by Nick Pirog
Chapter 11.
Arraignment
“Will the defendant please rise?”
The demand came at the hands of the Honorable Judge Robert Giggs. He was the smallest judge I’d ever seen. Seriously, I wouldn’t doubt if he was sitting on two phone books. They probably had to special order his judge’s robes from Neverland. What was left of his cheaply dyed brown hair was swept over his balding pate and he had glasses pushed down to the tip of his long beak like nose. He had an uncanny resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte—apparently, Napoleon had done some damage in Two as well—and that was the precise moniker that had followed him for his long and distinguished career.
A week earlier, when JP had informed me who would be presiding over the case, he had said, “Looks like Napoleon drew the case?”
“Did you say Napoleon?”
“I did.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
His cigar wavered back and forth as he smiled. “It’s a really fucking bad thing.”
During that same meeting, I had been introduced to Barry Lutwig. Since I had yet to pass the Bar—or make that, since the results of my failing the Bar didn’t come out for another month—I couldn‘t officially represent Isaac in court. Therefore, Barry Lutwig, an aging divorce attorney—and an old acquaintance of JP’s—would chaperon me whenever I needed to step foot in the courtroom.
Such as today’s arraignment.
Behind the defense table, from left to right, were Isaac, Barry Lutwig, and then me. Isaac was in his prison orange. It’d been two weeks since he’d scratched his enigmatic message on the steel table. A message I might add, that was written in an obscure language that did not exist. But that I could read.
Freaky. I know.
My initial reaction had been, I knew it. He is a Born. Followed quickly by, Keepers? Keepers of what?
In the two weeks since, I had met with Isaac on four separate occasions. There were no more messages. In fact, the words Born and Keeper were never uttered. Never spoken. But they were always in the room. Born was on the table, right there in the center. Each letter chiseled out of granite and weighing a thousand pounds. Keepers was hanging on the back wall. It was a Vegas casino sign, orange, fluorescent, and flashing.
Barry Lutwig was to my left. He had a thick mop of curly red hair. I would call it a Jew-fro, but I think he was Irish. He had been a fraternity brother of JP’s thirty years earlier. Thing is, Barry Lutwig, still thought he was in a fraternity. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes swollen, and I’d be willing to bet Mr. Lutwig had taken his last drink just a couple hours earlier. I could smell the whiskey seeping from his pores.
Both Isaac and Barry stood.
Judge Napoleon leaned forward and said, “You have been indicted on three counts of 1st degree murder. On the first count of 1st degree murder, the murder of John Kwan, how do you plead?”
Isaac was the picture of poise. Disconcertingly so. He was Tom Brady in the pocket. He said, “Not guilty your honor.”
“On the second count of 1st degree murder, the murder of Terry Robinson, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty your honor.”
“On the third count of 1st degree murder, the murder of Alan Fielding, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty your honor.”
“The defendant may sit.”
Isaac sat. He glanced in my direction. His right eye shut, then opened just as quickly. It took me a moment to realize he’d just winked at me.
What the hell did that mean?
“Now the matter of bail.”
I turned my attention back to the judge.
“The state requests to deny bail your honor.”
The prosecuting attorney was standing. Make that the lead prosecuting attorney. There were three altogether. The lead prosecutor was large and handsome. He was wearing a beautiful suit. Probably another Brooks Brothers. Only not the same one I’d first seen him wearing at the bookstore. That’s right. The lead prosecutor was Big Shot. Jeremy Palace.
JP’s son.
⠔
Bail was denied.
The trial was set to start January 4th.
Isaac was escorted out of the courtroom by an officer.
Barry Lutwig slapped me on the back and asked if I wanted to join him for a drink. I declined.
⠔
Just as I was leaving the courtroom myself, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Big Shot. He was smiling ear to ear. He said, “Your boy is going to freeze.” Then he punched me in the shoulder—kind of hard, it hurt—and pushed through the doors.
In the last two weeks I’d the law book JeAnn had given me cover to cover. Freezing came up frequently. They didn’t have the death penalty in Two. They didn’t want people dying, only to appear somewhere else—Three—and get a fresh start. No in Two, you were frozen. Ted Williams style.
