Radical (34 page)

Mom’s voice screams in my head. Calling me a coward, telling me to be brave. I push on my ears to try to get her voice out of my head.

“Bex?”

Their plan is to let me get convicted. They’re not going to help me.

“Bex.”

I’m not a traitor. But I can do this. I can talk about Lucy and keep Mark out of it. I don’t have to talk about Mark to answer Joan’s questions about Lucy. Maybe if I have an alibi it will be enough. They’ll have to let me go and stop trying to make me talk about Mark.

I nod.

Joan makes me go through every day — by calls, texts, e-mails, and the absence of them. Where I was, for how long, and did anyone see Lucy and me. I have to talk about Lucy, so I do, but I don’t say anything she doesn’t already know about Mark.

“Now,” Joan says, stretching. We’ve been at this forever. The closer we get to the end, the more my stomach twists and my head aches. And the more I need to stay focused. Nothing about Mark. “Friday, a week before the arrests, you texted with Lucy earlier in the day about picking you up that night. She sends you a text asking when you’ll be done, and then nothing until the next day.”

Cammie and Karen at the station, Lucy showing up, and dinner at Lucy’s grandparents’ house. Home.

Joan makes more notes. Then she reads the list of texts and calls.

“The texts and calls slow down after Friday.” She flips back and forth. “A lot. What happened Friday?”

My face flames hottest yet.

“Why did the texts and calls slow?” Joan asks, swallowing the smile.

“Lucy started asking questions, about training. It didn’t go over well.”

“Did you tell her about training? About Clearview or . . . ?”

“I downplayed it,” I admit. “A lot.”

Joan doesn’t judge me. Much. She writes some more notes.

“Tell me about Tuesday. Four days before the arrests.”

“We texted some.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But what else?”

I shrug. I try to keep my face blank. Mark, at the house. Those guys and the cooler.

“Whatever you can remember.”

I’m not a traitor. “I . . . went to work, probably. I think. I don’t remember.”

“Think.”

I pretend to try to remember. “I don’t remember. I mean, I know I went to work. I probably rode home from work with Uncle Skip, had some dinner . . . and . . . went to bed.”

“That’s it?”

“Um . . .” I pretend to think again. “Yeah, I think so.”

She stares. I wait. Keep my face blank. Hold still. She makes a slash on the side of her legal pad, a violent, vicious slash.

Shit. She knows something. But I can’t talk about Tuesday, about Mark and them at the house. Mark’s crazy eyes, jumping down from the porch. Mark in prison. Adult prison. I can’t.

“What about Wednesday?” she asks, her voice tight.

“I worked all day. Saw Lucy that night.” Stay calm. Be cool. “She picked me up. At the station.”

“Anyone see her pick you up?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long were you out with her? Where did you go?”

“Not long. We had a fight,” I say, nodding at her look, “before we could go anywhere. She took me home.”

“She dropped you off at the house? What time?” Joan’s voice sounds weird. I look up at her; something prickles at my neck.

I start to shrug and then feel it more. Fight. I have to fight, because there is no flight. This is important. But I need to be careful. Maybe I can say what I need to say without saying anything about Mark. I sit up, try to think. “I don’t know. Maybe seven? Seven thirty?”

“Was anyone home? Anyone who can verify what time you got home? Did you go anywhere where people might have seen you? Bex,” Joan says, “I need you to focus here. Where
exactly
did you go? Would anyone have seen you between five thirty and when you got home?”

Five thirty. Specific. Joan is staring through my skull. Ready to write. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s excited. This is more significant than the rest.

And then clarity, something that has nothing to do with Mark.

My mouth is dry. “A sheriff’s deputy.”

She stops writing. Stops breathing. Neither of us moves.

Alibi. I tell her everything I can remember about the deputy.

“What time was this?”

“No idea.”

“Did you get his name or shield number or . . . ?”

I shake my head.

“Did he give her a ticket or . . . What happened?”

I tell her about getting out of the car, about thinking we were in trouble and trying to decide what to do. And his radio going off and him leaving. I describe him as best I can remember. The mole on his cheek. His hair. His height. I don’t tell her I was planning to ambush him or run so he’d have to follow. I try not to sound crazy, or like a terrorist.

