The Free Page 4

  “You let me worry about the money,” I tell her. “You just keep your head down and your grades up.”

  Her eyes get small like she’s trying to f igure out what her brother is up to. That’s a dangerous game, though, and she knows it. “Yeah, well, I still think we should both get baptized,” she says. “But not Mom.”

  “Deal.” I hold up my f ist and she bumps it.

  “So hurry up and get out of here,” she says.

  “That’s the plan.”

  Chapter 6

  The next day, Dr. Horton surprises me in the orange-rug room by pulling me aside while the others are still straggling in. “I didn’t realize how short your sentence is, Isaac. We need to get to work. Have you got your crime story?”

  “Are we done with Sandra already?”

  Sandra sits alone, hugging her knees against her chest. We spent the whole last session replaying her crime story with different people in different roles. Not me though. I was still in “listening mode.” Every time they got to the gunshot, no matter what part Sandra was playing, she’d glaze over. Disappearing, she called it. Like she could take herself out of her own life. I couldn’t blame her for trying. If I had Sandra’s life, I’d want to disappear too. Her mother’s an addict who disappears (literally) for weeks on end. Her father left when she was twelve, after molesting her for a year. Jared the pimp is the closest thing she has to family.

  “Sandra needs a break,” Dr. Horton says. “We’ll get back to her later. What do you think?” His face turns bright, like he’s offering me a delicious cookie.

  Adults can be so obvious.

  “I just have to read it, right? We’re not gonna act it out or anything.”

  “Just reading for today. One step at a time.”

  “Hey man,” Javier says. “It’s okay if you’re nervous. Everyone gets nervous when they read their crime story.”

  “Not me,” Barbie says. “I’ve read it twice now. Piece of cake.”

  “That’s because you one frosty bitch,” Wayne offers up.

  “You got me wrong. You don’t know nothing about me.”

  “That’s great, Barbie,” Riley says. “But we were talking about Isaac, in case you didn’t notice.”

  Barbie leans back and crosses her ankle over her knee. “I know who we’re talking about. I just want Isaac to know it’s okay not to be nervous too.”

  Sandra stays out of it and watches everyone from behind her knees.

  “Barbie’s right,” Dr. Horton says. “All we ask for is your honesty.”

  “Right,” I say. “Honesty. Sure.”

  I sit down, take out my notebook, and f lip to the page where my crime story begins. It’s the last thing I wrote, and even though I’ve practiced this a million times with Mr. Flannery, I’m still nervous about it.

  “Okay. My crime story began on May twenty-seventh.”

  “Speak up,” Barbie says.

  I look up, then start again.

  “My crime story began on May twenty-seventh. I was bored one night, so I decided to steal a car. It was a Cadillac Escalade. It was late, around one thirty, and there were no lights on at the guy’s house. It was a real quiet street too. I smashed in the window, hot-wired it, and started to drive away. But then the owner came out and he was real drunk. He grabbed the driver’s door and opened it. Then he dragged me out and started punching me. So I punched him back once and he fell over and didn’t get up. I got back in the car and drove it away. I drove it around for a little while, then I got scared, so I dumped it in Pleasance Pond.”

  I close the notebook, and when I look up, all f ive of my teammates plus Dr. Horton are staring at me.

  “That’s it?” Barbie says.

  Wayne chuckles.

  “Where was this?” Barbie asks.

  I look at Dr. Horton because I was under the impression I only had to read my crime story, not discuss it.

  “It’s all right, Isaac,” Dr. Horton says. “You can answer that.”

  “Um,” I say. “It was in Waverly?”

  “Is that a question?” Barbie asks. “Are you asking me or telling me? Was it in Waverly?”

  “Yeah. It was in Waverly.”

  “What were you doing in Waverly? You live there? ’coz you don’t look like no Waverly kid. Where you go to school? St. James Prep or something? You a rich kid posing as a poor kid? You a narc?”

  The others laugh.

