Elegy - Chapter 22

The first thing that registered was the beeping of hospital equipment and the low buzz that seemed ever-present in emergency rooms. I had woken up here enough times over the last two years that I at least knew where I was.

Everything was fuzzy. My head ached worse than anything I could remember, a steady throbbing in my temples. Every thought felt sluggish and I was having trouble focusing. I slowly opened my eyes, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights.

As I looked up at the ceiling and its generic, off-white pattern, it all came rushing back. The phone call from Mom. The hit when I walked in the door. The chaos. Mom hitting the counter. The knife. Mostly, I remembered my father’s rage-filled face. His determination to really hurt Mom and me.

Why was I even alive? He was coming at me with a knife, and we fell when I finally blacked out. I had concussions before, so I knew in that moment that I was going to pass out. And then he could have finished me. But why didn’t he?

I coughed, and pain shot through my chest. My ribs felt like they were on fire. I groaned and tried to pull my hand to my face, but it stopped short. I felt metal biting into my wrist and I heard a scraping noise of metal on metal. I looked over at my right hand and saw I was cuffed to the hospital bed.

“Charlie, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Mrs. Phillips’ voice came from beside me.

I turned to find her sitting in the chair next to the bed. Nothing made sense.

“What …?” was all I could get out.

“You’re in the hospital. You’re going to be okay. You just have some bruised ribs and a concussion. They did X-rays and your head is okay. Nothing is broken.”

“My head?” I said, still confused.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Mom called. Dad was there. He kicked in the door. Did he hit me with something?”

“Sheriff Gibbs told the paramedic it looked like you were hit with a cast-iron pan. You’re very lucky. They were worried you might have had some kind of skull fracture, but you don’t.”

“Why am I handcuffed?”

“Charlie … you’re under arrest. Do you … do you remember what happened to your parents?”

“Mom was hurt. Dad … we were fighting over the knife when I passed out. Is Mom here? Is she okay?”

Mrs. Phillips didn’t answer right away, avoiding my gaze. The longer she hesitated, the worse the feeling in my stomach got.

“Mom’s okay, right?”

“Charlie, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “Your mom … your parents … they didn’t make it.”

It felt like I had just been hit by a bus. I couldn’t breathe. It must have been the concussion. That wasn’t possible. He’d hit her, and she’d fallen back. It wasn’t hard enough to kill her.

“That’s not …”

“I’m sorry, Charlie, she’s gone,” Mrs. Phillips said, wiping away a tear. “The paramedic said it was quick. She hit her head. She didn’t suffer.”

I still couldn’t believe it, but I could see the pain and anguish in Mrs. Phillips’ face. Everything felt heavy. I replayed the fight in my head. She cut him, and Dad slapped her, hard. She fell back and bounced off the counter. Could she have hit the edge of the counter? It all happened so fast, I couldn’t remember.

“What about Dad?” I asked, my voice turning colder.

He’d killed her. That much I was certain about. But she’d said both my parents were dead. Dad was still up. Still attacking me when I passed out.

“You stab … he was stabbed. They didn’t give me the details beyond that.”

How? The knife was pressed against my chest. I was trying to keep him from using it. How could he have been stabbed with it? We’d fallen to the floor and he was on top of me. My arms had gone weak, limp, as we’d fallen.

None of this seemed real. I kept expecting to wake up and find this was all just a terrible nightmare. Only the pain in my ribs and in my head told me it was real.

Before I could ask any more questions the sheriff walked into our curtained-off area, his face grim.

“Charlie, the hospital will be releasing you soon. When the doctor signs off, you’re going to be in custody. It’s too late to get you to the county jail, so for now, you’re going to our lockup until they can arrange transport in the morning,” he said without preamble.

“On what charges?” I said, still in disbelief.

“For right now, manslaughter. The DA is still reviewing the details and could amend the charges.”

“Manslaughter?” I said, almost in a panic. “I was defending myself! And my mom. Sydney called you and told you what was happening. That he was breaking into Mom’s trailer, trying to attack her. You know she had the restraining order against him.”

Sheriff Gibbs sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I know, and I’m sorry. Even with all that, there are still laws around the death of other people, and you were the only one there. If it were up to me …”

“It is up to you, isn’t it? Or did Mr. Campbell decide to have me arrested?”

“Charlie, you need to be clear about this. Killing someone, even by accident, is manslaughter and is a crime.”

“Not if it’s in self-defense. Tell me, are you arresting me, or is Aaron’s father having you arrest me?”

