Radical (30 page)

A guard looks through the window every now and then. Maybe at set intervals, I don’t know. The first guard looked for a while, curious — the first time, at least. The second one just looked. The third guard sneered. I actually held my breath as I started to anticipate his return. The second time he looked, and the third, I could feel the shakes, the fear, like a deer sensing my sight through a scope must feel. Keys jingled on his fourth look, and I scurried back on the bed, scrabbling for anything to hide behind. He laughed.

The tears came then. I knew they must be watching me, even if I wasn’t facing the camera, and I tried to hold the tears in. But it was either cry or scream, and I figured if I started screaming, they would definitely come in here.

I curled up and cried as silently as I could. For a long time. My muscles stiffened up, and the shame made it all worse. When I heard footsteps or noises in the hall, I curled in tighter, buried my face in the sheet, and tried to hold the shakes inside, tried to stay still.

I’ve read so many guides on dealing with the government, on knowing your rights and how to be strong. Guys who have been arrested —“detained”— offering tips and tactics. I’ve imagined the words I would say, about being a prisoner of war or a political prisoner. About demanding certain rights. I had always thought I’d be strong, like in the woods.

But when they drag you from your uncle’s truck, plant you facedown, cuff you, put you in the back of a car, put you in a room, ask you a million questions, about bombs, about guns, about family, all of that leaves your head. All reason leaves your head.
You
are hardly even in your head. All speeches and plans and stands long lost in the sheer jumbled panic of your brain. How long did they talk at me, try to trick me, before my brain unjumbled long enough for me to remember the magic words
I want a lawyer
? How much longer could I have taken it without giving in if I hadn’t remembered?

Until a door closes on you.

I wash my face and count the steps across my cell, from one end to the other, and then from side to side. Calming myself with the repetition of action. Until I’m so tired I need to lie down.

I curl up on the bed. For just a minute, I tell myself. So I can think, with my face to the wall, so they can’t see me thinking. But I must have slept, because I wake up to the sound of the door being opened. I try to hurl myself up and away, in my mind seeing myself crouching low, ready to defend myself, like with Mark or in a drill. But I just stumble to the wall, whacking my knee on the bed, like I can’t even control my muscles.

I can’t control anything.

A woman guard stands in the open door, a male guard behind her, hand on a baton at his waist, but his face is calm.

“You answer when spoken to,” she says. “At mealtimes you will be given a tray through the slot. You take it. You eat it. Understand?”

I nod. Afraid to hear my voice but afraid not to respond.

The door closes and then there is a tray of food through the slot. I take it, because I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t. If they open that door again. If the guy with the baton comes in here. Every muscle trembles with relief and the flood of adrenaline and the pent-up terror of the situation crashing down when they walk away.

I put the tray on the metal shelf thing jutting out of the wall. Stare at the tray. I can’t eat it. Any of it. I go back to the bed.

I’m in prison. When they said juvenile detention, I pictured, like . . . rooms. Kids. Locks, but like a school or something. Not this. This is a prison.

I don’t know what to do. Except to stay quiet. And try not to cry anymore.

I stare at the tray. Wondering when they will come back. Whether to trust the food.

What happens when I haven’t eaten any of it? No one’s going to bring me snacks from a vending machine like Agent Washington did. I’ll have to eat what they give me eventually, right?

The guys on the message boards would tell me to refuse it, that it might be drugged or tampered with. Someone might have spit in it, or worse. They’d trust no one.

I couldn’t eat if I wanted to. But what happens later? I’ll have to eat sometime, and drink, right? Should I flush some of it down the toilet, just so they think I’ve eaten?

Or are they watching me? Right now, is someone watching me? Are they always watching me? Every minute? Until I know, I should just not eat it. Strategy. Survey the landscape, and the enemy, before showing yourself or attempting subterfuge.

With my back to the wall, wedged into the corner, I can see the window in the door and most of the cell. I scan every surface, inch by inch, learning every detail, every chip, every scratch.

The wall is warm. I don’t know if I am. I don’t know anything.

Eventually exhaustion takes over. I sleep for hours. They wake me at times to check on me, and for meals, which I mostly ignore. Sleeping is easier than worrying about what is happening, or what might happen. Where everyone is. Where they might take me. Why any of this happened.

When I need toilet paper, I have to ask for it. Hope one of the guards is nearby. Hope they give me enough.

I still haven’t seen Mom, or Dad, or anyone.

I think Mark did something. Something bad.

I keep thinking about the questions they were asking me, and the pictures of Uncle Skip’s house and the station taped off as crime scenes, and replaying the last week over in my head. Then the weeks before that.

What did Riggs think I knew, or what did he already know? What did he say to Mark? What made Mark like that, made him so crazy?

Mark and Zach and who else being at the station, at night. I was supposed to tell Uncle Skip. I should have told him. I should have told Dad, when things got weird, after Riggs, after Mark. That night. I should have called Dad. Made him listen.

What the hell did Mark do?

They took all of our family. Even Uncle Skip. Is it just us, or is it bigger than that? Could it be all of Clearview? Or maybe not all, but some of the other families, too?

Maybe they really did arrest everyone from Clearview, but for what? And they kept asking about Mark. Just Mark. How long can they hold us all?

Maybe Mark didn’t do anything, and they’re just trying to set us all up.

Maybe someone else is setting us up. Riggs? Was he trying to use me to set Mark up for something? Or someone else? The government? Maybe Devon and Neal and their open-carry demonstrations made the government nervous. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe they’re just rattling us. Maybe they’re asking Mark about me, and someone else about someone else, to mess with us all.

