The Conviction (11 page)

“Do not slouch. Slouching is a sign of physical weakness. Physical weakness is a sign of mental weakness. Are you mentally weak, Inmate Carter?” Atkins had commenced calling them “Inmate Carter” and “Inmate Molia” after they had been processed.

Jake sat up, but it was with effort and he could not maintain the posture long. When he slumped Atkins tapped his lower back with the baton. Otherwise Atkins and Bradley stood with hands clasped behind their backs, staring at the stage, as if awaiting some show. A flicker of light through the trees caught Jake’s attention. Diamonds of light reflected off the surface of a distant body of water.

Atkins voice drew him back to the amphitheater. “Eyes front.”

The man standing on the stage wore the same khaki shirt and shorts, as well as the dark sunglasses, but that was where the similarity with Atkins and Bradley ended. Pear-shaped and pale-skinned, the man had straw-colored hair that appeared to emerge from a single spot on the crown of his head, cut in a bowl shape. Methodically, the man removed his sunglasses, revealing eyes so pale they were nearly clear, and slipped the glasses into the front pocket of his shirt.

“I am Captain Overbay,” he said, his voice higher pitched than Jake had expected. “You will address me as such. I am the chief operating officer here at Fresh Start. That means I am in charge of this facility. But I do not just work here. I eat here. I sleep here. I live here. This is my home as well as my place of business. My
home.
” He emphasized his words. Then he paced left. “You are neither a resident of my home nor an invited guest. You have been discarded, left on my front porch by others who could not raise you. You have demonstrated an inability to adhere to and live by the laws that govern society. Therefore, that task now falls to me. I make the rules in my home. Disregard those rules and you will be disregarding me.” He stepped to the edge of the stage, into one of the rays of light, as if finding his mark in the spotlight to deliver his next line in a near whisper. “It is impolite to disregard a man in his own home.”

It was all very dramatic, but having just heard a similar spiel from Atkins it no longer held Jake’s interest, and the lack of food and sleep and the oppressive heat continued to chip away at his
reservoir of energy. His body began to shut down, without the resources to even lift his hand to swat at the fly rubbing its legs against the hairs of his arm. His eyelids rolled shut, opened, closed again. He shook his head, sat up straighter, but each reprieve was brief. Captain Overbay continued to talk, something about the need to instill discipline, about a rigid daily schedule, privileges and punishment. His voice faded to a hollow echo.

The noise of the baton against the log brought Jake back to attention. Atkins stood over him. “Are you having a good nap, Inmate Carter?”

“I’m trying,” Jake said, “but it isn’t easy with Captain Kangaroo going on and on up there.” Jake had stumbled upon the show one night while flicking through the television channels and finding a station showing reruns from the 1970s and 1980s.

Atkins appeared momentarily taken aback, uncertain what to do. He looked to the stage.

Captain Overbay moved so that he stood in front of where Jake sat. He was grinning. “Was that a joke, Inmate Carter?”

Jake did not answer.

“Officer Atkins,” Overbay said, “I think we have a comedian in our midst.”

“I think you might be right, Captain.”

“Are you a comedian, Inmate Carter?” Overbay asked. “Because I have always enjoyed a good joke. Do you wish to tell me another joke?”

“Not really.”

Overbay looked offended. “Why not? You don’t think I have a good sense of humor, Inmate Carter?”

“I don’t think you’d find my jokes funny.”

“How would you know? People tell me I have a marvelous sense of humor.”

“I can’t think of any.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re sitting. Maybe what we have, Officer Atkins, is a stand-up comedian.”

“Maybe we do, Captain.”

“Stand up, Inmate Carter.”

Jake stood.

“Now, tell us all another joke.” Overbay spread his arms then folded his hands at his waist.

“I don’t know any.”

Overbay looked to Atkins. “Inmate Stand-up does not appear to have any more jokes, Guard Atkins. Maybe there are other interests we could cultivate.”

“Maybe there are, Captain.”

“Do you have other interests, Inmate Stand-up?” Overbay asked.

“Not really.”

“None? No outdoor interests?”

“I used to like to fish.”

“Did you? But not any longer?”

“Not really.”

