The Last Day of Freedom, Page 2

Chapter 2

  Gradually Tristan regained consciousness. At first he thought he was dreaming, because everything smelled wrong—like gloves and antiseptic. Dazedly he wondered if his biology class was doing another dissection.

  Then he blinked, pried open his grit-caked eyes, and realized he was in a stiff white hospital bed.

  When he turned his head to search for someone familiar, he noticed that half of his face was stiff and encrusted with something that felt like plaster. He tried to lift a hand to explore whatever it was, but his hand was firmly attached to the bed. Twisting, he realized he was handcuffed to the metal bedframe. Though he could not prod it, he suspected the hard surface on his left cheek was a layer of bandages, because he could feel the beginnings of a dull pain just below his cheekbone.

  “Morning,” a brusque male voice said. Tristan squinted at the far side of the room until he made out a tall, whiskered man dressed in nurses’ scrubs.

  “What’s happening?” Tristan croaked out. His throat was raw and prickling.

  “You were in a car crash,” the nurse said, crossing over to his bedside. “Once you’ve recovered, I’m afraid the juvenile courts will have to have a word with you.”

  “Where’s Marcus?” Tristan asked, trying in vain to sit up.

  “Sorry, kid. Your brother didn’t make it.”

  Like the echo of a dream, the voice returned to him. He’s dead.

  Tristan could hardly breathe. His lungs were constricting, his vision blurring. “You’re lying,” he choked out.

  “Sorry,” the man said again.

  A blind rage swept over Tristan. He wanted to kill the nurse, to strangle the policeman who had made the fatal proclamation. Then he would throw himself off a bridge and let his wretched body drift away. But the handcuffs wouldn’t even let him sit up, and when he tried to wrench his body sideways, he realized he was pinioned still further by an IV line.

  “Sit still,” the nurse said, tucking the blankets around Tristan once again. “We can take that off you now.” Gently he removed the IV line and held a glass of water to Tristan’s mouth. “You should be set to leave later today, if you’re not too dizzy. We have to move you to the juvenile correction facility until your case has been heard.”

  The words didn’t register. Tristan clumsily sipped at the water, spilling drops all down his chin.

  Marcus couldn’t be dead.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Another man crossed to Tristan’s bed. Even without his uniform, Tristan would have guessed him to be a police officer from the severity of his expression.

  “As soon as the hospital discharges you, you’ll be relocated to a juvenile detention facility for the week leading up to your trial,” the officer said grimly. “Generally we try to place teens at home under probation until their first trial, but the severity of your offense and the lack of supervision at home preclude such measures.”

  “Can I go now?” Tristan asked miserably. After years of watching Marcus suffer through operation after operation, each time fed false reassurances that this would be the last, he had grown to despise hospitals. Anywhere was better than here.

  “We have to change your bandages,” the nurse said, ticking off a note on his clipboard. “After that, you will be free to go.”

  Hours later, Tristan was led, still groggy, through the hospital doors and into the waiting police car. The detention facility was reminiscent of his school, only with a “probation services” center where the main office might have been and a row of narrow, badly-lit bedroom-cells at the rear.

  “As long as you are not disruptive, you are free to explore,” the police officer said, handing Tristan over to the friendly-looking woman at the Probation Services desk along with a stack of papers. “I hope I don’t see you again.”

  With that, Tristan was left in the bleak center with the receptionist.

  “You don’t look familiar,” she said. “First-time offender? We don’t want you to have a bad time here. This is all about making the court proceedings as straightforward as possible, and sending you right back home. You’re young enough to mend your ways, I’d say.” She flipped through Tristan’s documents, her eyebrows raising as she read the third page. “Vehicular manslaughter? Now that doesn’t sound right. You look a bit young to be driving, mister.”

  Tristan just stared sullenly at her. He couldn’t bring himself to explain that mad, terrifying night. When he replayed it back through his head—the earthquake and the fire and the 911 call that had been dismissed as a prank—it sounded completely insane. Who had ever heard of an earthquake in North Dakota? Maybe someone nearby had been demolishing a building, and that was what had shaken the ground.

  But he could not dismiss the way the ground had buckled and the very walls had shattered.

  “Does that hurt, sweetheart?” The receptionist gestured at Tristan’s new bandages. This time he had a gauze pad taped across most of his left cheek, which splintered with pain every time he swallowed or talked. He hadn’t seen the damage yet, but he knew it had to be bad, because the nurse told him he had received twenty-four stitches the previous day.

  “Just tell me where to go,” Tristan muttered. He didn’t want to deal with sympathy or suspicion right now.

  “Of course,” the woman said gently. She stood and pulled the reception window closed, fetching a towel and key from behind her desk.

  At first Tristan wondered why they weren’t escorted by security guards, but then he noticed the security cameras spaced every few paces along the hallway. Someone was surely waiting out of sight, ready to jump into action at the slightest hint of trouble.

  The receptionist showed him to the cafeteria, the bathrooms, the medical clinic, and even to a small basketball court near the rear of the building. Last she led him to his room.

  “This key is for your own protection,” she said. “All of our staff have copies, so don’t think you can get away with any funny business.” She smiled at Tristan. “Come find me or one of the other staff members if you need anything. I’ll be right at the front.” With a little wave, she abandoned Tristan in the doorway of his tiny room. He was not sure whether she was trying to be obnoxious, or whether her kindly demeanor just rankled because of the guilt that hung over him. Either way, he was glad to be alone.

