That's How I Roll: A Novel Page 9

  We sat right next to each other in the back of the courtroom, just waiting to see what would happen next.

  “I’ll hear oral argument,” the judge said.

  “With all respect, this is res ipsa, Your Honor,” the DA said. “The standard has not only been met, it’s been satisfied with room to spare.”

  “The only ‘res ipsa’ here is that the boy is retarded,” the Beast’s lawyer fired back. “There’s no dispute about that. In the Morrison case, this state’s highest court held that—”

  “This court is quite familiar with Morrison,” the judge said. You could tell he was insulted, like this outsider was questioning if he was retarded himself. “As you undoubtedly know, counsel, Morrison referred to a child found to be so profoundly retarded that he was unable to do anything more than babble a few simple words, with no regard to their actual meaning.

  “Furthermore, Morrison was a civil case, concerning charges of sexual abuse brought against the owner and several employees of a private care facility. The matter before this court is distinguishable on several grounds.”

  “I certainly was not implying—”

  “Sir,” the judge said, using that word without a drop of respect in it, “this court has made a finding. I trust you are familiar with your appellate remedies. If you believe you can get past the threshold of outright frivolousness, I assume you will act accordingly.”

  When the judge cracked his gavel down, you could see where he wished he could have cracked it.

  We waited until everyone had filed out of the room. As the DA passed me, he moved his head just enough to let me know that, next time I told him I could make something happen, he wouldn’t doubt me, not ever.

  Not ever again, is what he meant.

  he trial itself came almost a year after that hearing, so I had plenty of time to teach Tory-boy some new things. The DA told me what questions the Beast’s attorneys would be likely to ask, and I worked my little brother until he had it down perfect.

  “Most capital cases try for delay,” the DA told me. “This delay is going to help the defendant right into the Death House.”

  You don’t get a performance like that from a child out of fear. Just the opposite, in fact. If Tory-boy hadn’t wanted to please me more than anything in the world, he could never have managed the task.

  Lord, how his face would light up every time I told him what a fine boy he was!

  hen the State called Tory-boy as a witness, they let me wheel him up to the stand. I couldn’t stay there with him, but they let me move my chair over to one side, so Tory-boy would know I was still there.

  The Beast’s lawyer raised all kinds of holy hell about that. He said I was going to be a witness, too, so I shouldn’t be allowed to stay anywhere in the courtroom at all.

  But the judge was ready for that. He read off a whole long string of different cases where what he called a “vulnerable witness” was allowed to testify under special conditions. The one I remember most was when they let a little girl who’d been raped by her stepfather take the stand with a dog sitting right next to her. The dog was trained to be with kids when they testified; she helped them be calm when they had to talk about terrible things that had happened to them.

  The lawyer for the Beast still wasn’t satisfied. He switched gears, said I could be giving Tory-boy the answers, signaling to him in some way.

  “Let me understand, counsel,” the judge said. “Are you saying that a child whose testimony you sought to bar on the ground that he was mentally incapable of distinguishing the truth from a lie has now acquired the power to translate some secret signals from his brother into answers to questions you ask him under oath?”

  “No, Judge. I’m not saying that. But, still, even the appearance of impropriety—”

  “There is no such appearance,” the judge chopped off whatever the lawyer was going to say. “Unless you can show this court that the witness is some kind of ventriloquist’s dummy in the hands of his caregiver, your motion is denied.”

  The DA jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, may the record reflect that, regardless of any ludicrous claims by defense counsel, the matter is moot, as the witness’s caregiver is sitting well beyond the sight line of the witness?”

  “So ordered,” the judge said.

  I’d never heard myself called a “caregiver” before, but, from the way the judge had leaned so heavy on that word, I knew it had to have some special legal meaning. I even forgave him for using the word “dummy.”

  ll the DA did was to stand close to Tory-boy, making sure the jury could see he wasn’t coaching, just treating a child the way you’re supposed to. He didn’t have but one question:

  “Can you tell us what happened that night, son?”

  And Tory-boy spoke right up: “Mommy was on the couch. Daddy made her get down. Then he took his gun and shot her. In the face. Bang!”

  The Beast’s older lawyer was some geezer the County had paid for; the Beast himself didn’t have any money, so they had to do that. Even so, that lawyer really tried, but he couldn’t move my little brother an inch. Once Tory-boy had something in his head, it stayed there. Unless I moved it out. I was the only one who could ever do that.

  “No, no, no,” Tory-boy kept saying. Over and over again. Then he started crying a little, because the lawyer was being mean to him, and he knew it.

  Everyone in the courtroom knew it.

  But every time the lawyer tried to stop asking Tory-boy any more questions, everyone saw the Beast raging at him to get back in there and try again.

  The harder that lawyer tried to push Tory-boy, the more you could feel the anger against him vibrating through the courthouse. Especially from the women. What kind of lowlife would scream at a poor little retarded boy, making him cry and all?

