by C. S. Wilde
Plus if I don’t win, I’m done as a lawyer in Manhattan. Mr. Stats’s words.
My feet tap on the floor nervously as the judge tells Jebediah to rise. She opens the envelope with the jury’s decision.
“Not guilty.”
The prosecutor stares at me with a ‘what-the-fuck-just-happened’ face. This isn’t the first time I’ve cornered an older lawyer and I’m happy to add one more to my records.
But I’ve missed something.
Leaving the courtroom, I stop at the top of the building’s white marbled stairs. The sunlight bathes me in its warmth and I close my eyes, trying to ignore that annoying little voice.
Justice is not my problem.
Jebediah passes by me and nods in a respectful salutation. He walks down the stairs, hands in his pockets.
“Jebediah,” I say.
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever do it again.”
He blinks. “Beg your pardon?”
“I don’t want to know if you’re innocent or not. But don’t do it again, or I will crush you.” Maybe this will appease my conscience in some twisted way. I just want this sudden pang of guilt to leave me the hell alone.
He steps up the stairs, standing too close to me. “I told you I was innocent.”
“You did.” I gulp, feeling his breath against the curve of my neck—an angry bull ready to knife its horns through my chest.
He broadens a sharp grin. “You don’t believe me.”
There’s an earthquake beneath my skin, but I can’t let him notice. He grabs my wrist so hard I almost cry out. He sniffs my hair and in this moment I’m under Kasey McCormick’s skin, flooded by the fear she must’ve felt, utterly helpless as she once was.
“You’re lucky you’re on my team, Counselor,” he snarls. “But don’t ever threaten me again.”
He releases my wrist, walks away, and disappears at the turn of the street.
I watch him in shock. My wrist pulses and a red circle starts forming around it.
What have I done?
I should have listened to my gut, but my gut doesn’t argue a case, the facts do. The jury decided. It’s not my fault he walked, it’s theirs.
And I played them like puppets.
If I had known the truth, would I still have defended Jebediah? Mr. Stats is a major power player in my field, having him on my side can do great things for my future. Plus, I’ve won. I’m in Mr. Baker’s good graces and that’s a nearly impossible feat.
The truth is not my problem.
If I hadn’t defended Jebediah, some other lawyer would have, and if the lawyer won, he would open a bottle of wine at the end of the day and celebrate, and after that, he’d sleep peacefully in his bed, ready for the next case.
That’s what I should do.
“Hey.”
I turn around to face Kasey McCormick, the victim. My victim.
Her outraged brown eyes shoot at me and my heart tightens. She’s a mix of anger and disbelief, the pure definition of someone who has been wronged. Her pained stare will haunt me for the rest of my life.
“M-miss McCormick, I—” She slaps my face with might. My cheek throbs and I hold out tears as memories of wild, mad eyes, messy black hair, and constant fidgeting come to mind. “You should pay,” Mother grumbles. I’m five or six, my left cheek hurts and I’m bellowing my guts out. “Oh no! My baby! Shush, shush now, Mommy is so sorry!” Mother hugs me too tight and her dark strands fall over my face. I can barely breathe, but it’s okay. She’s not angry at me anymore; she’s my mommy and I love her.
I shake my head, returning to the stairs and Kasey. She stands in front of me, all angry wet eyes.
She spits on my suit and says, “Rot in hell.”
***
When I return to the office, a bunch of people whose names I forget congratulate me, telling me I could teach some old scholars how things are done. They tell me that the jury had practically convicted Jebediah thanks to Kasey’s testimony, but I turned that around. They toss words like ‘prodigy’ and ‘outstanding’ around the room and I believe them.
Mr. Stats approaches and smacks a big wet kiss on my cheek. I need to wash my face, but I’m cornered by happy faces, with no way out. Still, I’m glad I got to show this old fart he underestimated me.
I forget about Kasey’s slap, entranced by all the compliments. I focus on my ‘outwardly’ performance. Victory feels great. I really was amazing, wasn’t I? But this only lasts a moment, and then Kasey’s back in my mind, and Jebediah follows, pressing my wrist and sniffing my hair.
