrong and I’m not going to start acting like I did just to take the focus off the two of you.”
I don’t usually talk to my parents like this, but they’ve crossed the line a bit more than usual this time.
“That is
true, dear,” mom says. “Once we’ve touched down in Urug—I mean, wherever we’re going—”
“Smooth,” I quip.
“We can start leaking the story—trusted associates, of course. Once everyone’s heard what we’ll say happened, they’ll have to exonerate her, won’t they, Charles?” mom asks dad.
“What exactly are you planning on saying happened?” I ask.
“I still think it’d be better if she came with us,” dad says. “If they do take her in after we’ve left the country, they might try to use her in order to get us to return and face prosecution.”
“I’m not going with you,” I tell him. “Whatever you’re planning, it better include me being cleared of any kind of involvement in any of this.”
“Of course, dear,” mom says, flipping her hand up and down in my direction in a gesture I’ve seen a few thousand times, but have never been quite able to decipher. It’s not a shooing motion, it’s not a wave. It’s kind of like a come here/go away thing, though I doubt that’s what my mom’s thinking when she does it. “Your safety and peace of mind through all of this is most important.”
“We need to leave now!” Johnson shouts out of nowhere. Honestly, I’d kind of forgotten he was in the car there for a minute.
“I’m not going,” I tell him. “You can just drop me off at my place and be on your way.”
“You’re just being ungrateful!” Johnson yells. “We’re going to the airport.”
I look at the lawyer. I really would have thought someone like him would be better in a crisis. If this is the way he’s dealing with things, though, they must be a lot worse than I think they are.
“Ungrateful?” I ask. “Should I be grateful that I was just put in jail for something I had nothing to do with? Should I be grateful that you guys thought it’d be a good idea to basically steal my identity so you could fund your fraudulent enterprise?”
“I really do think it should be her choice, John,” dad says.
The lawyer huffs, “We don’t have time. We need to get out of the country and we need to do it now. If one of us stays behind, how do we know that person’s not going to call the cops while we’re still on the way to the airport?”
“I just want out of this,” I tell the lawyer. “I want nothing to do with it. I’m not going to talk to anyone, I just want to—”
“Get out,” Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq., who had previously been so nice to me, says. Maybe nice wasn’t the word, but he wasn’t this hostile when he was bragging about getting me into the pee room.
“John, please,” mom says.
“It’s fine, really,” I say. “You guys have a fun trip to Uruguay. Let me know if you’re going to be extradited back home and I’ll come visit you at whichever white-collar resort they send you to.”
Before anyone utters another ridiculous syllable, I open the car door and get out.
The door’s barely closed before Johnson peels out of his spot, though given the space between the rows, he has to stop again just as quickly and make a three point turn to get pointed in the right direction.
I really don’t think that’s the guy I’d choose to be my lawyer, but what do I know?
Now comes the thing I’ve really been dreading: I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Mason’s number.
When I was coming out of the jail, I considered telling the lawyer that I already had a ride and call Mason to come pick me up. It was more a fantasy than a real plan, though.
Whatever he feels about Chris being locked up, there’s no way it’s going to go over well that I’m already out on bail while Mason’s brother sits remanded. Town’s five miles away, though, and I’d just really like to get as far away from this building and this parking lot as possible.
Chapter Nineteen
La Petit Mort
Mason
This is so stupid.
I was trying to get some kind of answer out of the clerk at the city jail when Ash called. I guess I should have figured they’d take her to county.
I’m about half a mile away from the same building my brother’s locked up in, and my knuckles are white as I grip the wheel. He’s there on remand and Ash is out the same day.
I’m not mad at her, though.
When I get close enough to the county jail to see into the parking lot, I immediately spot Ash sitting on a low concrete barrier. Her shoulders hunch forward a little as I can see her letting out a deep breath.
I pull up in front of her and unlock the doors to the car. She gets in.
“Hey,” she says. “Thanks for coming to get me. I’m sure you’re sick of this place by now.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wasn’t just going to leave you here, though.”
“Mason, I want to start by telling you that—” she starts, but I interrupt her.
I tell her, “Let’s just get you home and then we can go from there. You must’ve had a pretty rotten day.”
