by Cara Dee
It was getting difficult to speak. "You, too." I hung up the phone, and then I followed the CO down a hall I had no business in otherwise.
Before unlocking the door at the end of the corridor, I was told to hold out my hands so he could put cuffs on me.
Shit, this was it.
I was taken to an adjacent building. Infirmary was around here, too.
"They're ready for you," the CO said. After he opened the door to a conference room without windows, I was shown to an empty chair across an open space from the three Board members. My name and prison ID were listed as the CO uncuffed me again, and I took my seat.
Never before had I given a flying fuck about how I sat. Now I kept my shoulders squared and maintained eye contact.
Meaningless introductions were made, which I could barely hear over the ringing in my ears. The woman seated in the middle was the Examiner, and she nodded thanks to the CO, who backed off to stand by the door.
Here goes everything.
*
"When you were arrested, you were under the influence of cocaine and had high levels of several drugs in your blood," the Examiner said. "At the beginning of your sentencing, you completed a ninety-day rehabilitation program. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am," I replied.
She was dressed conservatively and had the eyes of a fucking shark that captured everything behind black-framed glasses. Painted lips drawn tight, creating little wrinkles at the corners. I swore she could take notes, read from my file, and speak at the same time.
"No prior charges…" She looked up from my file, expectant. "In 1994, you checked yourself in to a rehab facility in California. How would you describe your relationship to drugs and alcohol today, Mr. Hayes?"
"Nonexistent." I clasped my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting like an idiot. "Do I hope to be able to sit down and enjoy a beer some day? Yeah. But I won't put myself in a situation where I drink more than I can handle. That includes the kind of lifestyle the music industry made available to me—with drugs, I mean. I'm not that person anymore."
*
When going through the report from my psych evaluation, I got antsy as fuck. The first part was easy. The Resident Unit Officer and the Resident Unit Manager were called in to give their statements about my paid labor, my everyday behavior as an inmate, and the few tickets I'd gotten while locked up. Only misdemeanors—some bullshit about abusing privileges, insolence, and showing up late for work when I was sick.
The two men were in agreement, stating I stayed out of trouble, had no suspicious affiliations, etcetera.
After that, though…
"There is some concern in regard to your temperament," the Examiner stated. "Given the nature of the crime, and the amount of violence, we need to make sure you're not a threat to society." With each word, the notion of freedom slipped through my fingers like fine sand. "Anger and anxiety are listed here. How would you describe your mental state today?"
I cleared my throat, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. "I wouldn’t walk away from responsibilities, should I be granted parole. My father's looked into counseling and further rehabilitation for me. My anxiety is nonviolent and related to being overwhelmed. These past couple of months, for instance? It's been a lot to take in."
Remembering I had a misconduct for threatening behavior from last year when Ade visited, I brought it up, hoping to explain myself. "Ten years ago, I made the mistake of cutting all ties with people I knew—other than my pop. I'd just upended my life, and I couldn’t cope, you know, being in here and still existing in their world." Shit. I took a breath. Was I rambling? I needed them to get it. "About a year ago, I was contacted by Ade—Adeline Ivey, I mean—and it brought back memories I thought I'd processed." I was quick to add, "I started attending therapy here for that reason, and Ade and I are on good terms now." Thank fuck Pop had made me go. "Ma'am, I don’t believe I pose a threat to society. I'm not angry by nature, nor would I attempt to fix this myself. I don’t have that kind of pride anymore, to be a martyr or hero."
The Board members took notes, the Examiner nodding thoughtfully as she wrote on a legal pad.
Had I just fucked myself over? I wanted to be as honest as possible, and if I said I'd do everything perfect from now on, it would reek of bullshit. I wasn’t perfect. No one walked out of prison a whole man—fixed, cured, or whatever—but they sure as shit walked out changed.
"How would you say you processed rage before?" the Examiner asked. "Compare it to now, please."
Wasn’t it kinda obvious how I used to process it?
