CONVICTED

by Pelton, Kristi

  “Pop, Stop!” Braxton yelled, causing Pop to stumble backward and fall as he looked back at Brax.

  From the living room floor, Pop pulled his head up, trying to heave his body forward, with no luck. He tried a couple more times before laying his head back and giving up. When his eyes closed, I knew the alcohol had won. It always did.

  Braxton walked past me to the kitchen where he unrolled paper towels, tore off a couple, wet them with water and then handed me the soaked towels.

  “Your nose,” he said.

  I dabbed beneath my nose, and the paper towels absorbed the blood.

  “You ok?”

  I nodded, barely. I’d never been more not ok in my life.

  “How’s your girl?”

  A headshake was the only way my body would respond or cooperate. Thoughts of Abby’s beautiful damaged face and injured body pinballed through my brain, firing off a series of synapses. First, queasiness set in as I bolted to the kitchen sink, vomiting over the dirty dishes. Beads of sweat broke out across my forehead.

  “Abby died?”

  I nodded.

  “What the fuck? Are you kidding?”

  Braxton’s words seemed to come from a different place than where he stood.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Joss. Jesus. Are you ok?”

  “Fuck no. I’m not ok, Brax.”

  Suddenly, the room spun and I could tell I legitimately was not ok. When I collided with the dirty linoleum floor, the room went black.

  Chapter 2

  Brotherly love

  Braxton

  AFTER LUGGING JOSS to his room, I locked the door before pulling it shut. He’d always been Pop’s favorite punching bag, though I never understood why. My theory was it was because Joss resembled Mom in a lot of ways. She was a punching bag too before she left.

  Pop’s body lay contorted where he had passed out. His crotch wet from where he pissed himself at some point during the evening. I crashed on the sofa, hoping to wake if Pop decided to find Joss. We hadn’t been dealt the best of hands being born to Allan Hess as a father, but I’d spent my life protecting Joss and I wouldn’t stop now, especially with Jake in prison.

  ________________

  Pop’s grunting brought my eyes open, and my body bolted upright. He ricocheted off the end table in the living room, a chair in the kitchen, then the hall wall as he stumbled into his bedroom.

  Bright lights flickered through the rain-splattered front window. Our trailer was in a shit part of town, and rarely did anyone come down our road. I peeked out the side window by the front door. Cops. Shit.

  I opened the door before they knocked, hoping not to disturb Pop.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We are looking for Joss Hess.”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “I’m going to need you to wake him, sir.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Who are you?” one of the cops asked with attitude.

  “I’m his older brother, Braxton.” I shifted my weight back on my heels ready to slam the door shut. I wasn’t stupid. I knew they needed a warrant. The sun made its morning appearance behind them.

  One of the officers handed me a piece of paper. “We have a warrant for his arrest, Braxton.”

  I’d been to court too many times to count with Joss and his constant fighting.

  “Arrest? For what?”

  “Sir, we need to speak with Mr. Hess.”

  I nodded, holding open the broken screen door for them to enter.

  “Joss isn’t well. His girlfriend was killed tonight. He fainted earlier.”

  I tapped on the thin, wood bedroom door. “Joss.” The next knock held a little more force. “Joss,” I said louder.

  “Yeah?” We all heard from the other side of the door.

  “The police are here to talk.” I cringed with my word choice. Talk didn’t equal arrest—the real reason they were here. Joss trusted me, and lying to him didn’t bode well in the trust category.

  When the door opened, his face was wet and his eyes red and swollen. My heart ached for him. I’d taken care of him for as long as I could remember. Ever since Mom walked out, I’d been his caregiver.

  “This isn’t good,” I whispered under my breath so only he could hear.

  “Mr. Joss Hess?” one of the officer’s asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Joss squinted from the hall light.

  “Could you step out here, please? We’d like a word with you.”

  “Is this about Abby?” Joss asked with a hoarse voice.

  “Please, just step out here.”

