“So I’ll have something to hold on to?” I let my forehead fall against his chest because I couldn’t stand to see the pain and worry in his eyes any longer.
“Yeah,” he said as he smoothed his hand over my hair, my cheek pressed against his chest.
The horn honked once, startling me, and I tore myself out of Justice’s arms. I hurried to the chief’s cruiser feeling like I’d left half of my heart on the porch. Before ducking into the car, I looked back, taking in one last look at everything I was leaving behind.
Justice clenched his jaw, then put on a smile and called out, “I’ll meet ya back at the cabin when this is all over.” Then he put his hand on his heart and patted it twice.
I slid into the chief’s cruiser, and when I was safely out of sight, I put my hand on my own heart. No matter what happened or where I ended up, I knew I would be in Justice’s heart. And he would be in mine.
On our drive to the courthouse, my mind raced with possible scenarios—all bad. With a death grip on the car door handle, I said, “What if the Banards don’t show? What if they do and it doesn’t matter? What if—”
“I talked to them last night. They’ll show, and everything will turn out okay. Don’t worry.” His tone had just the right mixture of confidence and compassion.
My hand relaxed and my knuckles resumed their normal color, but only for a second. “What if—”
“River, the plan is in place. I hand you over at the Winston courthouse where they’ll process—”
“What?” Bile threatened to rise up in my throat. “We’re going to Winston? But Logan’s family practically owns the police department there. I just assumed…I thought it could all be taken care of at the county jail…”
“I agreed to turn you over at the Mason County Courthouse, and I’m sorry, but it happens to be in Winston. Besides, the Westfields have agreed to use all their influence to get your pre-trial hearing pushed up to the next day or two. They don’t want to drag this out, either.”
Day or two? Meaning spending at least one night in jail—minimum. An uneasiness I couldn’t calm settled in my gut.
A few minutes after we got into Winston’s city limits, the chief’s phone buzzed and he picked it up to read the text message. After he didn’t speak for a minute, I turned to him. The color draining from his face made my heart begin to hammer against my rib cage. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
The chief shook his head in what seemed like slow motion as he set his phone in the seat between us. “They’re not coming.” He said it like it was fact, but the stricken look on his face didn’t convince me he believed it. “The Banards aren’t coming.”
The air I needed to expand my lungs wouldn’t come. Words were jumbled in my mind, but I couldn’t pick out any to make a coherent sentence.
“Richard Westfield must have gotten to them; they’re scared.” He clenched his jaw. “We’ve already negotiated your surrender. The police are waiting.” His eyes flickered around like a caged tiger looking for a way out. “There’s no other choice…I have to turn you in.”
I sucked in a deep breath and tried to resolve myself to the fate I had feared all along. But I knew in my heart that even if I had another choice, I wouldn’t take it. One way or another, today was the end of my running.
Almost as if he was thinking out loud, the chief said, “We still have the copy of the check—the hush money to prove the Banards were paid to keep quiet and get out of town.”
A glimmer of hope surged in me, but then I remembered what he’d told me before. “But you said it was stolen evidence—that it won’t hold up…” The check wouldn’t hold up because I didn’t wait for the chief’s help, because I trespassed and broke into the safe and stole it. It wouldn’t hold up because I screwed it all up. I did this to myself. Again.
Stopping at the last red light before we reached the courthouse, the chief said, “We still have a chan—” When he didn’t finish his sentence, I looked up to see why.
No. No. No. A kaleidoscope of blue and red lights danced in front of my eyes as I stared at the clusters of police cars on both sides of the parking lot entrance. There were television news vans and reporters holding microphones. Camera flashes blinded me as the chief maneuvered his way through them into a parking space. Like vultures, they waited on either side of the entrance, ready to pick apart their prey.
Yeah, a chance in hell.
As several uniformed officers spilled out of the courthouse doors, the chief wiped his uniform sleeve across his forehead. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I swear. The Westfields insisted they wanted to keep things quiet. They didn’t want a circus.”