"I took everything personally before." I thought back on the day I went to that bar to meet Ade's stepdad. "I walked around with a big chip on my shoulder, and if you insulted someone I cared about, you insulted me."
She put down her pen and gave me her full attention. "And this wasn’t merely a slew of insults. Your girlfriend testified and went on the record, speaking of years of sexual abuse and neglect."
I nodded with a dip of my chin, a spark of that rage igniting in my chest. It stayed a glowing ember, though. I didn’t explode anymore. "He broke her, I thought, and I took the matter into my own hands when I wasn’t lucid. I had every intention of turning him in."
I scanned the establishment, already livid and ready to make this fucker bleed. Lars had told me the man wore a suit, and in a working-class sports bar, it was easy to spot him.
Walking over to the bar, I came up next to him and asked, "You Kane Bishop?"
The flash of nervousness in his eyes made me grin sinisterly. He must've recognized me.
I stuck out my hand anyway. "Lincoln Hayes."
The Examiner inclined her head and flipped a page in my case file. "A note with the number to the local police station was found in your jeans at the time of your arrest."
"Yes." That part of my final conviction was right. I hadn't planned to kill the motherfucker from the beginning. "I can't describe that rage, ma'am. I wanted to hurt him for everything he'd done to Ade. She was stuck in a drug addiction to escape reality, and I was the one who witnessed her meltdowns, the panic, and the anxiety attacks. She thought she was worthless. It wasn’t something she threw out to get attention. She showed it every day." I paused. "I can't describe the rage," I repeated, "but I can say—with confidence—I wouldn’t handle the situation the same way today."
*
It was fucking impossible to unclench, even as we moved on to lighter subjects. The Board asked about my plans for the immediate future in the event I was granted parole, and I was assured they had all the documents my pop had sent them. Personal letter, guarantee of employment, and counseling recommendations included.
There was the contact information for a Martha Thomas, too.
"Is Ms. Thomas family?"
I shook my head. "Adeline recommended her 'cause she—Martha—has housed parolees before, and I'd live right next door to Ade and her family. Since I won't be leaving Michigan, my pop suggested I live near the only people I know in the state. But," I added, "if she wouldn’t qualify, we could find something else—no problem."
She nodded in acknowledgment and jotted something down. "Mr. Hayes, you were a well-known musician and celebrity ten years ago. How would you handle that kind of fame today?"
"I'd avoid it," I answered. "Pop's gonna get in touch with my old manager to see if there's anything I gotta do—precautions or whatever, just in case. If I get recognized or if there's any coverage of my release, I'll ignore it. I have no interest in that life anymore."
"Fair enough."
What followed was a heavy minute of hushed murmurs between the Board members, more note-taking, and whatever else they could think of to push me closer toward a heart attack. Had I missed anything? Had I said too much or not enough? I fucking hated talking all formal-like, and I was probably my own worst defender. The ability they had to make me doubt every word I uttered was goddamn astounding.
There were a few nods between the members before the Examiner
faced me again.
"I think we've covered everything we can today, Mr. Hayes. There's quite a bit to consider, so we will review the case further when we get back to Lansing." Her words put a noose around my throat. "Now," she said, and fuck me, she almost smiled, "with the holidays around the corner, we will do our best to give you our answer as soon as possible. I can venture a guess and say there are a number of places you'd rather spend the holidays than here."
I forced a polite smile.
I wouldn’t be getting any verdict today. Not even an off-the-record maybe.
*
Back in cuffs and standing on shaky legs, I left the room with my guard dog in tow. My head was pounding, and the tension in my body screamed for an outlet. Holy fuck, I wouldn’t get paroled, would I? All of this would be for nothing. My hopes were up there. Way, way, way fucking up there.
"Can—" Fuck. "Can I go to the bathroom? I need a minute."
The CO nodded and showed me to a bathroom farther down the corridor. "Keep the door ajar."
He could fucking watch for all I cared.