  Joss glanced at me as he stepped past them. I pretended to pull a zipper across my lips. He was as versed as I was when it came to the law. He knew better than to say anything. He probably knew better than most.

  “Mr. Hess. I know you’ve had an unfortunate last twelve hours. But, we are here with an arrest warrant.”

  Joss shrugged—his vacant eyes concerned me. “For what?”

  “Aggravated battery against Brandon Diaz.”

  “Who?” Joss and I said in unison.

  The police officer lowered his head. “Mr. Diaz is the, um, man that carjacked you. And I know it doesn’t make sense and I can’t answer your questions, but I do have to arrest you.”

  No reaction from Joss. He stood with no fight, placing his hands behind his back.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I shot into their view, every ounce of my body tensed ready to defend him.

  “Brax, it’s ok.”

  “It’s not ok!” I shouted. “That guy killed his girl!”

  “You have the right to remain silent…” the officer started cuffing Joss.

  “Jesus. Don’t you people get it? Anyone would have done the same thing.”

  The words I shouted went unacknowledged. Ignored. Except by one. Allan Hess came stumbling around the corner.

  “Let’s go,” The officer said, being as gentle as he could with my brother.

  “What has that sorry sack of shit done now?” The kitchen stool flew into the stove when Pop kicked it.

  Both cops shook their heads as they ducked out of the front door and down the two wood steps to the muddy yard. Pop followed them to the door.

  “That boy is as worthless as his fuckin’ mother.”

  Without thinking, I shoved Pop off balance. Still half drunk—he wobbled, trying to recover, but failed. After awkwardly falling to the ground, I shot into my bedroom, grabbed my cell phone, wallet and keys, threw on a ball cap and ran for my truck. Here we go again.

  Chapter 3

  Sentenced

  Joss

  SIXTY-SIX DAYS IN jail. Braxton visited every day, begging me to reconsider my guilty plea. Responsibility sat on his shoulders for me that my father should have felt but never did. In my eyes, Brax was more a father to me than anyone. Jake was the spitting image of my father, but he hated being the parent to Brax and me. He was older when Mom left and took it harder than we did. It was harder for Jake to go without things, things that Brax and I didn’t mind. But Jake, he took to stealing them. He was on year two of a three-year sentence.

  Abby’s parents hired a defense attorney to help with negotiations in my defense. I didn’t ask them too. No one did. I’m not sure why they insisted. I’d had enough court appointed ones to know that I was better off with a private attorney. Given my priors, doing time was a promise. I’d given so much thought to going to prison. Being away from the brutal hands of my father was a plus, but I’d miss the hell out of Braxton. I missed Abby the most. I missed her funeral. I missed her smile. I missed her.

  “All rise.”

  I stood next to the attorney who’d navigated me through this. His expensive suit led me to believe the Whitman’s had paid good money for my defense. The judge strolled into the courtroom as if he had nothing better to do. Yeah, I get it, it’s just my life. I fought the eyeroll I felt. From where I sat, Braxton’s exhale was loud enough for the entire courtroom t
o hear. I knew he was stressed.

  My attorney stood and walked over to the state’s table, where he whispered with another suit.

  “Sit up straight,” Braxton said beneath his breath.

  I did. Though I seriously doubted my posture was going to carry any weight in my sentence. My attorney sat next to me, patting my back.

  “I’ve cut a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?” Shouldn’t I have been a part of that?

  “Your Honor, may we approach?”

  The attorneys headed up to the judge’s bench where they were making decisions about my future. Swiveling slightly in my chair, I raised my brows at Braxton, who arched a brow back. With no words, I asked him what was up, and his shrug replied back that he didn’t know. My entire life had been a fight. And in prison, I’d continue to fight.

  “Would the defendant please stand,” the judge asked.

  I nodded once and stood with my shoulders back, hoping to make Braxton proud. I’d not been a great little brother. He’d been at every one of my court hearings in the past.

