Her father left.
The perfect house in the perfect neighborhood.
Claire needed her father.
Her mother works hard, but hard to keep the neighbors impressed.
Then, her dad runs away to be a rock band roadie.
Her 4.5 AP Nerdfest brother is accus...
Drew sat across the square metal table in his martin chains. With a guard posted directly outside the door, he and his attorney went over the "facts of the case" one more time.
"I have to hand it to you Drew, your story is impeccably consistent," Rosalia said.
"It's fucking true."
"Of course it is. But what is true and what I can prove are not always the same."
"You keep saying that and it's bullshit."
"The physical evidence against you is strong and you have no one to corroborate your story."
Drew's chains clinked. "Just shoot me."
Rosalia rose to her full height of five-foot-five. A stout woman, with thick everything—hair, eyebrows, lips and even her skin seemed physically thick. Her second generation parents insisted each of their nine children earn a college degree, and each did. Like many of her siblings, she went on to graduate school and had practiced law for the past twenty years. She chose not to marry, but considered helping juveniles who had made a 'wrong turn' as she liked to call it, her life's calling. Some young men and women whom she had helped went on to lead productive lives—others ended up on death row. But in all her years, she'd never seen a case like Drew's.
"You make comments like that and you'll be on suicide watch," she warned. "You want someone staring at you every second of the day?"
"Just tell me when this nightmare will end."
"I'm racing up these timelines with considerable push back from the DA," she said. "I'm hoping to go to trial in October."
"I can't wait 'til October." Drew bit his bottom lip. "I've got my senior year, and SATs and what about college?"
Rosalia considered reminding Drew that if he was found guilty, he'd be looking at twenty-five to life. The DA wouldn't plea out, as she expected. And the trial would be difficult without a witness or evidence to confirm Drew's story. Not to mention, the longer Bruce stayed in a coma, the more it looked like he would not come out of it.
She reached over and rubbed his shoulder. "We'll get you into college. Just take it one day at a time for me, okay?"
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Drew peeled open his eye to the infinite nightmare. 6.00 a.m. never felt so wrong. One of twenty juveniles assigned to the special Sex Crimes Ward, Drew began his day with a standard issue breakfast shoved into his cell.
Sitting on the single cot welded into the wall, he pushed his spork through the wad of eggs. The deputy strutted down the hall announcing that in ten minutes "and not one minute more" to be finished, dressed and ready for "group".
In the recreation room, the blue jumpsuits formed a 'healing circle' in the metal fold-up chairs. Dr. Willard pulled a pencil from her grey bun, but the hair stayed lumped against the roll on her neck. Drew tried not to look at her or anyone. Eyes down, hands folded, legs still. To boil the sea would make time pass quicker.