I won’t sleep peacefully tonight. Probably never again.
Later, Mr. Baker calls me to his office. He offers me a Scotch and although I hate Scotch, I accept his offer. A small sacrifice to make; after all, Mr. Baker doesn’t invite many for drinks.
“The unrequited love argument was brilliant.” He leans against the window, his gaze locked outside his thirtieth-floor view of Manhattan. “You dug in all the right places.”
No, I didn’t. “Part of the job, sir.”
He turns to me and for the first time since I started working here, I notice pride in Mr. Baker’s expression.
“You owned the courtroom today, Santana.” He smirks. “Fuck, you’re only twenty-five!” He takes a deep swallow of his Scotch.
I’ve never heard Mr. Baker utter a bad word; ever. He’s always in control with his calm and wise manner, but the fire is still there, the passion for the law burning behind his irises, disguised in his sobriety. How can someone not admire a man like that? If Mr. Stats were half the man Mr. Baker is, his son would never have gotten into trouble in the first place.
I take a sip of my Scotch. “Thank you, sir.”
He lets out a loud busty laugh, and nods to my glass. “You hate whiskey, don’t you?”
Damn, this old man can read people like the proverbial open book. “Yes, sir.”
He points his index finger at me while holding his glass. “You’re good, Santana, but I’ve been playing this game for a long time.”
“Yes you have.”
“You’ll pass me by sooner than you think.”
Me? Passing a legend like Mr. Baker? I seriously doubt it.
I stare at my glass, wondering if he and I are ready for what I’m about to ask. I take a long gulp of that awful amber liquid and it burns my throat on its way down. To the hell with it.
“I want to become partner.”
He doesn’t seem surprised.
“Gotta win a lot more cases to get there, kiddo.”
“I will. Sir…”
He raises his salt-and-pepper eyebrow. I don’t finish the sentence, but he reads me like the wizard he is.
“It’s not easy when they’re charged with the big stuff.” He means murder and rape.
Jebediah was my first in that area.
It takes Mr. Baker a moment before he says, “Forty-nine men, guilty as possums, walked because of me.”
I look at my drink for a while in silence. “Were they worth it?”
He turns to me and broadens a shady smile. He takes a long sip. He’s expecting me to read his answer the same way he reads mine, but I can’t decipher this old dog, and I can’t ask because he’ll think less of me. So I smile, showing I understand him, but the truth is I’ll never know.
18
The creature that used to be Jebediah observes me with interest as the shirt wrapped around his head moves slightly with the wind.
“Counselor.” He nods his head in a John Wayne kind of way.
My body trembles with a mix of disgust and fear. Instinctively, my wrist stings where he grabbed it all those years ago.
John looks at him and then me. “You know this guy?”
“Yeah, but—” Before I can explain, Jebediah becomes a blue blur that swims from the ridge to next to John, but John pushes him back before he comes closer.
“Careful now,” John warns.
Jebediah holds up his hands in resignation. “Sorry, fri
end.”
I lock my eyes onto my feet, feeling John’s gaze even though I can’t see it. “He was a client.”
“He’s one of your demons,” John says.
Am I that easy to read or did he link with me?
A smile creeps up the right side of Jebediah’s cracked lips. “I wouldn’t call myself a demon, but I guess I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t,” I snap. “Last time I checked, you were alive.”
“The last time you checked was a long while ago.” Jebediah scratches his pointy chin. “Cane went to prison for Kasey’s rape. Then he got out.” He flashes a brownish grin as he unwraps the shirt around his skull. A small bullet hole stands proud in the middle of his forehead. He turns and reveals a matching hole in the back of his head.
I’m overcome by a sensation that feels exactly like fainting, but isn’t. Looking away, I wait until he wraps the cloth around his skull again.
Now I understand why Mr. Stats left the firm two years ago, and why no one heard of him since: His son had been murdered. He must’ve worked hard to keep Jebediah’s murder from the news.
