Crash Test Dummy

Chapter 23

Within a few days, I was sitting up most of the day. The respiratory therapist proclaimed that I was breathing properly. She left me a thing to blow in a few times a day but no longer had to make daily room visits. A rehabilitation therapist came and started giving me exercises to strengthen my arms and legs. By the time a week was up, I was allowed to take short, slow walks around the nurse's station. On January 23rd, I moved to a regular room.

Grady had been in and out during that time, but he had very little to report. When I got impatient, he reminded me that the law often moves very slowly. On the 25th, though, he came to my room looking quite serious.

"The DA wants to meet with you," he said.

"Why? I thought he would just tell you what the charge will be."

"He hasn't decided. This trial is going to be a pretty big deal. He wants to meet with his potential witness before settling on charges. Just stick to the truth like you have in the past," Grady said. "You won't have anything to worry about."

"Okay," I said. "When?"

"He'll be here in an hour."

"Oh. What about Mom? She's working today."

"I know. She said she trusts us. She can't come, but she doesn't want to put the DA off. Besides, I think it will be better if she's not here. You can't look at her as though for guidance. The DA watches for those kinds of signs. Don't look at me before you answer, either. If you do, he'll think you've been coached."

"No prob," I said. "I got this."

Grady sort of sighed. "Probably, but don't get over confident. That's when you trip up."

The DA came in with Grady. He came right to where I was sitting and stuck out his hand. "Brock Thibideaux," he said. "And you're CW." There was really no answer. It wasn't like he asked a question. Any introduction on my part would have been redundant.

He was a short man, really short, I mean like your legs don't touch the floor when you're sitting back in a chair, short. He was bald, the shaved head kind of bald. He looked like a little-people version of Mr. Clean. I thought of Mr. Clean because of the muscles and the no hair thing. I guess to make up for height and hair, the guy looked like he spent hours every day in the gym. His arms were muscle. His chest seemed really wide for a short dude. He obviously had a six-pack. He also had an attitude. He was restless. He paced. When he asked questions, he sort of spit them at you like a verbal nail gun.

"I'm not going to record this," he said. "I just want to clarify some things. Is that okay with you?" He addressed the question to Grady.

"I'm going to have my phone on," Grady said. "CW's Mom can't be here, but she's going to try to listen in through her blue tooth. And I'll be taking extensive notes, of course. So, yeah, I'm okay with no recording."

"Okay, here's the thing CW. You're asking me to pretty much let you off with a slap on the wrist if I agree to the plea your lawyer has proposed." His eyes bored into mine. "Before I decide what to do, I need to ask you some questions. I've watched all three of your taped interviews. That's where my questions come from. Are you willing to answer me truthfully."

"Yes, sir," I said.

He smiled. "Not bad. You come across as polite and sincere. Good coaching, Grady."

"It's not coaching," I said. "My Mom taught me to be polite and respect authority. I may have ignored that for a while, but training comes out when push comes to shove."

"Touché."

"Okay, young man. I'm going to be treating you like your friends' lawyer would, so I'll probably be asking some hard questions."