“What happened after that?”

“Lucy drove away.” I wrap my arms around myself to stop the shakes and tell her everything I can remember about the wheres and whens. I try not to hear Lucy’s words in my head. Or Mom’s. I can’t block out Mom’s. Adult prison. Careful.

“Was anyone home to see when you got back?”

“No,” I lie. If she knows about the deputy, she doesn’t need to know about Mark.

She stares at me. She knows I’m lying. I can feel it. But I can’t tell her. Not that. Another slash.

She puts her pen down slowly and leans back in her chair.

I curl my toes in my floppy shoes to keep still.

We stare. She works something around her head, or her mouth.

I curl my toes harder, until it hurts.

“Here’s the thing,” she says. “In addition to your cell records, I got some other discovery that fills in some of the holes.” I try to swallow. “Now we know that up until eight days out from the arrests, this is all talk, or mostly all talk, as far as I can tell. That night Mark and one other coconspirator use a copied key to go to your uncle’s station, where they use the computer and take some things, oil, gas, some tools and materials. Maybe something else, something they’d hidden there. Who knows? The feds think something more.” She waits for that to sink in. “Then something happens between Tuesday and Wednesday that spooks them. Or some of them. Mark, in particular. There’s been a lot of big talk, but vaguely in the future, until something makes them, some of them, Mark,” Joan says, “think they have to act right away. Now.”

Oh, God.

“Or so the feds think. Because the informant, Glenn Stewart . . .”

Glenn? We don’t need Glenn
.

“. . . realizes that things are happening that he’s not privy to. Stewart thinks they are moving now. The government thinks he’s blown his cover and something’s imminent. And they don’t know where Mark is. Or Zach. And the feds think maybe they have the explosives Stewart was planning to offer to provide. And there’s a big ceremony planned for Saturday to honor first responders killed in the line of duty in the previous year.”

Oh, God.

She watches me. Waits.

“That’s why the government moves on Friday.”

I know this part. They arrest Devon and Neal and another guy asleep in their beds. Find Zach at his girlfriend’s. Detain us. Sixteen hours later, they find Mark, in Dad’s truck. Mark, who might have been on the run longer if he hadn’t tried to call Devon, whose phone was already in the possession of the feds.

I force myself to breathe as regularly as I can with my heart pounding in my chest and jaw and temples.

“Something spooked Mark, or them, and caused them to cut Stewart out of the loop,” she says again. “And I think you know what.”

I can’t.

“The government’s getting restless, Bex. Desperate. They need this win.”

I can’t.

“And right now, the most solid evidence they have is on you. They’re still looking at you. All they have on these guys right now is some weapons and ammunition charges. And talk. They want the bombs, the conspiracy, the headlines. And they think you are the key.”

“Why me?”

“They think Mark went rogue, and that he didn’t act alone. They think — or maybe
hope —
that you became his new coconspirator, so secret even the others didn’t know. They’re looking for anything to tie you to him between Tuesday and Thursday of that week. And if they find it”— she leans closer —“if they find what ties you to him between those days, it will be too late to talk deals. If they can prove you two met, and especially if there is any shred of evidence that you were providing him help about explosives or weapons, then you are done.” Her stare holds me still. “Unless we can explain your meeting first.”

I can’t. Mark. Mom. I can’t be what sends him to prison. I can’t.

“They put you here,” she says, leaning across the table. “Your brother, your father, the rest of them.” She waves toward the walls. “They may not have done it intentionally, and you certainly did enough to put yourself in here, too. But if not for your brother and his friends, are you detained and searched? Does anyone sweep your home?”

I can’t. Not even to her. Not about Mark. They’ll never forgive me.

“If they find anything at all that they think can plausibly show you as a link between your brother and his actions that week, they will charge you. I won’t be able to keep this a juvenile matter.” She waits. Her eyes widen, like she’s trying to force me to talk. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Joan’s jaw tenses. “Fine, then you’re going to be here for a while, maybe prison.” Her voice is hard, like ice. “Maybe prison for a long time. They may all walk, and you’ll spend the next ten years, minimum, behind bars if they tag you with teaching him how to build the explosives.”

