Blind Turn

by Cara Sue Achterberg

  “I made them at camp,” I told Sheila.

  “They’re cool. I’m Sheila, I’m new here. Where’s the office?”

  I pointed down the hallway. “It’s up that way. Where’d you move here from?”

  “California,” said Sheila with a smirk. God, she was so cool.

  I walked her to the office, and she asked me who the most popular girl in school was. I told her I had no idea, and she said that was okay because soon enough it would be her. “Cool,” I said. Then she asked for my phone number and wrote it on her hand. It didn’t make sense that we became best friends. The only thing we had in common was we both needed a friend. I guess that was enough. I’d never been popular or thought I would be, but I nodded and agreed with everything she said. Looking back now, I wonder if I really wanted to be popular, or if I just wanted Sheila to like me.

  It’s still pretty dark when I arrive at the Mitchell’s house. I’ve never been in it, but everyone knows where Coach lives. Every light in the house is on. There are five or six cars in the driveway. The whole family is probably there. At least Helen Mitchell isn’t all alone.

  Dad didn’t say anything, but I know he went to the funeral yesterday. That’s why he was so dressed up when he brought the McDonalds. He loved Coach Mitchell. He worked on his cars for free and went to every football game. When I was little, Coach used to bring me a lollipop when he came to Dad’s shop, and once when Dad took me to a football game, he watched me do cartwheels on the sideline even though the game was going on.

  I turn and sprint for home.

  11

  LIZ

  The preliminary hearing is tomorrow. Jake, Jess, and I sit in Kevin’s office and go over what will happen. The DA will explain all the reasons they believe Jess is guilty. They will share the evidence they have. They may even call witnesses.

  “The only witness is Sheila,” Jess says. “Will she be there?”

  Kevin frowns, glances at me. “She might be. It’s possible, but they will also question the police and the investigators.”

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  “Well, I’ve got a couple of pretrial motions I will present.”

  “Like what?” asks Jake.

  “I’m going to ask that they dismiss the charges because the victim, er, Coach Mitchell, was inside the white line.”

  “But there’s no shoulder there,” says Jess. “There is no way not to be in the road.”

  When Jess first started running, we walked the routes I would allow her to run. That was several years ago and now I don’t know where she runs, but Elm was one of the roads I forbade her to run on specifically because there is no shoulder.

  “If Coach was in the road, then it was his fault?” asks Jake.

  “Well, not technically, but it could mean he contributed. I’m just trying to create some room for doubt. The burden is on the prosecution tomorrow to prove they have a solid case worth pursuing. It’ll be up to the judge to decide if they do.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Then we’ll have a little time to consider what Jess’ plea will be and whether there’s a deal that can be made.”

  “A deal?” asks Jake.

  “Then Jess would plead guilty to something lesser, right?” I ask. “Something that wouldn’t require a prison sentence?”

  Kevin nods. “Exactly.”

  “Is there a chance of that?”

  “That will depend on the political aspirations of our current DA.”

  “What does his political career have to do with my daughter’s life?”

  “A lot. This could be, actually already is, a high-profile case. He could use it to assure his political future with the voters of this town.”

  “If he puts away the person who hit Coach Mitchell, people will vote for him,” Jake says. I know he knows plenty of guys whose votes would be assured with a guilty conviction and prison sentence for Jess.

  “That is kind of how it works,” Kevin says and leans back in his chair. His eyes fall on Jess. She has been very quiet. “But I will do everything I can to keep us from getting to that point.”

  “We appreciate that,” I tell him. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Jessica,” he says and Jess startles. Her eyes give away nothing, but she bites her lip and circles her wrist with the thumb and pointer finger of her other hand. It is a habit she has had for years, as if she is sizing up her wrist for a bracelet. Or handcuffs. “Is there any reason to believe that Sheila would want to make you look bad?”

  “What?”

  “Is there any reason she wouldn’t be telling the truth?”

  “What do you mean? She was there. She saw what happened.”

  “And you trust her to tell the truth?”

  “Yes,” says Jess. But I don’t. I do not trust Sheila to tell the truth when you ask her what color the sky is.

  “All right, then. You all get some rest and I will see you in the morning.”

  12

  JESS

  I listen as the DA reads the police report and questions the police officer. The same guy with the buzz cut who came to the hospital. He was the first one on the scene so that was why he looked familiar I guess. They ask him a lot about the skid marks and about how far Coach Mitchell’s body was from the car. It’s like I’m watching a TV show. None of it is familiar even though I was there. Kevin asks a few questions, but no one seems to know for sure exactly where Coach Mitchell was when I hit him. They seem certain though that I hit him just to the right side of my bumper and grill and that he bounced off the hood and landed in the roadway before my car went up the embankment and landed on its side. I don’t know any of this. I wonder why Kevin or someone—Mom?—didn’t tell me. For some reason I pictured the scene being my car skidding to a stop and Coach Mitchell lying in front of it. I don’t know why. I guess that seemed the least violent. But when the prosecutor makes the police officer and then the accident investigator explain all the details, it seems much worse.