  Stepping into his cell, Tristan let the door swing closed behind him. He didn’t bother locking it, because he didn’t care what happened to him now. He deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life. He should have been the one who died. Not his brother.

  Not Marcus.

  As Tristan sank onto the narrow cot, he realized for the first time how very alone he was. Where had his parents been when he languished away in the hospital bed? They hated him now, he was certain of it. They would never want him back again.

  He didn’t blame them.

  A flood of fury and self-loathing swept over him, and he let it consume him. The room blurred to nothing, until all he could see was the pounding rain and the bright flash of headlights that had turned the corner just before he missed it.

  I trust you….

  The week before his trial passed in a blur of misery. He missed half of his meals, hardly leaving his cell. The other kids mostly left him alone. There were a few older boys who had clearly been here before, but the rest looked as scared and uncertain as Tristan felt.

  He tried once to peel the bandage from his face, but the pain hit him so fiercely that he collapsed on the bathroom floor, howling.

  The day before his initial hearing, his public defender met him in one of the interview rooms near the main office.

  “My name is Mr. Morrison,” the public defender said. “I am here to explain your rights and the proceedings for your trial tomorrow. Your charges are serious enough to warrant a full court trial rather than the usual juvenile court hearing. Depending on the outcome o
f your trial tomorrow, we will either proceed with the usual court system or schedule a factfinding hearing, typical of the juvenile court. Your parents will attend, and neither will be called on to present evidence for or against you.”

  Tristan dug his fingernails into his palms, his neck itching with sweat. Now that the trial was looming, he felt the weight of his accident coming down on him with more cruelty than ever before. He was a criminal. A murderer. And he would have to stand calmly as his crimes were listed back to him.

  He wondered what would happen if he started crying, or if he fainted. Either was possible in his present state.

  “Pay careful attention now to your rights. You have the right to provide your own witnesses, if you have any, and the right to confront and cross-examine any witnesses brought against you. Furthermore, you are not obliged to testify against yourself. Unless you wish to plead guilty, you may remain silent. I would advise you to do so.”

  “What happens if I plead guilty?”

  “I would advise you to make that decision once you’ve heard the charges. You have been charged on multiple counts, and the severity of your sentence depends on those of which you are found guilty.”

  “What’ve they charged me for?” Tristan asked quickly. “I crashed a car and killed my brother. What else do they want me to say?”

  “Given the police testimony, that much will be indisputable in the eyes of the jury,” Mr. Morrison said. “However, you have also been charged with theft, arson, and driving without a license. It is the circumstances surrounding the death of your brother that the jury will be most interested in examining.”

  Tristan swallowed a curse. “What do you mean, arson? There was an earthquake, and I think the wires were busted! I didn’t set anything on fire.”

  “An earthquake,” Mr. Morrison said flatly. “I’m afraid that will not go down well in court. There have been no earthquakes here for at least six years, Mr. Fairholm, and no one else has reported experiencing a recent tremor. Unless you wish to plead insanity, I do not recommend mentioning this minor delusion.”

  Tristan bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to repress the urge to shout at the man. Delusion? Marcus had felt the earthquake too! Why else would he have gotten in the car with Tristan?

  “Now, Mr. Fairholm, do you have any witnesses to offer in your defense?”

  “No one was around,” Tristan mumbled. Most of the houses on the block had been dark, and Mrs. Hughes had certainly been out. “I called 911 right before we left, but they thought it was a prank. And my neighbor had left the key in her car. We wanted to get to our mom’s house, because our dad wasn’t home yet.”

  “You didn’t think to call your father or mother first?”

  “I tried,” Tristan said. “But the power was down. Besides, they both work late. They don’t usually answer their phones when they’re at work.” He didn’t mention that his father never answered his phone after five o’clock because he didn’t want Tristan to hear the clamor of his favorite bar.

  “We can bring in whoever was working at the police headquarters when you dialed 911. However, that will only prove your attempt to seek help. It does nothing to lift the arson charges.”

  “What should I do, then?” Tristan glared at the man’s suited stomach, hating him for laying out the truth so baldly. “Am I supposed to just sit there while they sentence me to a lifetime in jail?”

  “It won’t be quite as bad as that,” Mr. Morrison said. “As a juvenile, you might get away with two years, depending on the decision of the jury. Remember, to reach a decision they must find you guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Without witnesses, that will be hard to achieve. I will seek witnesses on your behalf, and you will remain quiet tomorrow unless you wish to question the witnesses brought against you. Remember, the worst thing you can do is lose your temper in court. As long as you remain reasonable and disciplined, the jury will decide fairly.”

  Really reassuring, Tristan thought angrily. “That’s all?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Mr. Morrison stood and shrugged on his coat. “I will see you tomorrow. Best of luck.”

  And Tristan was left to return to his room in a foul temper, wondering what on earth he was meant to say if the truth sounded insane. Without the earthquake, his actions sounded like the work of a complete madman. Who would burn down his own house, steal a car, and then turn his own brother into roadkill on a dark country road? Only a psychopath would be able to justify something so outrageous.

  He spent the last hours before his trial lying listlessly on his narrow bed, counting down the seconds until he was torn apart and sentenced before a ruthless court.

  It would mark the end of everything he knew.

  Chapter 3