I visualized Isaac being lowered into hyperbaric chamber. The Keeper, whatever that was, frozen for eternity.
I looked around to see if I could catch Barry.
That drink was starting to sound pretty good.
⠔
It had been smooth sailing living with Berlin for the past two weeks. That came to sudden halt the night after Isaac’s arraignment.
Berlin refused to start school midterm—she would start when school picked up after the holidays—so she was with me every waking moment. Or if she wasn’t with me, like when I’d been in the courtroom the day before, she was sitting at home, usually surfing the web on my laptop. Now, I know what you’re thinking, you can’t leave a seven-year-old home alone. Well, Berlin wasn’t your average seven-year-old. She was more mature than the last two women I’d dated. She had a cell phone to call me if she needed me and my neighbor, Margo, an aging woman of around sixty—who had been living in the Two Adjustment House for the better part of twenty years—rarely left her house.
It was two separate compounding events that triggered the tantrum. The first event occurred around six that evening. Berlin and I had spent most of the day at the library. Me flipping through books on law and Berlin sitting quietly and reading. At one point Berlin had put her book down and taken her PSP out of her backpack, but within minutes of her turning it on the battery had died. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she’d grimaced, put the PSP back in her backpack, then returned to her book.
When we’d arrived back at the Adjustment House, around five thirty, Berlin had asked, “Can we bake cookies tonight?”
“They have cookies in the cafeteria.” Ten different kinds of cookies to be precise.
“I know, but I want to make cookies. It’s something my mom and I used to do all the time.”
This was the first time she’d ever mentioned her mother and it took me off guard. “Sure, we can bake cookies. Haven’t done that in ages. In fact, we’ll cook dinner tonight. How’s spaghetti sound?”
She rubbed her small belly and said, “Yum, yum, give me some.”
I laughed.
She said, “Okay, you go to the store.”
“You aren’t coming?”
“No, I’m gonna look at apartments online for awhile.”
In the last two weeks, Berlin and I had looked at fifteen different apartments. Berlin had found something wrong with each one. No dishwasher. I think the people before this had a ferret. There should be a load bearing wall right there. Can a girl buy a window? I want a south facing view. Saw an ant.
Jokingly, I asked, “What’s wrong with this place?”
“It’s a dump. And if I have to share a bathroom with you any longer, I’m going to kill myself. I don’t understand how you are able to get water on the very top of the mirror.”
“I have a gift.”
She laughed.
Just as I was closing the door, I heard Berlin shout, “Oh, can you buy me some Single A batteries?”
I yelled okay.
It would prove to be anything but.
⠔
Be
rlin was still at the computer when I returned.
I placed the three shopping bags on the kitchen counter and asked, “Find anything worth looking at?”
She shrugged. “Three places. We’re looking at them tomorrow.”
“Aye’ aye Captain.”
She smiled.
“I didn’t know what kind of cookies you wanted to make, so I just bought a bunch of different crap.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what baking cookies entailed—being that I hadn’t made cookies since that awkward Christmas when I’d asked for an Easy Bake Oven—but I’d purchased all the ingredients needed to make cookies from scratch; flour, eggs, baking soda, salt, sugar, chocolate chips, oatmeal, raisins, peanut butter, sprinkles, three different icings. All that jazz. Then I’d bought a couple of the premade jobbies as well. Billsbury Halloween Sugar Cookies and a yellow tube of Nettle Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. The latter of which I was squeezing a large portion into my mouth as we speak.
Berlin gasped, “Gross!”
I smiled, the gooey goodness squeezing out.
She laughed then said, “I hope you get salmonella.”
I garbled, “That’s not nice.”
She laughed again. Then she asked, “Did you get my batteries?”
I rummaged around two of the bags, mostly containing spaghetti paraphernalia, until I found the batteries. I said, “I got you the Lithiums,” and tossed the batteries to her.
She caught the Energizers.
Immediately, I knew I’d screwed up.
Her face stiffened. “I told you to buy Single A batteries. These are Double A’s.
I knew that she’d said Single A, but I’d played a PSP before, I knew they ran on Double A’s. “Trust me, those are the right batteries.”
“No, they are not the right batteries.”