  “How fast do you believe the car was traveling when it hit Robert Mitchell?” Kevin asks as if the car did this on its own. He doesn’t ask how fast Jessica Johnson was driving.

  “It was traveling at least thirty-five miles per hour.”

  “And what is the speed limit on that road?”

  “Forty.”

  “So perhaps, the defendant saw a pedestrian in the roadway and was attempting to brake.”

  “The skid marks on the road aren’t consistent with that assumption.”

  Kevin hesitates. Looks at his notes. He reminds me of me when I’m put on the spot and don’t know the answer. Finally, he speaks.

  “Do you know if there was any oncoming traffic? Perhaps it was confining Ms. Johnson to the right side of the roadway and there wasn’t any way to avoid the pedestrian in the roadway.”

  “We don’t believe there were any other vehicles involved.”

  “You don’t believe or you don’t know?” asks Kevin.

  “No other driver has come forward as a witness.”

  “So there could have been another car.”

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “But it’s not impossible.”

  “The witness in the car says there were no other vehicles present.”

  “But she’s not here to tell us that.”

  The police officer glances at the DA who says, “She’s next on my list.”

  Sheila is here. Now she can tell them it was an accident. That I couldn’t have prevented it.

  After Sheila is sworn in, she glances at me
once, but there’s no smile, no sign that she is on my side. Her parents sit on chairs behind the DA. Mrs. Richards holds her husband’s hand. She sits up straight, her tan legs crossed, her heel swinging.

  The prosecutor asks a bunch of questions about how she knows me, how often she’s been in my car. Her answers make it sound like being my friend was hard for her. Like I was some charity case. Her words chill me. If the only real friend I thought I had, was just pretending to be my friend, what else am I wrong about? To hear her tell it, we weren’t best friends, we just ‘hung out sometimes.’

  And then he asks her about the morning of the accident.

  “And Jess was giving you a ride home?”

  She nods.

  “And when Ms. Johnson turned on Elm Drive, what happened?”

  “She got a text.”

  “Did she look at the text?”

  Sheila hesitates for only a moment, but her cheeks flush, before she says, “Yes,” and she looks at me, raising her eyebrows, daring me to disagree. And I can’t, because I don’t know. But what I do know is that Sheila is lying about something. She gets overly confident when she’s lying. I can see it in the way she sits up and squares her shoulders, flings her hair back after she answers. That’s her stance. That’s her I-dare-you-to-doubt-me look. I have watched her shrivel freshmen girls and occasionally teachers with her brand of bravado. In a sick way, I’m kind of proud. Here is Sheila playing everyone once again. And she can do it. Except, this time I’m not on her side.

  “So, while driving her car, Ms. Johnson opened and read a text message on her phone?”

  Sheila nods. “Yes.” The slightest smile plays on her lips.

  The DA leans in close now, speaks softly as if her next answer won’t be easy.

  “And at that moment, when Ms. Johnson had her phone in her hand and was reading the text message? What happened then?”

  “Objection!” yells Kevin. “The witness did not stipulate that the defendant had the phone in her hand.”

  The judge nods. The DA tries again. “When Ms. Johnson opened her text message, instead of having both hands on the wheel, was she holding the phone in her hand?” He is asking Sheila, but he’s rolling his eyes at Kevin.

  Sheila looks down. She doesn’t answer, and the DA has to repeat himself. Finally, she looks up, irritated. “Yes,” she says. “She was holding the phone in her hand.”

  Why is she lying? And I know she’s lying. It’s clear in the way she flicks her tongue over her lip before she speaks and in the cool veil that comes to her eyes. I have seen her do it enough. She is lying. Listening to the cop and the investigator testifying, I was convinced I did it. They have solid evidence that I was texting when I hit Coach Mitchell, but now watching Sheila, I know that’s not what happened. But what happened? And why is Sheila lying about it? What’s in it for her?

  She relaxes now that everyone has swallowed her tale. Attention is the air Sheila needs to breathe. She is enjoying the fact that everyone, me included, is hanging on her every word. I can see her tonight out at the reservoir or in our booth at Johnny Mac’s, telling this story, replaying it word for word.

  “Who was the text message from?”

  A smile escapes her mouth as she answers, “Casey Miller.”

  My heart jumps. Another memory flashes. “Casey’s gonna ask you out!” It was the first thing Sheila said to me when she climbed through my window that Sunday morning. “Jason told me he was at the party last night and he was going to ask you out when we got there but then the bust happened. He asked Jason for your number!”

  I remember being surprised that she was genuinely happy for me. She has never understood my crush on Casey. I’ve liked Casey since the day in fourth grade when he kicked a soccer ball at me and split my lip. He cried when the teacher made him apologize. I remember seeing him for the first time, really seeing him. He had these incredibly green eyes, and his hair was all tangled. I’ve liked him ever since, but he’s always seemed more interested in soccer than girls.