  “Barbie,” Dr. Horton says. “Is any of that constructive?”

  “I live in Worthrop” I tell her.

  “So how’d you get to Waverly?” Barbie asks. “That’s, like, ten miles. At least. Did you drive there? You have a license? What happened to your car?”

  “I didn’t . . . drive there.”

  “So how’d you get there?”

  “I rode my bike,” I say.

  I don’t even own a bike, never have, but she doesn’t know that.

  “So what happened to it?” she asks. “Did you go back and get it afterwards? You know, after you dumped that car into a pond?”

  Wayne chuckles again.

  “Um . . . no . . . I put it in the back of the Escalade.”

  “Oh,” Barbie says. “Because you didn’t say nothing ’bout that. Also did you take it out before you dumped that batshit expensive car into a pond?”

  “Yes. That’s how I got home.”

  “How’d you get the car into the pond?” Wayne asks. “What’d you do, push it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “By yourself? An Escalade?”

  “That’s a big car,” Barbie says.

  “It’s a truck actually,” Riley adds. “Also, the Escalade has one of the most sophisticated antitheft devices on the market. My uncle has one. How’d you override it?”

  Jesus Christ! The cops never asked me any of these questions.

  “Are you gonna answer or what?” Barbie asks.

  “Hey, Barbie,” Javier says. “Take it easy, all right?”

  “I’m just trying to get the facts straight. I mean, if we’re gonna role-play this, I need to know how it went down. Ain’t that right, Wayne?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Yeah,” Riley says. “You’re not giving us much to work with, Isaac. I mean, why did you pick that car? How did you hot-wire it? Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “And what about the owner?” Barbie says. “You didn’t use his name. We use our victims’ names here.”

  “It’s Sal. Sal Christaldi.”

  “What’s that, short for Salvatore?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. So this Salvatore Christaldi comes after you and you drop him with one punch?”

  “That don’t sound right,” Wayne says.

  “What are you?” Barbie says. “Five eight? About one thirty?” She gives me a crushing up and down.

  “I’m f ive nine.” And still growing, I want to add, but I don’t.

  “Still,” she says. “One punch?”

  “Yeah. One punch.”

  “That’s one hell of a punch,” she says.

  “Well there was a rock on the ground.”

  “Huh? What rock? You didn’t say anything about a rock.”

  “There was a rock. I didn’t see it though. I guess he hit his head on it when he fell over.”

  “You guess?” she says.

  “It was dark. All’s I know is what they told me afterwards. That he hit his head on a rock.”

  “So what happened to him?” Javier asks. “You said he didn’t get up again. He okay now?”

  Thank God the cops weren’t this nosy. They hardly asked me a thing. There was a rock on the ground. I punched Mr. Christaldi and he fell on it. Boom. Done. I told them this story once, then wrote it down for them and signed my name. No problem. The cops were nice. Go
t me a soda and a bag of chips. Believed every word of that story, or at least didn’t care enough to question it. But these guys, Jesus, they’re like vultures. Sandra got the same treatment during her role-play. After the group hug. The group hug was just a way to soften her up. What were you thinking the second you picked up that gun? How did you feel in your stomach? In your head? Were you hot? Were you cold? They stripped the poor girl raw, and now look at her. She’s hugging her knees and chomping on her f ingers. This is supposed to rehabilitate people?

  “Yo, Isaac?” Barbie starts in again. “So what happened to Mr. Salvatore Christaldi? You telling us you killed him with one punch?”

  “No, I didn’t kill him. He’s alive. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “He hasn’t woken up yet.”

  They all look at each other.

  “When was this?” Wayne asks. “You said May?”

  “End of May.”

  “So he’s in a coma?” Riley asks.

  “And he’s just lying there?” Wayne says. “Like a vegetable?”

  “No,” Riley says. “A coma is when your eyes aren’t even open. It’s more like being asleep, right?”

