Life Sentence

by David Ellis

  A man walks out and looks at the four of us. “Mr. Erwin?” he asks.

  Our lawyer stands. “Jeremiah Erwin,” he says. “Counsel for Mr. Tully and Mr. Soliday.”

  The prosecutor is tall and wiry, dark hair with shots of gray, a thick chin with tired eyes. “Gary Degnan,” he says. He looks casually dressed by comparison, a cotton shirt with a tie pulled down and collar open. It brings me a measure of relief.

  “Mr. Tully first,” he says.

  Grant briefly grabs my arm before rising. Jeremiah Erwin holds out an arm and follows Grant and the prosecutor out of the room. Grant is a witness because he was with me at the party. He can’t tell them anything about the rape and murder, but he can tell them about the events before we parted company. What this means, essentially, is that he’ll tell them that Gina Mason was highly intoxicated and quite affectionate toward me.

  Now it’s just Senator Simon Tully and me, each staring ahead. We haven’t spoken one-on-one since the incident. His silence, his complete lack of acknowledgment of my presence, is a fitting rebuke from him. He is not the type to berate. He is not quick to anger, and when it comes, it does not take the form of raised voices and flailing arms, but of that patented glare. Even when he slows down, when he’s out of the spotlight, he is understated. His sense of humor is dry, a cutting remark with a straight face, rarely a smile. He always seems to be calculating, plotting one step ahead. It’s a life where everyone genuflects, where everyone calls him “Senator.” Even Grant calls him “sir” more often than “Dad.”

  Watching Grant and his father together has always been a little strange, more so since Grant’s older brother died in the car accident. Grant is no longer the rebellious younger brother who would come around eventually, following in his elder brother’s footsteps. He is now heir to the throne, and after a grace period to mourn the death of Clayton, Senator Tully became more demanding of Grant. Grant has become more involved in politics, working on campaigns—anything from handing out fliers door-to-door to organizing groups of workers to making phone calls. Doesn’t matter what the person stands for or where they come from, only that they’re Democrats. Now, Grant can throw out names of the precinct captain here or the county commissioner there faster than I can name the starting lineup for our pro basketball team.

  I check the clock in the room, confirm with a glance at my own watch. Twenty-eight minutes since Grant left.

  “Your parents are good people, Jon.” I turn to Simon Tully, who has broken the silence. He is still looking forward, one leg swung over the other. “They deserve better than this.”

  “Yes, sir.” I broke down last night and told my parents the whole thing. I couldn’t evade them with more lies. I sat in our living room while my parents sat expectantly, after I’d announced that I had something to tell them. My plan had been to hold back some, limit the story to intoxication on liquor only. No parent is surprised that a child experiments with booze. But I told them everything, except that I left Grant out of the part about cocaine. I told the story chronologically; it was not until I was in full swing that I had the courage to ride the avalanche down to the bottom—that I am a suspect in Gina Mason’s death.

  There is no proper reaction to such things. My parents responded initially with anger, until they saw my tears, and then they listened with a desperate anticipation as they wondered why I was confessing this to them. My father collapsed at the finale; my mother rushed to me and held me tight. We talked for another hour before my father called Grant’s father. His voice was initially heated—he was no doubt put off by Senator Tully’s complicity in hiding this from my parents—but his tone eased as Senator Tully laid out the whats and hows of what would come next. In the end, I’m sure, my father was grateful that we had such a powerful ally.

  “You had a good talk with Jeremy?” the senator asks me. He means Mr. Erwin, I assume. We went over my story for hours. Well, kind of. We spoke in generalities once we got to the part about the events at Gina’s house. I think Mr. Erwin was tipped off that I had a memory deficiency at that stage, and this seemed to trouble him. So we danced around it, speaking in hypotheticals. He said we could “fill in the details” later.

  “Yes, sir,” I say to the senator.

  Grant’s father breathes in slowly. “Did you understand everything?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s a good lawyer. He’s going to take care of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I promised your father I would take care of this, and I will.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  Senator Tully gives an emphatic nod. End of discussion.

