“What is your lawyer doing?” I ask.
Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. is standing in front of the car, pacing back and forth talking to no one.
“He’s used to a finer quality institution,” dad says. “Coming to a common jail is a bit of a step outside all our comfort zones.”
“Where are you going?” I ask. “Which country, I mean.”
“I don’t think we should discuss this until we’re already on the plane,” mom says, turning toward dad again.
I’m gritting my teeth. “Unless it’s a private plane,” I start, “it would be good for me to know before we walk up to the counter at the—”
“Of course it’s a private plane, dear,” mom says. “You don’t think we’re going to abscond to another country flying coach, do you?”
They both laugh their affected laughs and I really think there’s a chance the two of them were dropped on their heads as children…and then again as teenagers…and then another time when they entered adulthood.
As I was coming out of the jail, a thought began to occur, but I quelled it before it had formed entirely. I don’t have to go with my parents. I mean, I’m not leaving the country with them no matter what, but right now, I don’t have to be here in a car with them waiting for the press to show up.
Actually, it’s kind of weird that there haven’t been any reporters or cameramen at all.
“Did you guys pay off the press?” I ask. “Why haven’t they turned the front of the jail into a temporary red carpet?”
“John takes care of those things,” mom says, waving her hand as if swatting at a fly.
As if he’d heard his name, Johnson B. Witherton VI, Esq. opens the driver’s side door and gets in, saying, “All right, it looks like we’re clear for now at least. Is she going with you?”
“No,” I answer, though both my parents respond differently. “I didn’t do anything wrong and I’m not going to start acting like I did just to take the focus off the two of you.”
I don’t usually talk to my parents like this, but they’ve crossed the line a bit more than usual this time.
“That is
true, dear,” mom says. “Once we’ve touched down in Urug—I mean, wherever we’re going—”
“Smooth,” I quip.
“We can start leaking the story—trusted associates, of course. Once everyone’s heard what we’ll say happened, they’ll have to exonerate her, won’t they, Charles?” mom asks dad.
“What exactly are you planning on saying happened?” I ask.
“I still think it’d be better if she came with us,” dad says. “If they do take her in after we’ve left the country, they might try to use her in order to get us to return and face prosecution.”
“I’m not going with you,” I tell him. “Whatever you’re planning, it better include me being cleared of any kind of involvement in any of this.”
“Of course, dear,” mom says, flipping her hand up and down in my direction in a gesture I’ve seen a few thousand times, but have never been quite able to decipher. It’s not a shooing motion, it’s not a wave. It’s kind of like a come here/go away thing, though I doubt that’s what my mom’s thinking when she does it. “Your safety and peace of mind through all of this is most important.”
“We need to leave now!” Johnson shouts out of nowhere. Honestly, I’d kind of forgotten he was in the car there for a minute.
“I’m not going,” I tell him. “You can just drop me off at my place and be on your way.”
“You’re just being ungrateful!” Johnson yells. “We’re going to the airport.”
I look at the lawyer. I really would have thought someone like him would be better in a crisis. If this is the way he’s dealing with things, though, they must be a lot worse than I think they are.
“Ungrateful?” I ask. “Should I be grateful that I was just put in jail for something I had nothing to do with? Should I be grateful that you guys thought it’d be a good idea to basically steal my identity so you could fund your fraudulent enterprise?”
“I really do think it should be her choice, John,” dad says.
The lawyer huffs, “We don’t have time. We need to get out of the country and we need to do it now. If one of us stays behind, how do we know that person’s not going to call the cops while we’re still on the way to the airport?”