by Easton, BB
“Can y’all get him out of here?” I ask, reaching for her hands to help her up.
Quint and Lamar nod and drag the scumbag away while I pull his victim to a sitting position as gently as I can. The woman cries and gasps for breath, her ruffled black hair stuck to her tears and fluttering in front of her mouth as I pull off my hoodie and drape it over her mostly naked body. She clutches it to her chest with one hand and pushes the wet strands away from her face with the other.
And now it’s my turn to gasp.
The battered, bluish face in front of me belongs to Michelle Ling, the TV reporter who’s been covering the executions since day one.
I kneel down beside her and place a hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”
Her chin crumples as she shakes her head. “No,” she wails again, only this time, it’s not angry or frustrated. There’s a defeated finality to it that makes me think she’s not okay for more reasons than one.
“Hey, he’s gone now. Do you want to go into the capitol building? It feels safe in there.”
She shakes her head again.
“Sweetie …” I don’t know why I’m calling her sweetie. She’s probably ten years older than me. “Do you have an office around here or a news van?”
She nods.
“Okay. Let’s get you covered up, and we’ll go there.”
I help her adjust her clothes and pull my spray-painted hoodie on over her head. She manages to stand and pull her panties back up, wobbling on an expensive pair of red slingback heels.
They match the lipstick smeared across her face.
“Here we go,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist.
I notice Quint and Lamar standing by a dumpster about half a block away and give them a thumbs-up. I hope they threw that monster inside.
“Where to?”
Michelle points down the street, and we begin to walk.
“What were you doin’ out here by yourself, honey?”
“Scouting locations.” She sniffles. “I’m a reporter.”
“I know who you are.” I force a small smile.
Michelle hangs her head in a way that tells me she’s more embarrassed about me knowing who she is than me seeing her almost naked. “There’s no execution today because the governor took off to go golfing, and the station is breathing down my neck about it. They want me to get some kind of behind-the-scenes footage to show during that time slot.”
She covers her face and starts to cry again. “I hate this job! I hate it!” she screams. “I hate these people!”
“Can you quit?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.
Michelle shakes her head. “I need the money.” She swipes her long, thin fingers under her eyes and sniffles. “My husband died two months ago. In a car accident. I didn’t find him until three days after he went missing because none of the ambulances or cops were working at that point.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Michelle wraps an arm around my shoulders and keeps walking. She’s still shaking from the attack. “When I found him, there was a half-naked woman in the car with him, and our bank account was empty.”
I shake my head. “That’s so awful, Michelle. And you know what’s worse? I think everybody who lived through April 23 has a story like that.”
“What’s yours?” she asks. Her voice sounds like an echo, like the words were formed in some hard, empty, faraway place.
I take a deep breath and try to compress my grief into as few syllables as possible. “A few days before April 23, my dad tried to kill my mom and me in our sleep with a shotgun before he turned it on himself. But I wasn’t in bed like he thought.”
“That is awful,” Michelle mutters. No I’m sorry. No pity or sympathy. Just the factual observation of a jaded journalist.
It’s kind of nice.
“My dad was always anxious and depressed,” I continue, “a nonproductive, like the World Health Alliance lady said, but the nightmares finally made him snap. Just like they wanted them to.”
Michelle shakes her head. “They’re murderers. All of them. The World Health Alliance, our government leaders—they killed twenty-seven percent of the population with a few clicks of a mouse, admitted to it, and we’re just supposed to say thank you?” She sounds so cold, so bitter, but her skinny arm is still wrapped around my shoulders like she needs me to keep her going. “We should be executing them.”
The E-word makes my breath catch and my steps falter.
Michelle looks me up and down like I’m the one who needs help. “You okay?”
Leaning into her side, I nod, but then I shake my head as I inhale warm traces of vanilla on the hoodie she’s wearing.
“My fiancé is supposed to be”—I have to swallow back a sob before I can say the word—“executed tomorrow.”
“Oh my God. Wesson Parker? I covered his sentencing yesterday.”
Michelle leads me around a corner where a sudden rotten stench slaps me in the face and makes my stomach turn on contact. Without warning, I lean over and puke on the sidewalk, right next to a dead Bony wearing a King Burger mask covered in flies.
“And I’m pregnant,” I cry, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as we stumble away from the bloated corpse. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I don’t even know where he is.”
“I do,” Michelle says, stopping about fifty feet short of the Channel 11 news van. Lifting a shaking finger with a jagged, broken nail clinging to the end, she points in the direction of a modern-looking building across the street.
Fulton County Police Department, the sign announces.
“He’s in there.”
My shoulders slump, and my heart breaks all over again as I take in the fortress in front of me.
“I’m guessing they don’t have visiting hours,” I mumble in complete and utter defeat.
Michelle reaches into the neck of my sweatshirt and pulls out a laminated card on the end of a lanyard. “They do if you’ve got one of these.”
Rain
Buzz.
