Razor's Edge (Underworld Kings)

“Now I spoke with your mother and she says it was self-defense. Based on her injuries, that makes sense. I understand your desire to help your mom out, of course I do. But the blunt force trauma your father sustained suggests he was hit from behind, and that doesn’t look so good. So, can you tell us what happened in your own words? Take us through, step by step.”

How could I tell these cops we were subjected to a lifetime of abuse? A whole world under his control, his constant criticism and degradation. The helplessness of watching him hurt my mother time and time again, humiliate me and my brother for his own sick sadistic pleasure. The weight of being held under his thumb every day of my waking life. His lifetime commitment to the club that meant more to him than his own flesh and blood. The time he almost raped Ellison in the kitchen.

I saw red.

How could I possibly convey all the torment this man had caused us?

“It’s okay, Calvin. You’ve got to start somewhere. Take me back to arriving home, to walking in your house that night.”

I nodded and took a deep breath.

“He was hitting her. Again. I walked in the front door and followed the sound of her cries up to their bedroom. I found him on top of her. I remember the sound of his fists connecting with her head, her face. I saw the blood. The terror in her eyes. It was the worst I’d ever seen.”

I swallowed and took a drink of the freezing cold bottle of water Kraft handed me. It helped sober me up a little as I took in the fluorescent lights, my wrists still cuffed to the bar on the wall.

“He’d been hitting her for years, but this time was different. He wasn’t being careful at all, it was almost like he wanted to kill her this time.”

“That aligns with your mothers’ story. She told us he was beating her. Obviously, we have to wait for the autopsy results to determine cause of death, but son, a blow to the back of the head is going to make a self-defense plea an impossibility for you. You’re looking at jail time no matter what, Calvin.”

“It wasn’t self-defense, I was trying to save my mother.’

“I know that, but you could have incapacitated him and called the authorities. I live across the street, Calvin. You know I’ve got your back. You took it too far.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” I said, then looked down at the tape recorder.

“Read him his Miranda,” Kraft said to the other officer. “You need to get a lawyer before you incriminate yourself any further. If you can’t afford a lawyer, the court will appoint you one,” he said to me as if on autopilot.

I nodded my head in agreement. I had to ask, the question was eating me alive. “How’s Ellie?”

“She’s actually here at the station. Begging to see you.”

“I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“You know Ellie better than that, she’s not going to take no for an answer. But I can’t let her in. Press is gathering outside now. Calvin, get ready for a firestorm. This shit is going to make national news and we’ll all be forced into the spotlight overnight.” I could see his stress as the cords in his neck jutted forward. He ran his hands through his graying hair and once his elbows were parallel with the table he leaned forward and rested them, moving his hands to support his chin. When he next spoke, his voice cracked with emotion.

“We came here to help relieve Ellison of the trauma of losing her brother. Far away from gangs and motorcycles.”

“Wait, Adler was in an MC?”

Kraft set his bloodshot blue eyes on me and nodded. “He was a good kid, Calvin. The best kid. You reminded me of him.” Kraft got up from the table and walked toward the door. He didn’t look back at me or say anything more.

He didn’t have to, I could feel his disappointment without him even having to say a word.

Two hours later, I was shoved into the back of a transport van, still cuffed, to take me from the precinct to booking. I tried to cover my face while reporters snapped pictures of me for the papers. I could imagine the headlines: Young Thug Murders Gang Leader Dad, or Young Con Continues the Family Line.

Truth was, I didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought of me. But I did care about headlines hurting my mom, or even worse, causing stress to Ellison. I wanted to grab my head with my hands but I had to make due putting my cuffed wrists to my forehead. The idea of this triggering seizures for El was more than I could bear.