  “Joss Hess?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The district attorney, along with your attorney, explained the circumstances of your offense and arrest. Son, we cannot allow vigilante justice in this county. Though, I understand why you did what you did, it was in your best interest to allow the law to handle Mr. Diaz. I’m not even saying I wouldn’t have done the same thing. However, I am saying as a judge, there are still repercussions and consequences for your actions. And, Mr. Hess, you have three assault convictions and four battery. Young man, I suggest you find a different way to deal with your problems besides anger and negative reactions. This circumstance was quite different, and I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry for yours.” The judge directed his last statement toward the Whitmans. “Son, the Whitman’s have written a powerful letter to the court on your behalf. ”

  I fought looking at them. It would destroy me. They had expected me to protect their daughter. To take care of her. I had failed.

  “Mr. Hess. You are being sentenced to the work release program at Briscoe Ranch for no less than 18 months. If you utilize this opportunity, you may find some very beneficial experiences that could play a favorable role in your life. But no more fighting. Period. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If there continues to be fighting, I’ll have you hauled right back to the the Texas penitentiary to serve out your sentence. Good luck, Mr. Hess.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said out loud as he acknowledged my words with a nod before strolling out of the courtroom as nonchalantly as he strolled in.

  My attorney shifted his body my way. “Briscoe Ranch. They’ve only taken a couple over the years. This is seriously an awesome deal. Trust me, ok?”

  “Yes. Thank you for what you’ve done for me.” We shook hands as he patted my shoulder. I had no other alternatives but to trust him—wherever I was going.

  “Don’t thank us. Thank them.”

  The Whitmans stood next to Braxton. Mrs. Whitman’s tear streaked face wrecked with desperation. What did she want from me? Eye contact was difficult. If Abby hadn’t been with me…if we hadn’t gone to the movie…if we weren’t fighting… I worried they’d want to know what her last words were or what our last conversation was.

  “Thank you, Joss. For loving her. She loved you too,” she cried, turning into her husband’s chest.

  Mr. Whitman extended the opposite hand that wasn’t holding her. “Thank you,” he said, his voice cracked. I shook it awkwardly and nodded, battling tears. They deserved so much more. “Good luck,” he said, and then led his grieving wife from the courtroom.

  “You ok?” Braxton asked.

  “No.”

  “Joss?”

  “When will it stop hurting, Brax?”

  “It’ll hurt ‘til it doesn’t, man. That’s all I know.”

  Inhaling a deep breath was even painful.

  “I don’t know if I can keep in touch. But once I find out, you’ll be the second to know.”

  “I know, brother. You got this.”

  “Yep.”

  I turned to the guard that I’d walked in with just wanting to get this goodbye over with.

  “I love you, man,” Braxton said out loud.

  “Love you,” I said, not wanting to look back. He knew ‘I love you’s’ didn’t come easily for me.

  When the guard and I reached the door where he scanned his ID, I cast one last glance toward Braxton. He, too, was waiting for the last goodbye. Neither of us knew when we’d see each other again. The possibility of eighteen months seemed like forever. I’d never gone a day without him. Living without Abby and Braxton seemed impossible, and I had been robbed of both.

  Chapter 4

  Joss

  Seven days later . . .

  NOT SURE WHY they called it secure transport. I sat in the front seat next to the driver who talked more than I’d heard anyone talk in my entire life. Nothing but pastures and fields of dirt dotted every inch of the roadside as we drove. The driver knew everything about them, too, because he told me.

  “This is Briscoe property here.”

  A beautiful, black, metal, welded fence spanned both sides of the road for miles as we drove. I sat relaxed with my head against the headrest, but inside nerves were rattled.

  Herds of cattle crowded the grassy fields. More cattle than I’d ever seen. It wasn’t long before we hit a tree line where he turned into a drive and were met by a giant metal gate with a black, wrought iron B decorating the front. We were here, I guessed. Or rather, I was here. This guy was going to leave. I was not. The gate mechanically slid open, and the driver drove through. The concrete drive was lined with trees and shrubs for a good jaunt until the sight of the ranch came into view. What appeared to be a security house roughly the size of our trailer was off to the right.