I entered the single bathroom and turned on the water. I'm not getting out, I'm not getting out. The cold splash on my face had the opposite effect. Rather than snapping me out of the spiraling, it worsened my headache, and nausea crawled up my throat.
"Goddammit." I sat down heavily on the toilet and palmed my face. The cuffs clanked together, yet another reminder of who I was. And where I would probably spend the next two years or however long until I could apply for another hearing.
I was so close.
I dragged a hand over my beard and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"Let's have a talk outside, yeah?" I clamped a hand down on Kane's shoulder and pushed him toward the exit.
"How about you take your hand off of me and go to hell, kid?" He sneered at me, which was cute. He had no clue how much I was holding back right now. It would do him no good if I lost it.
"Oi! Take it outside, guys," the bartender hollered.
With another push along Kane's spine, I ushered him out of the bar, and I steered him toward the alleyway a few feet away.
I'd never forget his ugly face staring back at me. Oily, fake tan, deceptive eyes in a stereotypically kind of blue color…but the almond shape of them had made my skin crawl. He'd been a few inches shorter, and he'd lived the good life. Probably hadn't exercised much. I remembered assessing him. Staring at him, the fat fuck. And what it'd feel like for a twelve-year-old girl to face him in the middle of the night.
A second later, I was heaving into the toilet.
"I had a feeling you weren't dead." I scratched my eyebrow. "She still thinks you are, though."
Kane quirked small smile. "Then it'll be a nice surprise for her to see me again." With a tilt of his head, he studied me. "So you're the boyfriend I've read so much about. I take it she's told you…her version of the truth, anyway."
Her version. Right. "Good one." I pushed up the sleeves of my hoodie. "Did she cry?"
He offered a blank expression.
"Answer me, needle dick." I forced him deeper into the alley, away from the sidewalk, away from civilization. "When you visited her room at night and touched her, did she cry? Did she beg you to stop? When you started fucking her, did she scream in pain?"
"Is that what she's been telling you?" He let out a laugh. "Man, she loved it. Always telling Daddy to go harder."
"You sick fuck." I was on him in an instant.
"Time to get back to your block, Hayes," the CO said.
I nodded, my head feeling like it weighed a ton, and rose from the floor.
On the way back, the hallways seemed endless. There was a constant clicking and whirring from opening and closing heavy doors. A prison was never completely silent.
I'd been here too long, having reached the age where I was older than most COs. There were a few types of them. The trigger-happy kids who were jumpier than crackheads, the mid- to late-thirties men who hated their lives and rarely got laid, so they showed up at work and took their frustrations out on the inmates; a small group of men and women—also in their mid-thirties—who were chill and didn’t freak out over nothing. Some could be bribed. Some wanted to rehabilitate you. Lastly, the lifers. The guards who'd been here the longest and wouldn’t leave until they retired. Round bellies, no bullshit, health issues and joint problems, their mouths and minds quicker than their legs. One of them walked behind me right now, and he'd probably seen it all.
"Are you a talker?" I asked over my shoulder.
"Not really."
"Yeah, me either." I faced forward again. "So one might wonder why I sang like a fucking canary at the hearing." Maybe not the best-fitting idiom in this facility.
He snorted. "Perhaps 'cause you wanna go home."
Wasn’t a whole lot I could say to that, was there?
"She didn’t ask if I had any regrets," I noted.
"Would it matter?" His question was rhetorical. "If you didn’t regret your crime, and she asked, you still would've said yes."
Yeah, true. But then…the actual truth was, I still didn’t know.
* * *
1998
Nausea churned in my stomach. Out of control and seeing red, I acted on the fury that coursed through me. I'd sent us both to the ground on my initial impact, and I couldn’t stop hitting him.
"You'll never get near her again, you nasty son of a bitch."
The psychopath grinned, flashing a set of bloodied teeth, but after I got in another kick to his gut, he'd had it. He jumped up off the ground a second before I could, and I paid for it when he kicked me. Oh, fuck me. I bowled over as blinding pain radiated from my side.