“PSP’s run Doubles A’s. I’m positive. Nothing runs on Single A’s.” I’d never in my life owned anything that ran on Single A batteries.
Berlin thrust the batteries into my stomach and said, “Do those look a little small to you?”
I looked at the batteries. They did appear a little small. They looked like Triples A’s, although in the top right they were clearly marked, “AA.”
Berlin took a deep breath and said, “You know how some things here are the same and some things here are different. Well, this happens to be one of those times when things are different. Here, Triple A batteries are Double A batteries and Double A batteries are Single A batteries. That’s why I asked for Single A batteries. Single A Batteries.”
“My bad.”
Her jaw was clenched. This was first time I’d ever seen her upset.
I said, “I’m sorry. I’ll buy you some Single A batteries next time I’m at the store.”
She ignored me. She was busy rummaging through the seventy dollars worth of cookie accouterment I’d just purchased. After looking at all the ingredients, she started opening and closing cabinets. I’m not sure what she was looking for. She pulled out the small drawer underneath the oven. Shook her head. Groaned.
She looked at me and said, “How exactly are we supposed to bake cookies if you didn’t buy any cookie sheets?”
Cookie sheets! I knew I’d spaced something.
Berlin didn’t give me a chance to respond. She stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door.
⠔
After thirty minutes of asking Berlin to unlock the door and hearing silence, I gave up. I thought about starting on the spaghetti, but I wasn’t sure if cooking the meal Berlin and I were supposed to cook together would compound the tantrum. I didn’t want Berlin to come out in twenty minutes, only to turn around and go right back in when she saw that I had started without her.
To be honest, I didn’t have a clue what the answer to this riddle was. This was the first time I’d ever seen Berlin act, like, well a seven-year-old. Her tantrum had surprised me, but it shouldn’t have. Kids throw tantrums all the time. I’d run into one of my nannies from when I was younger and she had told me how I would throw a tantrum every time she took me to the grocery store because she refused to buy me Otter Pops.
That being said, I found I was a little mad. Not mad, annoyed. I was annoyed Berlin would get upset over such a trivial matter. I didn’t want to think the word, but it kept surfacing in my brain.
Brat.
I thought it best if I left for a while to cool off. Didn’t want to say something in the heat of the moment that I couldn’t take back. And to add fuel to the fire, I was starving. And now I was cranky.
It was after the dinner rush and the cafeteria was quiet. There were about ten people spread out in the large dining room. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite—I was being optimistic that spaghetti would still be made at some point that evening—but I needed to eat something before I went back. I headed to the salad bar, which never changed, grabbed a bowl and filled it with granola, then two heaping spoonfuls of strawberry yogurt. And one hard-boiled egg.
Then I retired to a table. This was the first time in two weeks I’d eaten without my little sidekick. It didn’t feel right. I let out a long sigh, then took a huge spoonful of granola and yogurt.
“Mind if I sit down?”
I looked up. It was the hot blonde who I’d caught sneaking glances at me a couple times, but never had the cojones to go talk to. I hadn’t seen her in almost a month.
“Sure.”
She pulled up the seat across from me and set down her tray. She was clad in a black hooded sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had dark blue eyes. She had that California girl look about her. She was even hotter up close. She stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Erin.”
I shook her hand. “Maddy. Nice to meet cha’.”
I wasn’t nervous at all for some reason. Except, I did know the reason.
Abby.
Erin’s tray contained a large salad, some fruit, and an ice-cream cone. Just the cone. No ice-cream. I pointed to the lone cone and said, “Um, I think your cone ate all your ice-cream.”
She laughed. Well, it was more of a giggle with accompanying arm flap. She said, “I always have ice-cream on Friday. Just planning ahead.”
Great. A planner.
“Are you gonna go for the vanilla, the chocolate, or the swirl?”
“Vanilla.”
“Racist.”
She put her hand to her chest. “I am not.”
“It was a joke. Vanilla. Get it.”
I love explaining my jokes. So fun.
Finally, it hit her and she giggled and flapped again. I think for a moment she went airborne. I made a mental note not to say anything else funny.
After she composed, she asked, “Where’s your daughter?”
“Oh, she’s not my daughter. Well, not exactly.”