“At least you felt no pain,” I mutter, even though he deserved a world of it.
He chortles. “Counselor, you have no idea.”
Jebediah becomes a blur again, and now he stands in front of me, a dark shadow against the cloudy weather. The shriek boosts from the back of my throat, but before it comes out, Jebediah touches my forehead and the world spins.
***
It’s night time and I’m sitting in the middle of some creepy woods, surrounded by darkness and shades of gray. The moon covers the trees and bushes with a faint silver gleam. I’m completely alone.
“John! Irving!”
Nothing.
Where did they go? Where am I?
Muffled screams sprout from a hill not far behind, straightening my spine and making my heart beat in my ears. My rational self tells me to stay put, mind my own business, but the little part of my brain that hasn’t fully evolved yet, urges me to follow the sound.
Dad wasn’t wrong when he said I suffered from inconvenient curiosity syndrome.
Leaves rustle as I walk up the hill, almost as if they’re asking me if I want to continue. When I reach the top, I spot an old green Camaro bouncing up and down, steam filling the windows. I step cautiously toward the car. A knot clogs my throat, prevents me from breathing. It can’t be what it looks like.
But it is.
I stare down through the window at the terrified face of Kasey McCormick under Jebediah Stats’s body. He moves in and out of her harshly, while Cane Hollow watches from the other side of the car. His eyes are filled with excitement as his hand shakes his private parts. Kasey’s eyes are bulged, her tears flow freely. She has stopped screaming now. The squeaking of the car is all that remains.
The world swirls again and I’m in a dark alley, screaming like a mad person, cheeks wet with tears. This might be a fraction of what Kasey must have felt after Jebediah was acquitted: a never ending, heart-ripping anguish.
And I put it there.
I’m shaking all over, and whatever is in my stomach pushes to get out.
A harsh clank pulls me out of my despair. A trash can has fallen to my left. Half concealed behind it are two moving bodies, one on top of the other. My legs shake as I stand up. I hope this isn’t another horrible vision, but again it’s Jebediah atop Kasey McCormick.
“That’s for spilling and taking me to court, bitch,” he grumbles.
This must’ve happened after Jebediah was acquitted.
Kasey fights Jebediah, squirming beneath him, but Jebediah is stronger. She hits his arms, occasionally scratching them, but her blows have zero effect.
I screech, “Stop!” but he continues.
Kasey’s face is strawberry red, and her scared eyes are puffing out. Jebediah isn’t only raping her; he’s choking her.
“No!” I pull him away from Kasey, but my hands go through him with no effect. I try to push him but fall on the cold, wet ground.
Much like the first scene, this one has already happened.
“Let her go you fucking animal,” I bark, praying that it will make a difference, but soon enough, Kasey’s arms drop to her sides and her head lolls to the right, her eyes flashed open.
Jebediah releases loudly.
No, no, no, God, please, no.
He taps her limp face twice and gets up, taking the condom out and shoving it in his pocket. He zips his pants and takes a nail cleaning tool from his other pocket. He starts to clean under her nails.
Evidence. It doesn’t always tell the truth.
I’m dizzy, can’t get up. Kasey has to move. Maybe she’s faking it until Jebediah goes away; she has to be faking it. Move Kasey, just move, please! She glares at me blankly, in the way only corpses do.
She’s not coming back.
Jebediah raped her twice, killed her, and now he’s covering his tracks. He’s a loose beast and I freed him.
Kasey McCormick is dead because of me.
Before the volcano inside me explodes, the world swirls again, and now I’m facing a short man with dark greasy hair. His tanned skin is covered in sweat. I recognize Cane Hollow from the pictures in his file.
Cane wears a black leather jacket and worn jeans. Tears pool in his eyes as his shaky hand points a forty-five at me.
If he shoots me it will be good riddance. Still, some survival instinct forces me to say “Mr. Hollow, could we please rethink this for a—” The words don’t come out. I can’t speak, my muscles don’t even move.