“You can say that again,” she says.
I wonder if Chris is having a worse one or if he’s already conned the people in his cellblock into thinking he’s everyone’s best shot at getting out early. That seems like the kind of thing he’d do to make friends in there. Of course, his inability to get out of there when someone finally catches on might have him behaving very differently.
“It’s kind of weird that they have both men and women in there,” Ash says. “I think we’re on different halves of it, but still, don’t they usually break that sort of thing into gender?”
“I really don’t know,” I tell her.
She bites her bottom lip and turns toward her window.
It’s a quiet drive.
We get to my house and we’re barely through the front door when Ash starts, “It’s always been like this. As long as I can remember, they’ve been pulling something and I’ve never seen either of them take sincere responsibility for anything.”
“That must have been rough,” I say.
She narrows her eyes a little then widens them again, saying, “I’m not trying to say that I had a worse—I’m not trying to compare our situations.”
“I’m not saying you are,” I tell her. “I honestly think it must have been tough growing up the way you did.”
“It kind of was,” she says. “I know that must sound so stupid and out-of-touch coming from someone like me.”
“Not at all,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t want that kind of childhood.”
She’s looking at me with those narrowed eyes again, this time turning her head a little to the side. “If you don’t want me to talk about this, I don’t have to,” she says.
“No,” I tell her. “I like hearing you talk.”
“I never know when you’re being sarcastic,” she says.
“Really,” I laugh, “I’m being serious. What’s on your mind?”
“They’re leaving the country, you know,” she says. “They’re actually trying to skip town, state, and nation to avoid taking any kind of responsibility for what they’re doing, and you know what’s funny? I don’t really blame them. If I’d been committing stupid crimes as long as they have and suddenly it looked like everything might come out, I’d probably want to get the heck out of town, too. No offense,” she says.
I furrow my brow. “None taken,” I say, more a question than reassurance not knowing which part of that was supposed to have offended me. She was referencing Chris, but it’s not like I didn’t know my big brother gets into a lot more than his fair share of trouble.
“Have you talked to him?” she asks.
“No,” I answer. “He hasn’t called me and I haven’t called him. Honestly, I think he’s embarrassed or ashamed or something.”
“All the time I was growing up, I spent most of my time with the maids,” Ash says, returning to her original topic. “If it weren’t for them, I might have turned out more like my parents.”
“Eww,” I say, with an exaggerated shudder.
“Right?” she says. “Can you imagine what that w
ould be like?”
“Thanks to most of the people on reality TV shows, I can make a decent guess,” I answer.
She smiles.
“You know,” I tell her, “before I found out my girlfriend was in the slammer, I was on my way to talk to you.”
“Who’s your girlfriend?” she asks.
I try to exude the lack of being impressed, but I’m not so sure that’s how it’s coming across as Ash is now holding her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle laughter.
“What were you coming to talk to me about?” she asks.
“I wanted to tell you some things,” I answer. “Now’s not the time, though. Now, we need to figure out what we’re going to do about your situation.”
“Hey, we can work on a conspiracy charge,” she says. “Sounds like fun.”
“I didn’t mean we should plan a crime,” I say. “I mean we should figure out how we’re going to approach this.”
She lifts one eyebrow a little and the corners of her lips rise a little. “I have to tell you,” she says, “I like how you keep saying ‘we’ here.”
I smile back at her. “I kind of like you,” I tell her. “Don’t let that go to your head or anything, though.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she says and lets out a long sigh.
She takes a step toward me and opens her arms. I pull her into me and we embrace.
“When we’re a little further out from your whole just-got-out-of-jail thing, I should probably tell you about my session today,” I mention.
“Oh yeah, how’d that go?” she asks, resting her head against my shoulder.
I close my eyes a moment and shake my head. “It was interesting,” I answer. “One thing at a time, though. What do you want to do?”
“They’re leaving the country,” she says. “I’m not going with them, so that probably means I should try to find my own lawyer. They didn’t say anything, but I get the feeling their guy isn’t really going to do his best work for me.”
“Okay,” I tell her.
“They’re just going to get into the same stuff when they’re in South America, though,” she says.