Overbay looked troubled. “Inmate Stand-up has no other interests, Officer Atkins. We should rectify that. A boy without interests is a boy with too much time on his hands, and a boy with too much time on his hands is a boy who gets in trouble.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Captain.”

Overbay looked down at the first row of empty benches, pacing left, right, back to center. He raised a finger. “I’m betting a young man like Inmate Stand-up would enjoy hunting. Would you enjoy hunting, Inmate Stand-up?”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“No? Have you ever been hunting?”

Jake shook his head. “No.”

“Well then don’t be so quick to judge. You need to be receptive to trying new things. How would you like to go hunting with Officer Atkins and me?”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“But you haven’t even asked what we’d be hunting.”

Atkins smiled. Overbay waited. Jake shifted from one leg to the other. “What would you be hunting?”

“Not ‘you,’ Inmate Stand-up. ‘We.’ This would be a group excursion. A team-building exercise. What would
we
be hunting.”

“What would
we
be hunting?” Jake asked.

Overbay nodded to Bradley, and with no further words Bradley disappeared behind the stage walls. When he reappeared he carried a wired cage and a rifle. Inside the cage a rabbit hopped about, nose and whiskers twitching. Bradley handed Overbay the rifle, walked across the stage and stepped off, placing the cage about twenty feet to the right. Then he bent and opened the front flap, clipping it to the top.

The rabbit did not immediately dart at its sudden and unexpected chance at freedom. Whiskers twitching, it cautiously inched forward until its nose protruded out the open door, sniffing at the air to assess danger. It hopped a third time, half its body now outside of the cage. Atkins cracked the baton against the bench. Jake flinched. The rabbit darted with a burst of speed as if shot from a cannon, powerful hind legs propelling it toward the underbrush. Seemingly just as quickly, Overbay spun the rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The rabbit flipped in midair, its back legs having pushed off the ground and its front paws reaching forward at the moment of impact, spinning 180 degrees, dead before it hit the ground.

Overbay lowered the rifle, turned, and directed his attention to Jake, the diminishing echo of the rifle’s retort still carrying on the thin mountain air.

“Anything that runs,” he said.

EIGHT

H
IGHWAY
89
W
INCHESTER
C
OUNTY
, C
ALIFORNIA

S
loane tried to keep his mind moving forward as Molia drove the winding road from Winchester back to Truluck. He’d had trials that had gone completely offtrack, witnesses changing testimony or disappearing the day they were to appear in court. He felt now as he did then, off balance, struggling to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. He needed to think of options even while hearing Father Allen’s admonition that saving Jake was not a problem Sloane could solve by walking into a courtroom and outsmarting everyone.

And yet the law was all he knew, all he ever had.

He had placed a call to Lisa Lynch, and now relayed the substance of that conversation to Tom Molia. “We’ll file a motion for a new trial tomorrow and ask to have it heard on shortened notice.”

Molia did not respond.

“If that doesn’t work, we’ll file an appeal.”

Molia shook his head.

“We’ll seek to expedite it.”

Molia slammed his hand against the steering well. “Enough!”

The outburst startled Sloan.

“Enough, okay? Enough with the motions and the appeals. I’m not one of your clients you can placate with some bullshit legal jargon, all right? I know the chances of a motion for a new trial being granted and I know how long it will take to get an appeal filed and heard.”

“I didn’t mean to treat you like a client, Tom. I’m just trying—”

“What? You’re trying to what, raise my spirits? Give me hope?” Molia exhaled. His words came with a slight tremor. “What do I tell her?” he asked. “What do I tell Maggie? That’s her baby. That’s her boy. So you tell me. What do I tell her? That we’re filing a motion? Huh? That we’re going to appeal?”

Sloane did not have an answer and knew Molia did not seek one. They drove back to Truluck in silence.

When they reached the Mule Deer Lodge, Molia turned off the engine but did not immediately get out of the car.

“I’m sorry,” Sloane said, and it sounded as futile as it felt. “I never should have brought you and T.J. into this.”

Molia cleared his throat. “I’m not buying that whole camp Fresh Start crap,” he said. “Are you?”

Sloane shook his head.