  Riley looks at me as if I’m an expert in comas, which I am not. Maybe I should be, on account of being at least partly responsible for the state Mr. Christaldi is in. I hate what happened to him. It’s horrible. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve to have his car stolen either, but whoever said life was fair?

  “I hear some of them coma people can actually hear things,” Javier says. “They’re like awake and stuff, but they can’t do nothing. Can’t speak. Can’t move.”

  Sandra, who hasn’t said a word the whole time, shudders noisily.

  “Man,” Wayne says. “That’s some dark shit.”

  “Are they gonna pull the plug on him?” Riley asks.

  “No way,” Javier says. “You can’t do that. Guy could be wide awake in there, having whole conversations with himself. Maybe wake up tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Or never,” Riley says. “And in the meantime it costs like a gazillion dollars a day to keep him alive.”

  “You can’t put a price on a human life,” says Javier.

  “Well you could have,” Barbie says. “If Isaac hadn’t driven that Escalade into a pond.”

  That’s the troubling detail for Barbie, the fact that I threw away all that money. The way she’s looking at me now, with that crooked half smile and her gold tooth shining, I can’t tell if she thinks I’m the dumbest punk in the world, or the worst liar. I’m rooting for dumbest. There’s nothing in the Rules of Engagement about being dumb. Lying, on the other hand, is against Rule Number One. But even if she thinks I’m lying, she has no proof. No one does, except Sal Christaldi.

  And he isn’t talking.

  Chapter 7

  The next day a guard meets me outside of English class and escorts me to a conference room down the hall that reeks of old coffee. There’s a tall guy with a pale, shiny head waiting for me.

  “Hi, Isaac,” he says.

  It takes me a second to recognize my lawyer. I only met him that one time in court and he barely said a word. I can’t remember his name. Sloane? Sears? Something with an S. I do remember that tie though—yellow with a ketchup stain in the shape of a dog. The fact that he’s still wearing it means they must not pay these guys very much.

  He slides his briefcase onto the chipped table and opens it. “So Sal Christaldi has woken up.”

  “What?” I practically choke on the word.

  “Got some nerve damage. Possible hearing loss. He’s lost a lot of weight too. He’s in pretty rough shape actually. On the plus side, he’s alive. And he’ll probably make something close to a full recovery. Except for the hearing loss.”

  I do my best to stay calm, try to f ind my game face. It’s not like I wanted Mr. Christaldi to stay in that coma forever. His waking up is great news. For him.

  “Yeah, the thing is, Isaac, his version of events doesn’t quite match up with yours. Apparently he’s saying some giant attacked him.” He gives me a quick up and down. “A white giant.” He shows me a printout of an email with the words a giant attacked me highlighted in lime green. “He also says there was some black kid hiding under a truck. I presume that was you?”

  I open my mouth to speak, then decide against it.

  “Well, at any rate, the ADA wants this Caucasian giant’s name. If you give it to her, she’s willing to consider overlooking the fact that you lied in court, which is perjury, by the way. Why did you do it?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter why you did it. Whoever this giant is, he’s up for attempted murder, so . . .”

  “Attempted murder?”

  “Yes. And the ADA wants his name.” He looks at me like this is the most reasonable request ever, and I’d have to be a total dick not to come up with the goods.

  “I can’t,” I tell him.

  “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t give you his name.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know it.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know the name of the guy who stole that car with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stares at me, his clean-shaven white face blank. He should take as good care of his ties as he does his skin. “Okay. Let me see how I can put this. That’s an obvious lie, and there’s no way Jill Levy is going to believe that.”

  “Who’s Jill Levy?”

  “She’s the ADA. And she is not joking around, Isaac. She’s never liked this case. She thinks there are too many holes in it. But until now she’s had nothing to go on. Sal Christaldi changes that. She wants to start f illing in those holes.”

  I look down at my hands, which is exactly what Janelle does when she doesn’t want to talk about something. It’s a giveaway, a tell. I need to work on that.