"You misunderstand, boy." He glared down at me. "That cunt of a wife of mine tried to kill me, and my precious daughter didn’t exactly call 911, did she? They'll both pay for what they did."
My stomach revolted, his intentions dawning on me. He wasn’t gonna let Ade go. He was always gonna come after her.
He was fucking sick. Certifiably and criminally insane. Sucking in a quick breath, I sent my arm flying to hit the back of his knees, causing them to cave. As he stumbled backward, I got up and delivered a swift kick to his rib cage. One more, one more, I wanna hear that goddamn crunch. I kicked him again and again.
Adrenaline exploded inside me. My mind went blank except for the image of Ade being hurt by him, begging for him to stop, that went on a loop. He'd made her think she was nothing but a whore. He'd forced her to say she liked it. He'd left her alone in filth and shame afterward.
"How fucking could you?" I growled. "She's innocent."
There was a strange rhythm. The physical pain faded, and my shallow breaths matched the fists I gave him. Finally. I punched him in the jaw, hearing the satisfying crunch of it breaking. Or dislodging. Kane screamed, and the sound pierced through the red I saw. Being sucked back into reality, I slapped a hand over his mouth and planted a knee on his chest.
"You'll never," I panted, "ever…touch her again." She was mine. I was gonna protect her. Mine, mine, mine. The man had to die. "You're gonna die." I put all my weight on that knee, and I grinned at the sound of the hoarse whoosh of air that left his lungs. "Do I have your attention now? Huh?"
He clawed fruitlessly at me but was quickly losing strength.
"My face will be the last you'll ever see." I grabbed his head, lifted it a few inches off the ground, and then smashed it against the pavement. "Where's that ugly, smug smile now?"
His blood and tears streaked the fake tan of his skin, and with a bitch-slap, I smeared it. He choked—a low, gurgling, strangled noise—and I rammed his skull into the ground again.
You can't hurt my girl now.
*
I'd finished what Ade's mom had started. I sat on the ground next to his body, and I couldn’t quit staring at him. Or it? When did someone stop being a person? At the last breath?
My chest heaved. I hadn't even realized.
Slowly
but surely, the city noise invaded my ears.
You killed a man.
I flexed my fingers and stared unseeingly at my hands.
His chest didn’t move. I waited for it. Didn’t happen. Checked for a pulse, found none. Leaning over him, I just…stared. Then I slumped back once more and sparked up a smoke. My gaze went to my fingers. Why were they shaking? There was no pain.
Inhale.
What happened now? I…I couldn’t exactly pretend like this never took place.
Exhale.
I was fucked, wasn’t I? I heard the traffic. Someone honked a horn, and I tilted my head toward the mouth of the alley. Oblivious strangers passed on the sidewalk. They'd have to know what they were looking for in order to see me.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and blinked. What have I done? "Fuck." Another drag from the smoke. I glanced back at Kane. Dead. He was gone. I'd killed him with my bare hands.
Unwelcome thoughts began to infiltrate my mind. Obligations and responsibilities. In a few hours, thousands of screaming fans would be waiting for Destruction to hit the stage.
I won't be there.
I coughed on the next inhale.
*
I didn’t regret it.
Ready to leave my phone as evidence, I took a chance and checked the pockets of Kane's suit. I found a pen, and in my wallet, there was the business card of our manager. My hand wouldn’t stop shaking, but I managed to jot down my name and the hotel we were staying at.
"I won't resist arrest," I finished with.
I couldn’t regret it. I feared if I did, I'd break into a million pieces.
*
I didn’t remember leaving the alley.
I didn’t remember calling 911 to say a man had died.
I drove through downtown Detroit as the darkness fell. Every now and then, I eyed my fingers gripping the wheel. The police would probably search the rental. When you were on the road as much as I was, there was a constant quest to find the next distraction. Cop shows were some of them. I'd seen my fair share, while stoned as well as sober.
Shitty fucking criminal I turned out to be.
You murdered someone. Now you're definitely losing Ade.