  “Senator?”

  “Yes, Jon.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  He considers what I’ve said. He wets his lips and pauses a beat. “Don’t apologize to me, Jon. You should be apologizing to your mother and father. And it should be in more than just words.” He turns to me for the first time. “Make your parents proud. Work as hard as you can in college and don’t get caught up in this kind of thing ever again. Do you understand?”

  My eyes fill. I look away to dilute the emotion. “Yes, sir.”

  I can feel his eyes still on me. But he says nothing more.

  Grant returns with Mr. Erwin. His face is ashen, but he walks with his head up. He avoids my eyes and takes the seat next to me, next to his father.

  Jeremiah Erwin waves to me with a cupped hand. “Jon.”

  We walk through a corridor with white walls and tile, a sterile environment. I am in a dream. One night, I take a chance with some drugs, meet up with a gorgeous woman, and the next thing I know, my life has come to strolling a corridor with a defense attorney. One night, and a young lady is dead.

  “No talking today,” Mr. Erwin says. “You don’t open your mouth.”

  “Okay.” We pass a couple of men in suits walking with a purpose. “Did Grant talk to them?”

  “Grant did his part,” he says. “But your situation is different. With you, we give a statement later. Just let me do the talking.”

  We stop at a conference room where the prosecutor, Mr. Degnan, is sitting with a yellow notepad flipped open. He nods to us when we enter. “Have a seat,” he says. He extends his hand to me. “My name is Gary Degnan, Mr. Soliday.”

  I take his hand and say, “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “I’m an investigator with the Violent and Sexual Crimes Unit of the Summit County Prosecutor’s Office. Do you understand that?”

  I look at Mr. Erwin, who nods to me. “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “We are investigating the rape and murder of a young woman named Gina Mason. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Erwin raises a hand. “My client understands the nature of the investigation. He will not be answering any questions at this time.”

  Degnan grimaces. His eyes slowly draw off me to my lawyer. “Someone’s going to cut and run,” he says. “It’s going to be you or Mr. Cosgrove.”

  He means Lyle. I never got his last name at the party.

  Mr. Erwin pauses a moment. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Cosgrove’s attorney. I don’t see a case here. Against either boy.”

  “I guess you’ll take your chances, then.”

  “I believe you wanted to take some specimen samples,” says Mr. Erwin.

  Degnan continues with the sour look but deflates. He turns to me. “We are going to take samples of your blood, hair, skin, and urine now. Did your attorney explain that to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine.” Degnan closes his file up and rises. “Someone will be right in.” He heads for the door but turns back. “Let me give you and your attorney some advice, Mr. Soliday. Don’t be the last one to cut a deal. The last one always loses.” He waits a moment for a response, but neither of us speaks.

  19

  MY PARENTS AND I are silent at dinner. I move the chicken and potatoes from one side of the plate to the othe
r. There is no conversation. We are awaiting the phone call. It comes right on time, at six-thirty.

  “I’m going alone,” I tell them. We have debated the point. My father wants to accompany me, but for some reason he has allowed me to work directly with the Tullys and Mr. Erwin on this. He surely respects what the senator brings to the table here. But still, he could insist on coming along. His acquiescence has introduced a new facet to our relationship. In some rather twisted reasoning, this ordeal has allowed my father to see me, for the first time, as an adult. That, combined with an abundance of assurance from Senator Tully, has led him to back off. My mother has been a different story. She has been more attentive to me than she has since I was a little boy. She practically follows me around the house, trying to give me space but desperately wanting to throw a protective shield around me.

  My family, each of us in different ways, has been doused with a cold splash of reality. I have become an adult not upon starting college, or taking a job or a wife, but upon being accused of murder. I am being treated as an adult because law enforcement will treat me as an adult.

  “Mixed bag, all in all good news,” Grant says to me when he answers the door. He shakes my arm eagerly and opens a hand to the den. “Go talk,” he says.

  Jeremiah Erwin rises from the sofa. He’s in a suit as always, not even a loosened tie. His suit is grayish and shiny over a blue shirt and bright yellow tie. He certainly gives the impression that I’m in capable hands.