The Westfields lied. They didn’t want a circus; they wanted a public lynching.
The chief fought to keep an even tone in his voice. “I will find a way. It’s not over yet.”
It was over for me. I could feel it in every bone of my body.
Two hulking officers approached my door. One opened it and the other pulled my arm to get me out. “River Daniels, you have the right to remain silent…”
Silent. Numbing silence—that’s the only thing I could hear besides the rhythmic swoosh of blood rushing in my ears.
When the chief got out of his car and rushed around to my side, his words were distorted as he spoke to the officers. “This wasn’t what we agreed to!” He flung his arms toward the commotion surrounding us.
The smug look on the taller officer’s face made me quiver. “I believe you’re in the wrong town,” he glanced at the chief’s badge, “Chief.”
Struggling to keep his voice level, he tried again: “This wasn’t what I agreed to.”
With a haughty smirk, the looming officer instructed me to put my hands behind my back.
The chief’s face reddened and his fists balled as he stepped closer to the officer.
“No!” I started to raise my arm to the chief. A sharp pain shot through my shoulder as one of the officers intercepted my arm and jerked it behind me.
Fury shone in the chief’s eyes, but he took a cautious step back, knowing that if he were arrested, he wouldn’t be any good to either of us. Through clenched teeth, the chief said to me, “I will get you out. I promise.”
My skin crawled when the handcuffs slipped around my wrists like cold snakes. The quick metallic snap of the cuffs was the venomous bite that took me under.
I could barely make out the chief’s last words to me as the officers pushed my head down to get in the backseat of their cruiser. “I promise,” he said. Staring out through the thick glass partition that separated the criminals from the officers, I watched as the chief crossed in front of their car. With his eyes on me, he mouthed the same two words: “I promise.”
But I knew promises were meant to be broken. And getting me out of hell was a promise nobody had the power to keep.
After arriving at the jail, my numb haze became darker. I was barely coherent when they processed my paperwork, fingerprinted me, and snapped my convict portrait. There was a search and a blurred exchange of my clothes for an orange jumpsuit and flip-flops. The skitter and clank of a heavy jail door reminded me that the moment was real. The gray cinderblock walls closed in, and the sturdy metal bars were my only window to the world—the new world that was now mine.
This was my life.
I had no idea how much time had passed before keys jangled outside my cell and a heavy-set black lady wearing a uniform slid open the barred door. “Mm, mm,” she said, shaking her head, “you must have some good connections to be gettin’ your pre-trial today.”
Connections, right. The Westfields had connections, and they wanted this thing over with as fast as possible before the chief had a chance to dig up any more dirt on them.
“You’re one lucky girl.”
“Lucky?” I rubbed my bare arms where the stiff orange jumpsuit didn’t cover.
“Yep, you only had to spend one night. Some people spend weeks and months waitin’ for a pre-trial hearing.”
I couldn’t decide whether that would be better or worse considering the Westfields were waiting on the other side.
“Time to put your bracelets on,” she ordered. “Arms out in front of you, and stand still.”
My stomach muscles contracted, causing me to tuck my head into my shoulder and dry-heave several times before I was able to follow her command. The only reason nothing came up was because I hadn’t eaten anything—or if I did, I didn’t remember.
I concentrated on a row of names etched on the wall in order to avoid watching her put the handcuffs on me, then the shackles.
“Alright, let’s move out.” She gestured to the cell door. “Your chariot awaits.”
With each step, my shackle chains scraped against the concrete flooring, sending a mind-numbing echo bouncing off the confines of the walls—an echo that vibrated all the way to the hollow of my soul.
Two tan-uniformed male officers met our transport van at the garage entrance of the courthouse. After unloading me and five other nameless, faceless females into the building, they led us into a long corridor like cattle to the slaughterhouse. The building even reeked of death—a putrid combination of urine, body odor, and disinfectant.
