The bailiff takes a piece of paper from the juror’s hand and gives it to the judge. He opens it, reads it, and drops it down on the bench.
I can feel my heart pounding. The next few seconds will decide so much, so much – justice for a bunch of people I didn’t know but watched die. Possibly life or death for me, but that didn’t matter so much. I can see Landon looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
“How do you find the defendant, Joseph Franks, in the matter of the first charge – murder in the second degree of Officer Henry Gayle?”
“We, the jury, find the defendant, not guilty.”
My stomach lurches, and I am unable to swallow.
“How do you find the defendant, Joseph Franks, in the matter of the second charge – murder in the second degree of Officer Michael Walton?”
“We, the jury, find the defendant, not guilty.”
I have to fight with my body to stop it from doubling over.
“How do you find the defendant, Joseph Franks, in the matter of the third charge – murder in the second degree of Mister Roland Nickles?”
“We, the jury, find the defendant, not guilty.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. Landon pulls me off the bench in the back row and out the door as the juror’s words continue to pound into my skull.
“Nothing…he’s going to get nothing!” I scream. Landon’s fist connects with my jaw, knocking me sideways.
“Shut the fuck up,” he commands. “Gunter is going to get life. He’ll be fucked up the ass and probably killed off in the first week. You can’t have everything.”
I’m hauled outside into the bright sunlight. There is a cab waiting.
“What the fuck?” I question.
“It’s been fun,” Landon shrugs. He looks at me for a moment. “Don’t ever try to contact me again, son.”
There’s a duffle bag in the back of the cab, cash in bundles, account information for a bank in the Cayman Islands, and a passport in the name of Daniel Greene…
There was something cold on my face. Cold, soft, and wet. I tried opening my eyes, but it was so bright, and my eyes felt heavy. I could hear a voice, and I knew the voice to be Raine’s, but the words were incomprehensible. I was swallowed up by the darkness again.
Vodka burns down my throat. I’ve been here in this same place for what feels like days. Showgirls walk around in ridiculous outfits while businessmen chat up businesswomen and an Elvis impersonator leads happy couples to an alcove where they can be wed in a makeshift gazebo right next to the casino. I throw back another shot, lose a grand in another hand of blackjack, and start looking for someone to fuck…
…blood is everywhere – the bathroom floor, the shower, all over her hands and wrists…oh fuck, she nearly went down to the bone…
…an owl flies past me, soaring high above the beach. I walk down the sand as the sun begins to set. They’re holding her down there – down by the water. They’re touching her, and she’s screaming, and I’m watching the owl as it flies over the tidal pools…
Opening my eyes took way too much fucking energy. I closed them again, but I knew I didn’t want to go back to sleep either because every dream was worse than the last. I could hear a mumbled voice, which switched into actual words and eventually into someone telling me not to sleep anymore. Raine.
“Please, Bastian – please stay awake!”
I forced my eyes open again. The sun was too fucking bright, and it was making my head hurt. Why the fuck was I rocking back and forth? I realized Raine’s cold hands were on my shoulders, shaking me roughly. Why were her hands so cold?
“Bastian, I don’t know what to do.” Raine’s voice sounded so small and so far away. I tilted my head a little, trying to get a better look at her face, but everything was blurry. Even through my blurred vision, I could see her anxiety. Even without my vision, I could feel it in her. I didn’t want her to be upset about anything…I wanted to tell her it was all okay.
“Don’t…” I tried to make words, but they just didn’t want to come out. My throat was dry, and I coughed once. Raine’s hand was suddenly on the back of my neck, tilting my head up and pouring water into my mouth. I drank it greedily until she pulled back the container. I coughed again.
“Don’t be sad,” I finally got out.
“You’re so sick,” she said quietly. At first I tried to figure out if I had made some off-color joke, but I didn’t think I had. I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand. “Your leg was hurt – cut, I think. I stitched it up like I did your eye, but it’s really red and swollen, Bastian. I think it’s infected, but I don’t know what to do! You told me how dangerous…”