  We shake hands. I take a seat in the adjoining chair. We exchange pleasantries in the awkward manner adults and teenagers do.

  “We should get to it,” he says. He has several files spread out before him on the glass table. “She tested positive for your semen,” he says. “Blood match.”

  “Okay.” I try to sound upbeat. This isn’t a surprise. But I suppose it’s not good news, either.

  “The autopsy came back rather inconclusive.” He reads from the report. “She died from an internal hemorrhaging.” He looks up from his notes. “Easy way of saying it is, she choked on her vomit. That’s a common reaction to an overdose.”

  “An overdose.”

  “Well—call it whatever. She had high levels of marijuana, cocaine, and alcohol in her blood. She passed out and vomited. She was lying on her back and she choked on it.”

  “So—” I open my hands. “No murder.”

  “That’s our position. There’s another side to it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bruises on the back of her head and her neck. Could be, she was roughed up, and she vomited during the struggle.”

  I remember falling off the bed with Gina. That definitely sticks out. But I thought I took the brunt of it. I really don’t remember. I could hardly feel it, anyway, in my condition.

  “That would be a murder,” I say.

  “Maybe.” He sets down the report. “But you’d need a rape first, for the story to fly. And you didn’t rape her.”

  I wish I could have the same level of certainty as the man defending me. I admit to a certain feeling of security in his words.

  “The other boy backs you up,” he adds.

  “Lyle?”

  “Right. Lyle Cosgrove. He says he dropped you by her house, waited in the car, and you went in and did whatever you did. He can’t say about the sexual part, but he can say that he walked up to the window after a while and you were saying goodbye to Gina. She kissed you goodbye.”

  “Holy shit,” I murmur. I feel an unfamiliar sensation course through me, something close to a sense of salvation. Salvation in the legal sense, at least. There is no evidence against me. I can walk away from this. But there’s something inside me dousing the flames of euphoria. I have no idea what strings Grant pulled to get Lyle to say what he said. Maybe Lyle’s telling the truth. I want to believe it so much that it hurts. But I can’t discount the possibility that he’s covering for me, for some unknown quid pro quo from the Tully family.

  “Out there in Summit County,” says Erwin, “they have what they call an ‘inquiry’ for juvenile cases that could lead to adult charges. It’s like a preliminary hearing in our state, but it’s not run by a judge. It’s run by the prosecutor’s office.” He looks at me. “Are you following?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Okay.” He adjusts in his seat. “Before charging any juvenile as an adult, the prosecutor holds an inquiry to decide whether to prosecute. He listens to all the evidence and makes his decision.”

  “They’ll try me as an adult?” I know the answer to the question. But asking it returns me to several weeks ago, when I didn’t know the answer, when I was innocent. I want to be innocent again.

  “Yes,” Mr. Erwin answers. “For murder? Absolutely. You’re only a year shy of adulthood. That’s an easy call.” He measures my reaction, the force of his words. “But this is our chance to nip it in the bud. They haven’t decided to prosecute. This is our chance to convince them not to. And this hearing is confidential. Sealed. If we convince them not to proceed, this will never come to light.”

  “Okay,” I say with lukewarm optimism. “What are our chances?”

  “Good, maybe excellent.” He leans forward. “The coroner did his part. The other boy helps. They don’t have any witnesses. There’s only one witness who can put you away.” He directs a stare at me.

  Message received.

  “Are you ready to talk about your testimony, Jon?”

  I wring my hands. “I’m ready,” I answer.

  20

  I EXPECTED SOMETHING like a courtroom but got a conference room. My lawyer and I are sitting at one end of a long table. At the other end, two people are seated and conferring quietly. One of them is that investigator, Gary Degnan. The other is a man named Raymond Vega. He knows my lawyer, Jeremiah Erwin, which was obvious from their exchange when we walked in.

  A woman is sitting next to Vega with a small typewriter. She will be typing everything that is said in this hearing. Vega nods at the woman and she begins typing.