“You ladies get comfortable,” said the shorter officer with a bad overbite as he held open the thick metal door to our holding cell. “Gonna be a long day.” The door slammed shut behind us with a loud and final clank.
Fluorescent lighting lit the small gray cinderblock room that contained only three things: a stainless steel bench, and a matching sink and toilet. I shuffled across the room, took a seat in the corner, and curled into myself. I didn’t talk or make eye contact with anyone until what seemed like hours later, when a tall officer with white hair and a mustache showed up. “Ms. Daniels, you can speak with your attorney now.”
He led me to a tiny, cell-like room that adjoined an identical space separated by a glass window partition. After I took a seat on the single round stool that was bolted to the floor, he left me alone.
My throat ached like I’d swallowed a handful of hot marbles, but I pushed it away. I couldn’t afford to lose it right now, not when I’d soon be facing Richard Westfield.
A petite, middle-aged brunette with glasses took a seat on the side opposite me. “My name is Mary Blankenship, and I’m your court-appointed attorney,” she said into a speaker-like circle encased in the window. “I just spoke with the prosecuting attorneys.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she assessed me, perhaps thinking I was young enough to be her daughter, and then she cleared her throat. “They took into consideration the fact that you’re seventeen, an honors student, and have no prior offenses. But there’s no evidence to corroborate your story, and your witness backed out…”
My heart thumped in my chest like a bass drum, so loud I was sure my eardrums would burst. I scrubbed at my face with my restrained hands, then propped my elbows on the lip of the counter above a narrow opening. The space was only large enough to pass papers back and forth between rooms, or maybe an ink pen—or if someone was lucky, to hold a hand.
When my attorney licked her lips and leaned in closer, I lay my head in my hands, waiting; it was too heavy to hold up any longer. “Reckless homicide is the lowest charge we could negotiate,” she clasped her hands together like she was praying, closed her eyes for a second, and took a deep breath, “with a sentence of five years.”
Five years! I let my forehead fall against the cool glass window, desperate for any relief from the two-ton weight that had smashed into it. My body erupted in uncontrollable shivers, and I braced my hands against the counter ledge so I wouldn’t fall off the narrow stool.
In five years, I’d be twenty-two. In five years, I’d have been a well-respected horse trainer and traveling out west to compete in the biggest reining horse shows in the United States. In five years, Jamie would be nearly finished with college and Kat and Billi Jo would be long gone from Dahlia, Texas. In five years, Justice would be out of college, starting a career, and looking for the girl of his dreams, not waiting for an ex-convict…
Something inside me cracked, and deep, gut-wrenching sobs exploded from the depths of my core. With each body-aching jolt my chest tightened, making it more and more difficult to breathe. Metal clattered as I swiped my shaking hands across my wet cheeks, scratching my face with the rough metal handcuffs that were going to be a part of my existence for the next half-decade.
After what seemed like several minutes, my attorney slid her hand to the opening beneath the speaker as an offering and whispered, “River, honey, you’re sure you want to plead guilty today?” She pushed her red frames up on her nose, staring at me with kind, sympathetic eyes the color of summer moss.
My own eyes burned like someone threw acid in them as I thought of Justice. I would never ask him to wait. “I need to end this today. I can’t put the people I care about through a long, drawn-out jury trial.” I’d never get a fair one, anyway—not with the Westfields on the opposing side.
When she didn’t argue, my stomach dropped—all the way to my shackles. Attorneys make a living arguing, and she didn’t even attempt it. She knew as well as I did that no matter what route I took, I was irreversibly and undeniably screwed.
Pop. Pop. Pop. The cameras flashed as the bailiff led me into the large courtroom. Squinting through the bright white lights, I scanned the staring faces: Logan’s family, his teammates, his coach and teachers, his best friend Red. But I couldn’t find the chief, or the Banards, or anybody that might be on my side. Nothing—not a single soul besides my court-appointed attorney. Only a packed room filled with photographers, reporters, and spectators who’d come to see the grand finale.
