“No, it’s the nurse’s job to take care of you,” I tell him and I give him another kiss before changing positions and starting again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dances with Furyk
Mason
It’s almost a week since Ash insisted I take some down time, and I have to say, I’m feeling pretty good.
Chris’s trial came and went and, while I know he worked out some kind of deal between his lawyer and the prosecutor, he didn’t take the easy way.
Most people, at least in that courtroom, were upset the judge was willing to go along with a single, one-year sentence in which he’d pay for all his crimes concurrently. For me, though, it was vindication. A year is far too long to have been something Chris actually wanted.
Maybe I have too much faith in my brother’s ability to manipulate, but I can’t help knowing he could have conned his way into a better deal if he’d really wanted to. No, a year for Chris is a hell of a gesture.
It’s getting close to time when Ash knocks on my door. I open it, saying, “We’d better hurry. I don’t want them to disqualify me for walking in half a minute late.”
“Not to be judgmental or anything, but I seriously doubt those people care that much about punctuality,” she says.
“Ooh, accusing the guys in the pit of being occasionally late for things,” I tease. “Negative vibes hurt your karma, bro.” I try for a hippie voice, but it comes out more latent-drug-addict than flower child.
“Whatever,” she says. “Grab your stuff and let’s go.”
I bend down and pick up my duffel bag, telling her, “Got it, let’s bounce.”
We head to the car and I toss my stuff in the backseat.
As I’m getting in, Ash says, “So, I got a call today.”
“
Yeah?” I ask, closing the door and leaning my chair back a little. The way it’s sitting straight up, Jana’s mom must have been in here last. You’d think for someone constantly stoned on substances most people have never even heard of, she’d have a worse posture, but no. The woman insists on sitting straight up at all times.
“It was the cops,” Ash says. “They dropped the charges.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell her, giving her hand a squeeze. “So does that mean you’re done with everything or are you still going to have to testify against the parents?”
“I’ve still got to testify,” she says. “I’m not looking forward to that, but it really is the best thing for them. If they’d managed to get to South America, even if they didn’t end up getting shot for saying something stupid—something I’m always a little surprised hasn’t happened already—they’d still be running for the rest of their lives. I’m sure by the time everything is said and done, they’ll get out of there with some time to have a life for once. I just hope it’s a good one.”
It can’t be easy, knowing you have to testify against your own parents. I got off the hook when it came to Chris’s trial. The prosecutor didn’t need me because I never witnessed any of the many, many charges facing my brother. The defense didn’t want me as a character witness because, well, he heard what I had to say when asked about my brother’s history.
I don’t think what I had to say would have been too much help.
Maybe if Chris had ever gone into specifics about the crap he’s pulled, I might have gotten the subpoena, but he’s always been smarter than to gloat too much in front of me. Me, I’m much happier having had as little direct involvement in the process as possible.
“How are you doing with that?” I ask. Yeah, I ask questions like that now. I’m growing.
“Eh,” she says with a dismissive shrug, but she’s just covering. Having a brother like Chris, I know it’s going to take some time.
Ash follows the directions her phone announces and it only takes a couple of hours to get to where we’re going.
We pull up in front of an old warehouse, surrounded by a chain-link fence, topped with a single, seemingly endless line of barbed wire.
“It says we’re here,” Ash says, looking out her window, “but I don’t think that’s it, do you?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “That’s it.”
“Where are all the cars?” she asks.