  “Raymond Vega, Assistant County Prosecutor for the County of Summit, and with me is Gary Degnan, an investigator with the Violent and Sexual Crimes Unit. We are here today on case number 79-JV-1024. The Summit County prosecutor is conducting a juvenile delinquency inquiry pursuant to Section 24B-18 of the Criminal Code. Our purpose today is to determine the sufficiency of the evidence against Jonathan Soliday, a minor, in regard to possible charges of sexual assault and homicide. The juvenile, Mr. Soliday, is present along with counsel, Mr. Jeremiah Erwin.”

  I remain silent, of course, but the shot of dread flows through me as the prosecutor clears his throat. “Let’s begin with the report of the Summit County Coroner, Vincent Cross.” He looks at the typist. “Let’s call this Exhibit one. Mr. Erwin, you have a copy?”

  “I do, yes, thank you, Counsel.”

  “We have agreed that the coroner need not be called to testify,” says Vega. “The cause of death in Exhibit one is asphyxiation caused by internal hemorrhaging. The report concludes that the decedent suffocated after vomiting while lying on her back.” The prosecutor’s eyes scroll down the page. “The report notes very high levels of alcohol, cannabis, and cocaine in the decedent’s system. The report notes that contusions were found on the decedent’s neck and at the base of her skull. However, the coroner cannot determine whether these bruises are related in any way to death.”

  He flips the page and reads from it. “There is evidence of sexual intercourse preceding death. Semen was found in the vaginal canal containing O-negative blood. There was no external or internal evidence of force in connection with the intercourse.” He looks up from the paper. “No evidence of rape.”

  My heart does a flip.

  The prosecutor sighs, returning to the report. “In short, the coroner finds it more likely than not that the vomiting, which led to the asphyxiation, was caused by the combination of intoxicants in the decedent’s system, as opposed to any violence which may have attended the sexual intercourse.”


  The prosecutor sets down the report and slides a copy to the typist. “The court reporter will please officially mark this report as Exhibit one.”

  The investigator, Gary Degnan, eyes me with a cold stare. I break the contact and concentrate on the prosecutor, Raymond Vega.

  “On the issue of sexual assault, we have affidavits submitted by counsel for the juvenile, Mr. Erwin. He has submitted five affidavits from various men attesting to their sexual relationships with the decedent. We will call these Group Exhibit two.”

  Degnan leans into Vega and whispers something to him. “Oh, yes,” says Vega. “We all understand that the rules of evidence do not apply here. At trial, if there is one, the people would oppose the admission into evidence of this testimony, certainly by affidavit, but even if by live witnesses. On the other hand, we understand that under current precedent in this state, evidence of the complaining witness’ sexual history is relevant to whether she consented to sex on the particular occasion. Because one of the issues we are investigating is rape, this evidence will be considered in this inquiry.” He leafs through the affidavits. “For the record, the affiants in Group Exhibit two are: Steven Connor, Henry Cotler, Harold Jackson, Blair Thompson, and Jason Taggert. I will not read these fully into the record because they are part of the record. I will summarize.”

  Vega clears his throat. “Mr. Connor states that he first had sex with the decedent when she was sixteen years of age. He states that they engaged in intercourse over a dozen occasions during a three-week period. Mr. Cotler states that he engaged in both oral and vaginal sex with the decedent on five separate occasions, while the decedent was ‘dating’—that’s what it says—while the decedent was ‘dating’ another person, Mr. Harold Jackson.” The prosecutor makes a face and flips the page. “Mr. Jackson confirms this infidelity. Mr. Jackson states that he and the decedent engaged in sexual intercourse over forty times during a four- to five-month period, and that it was not unusual for them to engage in sex after partaking in marijuana. Mr. Thompson testifies that he and the decedent had sex ‘about two dozen times,’ both at his home and hers, at her place of work, and in his car.” Vega’s eyebrows rise. “Oh-kay. And Mr. Taggert states that he engaged in . . . ‘sex acts’ with the decedent since November last year until the present time on over five occasions.” He looks up. “For the record, the decedent was only nineteen years old at the time of her death.”