“Something stinks,” Molia said. “It’s why I became a cop; I can feel when things aren’t right and I can smell bullshit better than a hound.”

“Lynch already has someone working on the motion. She’s on her way here.”

“But it’s going to take time,” Molia said, voice soft. He glanced at Sloane. “It’s going to take time.”

“You tell Maggie the truth,” Sloane said. “You tell her this was not T.J.’s doing, and you tell her I’m going to get him out. No bullshit, Tom. I’m going to get them both out.”

Molia shifted his gaze. Though he did not speak, his drawn face spoke volumes.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

The man who had checked them into the lodge emerged from the back room, alerted to their presence by the bells hanging above the door. “I thought you’d skipped out on me,” he said

Music filtered in from the back room.

“We’ll need the room for another night, possibly longer,” Sloane said, reaching for his wallet.

The man shook his head. “Can’t. We’re full.”

Sloane looked past him to the mailbox slots. He counted the knobs of six keys. “What are you talking about? There are keys right behind you.”

The man didn’t bother to turn. “Those rooms are reserved. We’re busy summers here in Truluck. It’s tourist season.”

Sloane sensed the man was angling for more money. “How much do you want?”

“Don’t want your money.”

“Listen, I don’t know—”

Molia stepped in. “Okay, partner. Just give us the keys to our rooms. We’ll grab our stuff and get out of your hair.”

“Can’t do that either,” the man said.

“Why not?” Molia asked.

“Your stuff’s not here.”

“What do you mean it’s not here; we left it in the room.” Sloane said. “Where is it?”

The man looked at a grandfather clock hanging on the wall amid framed period photographs—the people depicted sharing the same solemn expression and coal-black eyes. “Checkout’s eleven o’clock.”

“So?” Sloane asked.

“So when I heard you’d been thrown in jail by Judge Earl I figured you wouldn’t be making checkout. Your stuff’s at the police impound.”

Sloane bit his tongue. “Where might that be?”

“Down the road. Look for the foundry. You’ll see signs. You’ll need to settle our bill first, though.”

“We already paid for the room,” Sloane said.

“You paid for one night. You missed checkout. I had to charge you a penalty.”

Sloane sensed what was coming. “And how much is the penalty?”

“Four hundred dollars. Two hundred a room.”

“That’s more than the rental rate.”

The man shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a penalty.”

Sloane leaned across the counter. “I’m not paying you four hundred dollars. I’m not paying you a dollar. And if you try to charge our credit cards I’ll call and have the charges removed, tell the company
they’re fraudulent, just like you.” He turned from the counter, Molia with him.

“I could call the police,” the man said.

Molia spun so hard and fast the man stepped away from the counter. “You do that. And you make sure it’s that wannabe rent-a-cop, Wade, who comes looking for us because I am just itching to see him again.”

S
IERRA
N
EVADA
M
OUNTAINS

The sun beat mercilessly, the heat seeming to attack not only from above but to also rise up from the ground, penetrating the soles of his boots. Bent over, Jake’s body convulsed, stomach muscles wracked by pain, throat burning from the acidic phlegm that made him continue to gag uncontrollably.

“Not much for the great outdoors, are you, Jake?” Atkins held two leashes, the dogs attached to them no longer pulling them taut. The animals, some type of hound, though sleek in build, had sat as instructed, tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths, chests panting, eyes darting from Jake to their master, eager to get started again.

Jake had no idea how long or far they had hiked. Wrists cuffed to the chain around his waist, he used the shoulder of his red coveralls to wipe his mouth. “Are we done?”

Captain Overbay got up from the boulder on which he sat, rifle in hand, barrel pointing at the cloudless sky. “Done? We haven’t even started hunting yet.” Eyes again hidden behind sunglasses, his face revealed no expression. “And the dogs have to be run, Stand-up. Dogs are trained to behave through repetition. When you take dogs from their pens and put a leash on them, take them into the mountains, they expect to hunt. It’s bred into them. We’re going to train you the same way.” Overbay looked about the landscape of boulders and trees while wiping a red bandanna across his neck and chest. “You see a rabbit, Stand-up?”

Jake didn’t bother to look. He just wanted to get the hike over with. “No.”