I spent the next ten minutes recounting my relationship with Berlin. Erin did a lot of uh-huh-ing and no way-ing and right-right-ing and I contemplated throwing my hard-boiled egg at her three times.
Talking about Berlin was getting me slightly emotional. I didn’t care if she was a brat. She was my brat.
I told Erin I needed to get going and that it was nice to meet her.
As I was standing, she asked, “So, can I take you out sometime?”
This took me off guard. In fact, if the long white cafeteria table had transformed into Optimus Prime, I would have been less taken off guard. Here’s the deal, I’d been asked out by women on several different occasions and I had no problem telling them I wasn’t interested, but Erin was the most attractive woman who had ever asked me out. Granted I’d known her for all of twenty minutes and she’d already annoyed me to the point of mentally sewing her arms to her sides, but I still, kind of, sort of, wouldn’t mind, if she was down for it, maybe, to, I don’t know, have sex with her.
I gave her my number.
Men.
⠔
Berlin was still locked in my room when I returned.
I’d taken a quick trip back to All-Mart. I’d planned to run in and grab the correct batteries and some cookie sheets. I’d left with the correct batteries, cookie sheets, and a Nintendo Bii.
I set the large box near the bedroom door, which was still locked, and said, “Hey kiddo, I just want to say that I’m sorry you are so upset. I don’t know why you got so upset over some batteries and some cookie sheets, and I’m sure there’s something else going on that you’re not telling me, but I’m sorry. Kay?”
I’d rehearsed this in the car. Didn’t come out exactly as I wanted it, but it was close. I listened for a long minute, but she didn’t respond.
I went to Plan B, bribery. “Okay, so I got you the right batteries and I bought cookie sheets. Oh, and I bought you a Nintendo Bii.”
I listened for another minute. Nothing. Then I heard a couple footsteps. I thought she was going to open the door. She didn’t. She did say, “What games did you get?”
I smiled. “Games? What do you mean?”
“Yes, you do. What games did you get? Did you get the one that is like Mario Kart?”
“Yep.” It was called Kart Madness.
I could see her smiling on the other side of the door.
“What else?”
“Bowling and some hunting game that comes with a big ass gun.”
There was a click. A moment later, the door opened about two inches. I could see half of Berlin’s face. She asked, “Are you mad at me?”
“I was a little mad. But not anymore.”
“Promise?”
I stuck my finger through the opening and said, “Pinky swear.”
We pinky sweared.
She opened the door the rest of the way and I picked her up. She started crying. I rubbed her small back and told her everything was okay.
I wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “You gonna tell me what’s wrong kiddo?”
She was doing that sniff-convulse-cry thing, but somehow managed, “Today is my mom’s birthday.”
“Sweetie. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I mean, she wasn’t even like a very good mom.”
“Yeah, but she was still your mom kiddo. It’s okay to miss her.”
“Yeah? You don’t think I’m weird?”
“Of course I think you’re weird. But, I'll let you in on a secret, I'm weird too."
She smiled. "Yeah, you are."
I wiped the tears off her cheek again. “You want to know something. If I knew it was your mom’s birthday and you didn’t get a little sad, then I'd think it was weird.”
“Okay.” She punched me in the arm. “Put me down weirdo.”
I put her down.
Tantrum complete.
We made cookies, cooked spaghetti, and played Nintendo Bii until three in the morning. For the first time in a longtime, I didn’t think about the strange place I’d found myself in. I didn’t think about Borns or Keepers. Or languages that didn’t exist. I didn’t care whether I was dead or alive. I didn’t for one moment think about Erin or Abby. All I cared about was the little girl with the big red gun in her hands laughing her head off after each moose that she killed.
It was a night I would think of often.
After she was taken.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
You are probably cursing me right now, asking how I have the nerve to end a book with so many unanswered questions. Well, now you know how Maddy feels. Hahahahhahaha. I have the story outlined for six books and many of your questions will be answered in Borns (Maddy Young Saga 2) which should be out sometime in January of February. (There is a countdown clock at www.nickthriller.com.) And I promise the following four books by the end of 2014. Pinky swear. Thanks for reading. Tell your friends. And don’t be afraid to scribble a quick review on Amazon.
God is Love.
Nick
November 21, 2013