  “And what happened when Ms. Johnson read the text message?”

  Sheila doesn’t look up, she wipes her eye at tears that aren’t visible. Even with this tiny audience, she is playing it. “She didn’t see Coach Mitchell in the road with his dog. He couldn’t get out of the way and she hit him.”

  I feel my stomach heave. Kevin is objecting and standing, arguing about something, saying Sheila is speculating. Memories are rushing at me in no particular order. The phone buzzing with a text in the center consul of my car. Sheila laughing, singing that song, “Jess and Casey sittin’ in a tree….” Her earrings flashing in the sun. And then a horrible ‘thud.’ I tell my mom I’m going to throw up and she gets up to lead me out.

  Kevin sees us and asks the judge for a moment. I don’t know what he says because Mom whips the door open and yanks me down the hall to the bathroom where I throw up and throw up and throw up.

  When I’m finished, she produces a toothbrush from her purse and some tissues. “It’s almost over. Do you think you can make it?”

  I nod. All I want is for it to be over.

  “You clean up and I’ll tell Kevin we’ll be right back.”

  When I come out of the bathroom, she is waiting with Dad and Kevin. Neither of them says anything as we go back into the room.

  It’s Kevin’s turn now to cross-examine. I don’t even listen as he asks Sheila a bunch of questions about the weather that day, about why I was driving her home, about what we were doing before we left. He asks her if she is dating the captain of the football team, and she lights up. He asks if they are sexually active and Mrs. Richards gasps, but the prosecutor objects and the judge makes Kevin move on. He asks about the time Sheila was suspended for stealing a pack of hall passes. The DA objects again, they confer with the judge, but it all sounds to me like the teacher on the Charlie Brown cartoons. I can’t make out a word they’re saying.

  Then Kevin asks, “On the night before the accident, did you or did you not spend the night at Ms. Johnson’s house. And I remind you that you are under oath.”

  Sheila rolls her eyes, glances at her parents, looks to the DA, finally answers. “I did.”

  “So you did not, in fact, spend the night in Jason Gebhart’s car for the purpose of having sex and lie to your parents that you were actually at Ms. Johnson’s?”

  As Kevin asks this question, he has to raise his voice over the DA’s loud objections, but he finishes his question. The judge admonishes him but then surprises all of us by telling Sheila to answer the question.

  “I didn’t spend the night in Jason’s car,” she says, shaking her head and smirking as if it’s a stupid question. She’s right. They didn’t sleep in his car; they slept on a blanket at the reservoir. If they slept.

  Finally, Kevin asks Sheila about her relationship with me. She confirms that we used to ride to school together every day, but only so she wouldn’t have to ride the bus. I watch her perfectly made-up face as she says this, note the new eye color, wonder–who is she?

  Sheila leaves and there are no more witnesses. Everyone waits while the judge looks over her notes. It seems like an eternity. Mom is squeezing my hand, and Dad has his arm around my shoulders. I can’t remember a time when we were a tight unit like this. When I was little, there must have been some good times. They didn’t divorce until I was five. I have one fuzzy memory of them each holding my hand as we walked along the beach. Every few steps they would swing me, and I loved it. But that seems like a stock memory. I might have made it up.

  The judge clears her throat and moves her papers aside. She looks up and says, “It appears the state has enough evidence to take this case to trial unless a plea agreement can be reached first, and, ge
ntlemen,” she looks from Kevin to the DA and back, “I would think you could come to a speedy and mutually satisfactory deal. If not, I will hear testimony on this case on…” she puts her glasses back on and examines her calendar. “February 26, 2010.”

  That is more than four months away. That’s half my junior year. Track preseason will have started. My heart sinks.

  13

  LIZ

  The morning after the hearing, I find Jess in the kitchen making coffee.

  “Do you think I did it?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “It’s not up to me.”

  “But do you think I killed Coach?”

  I set down my mug and spoon and turn to her. “I do not think you killed Coach Mitchell. I think there was a terrible accident.”

  The corner of her mouth twists as she thinks about this. “I’ve never texted while I was driving.”

  “I know.”

  “So it doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Still,” she says, but then doesn’t finish the thought. She takes her coffee and whatever she really thinks and retreats to her room.

  I spend the morning outside. I gather the branches that have fallen from the trees that separate our yard from the neighbors. I rake the leaves and stack the plastic chaise lounge chairs that Jess and Sheila left out. Was it only two weeks ago, they were sunbathing, trying to erase the straplines before Homecoming? Finally, I sit down on the concrete pad that never became our screened-in porch. Just like so many other plans that Jake and I never followed through on.

  The door opens behind me and Jess pads out in her socks. She lowers herself to sit beside me, her legs dangling over the dying mums planted on the perimeter.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  I take her hand and for once she doesn’t pull away. “You’re going to survive this.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re my daughter.”