Under the Bridge

by Michael Harmon

  I smiled, sitting back in the chair. “I can prove it is true.”

  She looked at me. “Okay. Tell me.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s just say there was this student. You knew him well enough, and you knew he was going through some crap. Sort of an on-the-edge kid who’s trying to do things right. Well, one day this kid, he comes into your office. He’s pretty shaken up, and he doesn’t know what to do because some bad stuff happened. So you ask him what’s wrong. He tells you a banger has been hassling him pretty bad. Turns out the banger pulls a gun on the kid, and the kid gets the gun away from him. Now, the kid can’t give it to his parents or the police because of other stuff, but he knows the right thing to do is get it safe, you know? He doesn’t want to dump it because somebody might find it and hurt somebody, right? So he comes in your office, tells you the story that he found it and wants to do the right thing by turning it over.” I looked at her. “What would you do if that happened, Ms. Potter?”

  A long silence passed. Then she spoke. “Well, I would have to call the police.”

  I nodded. “I know that. But what would happen to the kid for doing the right thing?”

  She pursed her lips. “He would be arrested and charged with being in possession of a weapon and bringing it onto school grounds.”

  “And expelled, right?”

  She swallowed, nodding. “He would be expelled.”

  I stood, grabbing my pack. “You told me there’s always different ways to do things right, Ms. Potter. You’re a liar. There’s only your way, and that’s not right,” I said, stepping to the door. “See ya.”

  She looked at my pack. “There are other ways,” she said quickly.

  I looked at her.

  She cleared her throat, then grabbed her purse. “Would you like to take a walk with me, Tate? Off school grounds?”

  I studied her, wondering if she’d gone insane. “Sure.”

  So we walked. We walked through the halls and out a side door. She said nothing, but she was breathing heavier than our little stroll would dictate. I could tell she was nervous as we hit the sidewalk. We waited at the corner signal for a moment, standing as traffic passed, and then walked across the street when the light turned green. I smiled. “Nice weather, huh?”

  She let out a stuttering laugh, gesturing to a bus-stop bench. “Let’s sit.”

  We did.

  She put her hands on her thighs. “We’re off school grounds. I have no knowledge of what is in your backpack, I have not seen a weapon on school grounds, and you have not told me you are in possession of one.”

  “Yep.”

  “If you were to tell me that you found a weapon and would like to give it to me to turn in, that’s your choice. But as we’re not on school grounds, you would not be expelled.”

  “What, then?”

  She bit her lip. “I would call the police, tell them I was in possession of a firearm that a student wanted to turn in, and sit here until they arrived to take it. I would hope the student would stay with me. I’m sure the police, seeing his intentions, wouldn’t charge him with anything. They would question him and most likely contact his parents.”

  “You could lose your job for this.”

  “Actually, no, I couldn’t. I would report what happened factually. I haven’t seen a firearm on school property. A student needed to talk off school grounds, and it is my job to talk to students.”

  “Sid told me you were cool,” I said.

  “How is he?”

  “Fine.” I looked at her. “Are you nervous?”

  “Yes. Very. I would appreciate it if you didn’t touch your backpack.”

  I nodded. “Call the police, Ms. Potter.”

  Forty minutes and a ride in a cop car later, I sat staring at the wall of an interrogation room at the police department. All this over a stinking gun I wanted to turn in. Ms. Potter waited outside, after insisting that she give a statement to the detective in my support. That in itself surprised me again. She was going to bat for me, and I didn’t really know how to take it.

  A few minutes later, I groaned. As the door opened, the skinny detective who’d visited the house about the murder walked in. My dad followed him, his work clothes still covered in soot from his welding job. Mom followed him. Neither looked happy.

  The detective sat across the table from me, motioning for my parents to take a seat next to me. Dad refused, standing with his arms crossed. My mother sat. I assumed everything was being recorded, because the cop introduced himself formally as Detective Larry Connelly of the Spokane Police Department. He opened a notebook, took the cap from a pen, then looked at me. “Please state your name.”

  I began, but my dad cut in. “Close your mouth.”

  Detective Connelly looked at my dad. “We need a statement, Mr. Brooks.”

  My dad’s face was a rock. He kept his eyes on me. “Did you give a statement to the officer who brought you in, son?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Was it the truth?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He looked at Detective Connelly. “You got your statement, and unless you tell me right now that the purpose of this little talk isn’t to charge my son with anything, I want a lawyer.”

  The detective dropped his pen on the notebook, frustrated. “I can’t promise anything, Mr. Brooks, but I can tell you that as of now, I am simply following up on a firearm-related incident concerning your son turning in a weapon to his counselor. I have no reason to believe your son gave a false report.”

  My dad took a moment, his eyes searching mine, and then he looked at Mom. She nodded, clearing her throat. “Go ahead, Detective.”

  The detective picked up his pen, then scanned the street cop’s report. “Tate, you didn’t name the person you acquired the pistol from. Who was it?”