“You bastard!” Cane yells, saliva accumulating on the corners of his mouth. “You killed her two days after I got out on parole!”
My mouth moves by itself as it says, “Cane, it was a bad coincidence, I swear.” It’s Jebediah’s deep tone out of my lips.
“What are you gonna do now, Jeb? Pay me off like the last time?”
“Yeah, I’ll figure something out.”
Cane tightens his grip on the gun. “Not this time.”
“C’mon, I’ll give you enough money to swim in, man.”
“Fuck you, Jeb.” He sniffs, lifting the gun to my eye level. “And fuck your money.”
My crotch feels warm. I just peed myself.
“Let’s be smart here, Cane.” I spread my bony hand before me, begging him not to shoot.
Cane releases a loud, mad laugh. “Time to pay your dues, Jeb.”
A flash fills my vision. Pain pierces my hand. The bullet has opened a tiny hole between my palm and is now crossing my forehead, metal crashing skin and bone, venturing into my brain, burning inside, and leaving a splash behind.
***
I’m back at the pond. The scream that has been trying to get out rips through my throat like shattered glass. All the immaterial bile inside my soul spurts out as a brain-cell rave pumps inside my head.
“Santana!” John’s voice, faintly near me. “Are you okay?”
I gasp and wipe the vomit from my lips. Jebediah lies on the ground to my left, a swollen navy bruise on his face.
“You fucking killed her!” I shriek.
“Bitch needed some dick, Counselor.” Jebediah grins. “Besides, she would’ve talked again if I had let her go.”
John wraps my arm around his neck, helping me up. Spritebreaker’s handle stares at me from the scabbard tied around his back, and I take it before John has time to stop me. Spinning away from him, I turn to Jebediah.
Jebediah stays on the ground, laughing so hard that he puts his arm around his belly. I stop, sword held in midair.
“What ya gonna do, Counselor?” He cleans a tear from his cheek. “I’m already dead.”
John’s expression is as placid as the surface of the pond. “You don’t know? If she kills you here, you’ll cease to exist. Your soul, everything that you are, will puff into nonexistence.”
Jebediah stops laughing. He looks at John and then me, probably wondering if we’re telling the trut
h.
“C-counselor, let’s wait a sec. I was shot in the head. I paid for my sins.”
This animal deserves no mercy. “Good people die too, Jebediah. Which sins are they paying for?”
He narrows his eyes and bares his brown teeth like an angry hound. “You defended me, bitch, deep down you knew I was guilty, an—”
“And after that you fucking killed her!” I swing the sword all too close to him. Jebediah cringes and throws his arm over his head in a pleading manner. I think he’s whimpering.
I lift the sword again, gather momentum. “I told you I’d crush you, you fucking bastard.”
I expect John to stop me, but he stands silently behind. His voice says in my mind, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes, Senator. Tit for tat. And get out of my head.”
I look down at Jebediah. He pissed his pants, again. Pathetic.
“But he’s not a threat to you.”
“I looked at that girl straight in the eye, John,” I bark. “How am I supposed to live with that?
“Santana, you didn’t kill her, he did.”
Taking matters into my own hands is not justice, it’s payback, but I forgot what justice was a long time ago. When I recall the bulging eyes of Kasey McCormick, I grip the sword harder and swoosh a half moon in the air.
It’s like cutting logs really, only sometimes the ax would get stuck midway through the wood, and with Jebediah, the blade went straight through. He screams, separated from his legs, blood flowing out of his kneecaps. He howls and calls me all kinds of bad names as the liquid gushes into two red pools that merge into one. I hope he bleeds to death, but by John’s relieved expression, it takes more than a cut leg to send someone into oblivion.
“Why his legs and not his head?” he asks.
“I’m not fit to give him his final sentence.” I return Spritebreaker to John, the blade red at the ridge. “I’m just as bad as he is.”
“Santy, that’s the biggest bullshit I ever heard. You’re nothing like—” The ground trembles and cracks, and in a second, a gigantic hole eats the ground, swallowing most of the pond.