The exterior door unlocks after Michelle flashes her media pass at the bulletproof window. She pushes her way through with the grace of a seasoned professional despite the fact that she’s wearing my spray-painted hoodie, ripped jeans, and filthy hiking boots.
The cops inside reach for their guns as soon as they see those neon-orange bones but immediately relax when the cameraman and I walk in. Or should I say, hobble in. Michelle’s feet are a full size smaller than mine, so these slingback pumps are killing me.
“Good afternoon, Officers,” she announces as we walk into the center of the police department lobby.
I’ve never been in a police station before. I expected it to feel more like a jail and less like the Department of Motor Vehicles. There is a counter where you talk to someone through a window, a few cubicles with yellowing desktop computers that look like you might have to crank ’em to start ’em up, and a sea of mismatched plastic chairs bolted to the floor.
“Officer Elliott, Officer Hoyt, this is my cameraman, Flip, and our new reporter”—Michelle looks at me with a blank expression on her face, and I freeze, realizing that I never told her my name—“Stella McCartney,” she declares without missing a beat.
It’s the same name that I saw printed on the label inside her skirt.
I manage to squeak out a tiny, “Hello,” without letting my voice shake too much.
“Gentlemen, as you know, there will be no sentencing or execution today, so the governor has demanded that I get some behind-the-scenes coverage to show during that time slot to ensure that the one true law stays top-of-mind for the citizens of Georgia. However, as you can see”—she gestures to her outfit—“I’ve been involved in an … incident. So, Stella here is stepping in as my replacement.”
The two officers—one thin, bald, and dark; the other round, shaggy, and pasty—glance at each other skeptically. They’re so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, fast and hard, be
fore the lanky one’s face splits into a grin.
“I knew it!” he yells, clapping his hands together. “I knew as soon as y’all walked in here that you were gonna interview me. Finally!” He raises his palms to the sky. “I told myself—I said, ‘Marcel, you just keep doin’ what you doin’, baby. They gon’ notice. And when they do … oooooh … you goin’ to Hollywood!’” He turns to face his partner and slaps him on the arm with the back of his hand. “What did I say? What did I say?”
“Officer Elliott.” Michelle clears her throat. “I’m afraid the governor has instructed us to interview the accused, not the staff.”
The police officer’s face goes somber, and that’s when I recognize him.
He’s the bailiff from TV.
“It would be fantastic if we could have the use of a private room with good lighting, perhaps an interrogation room or—”
“Absolutely not,” a gruff voice interrupts as a man appears from the back hallway. He’s older, weathered, and sporting a military haircut.
“With all due respect, Officer MacArthur, we didn’t bring a lighting crew, and—”
“You will interview the inmate through the bars, and if the governor has a problem with the lighting situation, he can take it up with me.”
“Yes, sir.” Michelle nods before casting me a quick, apologetic look over her shoulder.
My heart sinks.
My palms begin to sweat.
Wes is here.
And I’m going to see him.
Through the bars.
“Very well …” She turns to glance at Flip and me before addressing the officers again, “Shall we get started?”
Here we go.
After a quick pat-down and a trip through the metal detector, we follow all three officers through a security door and down a series of poorly lit hallways. I try to imagine how Wes must have felt while walking down these exact same passageways.
Was he scared? Was he sad? Does he miss me? Have they been mean to him?
The click-clack of my heels and jingle-jangle of the officers’ tool belts echo off the tiled floor as we walk in silence. Each officer is standing next to one of us, and each one has a hand resting on his holstered weapon. We’re completely unarmed—Michelle made sure of that, knowing that we’d be searched and sent through a metal detector—so even though we’re succeeding in getting closer to Wes, my hopes of breaking him out feel further and further away with every step.
Officer Elliott stops in front of an open doorway, bringing our little caravan to a halt. “Can y’all at least get a clip of me introducing the accused before you interview him?” he begs, blocking our path. “Pleeeeease?”
Michelle and Flip exchange a look.
“Uh, sure.” She shrugs.
Officer Elliott’s face morphs from hopeful to elated as he disappears through the doorway. “Hey, handsome! Get up! A reporter lady’s here to interview you on TV, and I get to introduce you! And for God’s sake, comb your hair or somethin’! You look a mess!”
My heart leaps into my throat when I realize who he’s talking to. Who’s on the other side of that doorway.
Oh my God.
It’s him.
It’s actually him.
He’s here.
And I’m here.
How did I even get here?
It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna see Wes.
And it’s gonna be on TV.
Oh no.
I have to interview him.
I don’t know what to say!
I don’t even remember my name! McCartney? Something McCartney!
“Okay, Officer Elliott,” Michelle calls out after getting the thumbs-up from her cameraman, “we’re ready to roll.”
Elliott appears in the doorway with the exuberance of a spokesmodel. He accepts the microphone Flip hands him and takes a deep breath, dropping into the serious bailiff character he plays on TV.
Michelle turns to me. “You ready, Stella?” she asks under her breath.
Stella! That’s it!
I nod and smile through my nerves.
