Nolan watched me a moment, then took the bag of soda over to Room A. He opened the door and we slipped inside.
“What’s this?” I asked. Two buckets were on the floor, one empty and the other partially filled with water.
“I had to pee,” Marie said.
“The other’s so she can wash her hands.” A roll of toilet paper was on the floor, too.
“You couldn’t walk her to the bathroom?” I asked.
“Marie,” Nolan said, “have as much pizza as you like. Will, let’s talk outside a minute.” We left her the box of vegetarian pizza and a liter of soda, as well as the cigarettes and lighter. I followed Nolan out to the main recording room. “No, I couldn’t walk her to the fucking bathroom,” he said. “This isn’t summer camp.”
I knew he was right. “Sorry.”
He nodded. “So you didn’t tell him anything?”
“Not much. We kept things hypothetical. He said we should get rid of our cell phones. They can be traced.”
Nolan’s eyes widened. “Shit, he’s right.” He looked around the studio. “Is there a hammer around here?”
There wasn’t. But just off the main recording room was a storage closet containing heavy gear. “I have something that’ll work.”
In the closet was a large canvas bag filled with drum hardware. I opened the bag and removed a metal cymbal stand. A minute later, our cell phones, batteries removed, were in the plastic bag that our soda had come in. The bag lay on the studio’s wood floor. The three of us stood over it.
“Who wants the honors?” I asked.
Nolan took the cymbal stand from me. “Stand back,” he said. And then he began to smash the bag. Each time the metal slammed into the bag of phones, the loud crack made me wince.
After seven or eight smashes, he said, “I really needed that,” and then he gave the bag one final smash. Other than hitting a bucket of golf balls sometimes, I wasn’t the sort of person who relieved his anxiety with violence. Still, I regretted having been so quick to pass up the job.
We looked in the bag to survey the damage. Satisfied, Nolan handed me the cymbal stand, which I returned to the canvas bag in the closet.
Back in the control room, I relayed what else Evan had told me. “He said that you were right, Jeffrey. You ought to write out a confession, take the blame. And that way, maybe Nolan and I can negotiate some lesser crime. He said it’s worth a shot, anyway.”
“Jesus.” Nolan massaged his forehead with his fingertips as if touching a crystal ball. He must have been seeing his own bleak future. “This is just … Jesus Christ.”
“Sorry, Jeffrey,” I said. “I don’t like that the whole burden’s going to fall on you. But I hope you understand that’s the way it’s got to be. You need to write a confession and take the blame.”
In Room A, Marie had finished a cigarette and was now eating a slice of pizza. I watched her take another bite, then bent down to get a notebook and pen from beneath the sound console so that Jeffrey could begin writing.
“Yeah, I can’t do that.”
I sat up. “Come again?”
“I can’t. Not anymore.” Jeffrey chewed on his lower lip and looked up at the ceiling as if measuring his words carefully. Then he looked back at us. “I’ve had a little time now to think things over, and … well, you guys should’ve stopped this. Stepped in when it mattered. I lost my mind there for a minute or two—hell, I’ll admit that—but you should’ve stepped in. You’re supposed to be my friends, aren’t you? Will, you should’ve stopped the car, but you didn’t. And where were you, Nolan? You should’ve been concerned about the girl instead of your political campaign.” He shook his head. “No, it’s like you said earlier—we’re all to blame.”
Nolan, who until now had been silent, was out of his chair in a flash. Before I could react, Jeffrey’s chair rolled backward and banged against a rack of sound gear. His hands flew up to his mouth, where he’d just been punched.
Nolan swiped the notebook and pen from me and stood over Jeffrey’s chair, staring him down. “Write the fucking confession, you son of a bitch!”
“I’m bleeding!” Jeffrey said through his hands.
“Write it!” He threw the notebook into Jeffrey’s lap.
For the second time in five minutes I felt jealous of Nolan. Even more than wanting to throw a few good punches Jeffrey’s way, though, I wanted a signed confession. “Nolan,” I said, “get Jeffrey a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom.” When he didn’t move, I yelled, “Do it!” He left the control room without a word.
“He fucking hit me,” Jeffrey said, and slowly lowered his hands. The blood covered his fingers, his teeth, and his lower lip, which was swelling purple.
“Are your teeth okay?” I asked.
He felt around them with his tongue. “I think so.” He wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt. The shirt came away with enough blood to make my stomach twist. He looked at the blood and shook his head. “I didn’t deserve that.”