  “Okay. Isaac, let me explain about perjury. You know what it is, right?”

  “Yeah, I know what it is. It’s lying.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a special kind of lying that comes with a brand-new sentence.” His voices rises, just a little. “So forget about the thirty days. You could get an extra six months for that.”

  “Six months?”

  “Or more.”

  Finally I look at him. “What if I just met him that night? What if he never told me his name? I mean; why would he?” I’m improvising now, which is dangerous. This is how bad liars get caught. It’s why I’m supposed to stick to the script, like Mr. Flannery said.

  “How’d you meet him?”

  I shrug.

  “Isaac, listen to me.” He leans forward, and my eyes are drawn back to the ketchup stain on his tie. “It’s in your best interest to be honest with me right now. Your story is in shambles. The ADA already knows you lied. And I know Jill Levy. I’ve dealt with her before. She’s an ambitious little . . . well, trust me on this. She will not be persuaded by your youth. If perjury is the only card she has to play, she will play that card. You want to risk another six months? Possibly more?”

  When I don’t answer, he just stares at me. He’s real patient about it too, like he has all day to wait me out. But my lawyer will never win at that game. If anyone has all day to wait, it’s the kid serving time.

  “I have to make a phone call,” I tell him.

  “Suit yourself,” he says. Then he shoves the papers back in his briefcase and leaves.

  Chapter 8

  At the payphone, there’s some lanky white kid with his arm around the box like he’s making out with it. I’m next followed by six other guys who are running out of patience. I’ve got the piece of paper in my hand. It’s not Mr. Flannery’s actual number. Calling him directly from juvie would be too dangerous. It’s an emergency number where I can
get a message to him. I’m only supposed to use it in case of an “absolute fucking end of the world emergency.” I f igure this qualif ies.

  “Yo, we ain’t got all day here.”

  It’s the kid behind me. Scrawny, f ive foot nothing. Looks about twelve years old, but a hard-living twelve.

  The white kid hangs up f inally, and I step up to the phone. I’m surprised when a woman answers. She sounds white, middle-aged, with a thick Revere accent.

  “Hi, it’s Isaac West. I need to get a message to . . .” I’m not sure I’m supposed to say Flannery’s name. “Someone?”

  “A message to someone ? Am I supposed to know what that means? What, are you on drugs or something? Aw, wait. Don’t tell me. Hold on. Hold on. Barney! Hey Baahney! I think it’s someone for that dickhead bruthah of yohz.” The phone drops. There’s some muff led movement, then someone else picks up, a man this time.

  “Who is this? Did he give you this number?”

  “Um yeah, I just need to get a message to him.”

  In the background that lady yells, “You tell that piece-a-shit brothah of yohz to keep that gahbidge outta this house. Ya heeya me?”

  “Shut up, Krissy! Okay, look. Don’t call here again. I don’t care what he told you. Do not call here.”

  “But I really need to—”

  “Do not call this number.”

  Click. Dial tone.

  The son of a bitch hangs up on me.

  Chapter 9

  That night I have the cell to myself. Cardo’s gone, the lucky bastard, probably on his way to Miami to sample the delights of his girlfriend and learn about pressure cleaning. I’m happy for him. I really am. But I could have used his ear tonight. He’s an expert in everything, at least in his own mind. Right or wrong, he would have something to say on my predicament. What would Cardo do? Jesus, when you f ind yourself asking that question, you know shit’s gone down.

  When I agreed to take the rap for Healy, I knew it could have been anywhere up to six months. That’s what Mr. Flannery told me. I was okay with that too. I owed Healy for getting me onto Flannery’s crew. And I knew I was buying a lifetime’s worth of loyalty from Mr. Flannery for making the sacrif ice. When the thirty-day sentence came down, I felt like the luckiest kid alive. But I’ve gotten used to the idea now. Thirty days I can live with. Six months seems like forever. Especially with Janelle sneaking out of the house every day. That’s not a situation that’ll get better with time.