He looked away, and I knew the answer.

“Come on, Sheriff. You know what’s been going on. You know he’s already tried to get me arrested falsely once. You know this isn’t right.”

“Charlie, I know that I have a job to do, and he is allowed to request we hold you in custody.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Phillips said. “You can’t …”

“Jennifer,” he said, holding up a hand toward her. “I understand you want to help, but Charlie is legally an adult. You have no standing here. I let you stay as a courtesy, so that he had someone he trusted with him when he learned the news, but this is a police matter.”

She swallowed whatever else she was going to say and backed down, her face etched with worry. I felt numb, almost detached, like this was all happening to someone else.

“I don’t even remember him being stabbed. I fell unconscious. He was …”

“Charlie, you should wait and talk about the details when your lawyer is here,” the sheriff said.

I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think he was supposed to say that. Stop a suspect from talking about the ‘crime’ when they were giving details. I knew the whole ‘your words may be used against you’ part. Was he trying to help me? It was clear he hadn’t put the charges on me, but had done it at the request of the district attorney. Maybe he knew this was BS.

I just nodded, not trusting my voice.

Mrs. Phillips stood up and walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Charlie, I’ve already called Mr. Eaves. He was in Richmond for a legal conference, but he’s heading back now. He said not to worry, just stay calm. We’re going to get this sorted out,” she said, her tone firm and reassuring.

I nodded, hoping she was right. Mrs. Phillips glanced over at Sheriff Gibbs, her eyes narrowing.

“And don’t talk to anyone until he gets here,” she said pointedly.

The sheriff held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I already advised him of his rights, Jennifer. I’m just doing my job here. I’m not going to ask him any other questions.”

“Your job should be serving and protecting the citizens of this county, not railroading a teenager at the behest of a vindictive man like Campbell,” she shot back.

Sheriff Gibbs’ jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. She had a point, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of choices either. Besides the fact that everything Mr. Campbell had done was within his power as district attorney, he also had a lot of friends. If Sheriff Gibbs went too hard against him the DA could make his next election very difficult.

I closed my eyes, leaning into the pillows as a wave of exhaustion washed over me. The adrenaline from earlier was long gone, and now I just felt tired and heartsick. A nurse came in then, checking the various monitors and my IV. She made a few notes on my chart before turning to the sheriff.

“I’m sorry, but he hasn’t been discharged yet. Until he is, I have to ask you both to leave and let him rest.”

“Sure,” he said, giving me one last look that I read as almost apologetic before leaving.

The nurse patted my shoulder and walked out as well. I didn’t recognize her specifically, but I’d been in there before. Maybe she had decided I was okay and not a threat. I couldn’t imagine she would normally intervene on behalf of someone handcuffed to the bed.

Mrs. Phillips squeezed my hand. I opened my eyes to find her gazing at me worriedly. I tried for a reassuring smile, though I’m sure it came out more as a grimace.

“It’s going to be okay, Charlie. Mr. Eaves will have you out of this mess in no time. Just … try not to worry too much, alright?”

Her smile was strained, and I could tell she didn’t quite believe her own words. But I appreciated the sentiment.

“Thanks,” I said.

She gave my hand another quick squeeze and left. I was alone, staring at the too-bright ceiling, all of the bad thoughts and feelings rushing in. I was crushed that my mother was gone. I tried to imagine a world without her. I thought about what might happen in jail. What might happen if Mr. Eaves couldn’t stop this? Would I spend the next twenty-five years in jail just for defending my mother?

Worse, how would I deal with that without her? I was truly alone now.

***

I’d been sitting on the hard bench in the holding cell, staring at the cracks in the concrete wall, all night. Daylight had been coming through the windows for a few hours, and looking up at the clock, it had been more than twelve hours since … since everything had happened. My head was pounding, a relentless throb at my temples that hadn’t eased up despite the pain meds they’d given me at the hospital. The nurse had warned me not to sleep for a while because of the concussion, but I was so tired I could barely see straight.

The events of the last day kept replaying on a loop in my mind. The phone call, rushing over to Mom’s place after Dad had kicked in the door. The fight. Mom hitting the counter. Everything after that was a blur. I shook my head, trying to clear the memories, but that only made the ache intensify.

I was just starting the cycle of memories over again, for the hundredth time, when I heard voices approaching. The sheriff and one of his deputies stopped outside the holding cell, the sheriff’s expression unreadable.

