"Ha, ha."
"I'm kidding. I'm the first to appreciate good lawyers. I had some brilliant ones."
"And you needed them?"
"Yes," he answered. He knew that would trigger even more questions, but he continued on, nodding toward the ocean. "I love walking the beach at night."
"Why?"
"It's different than it is during the day, especially when the moon is out... I like the mystery of thinking that anything could be out there, swimming just beneath the surface."
"That's a scary thought."
"That's why we're here and not out there."
She smiled at his words, surprisingly at ease as they meandered down the beach. Neither of them felt the need to speak. Colin focused on the sensation of his feet sinking into the sand and the warm breeze on his face. Watching Maria's hair ripple in the wind, he realized that he was enjoying the walk more than he'd anticipated. He reminded himself that they were strangers, but for some reason, it didn't quite feel that way.
"I have a question, but I don't know if it's too personal," she finally said.
"Go ahead," he replied, already knowing what was coming.
"You said you were a problem adult and that you got in a lot of bar fights. And that you had some great lawyers."
"Yes."
"Was that because you were arrested?"
He adjusted his cap. "Yes."
"More than once?"
"A number of times," he admitted. "For a while there, I was pretty much on a first-name basis with any number of cops in Raleigh and Wilmington."
"Were you ever convicted?"
"A few times," he said.
"And you went to prison?"
"No. I probably spent a total of a year in county lockup. Not all at once, more like a month here, two months there. I never made it as far as prison. I would have--the last fight was pretty bad--but I caught a serious break and here I am."
She lowered her chin slightly, no doubt questioning her decision to walk with him.
"When you say you caught a serious break..."
He took a few steps before answering. "I've been on probation for the last three years, with two more to go. It's part of the five-year deal I received. Basically, if I don't get into any more trouble for the next two years, they'll clear my record entirely. Which means I'll be able to teach in the classroom, and that's important to me. People don't want felons teaching their children. On the other hand, if I mess up, the deal goes out the window and I go straight to prison."
"How is that possible? To completely clear your record?"
"I was diagnosed with an anger disorder and PTSD, which affected my mens rea. You know what that is, right?"
"In other words, you're saying you couldn't help it," she said.
He shrugged. "Not me. That's what my psychiatrists said, and fortunately, I had the records to prove it. I'd been in therapy for almost fifteen years, I've been on medication periodically, and as part of my deal, I had to spend a few months at a psychiatric hospital in Arizona that specialized in anger disorders."
"And... when you got back to Raleigh, your parents kicked you out of the house?"
"Yes," he said. "But all that together--the fight and potential prison sentence, the deal, my time at the hospital, and suddenly being forced to be on my own--led me to do some serious soul searching, and I realized that I was tired of the life I'd been living. I was tired of being me. I didn't want to be the guy who was known for stomping on someone's head after they were already on the ground, I wanted to be known as... a friend, a guy you could count on. Or at the very least, a guy with some kind of future ahead of him. So I stopped partying and I channeled all my energy into training and going to school and working instead."
"Just like that?"
"It wasn't quite as easy as it sounds, but yeah... just like that."
"People don't usually change."
"I didn't have a choice."
"Still..."
"Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did. Regardless of what the doctors said about whether or not I could actually control my behavior, I knew I was messed up, and I didn't give a damn about getting better. Instead, I smoked pot and drank and trashed my parents' house and wrecked cars and I got arrested over and over for fighting. For a long time, I just didn't care about anything other than partying the way I wanted to."
"And now you care?"
"I care a lot. And I don't have any intention of going back to my old life."
He felt her eyes on him, and sensed her trying to reconcile the past he'd described with the man before her. "I can understand the anger disorder, but PTSD?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"Do you really want to hear this? It's kind of a long story." When she nodded, he went on. "Like I told you, I was a bit of a problem child, and by the time I was eleven, I was pretty much uncontrollable. In the end, my parents shipped me off to military school, and the first one I attended was just a bad place. There was this weird Lord of the Flies mentality among the upperclassmen, especially when someone new arrived. At first, it was little things--typical hazing kind of stuff, like taking my milk or dessert in the cafeteria, or making me shine their shoes or make their beds while another guy went over and trashed my room, which I'd have to clean before inspection. No big deal--every newbie goes through that kind of stuff. But some of these guys were different... just sadistic. They'd whip me with wet towels after I showered, or they'd sneak up behind me while I was studying and throw a blanket over me, and just start beating the crap out of me. After a while, they started to do that at night, when I was sleeping. Back then, I was kind of small for my age, and I made the mistake of crying a lot, which only amped them up even more. It's like I became their special project. They'd come for me two or three nights a week, always with the blanket, always with the punches, just beating the crap out of me while telling me that I'd be dead before the year was up. I was pretty freaked out, on edge all the time. I would try to stay awake and flinch at the slightest noise, but it's not like I could avoid sleeping. They'd bide their time and wait until I was out. That kind of crap went on for months. I still have nightmares about it."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"Of course I did. I told everyone I could. I told the commander, my teachers, the counselor, even my parents. None of them believed me. They kept telling me to stop lying and whining and just toughen up."