  That lawyer wasn’t local—the county covers a lot more territory than the town where we lived—but he wasn’t from that far away. When he felt those waves hit, even the Beast couldn’t make him ask Tory-boy one more question.

  hen they put me on the stand, both of the Beast’s lawyers had a turn, and they didn’t have to hold back. But every question they asked me was giving me a chance to put another spike in the Beast’s chest. And I hammered those spikes like I was John Henry himself.

  “You hate this man, don’t you?” the younger lawyer shouted at me, pointing to where the Beast was sitting.

  “You mean for beating us all the time? I may have hated him while he was doing that, especially to my little brother, sir. I admit that. I keep working on forgiving him, and I believe I might be able to do that, someday. But I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for killing my sister—”

  “Objection!”

  “Invited error, Your Honor,” the DA shouted back.

  “You opened the door, counsel,” the judge told the Beast’s lawyer, barely able to keep the smile off his face.

  I was grateful the jury couldn’t read my thoughts then. I didn’t even know a half-man like me could have a battle cry, but I could hear it ring out inside my mind: Yeah, you opened that door, Beast. And I just rolled right on through it, didn’t I? Now what?

  I felt powerful enough to knock that lawyer out without ever leaving my chair, but I didn’t let it show on my face. It didn’t matter what that man said, it didn’t matter what tricks he tried, the jury never took its eyes off me. And they all listened like I was sanctified.

  ven with all that, the Beast still might have gotten off with only a few years. The DA about threw a fit over it, but the judge told the jury they could consider lesser charges. He read a whole list of them: manslaughter, involuntary homicide … even felonious assault, which sounded like nothing more serious than a slap on the face.

  If the Beast had admitted he’d just plain shot Rory-Anne, it might have come out differently. If he’d said he was so drunk he hardly remembered that whole night, the jury might well have believed him.

  It’s not that anyone liked him, but, in their eyes, there would have been a
lot of truth being told in any story the Beast could make up. The men knew what kind of temper he had, especially when he was drunk. And the women, well, they knew all about Rory-Anne.

  The Beast knew I wasn’t ever going to tell anyone about what he’d been doing to Rory-Anne for all those years. How could I? If he had told some sad story about how his wife had run off and left him to raise Rory-Anne all on his own, and she had just gone wild after that, he knew I wouldn’t call him a liar.

  He knew if I disputed his story it would be just the same as telling the whole town the truth about me and Tory-boy. Folks may have suspicioned, but I’d never allow them to turn that suspicion into truth out of my own mouth.

  Maybe the Beast was scared they’d finally start looking for his wife’s body. Or … Well, I’ll never know why, but he got right up on the stand and insisted he was stone-cold sober the night it happened.

  He still swore he’d just been trying to stop Rory-Anne from killing me with that butcher knife. He told the whole courtroom that all he’d done was try to protect his crippled son from that crazy, drunken whore.

  But all the while he was telling that pack of lies, he never stopped glaring at me. The whole courtroom could see those vile threats flash, as if someone was striking his flinty eyes with a piece of steel.

  he State always has to go first, so the Beast had already heard Tory-boy and me tell the jury a different account entirely. But he stayed stuck to his story, as if he couldn’t get that seed I had planted out of his head.

  Just like I could never get the seed he planted in Rory-Anne out of my body.

  ith Rory-Anne dead, I was in charge. Before, even though me and Tory-boy each got Disability checks, they came to her—that’s how they do it with children. But Rory-Anne touched those checks just long enough to sign them over to the Beast.

  Probably another reason he’d never killed us.

  Or maybe he thought Rory-Anne would do it for him. She’d thrown knives at me more than once—it really drove her crazy whenever I would try to keep her off Tory-boy.

  But even though the government considered me disabled, there wasn’t a soul in town who thought there was anything wrong with my mind. So, with the Beast and Rory-Anne gone, both checks came to me directly.

  Maybe they bent a law a little bit to do that; I’m not exactly sure. I know they made me what they call an “emancipated minor” before the Beast was even put on trial. But they didn’t stop there; they made me Tory-boy’s legal guardian as well.

  The judge said that was only right, seeing as I was the only family he had, what with my mother gone, my sister dead, and my father sure to be in prison for life … if he got lucky.

  “The whole town knows you raised that child since he was born, Esau,” he said. Talking to me direct, not even glancing at that “Rural Services” lawyer who was supposed to be helping me. She was an outsider. We didn’t need any such people telling us how to take care of our own business.

  “We’re all proud of the job you’ve done. Tory’s never been a bit of trouble to anyone. And, you know, some of those … slower ones, they can fall in with the wrong crowd. But this court is satisfied that if there’s one person he minds it’s you.”

  That was true. Nobody ever did deny that. Not even the Beast.

  knew the first thing we had to do was get some money. Magic be damned, that shack would always hold memories Tory-boy might not be able to deal with.

  Getting money turned out to be easier than I thought. Once I started really concentrating on doing it, that is.

  Every night, after Tory-boy fell asleep, I went back to science. Spina bifida isn’t so rare as you might think. Not everyone who’s born with it has to be in a wheelchair. It depends on what type you have.

  Turns out, I had drawn the shortest straw. When the vertebrae don’t form correctly, a little sac filled with fluid extends through an opening in the spine. That’s called “myelomeningocele.” It can hit just about anywhere along your spine, so I guess it was lucky for me that it happened at the lowest point—because anything below that point is never going to work the way it should.