“Your lawyer’s here. I’m taking you to one of the interview rooms so you two can talk before the transport gets here,” he said.

Relief flooded through me at the mention of Mr. Eaves. I was being railroaded, and I needed help. I stood up, wincing at the pull of bruised muscles, and walked over to the cell door. The deputy unlocked it, and I followed them down the short hall to the conference room.

Mr. Eaves was waiting inside, sitting at a small metal table. He stood up as we entered, frowning when he saw me. I was sure I looked like hell. I could feel the bruises and cuts on my face, my split lip was swollen and stung, and I had a bandage along one arm where Dad had cut me.

He shook hands with Sheriff Gibbs, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he said, “Thank you for letting me speak with my client before you take him to county.”

The sheriff nodded seriously and said, “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Buzz if you need anything.”

He left, closing the door behind him, and I turned to Mr. Eaves. His expression was grim, and I felt my anxiety ratchet up another notch. I knew that look. It meant things were bad. Possibly even worse than I’d imagined.

I took a seat across from him, wincing again as my ribs protested, and asked, “How bad is it?”

Mr. Eaves sighed and sat down across from me.

“The DA has taken a personal interest in your case, Charlie. Right now, he’s ordered you charged with voluntary manslaughter, but his office indicated to me, when I called them, that they will actually be going to the grand jury with second-degree murder charges for reckless homicide.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Reckless homicide? That’s not … this was self-defense. You have to know that. You know what my dad was like, and he was arrested like a month ago trying to break into Mom’s trailer to attack her. Sydney was with me when she called to tell me Dad was breaking in. He was already inside the trailer when I got there, beating on her.”

“Mrs. Phillips filled me in on all that last night, and I argued as much with the DA this morning. He believes he has the evidence to make the case, however, and was not willing to listen.”

“What evidence?” I demanded.

“I’ll get to that in a minute. First, I need you to write up a complete description of what happened. I’m then going to look at it, and we might make changes and write it up again. We will then give that to the sheriff in lieu of you being interviewed. The way things have happened down here in the past, I’ve told them any interview with either the sheriff’s office or the DA will result in you refusing to answer all questions on the basis of self-incrimination. The sheriff has agreed, instead, to let you write out a statement.”

“Okay,” I said, still wanting to talk about why they thought they could prove second-degree murder when I’d clearly been defending myself.

I wrote for what seemed like forever, trying to give as many details as I could. In a few places, Mr. Eaves, who’d been watching over my shoulder, made me scratch something out and rewrite it in a different way. They seemed the same to me, but he was the one with the experience so I didn’t argue.

When I finished, he put my notes into his briefcase and said he’d have them typed up for the district attorney and the sheriff. He then hesitated, clearly wanting to say something else.

After a moment, he said, “I’m going to show you something, but I need you to stay calm. I know what you just went through was very traumatic, and this is going to be upsetting to see, but I want to be transparent with you about what you’re facing. Normally I wouldn’t show these to my client, especially so soon, but you’re up against unusual odds, so I think you need to know the full extent of what’s happening.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding, and nodded.

He opened his briefcase and pulled out some printed copies of photographs on white office paper. They were hard to make out, since it looked like someone had scanned and printed them, losing a lot of detail, but I could make out my mother’s kitchen. Blood was spattered across the counters and floors, both droplets and full handprints. My stomach churned as I spotted Mom’s body, covered by a sheet near the kitchen. The fight had been chaotic and brutal, but I hadn’t realized how much damage we’d done to the place.

One photo, though, was what drew my attention. It showed Dad’s body on the floor of the living room, a knife sticking out of his chest, the handle still clutched in his hand. His dead eyes seemed to stare right at me, accusing and cold.

I shook my head, “No. I didn’t … we fell. He was on top of me when I hit the ground, the knife between us, and then I blacked out.”

“I know, but there are ways his body could have ended up like that. If he was stabbed as the two of you fell, he might have rolled off, trying to pull the knife out. Weird things can happen in a situation like this, and the aftermath doesn’t always tell the real story. We’ll know more when the autopsy comes out, and we’ll go over the pictures when we get full, detailed copies of the originals during discovery and we’ll have some experts go over them.”

“Okay,” I said.

He hesitated again and then said, “The sheriff told me something else. Initially, he didn’t want to arrest you. He told me your fingerprints were not found on the knife, only your mother’s and father’s. Combined with the restraining order and their history, and the fact that Sheriff Gibbs’ daughter, who was with you when you got the call from your mother, called him right away, the sheriff felt this was likely self-defense. However, the DA disagreed and took over, ordering your arrest.”