"That's awful--"
"No question. I was just a little kid, but after a while, I figured I had to get out of there, or they'd take it too far one day, so I ended up taking matters into my own hands. I smuggled in some spray paint and went to town in the administration building. I ended up getting kicked out, which was exactly what I wanted." He drew a long breath. "Anyway, they ended up closing the school a couple of years later, after the local paper did an expose on the place. A kid died there. A little kid, my age. I wasn't one of the students mentioned in the expose, but it was national news for a while. Criminal and civil charges, the whole works. Some people ended up in prison over it. And my parents felt terrible after that, because they hadn't believed me. I think that's why they put up with me for so long after I graduated. Because they still felt guilty."
"So after you were expelled..."
"I went to another military school and swore to myself that I'd never let myself get beaten up again. In the future, I'd be the one throwing the first punch. So I learned to fight. I studied it, practiced it. And after that, if someone ever grabbed me, I'd just... lose it. It was like I was a little kid again. I got expelled over and over, barely made it through, and after I graduated, it sort of snowballed from there. Like I said, I used to be pretty messed up." He took a few steps in silence. "Anyway, all that came into play during the court proceedings."
"How do you get along with your parents right now?"
"Like my sisters, it's a work in progress. Right now, they have a restraining order against me."
A stunn
ed expression crossed her face and he went on.
"I was arguing with my parents the night before I went to Arizona and I ended up pinning my dad against the wall. I wasn't going to hurt him and I kept telling him that--I just wanted them to listen to me--but it scared the hell out of my parents. They didn't press charges--or I wouldn't be here--but they did get a court order that prohibits me from being at their house. They don't necessarily enforce it now, but it's still in place, probably to keep me from ever thinking about moving back in."
She studied him. "I still don't understand how you can just... change. I mean, what if you get angry again?"
"I still get angry. Everyone does. But I've learned different ways to cope with it. Like not going to bars or doing drugs, and I never have more than a couple of beers when I'm with my friends. And being really physical every day--training hard, pushing myself--helps keep my moods in check. I also learned a lot of helpful things at the hospital, different ways to cope. The whole experience ended up being one of the better things I've ever done."
"What did you learn there?"
"Deep breathing, walking away, letting thoughts bounce off, or trying to accurately name the emotion when it strikes in the hopes of diminishing its power... it's not easy, but it becomes a habit after a while. It takes a lot of effort and a lot of conscious thought, but if I wasn't doing all of these things, I'd probably have to go back on lithium, and I hate that crap. It's a good drug for a lot of people and it works, but I just didn't feel like myself when I used to take it. It was like part of me wasn't quite alive. And I was always starving, no matter how much I ate. I ended up gaining weight, getting fat. I'd rather train a few hours a day, do yoga, meditate, and avoid places where I might get into trouble."
"Is it working?"
"So far," he answered. "I just take it one day at a time."
As they walked farther down the beach, the music gradually faded beneath the sound of waves rolling up the shore. Beyond the dunes, businesses had given way to houses, lights glowing through the windows. The moon had risen higher, bathing the world in an ethereal glow. Ghost crabs scuttled from one spot to the next, scurrying at their slow approach.
"You're very open about all of this," Maria observed.
"I'm just answering your questions."
"Aren't you worried what I might think?"
"Not really."
"You don't care what other people think about you?"
"To a certain extent I do. Everyone does. But if you're going to make a judgment about me, then you need to know who I really am, not just the part I decide to tell you. I'd rather be honest about all of it and let you make the call as to whether you want to keep talking to me or not."
"Have you always been like this?" She peered up at him with genuine curiosity.
"What do you mean?"
"Honest? About... everything?"
"No," he said. "That came about after I got back from the hospital. Along with all the other changes I decided to make in my life."
"How do people react to it?"
"Most don't know what to make of it. Especially at first. Evan still doesn't. And I don't think you do, either. But it's still important to me to be truthful. Especially with friends, or someone I think I might see again."
"Is that why you told me? Because you think you might see me again?"
"Yes," he answered.
For a few seconds, she wasn't sure what to make of that.
"You're an interesting man, Colin," she said.
"It's been an interesting life," he admitted. "But you're interesting, too."
"Trust me, compared to you, I'm the furthest thing from interesting."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But you haven't run away yet."
"I still might. You're kind of scary."
"No, I'm not."
"For a girl like me? Believe me, you're a little scary. This is probably the first time I've ever spent an evening with a guy who talks about stomping on people's heads in bar fights or pinning his father against the wall."
"Or has been arrested. Or went to a psychiatric facility..."
"Those things, too."
"And?"
She brushed at a few windblown strands of hair. "I'm still deciding. Right now, I have no idea what to think about everything you've said. But if I suddenly take off running, don't try to catch me, okay?"