  If Rory-Anne hadn’t been convinced they’d give her all kinds of drugs, I probably wouldn’t have been born in a hospital. That’s all that saved me. They even had to put a shunt in my head to drain the fluid buildup. I still have the scar from that, but that’s the only sign I carry. Above the waist, I mean.

  I know they’d told Rory-Anne I was what they call an “at-risk” baby, but she never once brought me back to the hospital until that time she burned me and got scared.

  Every time I came across something that said aftercare was critical for babies born with spina bifida, I wondered why the County had never sent anyone around to check. But then I remembered the Beast. If those social workers wanted to come and have a look at me, they’d need to bring the cops with them. I guess it wasn’t worth all that trouble. Not for someone like me, anyway.

  So I grew up not being able to really use any part of my body from the end of my spine on down. I accepted that. Just like I accepted the jolts of pain that shot the length of my left leg all the way into my central nervous system.

  I say “accepted,” but that came slow. The first time, I was about nine years old, and that pain blast filled me with terror. I thought I was dying. Worse, I thought of what would happen to Tory-boy without me to protect him.

  But then it stopped. Snap! Just like that. As if the very thought of Tory-boy being hurt drove the Devil of that pain right back down to Hell, where it belonged.

  It wasn’t until I started looking for ways to get more money for me and Tory-boy to be safe that I read about how some folks with the exact same disease I had could actually feel something below the waist, too.

  That comforted me considerably. It confirmed what I knew in my own mind—what I had felt wasn’t this “phantom pain” thing some of the books talked about. It was as real as the disease itself.

  I was thankful for that knowledge. I understood how things were always going to be. I knew if I couldn’t control my own mind, I’d never be able to control anything at all.

  So my curse wasn’t unique like I’d once thought—others had my exact same condition. I had kin I’d never meet. Brothers and sisters who were sort of semi-paralyzed but could still feel pain, same as me. Born bad, both ways. As if we’d all been at the same table, all rolled the dice together. And thrown snake eyes.

  But I didn’t want to “share” in some therapy group. I didn’t need advice on learning to “cope.” I had responsibilities. And now that I knew others with my condition could feel pain, I knew there was a way for me and Tory-boy both.

  All I needed was the money to pay what it would cost.

  Truth was, most of the time I hardly felt anything at all. And when that pain would spike, I’d just breathe real slow and think about how good a child Tory-boy was. I learned to drop so deep into that thought that when I opened my eyes the pain would be gone.

  Dr. Harris never said a word when I kept telling him I needed more and more of those painkillers. All opiates are dose-related, so it was only natural that what blocked the pain would lose its power over time.

  It wasn’t any problem at all for me to get a permanent scrip for heavier and heavier hits of OxyContin, with another for morphine-by-injection, and then still another for the Fentanyl transdermals, for when the terrible pain in my withered legs got so unbearable that I had to have some medication going constantly.

  Dr. Harris didn’t even blink. No surprise there. That’s what folks said about him—he hated pain like it was his personal enemy. That shouldn’t be an unusual thing, but it is. There are plenty of doctors around here who’re so scared of the DEA that they wouldn’t give Vicodin to a man dying of bone cancer.

  The pharmacist never raised an eyebrow at all the scrips I kept handing over. And if the Internet stores had any problem, they never told me about it.

  The only pain all that stuff actually killed was the pain of poverty
. The drugs brought in a steady supply of cash. People who wanted to get high could crush the OxyC into a powder and snort it, or pour it into a shot of whiskey. The Fentanyl could be boiled right out of the patches. And the morphine even came with its own supply of clean needles.

  The way we worked it was like this: anyone who wanted drugs would leave the money in the mailbox at the end of our lane, then push the button inside the plastic box right underneath it. I built that box so the button would stay dry, no matter what the weather.

  When I saw the light flash inside our place, I’d send Tory-boy to walk on down, pick up the cash, and bring it back to me.

  I could always tell by the amount what was wanted, but some people left notes anyway. Whenever that happened, I’d tell Tory-boy to take it all back—the money and the note. The way I reasoned it, everybody knew my rates, so I treated any note like it was the Law, trying to trap me.

  People knew I had to have a sizable amount of drugs on hand to fill those orders, but even with all the junkies we have around here, none of them even thought about ripping off my stash.

  Dope fiends risk their lives every time they stick a needle in their veins or snort something up their noses. A risk, not a certainty—they’re not the same thing. For all I know, risk is part of the jolt addicts are always chasing.

  Trying to break into our place wouldn’t be a risk; there was no doubt about the outcome.

  Our three pit bulls are brothers from the same litter. We got them from Donna Belle Parsons, down at the shelter. Some piece of trash had thrown a pit bull bitch out the window of a moving car. They probably figured she was all bred out.

  Their stupidity is what saved our dogs. That bitch was not only pregnant when they dumped her, she was tough enough to stay alive almost six more weeks. Once she delivered, she closed her eyes and went to sleep, her last fight finally over.