After I took my place on the right-hand side of the courtroom, I watched as one of the most powerful men this side of Texas made his entrance. Flanked by his big-time lawyers, he was confident and poised in his designer suit when he took his seat on the prosecution side. I didn’t need to see his face to know he wore a smug grin. His words of warning echoed in my head…“River Daniels, you’re as good as nailed.”
The creak of the substantial wooden doors of the courtroom closing signaled it was time for the trial to begin. And time for my life to end. This was the final step to the beginning of the end. Bone-crushing heaviness settled in my chest and extended to every limb of my body.
Struggling to wrap my brain around what was happening, I watched the lawyers approach the judge’s massive cherry-wood desk that sat on a platform like a stage. When they stepped away and the judge addressed me, I broke out into a cold sweat. His words jumbled into a fog as he read off a long list of my rights, the charges I faced, and confirmed my understanding of what I’d agreed to. My handcuffs rattled when I reached to dab at my forehead.
When an officer rushed in and delivered a piece of paper to the judge, I was vaguely aware of the shift in body language from the attorneys on both sides. After a few minutes, the officer walked back out and then returned with a timid, strawberry-haired girl.
A jagged breath caught in my throat and my entire body began to tremble. It was Rachel Banard. My eyes found the chief’s as he slid into a seat in the back row. When he gave me a nod, I exhaled. This girl’s testimony was the only thing that could alter my fate.
After several agonizing minutes speaking with the judge, Rachel was guided to the witness stand, where she was sworn in. A few minutes later, she started shakily, “I feel…like what happened was my fault.” She fidgeted with the top button of her baby duck yellow dress. “If I had reported what happened to me last summer…”
The judge waited for her to compose herself, then nodded for her to continue.
“Logan Westfield raped me,” she choked, and then looked toward me with wide, tear-filled eyes. The pounding in my ears was so loud I could barely make out her next words. “We’d been drinking. Logan drove to a secluded field…”
An icy chill swept over me, and the memory of my own nightmare that started exactly the same way came flooding in. I t
ried to push it away, but the power of Rachel’s words mixed with my own memories and pulled me down into the darkest moment of my life. Leaning forward to help clear the haze that invaded every cell of my brain, I struggled to listen to her words and shut out my own. But I couldn’t separate them. They were one and the same: the scenario, the actions, the emotions…
Someone gasping for breath lifted me out of my memory and back into the present. Startled, I realized it was not only Rachel who had gasped between her tears, but me. Looking into the eyes that mirrored my own pain, I knew I didn’t need to hear more details of her story—I already knew how it went. Only this time, it had a different ending. My story ended with the bullet that stopped Logan and put him in his coffin—hers nailed it shut.
32
VERDICT
My body sagged with relief and exhaustion as I drifted out of the back entrance of the courthouse with the chief by my side. It seemed like it had been two years since I turned myself in, but it hadn’t even been two days.
When we reached the chief’s car, he opened the door for me and I hesitated. There was a part of me that felt I should hug him or at least shake his hand, but before I had time to decide on the proper thank you, the chief gestured for me to get in. He shut the door, scanned the parking lot, then rushed around the other side and slid into his seat.
Before he even closed his door, the questions started rolling off my tongue. “How did this happen? The Westfields were ready to crucify me yesterday; how did you convince the Banards to testify after all?” I tried to read the chief’s face. “What happened? Are you in trouble for helping me? Tell me.”
“I didn’t talk the Banards into testifying.” The creases at the edges of his eyes lifted. “Richard Westfield did.”
This was no time for humor. “What?”
“I paid a little visit to Westfield last night and offered him two options: either Rachel Banard testified, or I would go to every media outlet with this.” He held up the bribe check.
Running On Empty Page 30