Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead (16 page)

Chapter 23

“All rise.” The deputy stood in front of the judge’s bench.

The back door opened and Judge Rachel Walton entered the courtroom. Char found it difficult to regulate her breathing. She took small, quick breaths. She didn’t want to hyperventilate.

Carl Trieste stood statue-still beside her. Across from him was the prosecutor, Ed Connor. Across from him twelve jurors filled the box. Char wanted to look at them to see if she could guess the verdict before it was announced. Their faces would have to betray a truth. She just couldn’t bring herself to look. If they maintained eye contact she’d know they’d found her guilty. Even though she was minutes away from hearing her fate she wasn’t ready to see it in the jurors’ eyes.

“Would Counsel and the Defendant remain standing? Everyone else, please, be seated,” Judge Walton said.

Char felt defeated, regardless of the outcome. She’d made it so far to wind up a defendant in a murder trial. She’d thought it before, but surreal seemed to have no boundaries. She forced herself to look up, to make direct eye contact with the judge.

“Would the foreman of the jury please stand?” Judge Walton said.

A woman rose. She was seated in the first seat, first row. She held a piece of paper in her hand.

“Have the jurors reached a verdict in Charlene McKinney vs the People of Arcadia?” Judge Walton said.

“We have, your honor,” she said.

Char almost held her breath. The moment of truth was before her. She did not want to hear the verdict.

“For the count of second degree murder in the death of Olivia Ragone, what does the jury find?”

“Not guilty, your honor.”

“For the count of second degree murder in the death of Frank Broadhurst, what does the jury find?”

Char felt hope well up inside her chest. She knew her eyes were open wide.

“Not guilty, your honor.”

Char let out a long sigh. She lowered her head. She began to cry. Carl Trieste placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not over, dear. Stay strong.”

Not over? The jury had just found her not guilty for killing both Olivia Ragone and Frank Broadhurst.

Judge Walton was staring at Char. When Char regained composure, the judge returned her attention to the jury’s foreman. “For the count of voluntary manslaughter in the death of Olivia Ragone, what does the jury find?”

Char had forgotten about the manslaughter charges. The nightmare seemed to have no end.

“Not guilty, your honor.”

Char wanted to scream. She couldn’t take much more. She’d rolled her hands into tight fists. Her fingernails bit into her palms.

“For the count of voluntary manslaughter in the death of Frank Broadhurst, what does the jury find?”

“Guilty, your honor.”

#  #  #

“Charlene?”

She was curled up on her bed facing the cinderblock wall. She hated that a deputy sat in a folding chair outside her cell watching her. It wasn’t the deputy calling her name though. She knew that voice.

She wasn’t turning around. She didn’t want to talk to Ben, much less see him.

“Char? Are you awake?”

She squeezed her eyes shut tight. He couldn’t see her face, but it didn’t matter. She tried to will him to leave.

“Char?”

It wasn’t working. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I know you’re mad at me.”

She spun around, and sat up. Ben jumped back from the bars. “You’re damn right I’m mad at you. What was that in there the other day? I’m going to prison, Ben. They’re sending me to prison.”

“They told me I had to testify. I was a witness. You heard the testimony of the witnesses after me. We all told the same story. All I did was tell the truth.” Ben wrapped both hands around bars and pressed his face between them.

“You made me sound like a psychopath, Ben.”

“The jury didn’t see it that way. You were only charged with one count.”

“It was self-defense. You were there. We were attacked. Broadhurst pulled a gun on us. You can leave. I don’t want to talk to you.”

Ben didn’t move.

“Leave, Ben. Go be a cop somewhere. I got Barney Fife over there to keep me company.”

The deputy stirred in his folding chair.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry it played out this way.”

“Played out this way? Like it’s a game? Like my life is part of some game? You know what you can do, Ben? You can go fuck yourself. You. Your father. The sheriff.” No prison was going to hold her. She was going to find a way to escape and take it. She’d get outside the walls that fortified Arcadia and keep going. No one would come after her. There wouldn’t be a posse on her tail. The assholes living here wouldn’t know how to survive beyond the confines of their community.

Ben looked away as he stepped back from the bars. His hands still held onto them. “I talked with your attorney. He’s not giving up on this case. He’s going to file appeals.”

“It’s not a real court, Ben. This isn’t even the real world here. You guys are living in a fantasy land.”

Ben let go of the bars and took another step back.

“You don’t have the power, the authority to lock me up for even a day. This is bullshit!”

He turned around and slowly walked toward the door.

“It’s bullshit, Ben!”

He was gone.

She stared at the bars where he had stood. Part of her did not want to chase him away. There was no way she’d ever forgive him for testifying against her. Right was right. What he’d done was wrong. If he couldn’t understand that, then she had no room in her life for him, no room for forgiveness.

Too wound up to lie back down, Char paced around the corners of her cell. Her arms were stiff at her sides, hands balled into fists. She ground her teeth.

There was no way the prison could hold her. She knew she’d find a way to escape. Climb a wall, scale a fence, sneak out in a delivery truck. She’d seen enough prison escape movies with her father. Her favorite was Stephen King’s
Shawshank Redemption
. Hell, if she had to tunnel through a sewer drain filled with shit and piss to come out on the opposite side of Arcadia, she would. Whatever it took to get free. If she was lucky, the opportunity would present itself sooner and she could move on and be done with this ass-backwards town forever.