I stand. I need to move.

“Sit down.”

I sit.

“They put you here,” she says. “And I can guarantee you that the feds have offered to go easy on you if your father and brother cooperate. I guarantee you that they gave them a chance to help you. And you’re still here.”

No. Not Dad. He wouldn’t just leave me here, not if he could have helped me. Would he?

“You just lied to me. At least twice. I know you did.”

I can’t look away from her eyes.

“I need to know why. Now.
If
I am going to defend you.”

“If? But you said . . .”

“If you don’t trust me, if our relationship is compromised so that you won’t tell me what I need to know to defend you, then I will ask the court to allow me to withdraw. You can get another lawyer. One you trust,” she says. “Or one who doesn’t care and lets you throw your life away on some fool idea that you are being loyal to your family.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. I don’t want to, but I will. I won’t watch you sacrifice yourself for them.”

I can’t do this without Joan. I can’t. The shakes start again.

“If you really weren’t part of this,” she says, her voice so low I have to lean forward to hear her, “then you need to start telling me everything. I need the details. I need to know the things you most don’t want to tell me. I won’t tell the government unless you give me permission. But I need to know. To defend you. To help you. Now.”

She doesn’t look away. I look down. If I tell her, what does that make me? Do I want to be that person? Someone who betrays her family to maybe save herself? A collaborator? Worse?

“You’ve got to trust me, Bex.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t,” she says. “You don’t. And maybe I’d feel the same way. But . . . I can’t help you if you don’t trust me just a little more. It’s time.”

The silence is loud, pressing in on my ears.

“Help me convince them that you were not involved. If your brother was actually taking steps to move the criminal conspiracy forward, if that’s what you know, then he put himself in this.” I can’t look at her. “And all the others. If they are guilty, they made the decisions and took the actions that put them there. Even your father. He chose to help your brother when he knew your brother was in trouble. He gave him money and his truck.”

Oh, Dad.

If I tell her, she’s going to want me to tell the government. I know she will. She’ll talk me into it. She won’t stop until I do.

I can’t.

“I wasn’t helping Mark with anything.”

“Then why did he have a Bobcat pistol with your fingerprints all over it in his possession when he was arrested?”

Oh, God.

“I can’t.”

“It’s okay to save yourself.” Joan touches my hand until I look up. “You have to save yourself.” Her fingers are warm. “Because no one else is going to. I need to know what happened that week.”

Ican’tIcan’tIcan’tIcan’t. The first drop hits the table, then another, then they spread and splatter and then form blobs. She doesn’t move her hand away. I don’t try to dry them. It’s quiet. I’m quiet. Just the barely there sound of the tears hitting the table.

“Let it out,” she whispers.

I suck in air, scorching my lungs, clogging my throat. It comes back out as a wail. Choking, snotting sobs.

She lets me cry. She doesn’t say a word. Eventually some tissues slide in front of me. She gets up, comes back, and a bottle of water is there.

I start to feel like more than my tears. More than my face. I scrub at it with the rough tissues, until my face feels raw and hot, the rest of me cold. I take a deep breath and it doesn’t hitch coming out.

“Tell me about Tuesday. You left work early.” How would she . . . ? My texts, to Lucy. My call to Dad. “You saw Mark?” She knows.

“The power went out at the station,” I say. “Uncle Skip sent me home.” She smiles, like she knew, encouraging me. And picks up her pen, ready. “Before that — a few days before, a week, maybe . . .
before
, anyway — Riggs, Jim Riggs, at Clearview, asked me about Mark. About him not being around as much, and not working for Darnell, one of the men.” She doesn’t push; she just waits. I tell her everything I can remember about the conversation with Riggs.

“And Tuesday?”

I tell her about the guys, the trucks, and the cooler.

“The cooler,” Joan says. “Describe it.”

“Orange on the bottom, white top, big.” I use my hands. “They each had a handle, and from the way they were leaning over, it looked heavy.”

She makes a noise, writes more, looks up at me like she can’t believe I didn’t say it earlier. But when she finishes writing, she just waits for me to continue.