Is Uncle Skip okay? He hasn’t done anything. Will they believe him? Did they only go after him because I was in the truck? Will he hate me?

When do I get to see Mom or Dad or . . . anyone?

Something smells awful. Has to be the food. I turn my nose into my shoulder to try to block the smell.

A tray is shoved through the slot in my door. The center compartment is full of the smell, only ten times stronger. Sloppy, gloppy, like meat stew but not good.

I take the sealed juice, the apple, and the bread and put them on my shelf for later, and then scrape the rest into the toilet and flush.

The smell lingers for a long time, making me gag repeatedly.

Maybe this is all strategy. I look at the corner where the camera is. I can feel them watching me, studying me, waiting for me to crack. Maybe this is all about making me sweat it out. Maybe they wait until I’m good and primed, and then bet I’ll spill my guts not to be brought back here.

No way.

It feels like I’ve been here for weeks. Weeks under water. But I know it’s only been days. Two? Three?

No matter what they throw at me, I’m not talking.

I hear the keys and I’m up and standing two steps from the bed by the time the guard’s got the door open. The tension falls back when I see it’s Gage. It’s only been a few days, but I’m figuring out how to move around the guards, how to make it clear I’m not going to be any trouble.

“Lawyer’s here,” Gage says. I don’t know what to do, but I keep my hands where she can see them and follow her instructions, keep my head down, try to remember what to do for next time in case it’s not Gage in charge of moving me.

I never call any of the guards anything.
Sir
or
ma’am
if I absolutely have to.

Gage leads me from the cell. Taggert is with her. Before I knew his name, I called him Creeper, in my head, and imagined he’s Deputy Creep’s cousin. He’s the one who stares through the window, taunting, whispering. Like he wonders what my guts look like. He’s become the thing I fear at night, in the dark, the nights I know he’s on duty, the things he might do to a “traitorous little shit” like me.

I try not to think about Lucy much. She seems like forever ago. But Lucy and her aversion to the C word keep popping up, because Taggert likes it just fine.

Where is Lucy now? Does she know I’ve been arrested? Does she think I deserve it? For that matter, where are Cammie and Karen and the rest of the people from Clearview? There’s no way for me to know what’s going on and whether they’ve been arrested, too. They wouldn’t be here. They’re older.

When we get to the room, Gage takes me in while Taggert waits in the hall. There’s a woman across the table, standing. Short hair. Hard eyes. Suit.

She smiles at Gage.

I don’t know whether to sit.

“Hi. Bex, right?” Her voice is smooth. “Or do you actually prefer Rebecca?” I don’t know if it’s safe to talk to her. “I’m Joan Bryant. The court appointed me to represent you.” How do I know that? How do I know she’s who she says she is? “Here,” she says. She motions toward the chair. I sit down. Then she sits, puts a file and legal pad in front of her, and passes a piece of paper across the table. I lean forward so I can see it without touching it. It looks official.

“How do I know you are who you say you are?”

Her eyebrows climb and tip in. Her pupils get bigger. She tosses a business card across the table to me.

I play with the card, turning it by its corner until it spins on the table. Anyone could have business cards made.

“Look,” she says, leaning across the table, “if I’m not who I say I am, if I’m . . . a government agent trying to trick you,” she says, like she’s figured me out, “then anything you say to me would be inadmissible.”

Unless she’s lying about that, too.

But what choice do I have?

“You’re my lawyer?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I get a choice?”

“Sure.” She puts down the pen and leans back in her chair. “You can decline to have an attorney. If after we talk, you don’t want my assistance, I’ll tell the court you declined.”

“So, no choice.” I lean back, too. “You or I’m SOL.”

“What do you want?”

To go home.

“I’m curious.” She isn’t mocking me. She’s asking. “Who were you hoping for? Someone older? Someone who would pat your hand and tell you everything’s going to be okay? A man?”

“No.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Someone who will fight for me. Someone . . . who can explain what’s happening, so
I
can understand. Someone who can tell me how to get out of here, and what I should do.”

Someone I can trust. Who will help me.

“I can explain what’s happening,” she says, bringing her chair closer to the table. “I can’t tell you what you should do. You will have to make those choices, in consultation with your parent or guardian, if you wish. Though, given that every adult in your immediate family is involved in this in one way or another, I’m going to caution you not to discuss certain aspects of this case with any of them. I can ask the court to appoint a guardian ad litem to help guide you, to give you a second opinion, if you doubt my advice.”

I don’t even know what that means.

“Some things, like trial strategy, what witnesses to call, what motions to file, I will make those decisions,” she says.

Trial. Witnesses.

“But the big ones,” she says. “Like, should you talk to the government, should you agree to a plea deal, should you testify if this goes to contested hearing or to trial . . . I will give you all the options, the possible ramifications, and advice. But you will be making those decisions for yourself.”

“And what I say goes?” I ask.

“Yes, on the big things, absolutely.”

“Even if my mom or dad or someone else says I should do something different? Tells you to do something different?”

“You are my client.” It hangs there. “If you so choose.” I wait for the “but,” or the catch. “It is your life on the line. You’re the one they may try to put in prison.”

“May? They might let me go?”

She holds up her hand. “I said
may
because it’s still not settled whether you will be tried under state or federal law, under the criminal statutes as an adult or in a juvenile delinquency hearing. But we need to be clear on whether I represent you, and what my obligations are regarding what you tell me, before we talk about the possibilities.”

“I don’t even understand what’s happening,” I say. I start shaking again. “Why did they arrest us? Where is my family? Are they in jail?”