  The massive, stone ranch sat perfectly nestled in front of a large hill with trees all around. The sun climbed just over the roofline in the afternoon sky. This place was intimidatingly huge. The driver, who had talked the entire way here, was like a cricket as the car came to a stop.

  “Is this where I get out?”

  “Yep.”

  Once the car door was open, I stepped out, stretching my stiff legs and smelling fire. A wood fire. It smelled nice. Texas springs left it cooler in the morning, but the afternoon sun would heat the day. After retrieving my bag from the trunk, I stood awkwardly on the beautiful brick walk leading up to the house.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hess.”

  I turned toward the deep voice coming from a man who I assumed would be my warden for the next eighteen months. A friendly, tanned face smiled, extending a hand.

  “Good morning.”

  The shake was firm. Strong.

  “Welcome to Briscoe Ranch. Calvin Briscoe. Bring your bag. I’ll show you your quarters but let’s have a quick chat first. Come this way.”

  The strap of my bag fit comfortably on my shoulder. Mr. Briscoe wore jeans and cowboy boots, which I guess, seemed pretty fitting. Our statures were similar, so I figured him to be about six feet two, as well, as I followed him.

  Stepping into the cool entry way took my breath away just a bit. I’d never been in a place like this. Beautiful, clean and nothing like what I was used to. I followed him into what I might call an office but only because of the enormous, wood desk situated in the middle of a room that our entire trailer would have fit into.

  A manila folder sat in the middle of his desk with my mug shot clipped to the front.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  As I did, my heart banged against my sternum, making it difficult to concentrate

  “First of all. Do you go by Joss, as in the sound of Joseph, or Joss sounding similar to Josh?”

  “It’s Joss like in Josh Just an s.”

  “That’s an interesting name. Not one that I’ve heard before. Do you know how it came about?”<
br />
  I nodded. “Yes, sir. My mother’s name was Jess. My father’s middle name is Joshua and she combined the two.”

  “Nice. Well, I like it. And you said your mother’s name was Jess. Did she pass away?”

  My fists automatically clenched and relaxed, then clenched again. Mr. Briscoe’s motive was unclear.

  “No, sir.”

  His stare met mine, but I figured this was as good a time as any to stand my ground. The left side of his mouth found a slight grin.

  “Understood, Joss. I’d like for you to call me Cal. Everyone here does, and to me you are no different. I’ve read your arrest report. I’ve read your charges. I’ve also got copies of the newspaper articles regarding Miss Whitman and your case. I’m very sorry for your loss. That must have been terrible.”

  Newspaper articles? I sat upright trying to see the papers he thumbed through. His rough, calloused fingers held a newspaper article. He closed the folder and pushed it in my direction.

  “Have you seen the articles?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Take the folder. You may look over it when you have some free time. But I do need it back when you’re through.”

  Calvin Briscoe stood, so I followed suit.

  “Let’s take a walk as we talk.” I picked up the folder when I stepped away from the desk.

  The heels of his boots made a slight thud with every step he took. When I followed behind him, he hesitated, waiting for me to fall into step with him. My bad. Habit. I always stayed a step or two behind my father. An attempt to remain out of his reach.

  The path through the home was beautiful. Every single room left me anticipating the next. To think of growing up here—having everything you ever needed at your fingertips. There had to be a Missus. A woman had touched this home at some point. Our trailer screamed men. Poor men. This couldn’t be more opposite but felt very much like a home. His cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me just for a minute,” he said, stepping away from me but not leaving me alone. I understood.

  My eyes glided over a wall of pictures. A wall of memories. A little, blonde girl sat bareback on a horse in several pictures. In some pictures she sat in front of a blond boy clearly older than her. His hair was cut short. Hers hung in pigtails. Huge grins. In a couple of the photos, she sat on Mr. Briscoe’s shoulders. Still didn’t see a woman…mother… in any pictures. I wasn’t sure if I had a single picture of myself outside of the ones from school or the ones Abby took. My childhood memories sure weren’t wall worthy.