“Okay then. In three … two …” Flip points at Officer Elliott.
“Good afternoon, good people of Georgia. My name”—Elliott turns slightly, giving the camera his best three-quarter profile—“is Officer Marcel Elliott. I’m coming to you from a secure, undisclosed location along with reporter Stella McCartney to bring you an exclusive, behind-the-scenes interview with one of our very own accused. You might remember him from yesterday’s sentencing. He’s a heartthrob with a heart of gold. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … Wesson … Patrick … Parker!”
Elliott steps to the side and sweeps his hand in the direction of the doorway as Michelle gives me a gentle shove from behind. I stumble three steps forward, almost rolling an ankle in her red stilettos, and look up to find one pale green eye staring at me from beneath a worried, dark brow.
And time.
Stands.
Still.
He’s here.
And I’m here.
And everyone else fades away. Because a lock of shiny brown hair has fallen in front of Wes’s right eye, and all I can think about is reaching through the bars and tucking it behind his ear.
Michelle clears her throat as Elliott shoves the microphone into my hand. I glance behind me at the blinking red light on top of the camera. Then, with my heart thundering in my chest and my legs as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, I take another step closer to the man in the cage.
I watch his posture relax, his attitude go cool. He has no pockets to shove his hands into, so he drapes one over the crosspiece between the bars, resting his weight on his forearm.
His body is playing for the camera, for the cops, and the audience, but his face is all mine. The way he bites the inside of his bottom lip. The way the black of his pupils swallows the green. The way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he tries to force down his emotions.
I try to swallow mine too.
“Ms. McCartney?” Elliott prods.
Wes raises an eyebrow at me and shifts his gaze to the camera over my shoulder.
“Oh, right,” I mumble to myself, looking at the microphone like it’s an alien tool that I have to figure out how to operate. I tap the soft black dome with my finger before I lift it to my mouth. I tell myself to face the camera and say something, but I can’t bear to pull my eyes away from the man standing in front of me.
So, I don’t.
“Mr. Parker—” I clear my throat, hoping no one notices that I sound like I’m about to cry.
“Please, call me Wes.”
He smiles, just for me, and the warmth I feel brings tears to my eyes.
I blink them away and try again.
“Wes”—I swallow—“how are you? I mean, in here. How are you holding up in here?”
God, I’m bombing this!
“How am I?” Wes’s eyes widen in surprise. “I’m …” He shakes his head, looking for the words before a tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m better than I was a few minutes ago.”
Warmth floods my cheeks as I try to come up with an actual question.
“Well … that’s good. Mr. Parker—”
“Wes.”
“Wes.” I blush. “I saw your sentencing on TV yesterday. It was the first one ever televised. Personally, I was shocked by the lack of evidence and eyewitness testimony presented by the state as well as the lack of deliberation before you were found guilty. Do you believe you were given a fair trial?”
I exhale, relieved that I managed to ask a professional-sounding question without bursting into tears.
Wes snorts. “A fair trial? No. I was given a speaking part in The Governor Steele Show.”
“Had you been given a fair trial, do you think you still would have been found guilty?”
Please say no. Please say no.
“The only thing I’m guilty of is trying to help somebody I love,” Wes responds, the word love wrapping around me like a gho
st blanket.
He reaches through the bars and takes the microphone from my hand, letting his fingers graze mine in the process. The callused tips leave a trail of fire in their wake, and the moment they’re gone, I have to twist the sides of my skirt in my fists to keep from reaching for him so that I can feel it again.
Wes faces the camera and gives the people of Georgia his best smolder. “I want everyone out there to picture the person they care about most. Your mother. Your child.” Wes looks at me. “Your best friend. Your wife. Now, picture them injured or sick. Would you give them medicine if you thought it would save their life? Bandage their wounds? Because if so, it’s just a matter of time before you’re standing where I am.”
I catch the sight of Michelle out of the corner of my eye, making the sign for cut with her hand across her throat. I guess Wes’s little speech might have gone a bit too far. I reach up to take the microphone back, but he holds on to it, forcing me to stand there with my hand wrapped around his. Electricity courses through my veins as he tilts it toward my mouth so that I can speak, but I can’t.
I’m touching Wes.
He’s here.
He’s alive.
And the only question I have left for him is one I can’t ask out loud.
How do I get you out of here?
Wes
She’s here.
She’s actually fucking here.
I touch her again just to make sure. I can’t stop touching her.
She’s so fucking beautiful—camera-ready with that slicked-back hair and red lipstick. Her big blue eyes are framed by a million jet-black lashes, but the tears welling up inside them are already starting to make her mascara run.
I want to reach up and run a thumb over her cheek, but the blinking red light on the camera five feet away keeps me from doing it. I don’t know how Rain got in here or what kind of trouble she’ll be facing if I blow her cover, so as much as it fucking kills me, I let go of the mic.
I let go of her.
“Mr. … I mean, Wes.” Rain drops her eyes as a blush creeps up her neck.