"Fair enough."
"Did you tell any of this to Serena?"
"No," he said. "Unlike you, she didn't ask."
"But would you have?"
"Probably."
"Of course you would."
"How about we talk about you instead? Would that make you feel better?"
She cracked a wry smile. "There's not much to tell. I told you a little about my family; you know I grew up here and went to UNC and Duke Law School, and that I work as a lawyer. My past isn't quite as... colorful as yours."
"That's a good thing," he said. Somehow already on the same wavelength, they turned simultaneously and started back.
"Okay," she said, and when he laughed, she stopped for a moment, suddenly wincing. Reaching for his arm to steady herself, she lifted one foot from the sand. "Give me a second here. My sandals are killing me."
He watched as she slipped them off. When she finally let go of his arm, he felt the lingering afterglow of her touch. "Better," she said. "Thanks."
They began walking again, more slowly this time. On the roof at Crabby Pete's, the crowd was growing, and he suspected that other bars were filling up as well. Above them, most of the stars had been washed away by moonlight. In the easy silence, he found himself admiring her features: her cheekbones and her full lips, the sweep of her lashes against her flawless skin.
"You're very quiet," he observed.
"I'm just trying to digest everything you told me. It's a lot."
"No question," he agreed.
"I will say that you're different."
"In what way?"
"Before I took a job here, I was an assistant district attorney in Charlotte."
"No kidding?"
"A little over three years. It was my first job after I passed the bar."
"So you were more used to prosecuting guys like me than dating them?"
She half nodded in agreement, but went on. "It's more than that. Most people pick and choose the way they tell their stories. There's always a positive bias involved, and they frame the stories that way, but you... You're so objective, it's almost like you're describing someone else."
"Sometimes it feels that way to me, too."
"I don't know if I could do that." Frowning, she went on. "Actually, I don't know if I want to do that, at least to the extent that you do."
"You sound like Evan." He smiled. "How did you like working in the DA's office?"
"In the beginning it was all right. And the whole thing was a great learning experience. But after a while, I realized it wasn't what I thought it would be."
"Like taking a walk with me?"
"Kind of..." she said. "When I was in law school, I thought that being in a courtroom would be more like the stuff you watch on TV. I mean, I knew it would be different, but I wasn't prepared for just how different it actually was. To me, it seemed like I was going after the same person, with the same background, over and over. The DA would take the higher-profile cases, but the suspects I dealt with were like walking cliches; they were usually poor and unemployed with limited education, and drugs and alcohol were usually involved. And it was just... relentless. There were so many cases. I used to dread coming in on Monday mornings because I knew what would be waiting for me on my desk. The sheer volume put me in the position of having to prioritize the cases and continually negotiate plea bargains. We all know that murder and attempted murder or crimes with guns are serious, but how do you prioritize the rest of it? Is a guy who steals a car worse than a guy who broke into someone's house and stole jewelry? And how do either of those compare to a secretary who embezzles from her company? But there's only so mu
ch room on the court docket; there's only so much space available in prison. Even when the rare case did go to trial, it's not what you know happened, it's what you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt, and that's where it gets even trickier. The public believes we have unlimited resources to prosecute, with advanced forensic capabilities and expert witnesses at the ready, but that's just not the way it is. Matching DNA can take months, unless it's a high-profile crime. Witnesses are notoriously inconsistent. Evidence is ambiguous. And again, there are just too many cases... even if I wanted to really delve into a particular crime, I'd have to neglect all those other files waiting on my desk. So more often than not, the pragmatic thing was to simply work something out with opposing counsel, where the subject pled to a lesser offense."
She kicked at the sand, her footsteps dragging. "I was constantly being put into situations where people expected results that I couldn't deliver, and I'd end up being the bad guy. In their minds, the suspects had committed a crime and they should be held accountable, which to the victims almost always meant prison time or restitution of some sort, but that just wasn't possible. Afterwards, the arresting officers weren't happy, the victims weren't happy, and I felt like I was letting them down. And in a way, I was. Eventually I realized that I was just a cog in the wheel of this giant, broken machine."
She slowed, pulling her sweater tighter around her. "There's just... evil out there. You wouldn't believe the cases that would reach our office. A mom prostituting her six-year-old daughter to buy drugs, or a man raping a ninety-year-old woman. It's enough to make you lose faith in humanity. And because there's this great burden on you to go hard after the really horrible suspects, that means that other perpetrators don't get the punishment they deserve and end up back on the streets. And sometimes..." She shook her head. "Anyway, by the end of my time there, I was barely sleeping and I started getting these weird panic attacks when I was at work. I walked in one morning and just knew I couldn't do it anymore. So I went to my boss's office and resigned. I didn't even have another job lined up."
"It sounds to me like your job was draining in a lot of different ways."
"It was." She smiled grimly, a spectrum of conflicting emotions playing across her face.
"And?"
"And what?"
"Want to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"The real reason you quit? The part that led to you having panic attacks?"
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