#  #  #

Char wanted to refuse breakfast on principle. She didn’t. Her stomach churned. Going without eating only punished her. The deputies didn’t care if she ate or not. They knew she’d never starve to death before being transported from the holding cell to prison. As long as she didn’t hang herself, they could give two shits.

The scrambled eggs weren’t bad. A little more salt would have been nice, but she didn’t ask for any.

Rebecca Bowman walked into the area pulling along a small case with wheels by the handle and stopped when she reached  the doorway. “Is it okay if I talk with you?”

Char shrugged. “If you don’t mind me eating while you talk?”

Rebecca smiled. “Of course not.”

A silence fell between them. Char figured if the priestess had something to say, she’d begin the conversation. As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t much to say about anything.

“I talked with the sheriff,” Rebecca said.

“About?” Char knew better than to get her hopes up. The judge sentenced her to three years. The sheriff couldn’t get that overturned.

“They are transporting you late this afternoon.”

“They sent you to tell me?”

“I received permission to give you a tattoo before you go. If a tattoo is what you wanted,” Rebecca said.

“A tattoo? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rebecca came closer to the bars, wheeling her case along with her. “I want to give you a dreamcatcher tattoo. I will bless the ink before I start. Prison can be a horrible experience. I believe the tattoo can help you, protect you from things you fear, give you something to draw strength from.”

Char looked down at her meal. It was half gone. She could not eat anymore. “I’ve never had a tattoo.”

“It hurts a bit. Won’t lie about that, but rarely is it as bad as people think.” Rebecca smiled. It calmed and soothed Char. Maybe it was the priestess’ face that chased away her anxiety. Char stared into Rebecca’s eyes watched the irises expand and dance around the pupil like solar flares off the sun.

Char wasn’t really sure how she felt about it. “And the tattoo machine, it’s in that case?”

“It is.”

She took a sip of apple juice and set her plastic cup down on the tray. “Why do you want me to have a tattoo?”

“I just—”

“I mean, why do you care?”

Rebecca stood in front of the bars and squatted down, so that they were eye level. “I’ve been to where you are going. I was not an inmate, if that’s what you’re thinking. I went to visit someone. I helped with some of the...mechanics of the operation. There’s no point in sugar coating it. The Cog is an evil and vile place. I was at the trial. I heard all of the testimony given and I think the jury got this one wrong. They don’t understand what it’s like outside of Arcadia.”

“They heard how Broadhurst and his people kidnapped my friends! They heard that he drew a gun on us at the bar! I shouldn’t be in here.” Char did not want to rehash this every time someone talked to her about the case. If felt pointless. It didn’t matter if Rebecca disagreed with the jury. Nothing would change.

“I won’t be coming to visit you.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” Char said.

“Let me give you this tattoo. For courage, and strength, and to remember that you are not alone.”

“But I am alone. I’ll be serving my time alone, and like you just told me, you won’t be coming to visit. I don’t want your tattoo. Thanks, but no thanks.” Char slapped her food tray off the edge of her bed. It rattled and clanked on the cement floor.

“You’re going to clean that up!” The deputy was on his feet, pointing a finger at her.

Rebecca stood up and turned around. She folded her hand on the case’s handle and started to walk away.

Char needed to control her temper. Her anger was justified, but shouldn’t have been directed at the priestess. “Wait.”

Rebecca stopped.

“Where were you thinking of putting it?”

#  #  #

Char straddled a chair, facing backwards. She’d pulled her hair down to the side, exposing the back of her neck. Rebecca stood beside her.

Char watched in silence as the priestess blessed the ink. The prayer of protection was poetic and impacting. Rebecca dipped the needle into black ink and told her to sit still.

The tattoo gun vibrated and hummed. The needle was drawn across her skin. The pain was sharp and continuous. It hurt most when passing over the bone of her spine. 

“How are you doing?”

“It’s not terrible,” Char said.

Char stared at her toes and the cement floor and thought about as little as possible while Rebecca infused blessed ink forever onto her body.

“You’re doing great. Just keep holding still like this and we’ll be done in no time, but if you need a break, let me know.”

Char winced now and then. The outlining hurt more than the coloring and shading. That just felt like being scratched. Every so often Rebecca rubbed ointment over the skin, and wiped away blood with a paper towel.

The pain came when they were nearly three hours into the inking, and Rebecca was still stretching sore skin to go over area that now felt bruised and raw. “We’re just about done.”

When Rebecca finished she gave Char a hand mirror, and then held another up behind Char.

Char angled her mirror so that she could see into the mirror in Rebecca’s hand.

The dreamcatcher was big. Round. The web inside the ring was intricate and symmetrical. Coming off the bottom were three different feathers. They were grey and white and looked real.

“The feathers?”

“They are of an eagle. They symbolize freedom. The eagle is a predator. It is a bird known for being strong, courageous and cunning. There were many injured eagles held in captivity because they could not fly, or were unable to survive on their own after an injury. An eagle that can fly, that is capable of surviving on its own would never allow itself to be held captive for long. First chance it was given, it would soar away.”

The words were not lost on Char.  “I kind of wish we didn’t do it on the back of my neck.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I won’t be able to see it.”

“You don’t need to see it for the powers it possesses to work. You know it’s there. That is enough,” she said.