  “I didn’t acquire it. I took it from him so he wouldn’t shoot me.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Who was this individual?”

  “A guy.”

  “And his name?”

  I had to play this straight. If they knew Will was involved, they’d know Indy was, too. “He didn’t show me his birth certificate.”

  Detective Connelly clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles working. “This isn’t a game, Tate. It’s serious.”

  “I know. That’s why I gave the gun to my counselor.”

  He nodded again. “And that’s great. But I need to track down who had the gun. You say in your statement that you had a conflict with a person, they pulled a gun on you, and you took it from him. I need more than that.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what happened.”

  “And you won’t tell me anything more?” he asked.

  “Why should I? Doing the right thing might help you, but it only gets me fucked on the street.”

  Silence. The detective studied my face. Another moment passed. Then he spoke to my mom. “Mrs. Brooks, I believe that what occurred with your son Tate has to do with the murder of Lucius Singleton. I believe that your son knows more about the incident than he told me the night I visited your home. I believe your other son is involved somehow, too.”

  My insides shriveled, and I wondered what was going on. I glanced at my dad, then back to the detective. “I don’t know anything more than you do. I swear. A guy had a beef with me, he pulled a gun, I took it from him. End of story.”

  Detective Connelly wrote something in his notebook. “Do you know an individual by the name of William Bradford?”

  I didn’t know a William Bradford. “No.”

  He smirked. “Otherwise known as ‘Will,’ who happens to be a friend of your brother, Indy.”

  I swallowed. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “And he’s a drug dealer?”

  My mind raced. If I pegged Will as the guy I got the gun from, it would put Indy in a bad situation. And me, too. “I’ve never seen him deal drugs.”

  “Have you heard that he deals?”

  “You think Will killed Lucius?” I said, cutting to the
chase.

  “I don’t know who killed him,” Detective Connelly said.

  “Me neither. And I’m not lying. I don’t know anything about Lucius.”

  “What have you heard about it, then?”

  “Probably the same as you. You brought Will’s name up.”

  He looked at me. “Who did you get the gun from?”

  I frowned. “Who do you think I got the gun from?”

  “I think you got the gun from William Bradford. You and he have had problems, right?”

  “We’ve had our differences.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me you took the gun from him, are you?” the detective said.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t going to snitch out Will until I talked to Indy, but I ached to. “You seem to have all the answers. I guess you can take it from there.”

  “You’re not doing anybody favors here, Tate. I’m not here to burn you. Really. I just need to solve a murder.”

  My dad cut in. “My son turned in a weapon to the proper authorities. If he’s broken the law, charge him. If not, we’re leaving. End of story.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “You’re going to tell me what’s going on, or I’m going to beat it out of you.”

  I leaned my head against the seat of Dad’s truck. Mom had taken the car, and Dad had insisted I ride home with him. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  He slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt. The car behind us honked. He ignored it. “Tell me, Tate.”

  “Dad, that’s it! I wish I did know! I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I swear. I don’t know anything about Lucius.”

  He looked at me. The car honked again, this time longer. “Did you take the gun from this Will guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  I sighed as more cars honked. “Will you please go? You’re blocking traffic.”

  He gunned it, yanking the steering wheel and turning into a parking lot. He took a breath, then cut the engine. “Tate, I trusted you in there. I trust you now. Why didn’t you tell him who you got the gun from?”

  A flash of anger, wicked and sharp, ran through me. “Because Indy is dealing dope for him.”

  Dad sat back, staring at the ceiling of the truck. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, fuck. And I’ve got to get Indy out of it before it all comes apart, Dad. That’s why. His entire future is on the line, not to mention his life.”

  “Great. Your brother is dealing dope.”

  “No, your son is,” I snapped. “Are we done?”

  He fired up the truck. “Where is he? Take me to him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tate …”

  “I said I don’t know! If I did, I’d get him! What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing, Dad?”

  He hit the steering wheel with his hand. “This is out of control! Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

  “Why would I? Because you give a crap? God, Dad, what did you think would happen? You kicked him out.” He stared at me. “You think he’s just been hanging around being a good boy?”

  “Don’t, Tate. Stop it. I’ve tried—”

  I cut him off. “No, I won’t stop it. You haven’t done anything! Nothing! He’s in trouble, and a big part of it is because everything has to be your way! Always your way, Dad, and now he’s fucked, so if you want to get pissed at anybody, get pissed at yourself,” I said, then opened the door.

  He stared at me. “Where are you going?”

  I sneered. “Where do you think?” I grabbed my board and slammed the door shut. As I ran, I saw Dad throw the truck into gear and spin around, trying to follow me, but I cut into a space behind a gas station and hopped a fence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Angie’s house surprised me in that it was nice. Small, but not a white-trash dump like I expected. I walked up the trimmed and edged walk to the front door and rang the bell. Nobody answered, so I rang again, hoping somebody was home. A minute later the door opened and Angie stood there, her makeup smeared and hair mussed as she rubbed her eyes. “What?”

  “Is Indy here?”