I sat back a little shocked.

“The sheriff told you all of that?”

Mr. Eaves nodded and said, “He shared his initial impressions with me in confidence, but I thought you should know the full picture. The DA seems intent on pursuing this, for reasons beyond the evidence alone. It’s going to make things difficult.”

“Actually, I might know why the DA is doing all this. I saw the DA giving Mr. Packer money several weeks ago at the school, after the whole drug possession thing. I don’t have proof or anything, but it explains why Mr. Packer became almost pathological in his trying to get me expelled from school. Anything I did, his first answer was to kick me out. I couldn’t figure it out until I saw them.”

“Why would he be trying to pay off your vice-principal? I know you’ve said he had a personal vendetta against you, but disliking you for whatever reason doesn’t explain that. He’s not only putting his job in jeopardy, but he’s breaking several laws that he, of all people, should know would land him in jail.”

“I just know what I saw, and it’s not just dislike. You never met his son, but Aaron was … is, one of the most self-absorbed, spoiled kids I’ve ever met. While I’d had problems at school with Aaron, things didn’t go crazy until after Prom when I stopped Aaron from assaulting a girl in the bathroom, and he ended up being arrested. Yeah, he got off the charges and went to college anyway, but all of the really bad stuff started after that. Mr. Packer and his constant attempts to expel me, and the DA bringing me up on fake charges. All that stuff started after Aaron got arrested, and I know he blames me for that. He was there, and I heard the sheriff mention that I was the one who stopped him. You should have seen the look he gave me.”

“I see,” he said, frowning and tapping his finger on the table. “I do believe you, and yes, it does sound like he has a personal motive, but without concrete evidence, proving something like this is next to impossible.”

“There has to be something we can do, though. I mean, prosecutors can’t just make up or alter charges to fulfill some personal vendetta, can they? How is any of that justice?”

“I know it’s frustrating, and yes, it can seem pretty unfair at times. Unfortunately, like any system, the justice system can be manipulated for personal gain. However, we aren’t completely without recourse. First, with what the sheriff said, his daughter as a witness, and your father’s history, our case for self-defense is solid. If the autopsy and the rest of the forensics come back in the way it sounds like they will, we have a very strong case.”

I threw my hands up in the air, exasperated.

“But we shouldn’t need a case at all. This whole thing is insane.”

“I know. I really do, and I’ll get to what we’re going to do about Mr. Campbell in a moment; but first, we have to have a plan, in case all that falls through. The worst thing we could do would be to hope someone listens to what you’re saying about him, no one does, and we have to go to trial unprepared. That’s a sure ticket to a long sentence. We’ll pursue getting the charges dropped entirely, but that’s a longer shot than just getting you acquitted on self-defense. There’s no guarantee there will be any kind of physical record for what he’s been doing, so any complaint against him could end up just being your word against his, which is not a great place to be.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t. It’s one of the strange things in our country, but the justice system isn’t fair. Most people never know and are shocked when they do find out. But I need you to dial it in and focus. You have to deal with this as it is.”

“Fine,” I said, trying to calm myself down despite how I felt. “I’ll try.”

“Good. While we start preparing your case, I’ll make a request that the DA’s office recuse themselves to avoid perceived impropriety. They’ll deny it, but it’s a first step to making a complaint with the judge for a new prosecutor from outside this office to be appointed.”

“And what do I do in the meantime?”

“I’m sorry to say, but for a little bit, you’re going to have to wait in jail. Arraignment won’t happen until Monday, at the earliest, so you have at least tonight and tomorrow before I can get you in front of a judge. We’ll argue for bail and present some facts then. I assume the DA will ask for either a high bail or no bail based on how they’ve acted so far. If we get bail, it will take a day or two to get that arranged and get you out. If they get no bail, unfortunately, you might be in there for a few months while we wait to go to trial. If that happens, I’ll push for a fast trial, but these things don’t usually move fast.”

“A few months?” I said, stunned.

“Let’s just focus on one thing at a time. First, the bail hearing. Once we know what the judge says, we’ll be able to figure out our next steps from there.”

I heard his words, but nothing was sinking in. A few months. I could kiss my music career goodbye, and the rest of the school year would be gone. At best, I’d have to start over in the eleventh grade.

He’d done it. Aaron’s father had managed to actually destroy my life.