  She smirked. “No.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. Last I saw him, he was passed out on my bedroom floor. You woke me up, asshole.”

  I resisted the urge to slam her face inside out, because I needed help. “He was here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You guys went to a rave last night?”

  She yawned, nodding.

  I studied her face. “He’s in trouble, Angie. You know it, too.”

  She stared at me. “Maybe with you he is.”

  “No. I’m talking about Will. And his uncle.”

  She moved to close the door.

  I stopped her. “Tell me what’s going on, Angie.”

  “Fuck you, Tate. It’s none of your business. And you’d better watch out, because Will has this thing about you. It’s called hate. And you don’t want to mess with him.”

  I’d tried. Given it the good go, and it hadn’t worked. In a flash I had her by her T-shirt, and I pushed her in the house. She tried to get away, but I yanked her to the floor, sitting on her stomach and pinioning her arms against the tile.

  Her eyes met mine. “You going to rape me now? Go ahead. Get your rocks off before you die, because you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  I looked down into her eyes and saw something there I didn’t want to see. Utter and complete fear. Because of me. Of what I was. My anger disappeared, replaced with a sick feeling in my stomach. “You know more than I do, Angie, and I have to help him. Please.”

  She shook her head, her hair splayed on the floor. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not. They don’t tell me anything. Every time his uncle comes to the apartment, they kick me out.”

  “Did Will kill Lucius?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I breathed, still sick and disgusted, then got up. She stayed on the floor. I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at me, her fear replaced with spite. “The mighty Tate Brooks is scared, isn’t he? And you know what? You should be. You should be scared, Tate.”

  “You’re scared, too, Angie. Aren’t you? You had no idea what you were getting into with Will, huh?”

  She sat up, and tears came to her eyes before she spoke. “Maybe, but there’s not a lot I can do about it.”

  “Break up with him, then. Get out.”

  She laughed, wiping her nose. “You don’t know Will.”

  “I need to find Indy. Help me, and I’ll help you. We’ll get you both out of this.”

  She looked at me, and there was something in her expression that did scare me. I could tell she was trapped in something that she didn’t like and, most likely, didn’t know how to get out of. “I don’t know where he is now, but he parties almost every night at the warehouse on Second.”

  When I got home, Mom and Dad sat in the living room, staring at me as I walked in the door. Ten minutes into both of them launching everything at me in their arsenal of parental weaponry, I finally exploded, yelling at both of them. “For the thousandth time, I don’t know where he is, I haven’t seen him for five days, he’s dealing drugs, I don’t know about Lucius, I took Will’s gun, and that’s it! God, you want me to leave, too?”

  My mom spoke. “We’re actively working with the police to find him, Tate. This can’t go on like this anymore.”

  “Did you tell them he’s dealing?”

  Dad shook his head. “We’re not doing this to hurt him. We just need to find him.”

  “Good luck with that one. I can’t even find him. Are we done? I have homework.”

  At eight that night, I was hopelessly trying to study for a math test when the doorbell rang. Dad answered and I heard his voice, along with someone talking about “your son.” A minute later, Dad called me out.

  M
r. Halvorson stood in our living room, apologizing for dropping in unexpectedly. He held Indy’s story. “Hello, Tate.”

  “Hi.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets.

  Mom came in from the bathroom, smiling and shaking Mr. Halvorson’s hand. She offered him a cup of coffee, which he declined, and he looked at her and Dad. “Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, your son came to my classroom and handed me this story.” He held “Stealing Home” out to my dad, who took it. “Have you read it?”

  Dad frowned. “No, but if there’s anything in it that you found offensive—”

  Mom interrupted. “No, I don’t believe we have, Mr. Halvorson.”

  Mr. Halvorson went on. “Anyway, I told Tate I’d read it, and I have. In fact, I’ve read it four times. It’s far and away the best-written piece of fiction from a student I’ve ever seen. The voice is strong and personal, the narrative flows in an incredibly true and natural manner, and quite frankly, it breaks out of all the stylistic bounds so commonly found today. Your son is a natural writer, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, and incredibly gifted.”

  Mom blushed, and Dad furrowed his brow.

  Mr. Halvorson nodded to Mom. “As I told Mr. Brooks before you came in the room, I’m the department head for English at Lewis and Clark, and also the senior honors teacher. I’d like to invite Tate to my class for the rest of the year. I would also, with your permission and Tate’s, like to submit this story for the Greater Spokane Area Young Writers Competition. The deadline was yesterday, but I can get late approval.” He paused, then said, “Over two thousand writers compete for a writing scholarship, and I think it would have a good chance of winning.”

  Mom was beaming, and Dad held the story, unmoved. I shifted, crossing my arms.

  Dad looked at me. “Well, Tate, how about it?”

  “I didn’t write it.”

  Mr. Halvorson recoiled, confusion spreading across his face. He pointed to the story in my dad’s hands. “You didn’t write this?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Halvorson looked from my mom to my dad, then back to me. “Who did?”