Hi there! Welcome to the first chapter!
The title of this story is taken from 'The Friends of Eddie Coyle', which, as you know, is one of Elmore Leonard's favorite novels and Raylan gave Tim in the final Episode of Justified.
There will be about 10-12 chapters in this story, I have it all planned out, I just need to finish writing it.
I also posted it to AO3.
Hope you enjoy!
It was two years into Boyd Crowder's life sentence at Tramble Maximum Security Prison in Kentucky when a local public radio station did a human interest story on the once white supremacist drug dealer turned born-again prison preacher.
The interview (conducted in a visiting booth with a slab of glass between Boyd and the unlucky radio host who got sent to the prison to talk to the dangerous inmate) was picked up by national public radio, and suddenly Boyd Crowder was more than just the local Harlan outlaw everybody had forgotten about while he was locked away.
He was now a celebrity.
A satellite Christian radio station took interest, asked for recordings of his sermons, and started playing them Sunday nights, late, for whoever was still awake. It was partly because of the novelty of hearing a convicted murderer preaching the word of god as if he had written it himself, and partly because people just liked to listen to that addictive southern drawl oscillate between passionate shouting and equally passionate whispers.
Boyd started receiving love letters to his prison mailbox, after that. He never read them.
The only thing he did do those two years after he became a Christian radio personality was read used books from the prison libraries, give his sermons every Sunday and think about the woman who had shot him in the chest, literally, and in the heart, metaphorically.
Ava Crowder.
And after Raylan Givens had driven all the way from Florida to Kentucky so he could deliver the news of the death of the woman they had both known (but only Boyd had loved), Boyd had returned to his pulpit to only tell his criminal congregation that there would be no more sermons, no more church, and no more prison preacher Boyd Crowder.
Nobody knew why, most assumed he was depressed or that it was just Boyd being Boyd and he would be back to shouting about sins and forgiveness soon. Nobody knew who Boyd's visitor had been, either.
And nobody really cared. Not even the Christian satellite radio stations who quickly replaced him with a gospel singer from the Detroit ghetto for their god-conquers-crime novelty act.
No, nobody cared until Boyd Crowder disappeared from Tramble a week later.
It started on a Friday night.
Sumo opened his eyes in the dimly-lit cell to stare up at the ceiling from the top bunk of the cell's bunkbed. He adjusted his large body on the small mattress, his orange jumpsuit slightly tight for his size.
Why Boyd had let the almost three hundred pound (a mixture of fat and muscles) man sleep above him when the weak frame could break at any moment, causing him to fall down and crush his smaller cellmate.
"You're doing it again, Boyd."
A sigh. "Doing what, Sumo?"
"You know what. Turning the pages. It's keeping me awake."
Boyd flipped to the next page of the novel he was reading. Its cover was taped-on and torn, but its title was readable.
The Friends of Eddie Coyle
Sumo's black-haired head appeared in Boyd's peripheral vision, upside-down, narrowing his eyes in annoyance at Boyd from the edge of the top bunk.
Boyd pretended not to notice it and continued reading.
Sumo continued glaring, intent to burn a whole right through the pages of the old book in Boyd's hands.
Finally, after a few long minutes, Boyd spoke.
"Greatest crime novel ever written." He declared, "I'd let you borrow it from me if the library wasn't so strict about its checkout policy."
"What happened to the bible?" Sumo asked.
"Oh, I still have it under my pillow, Sumo." Boyd assured, "That one's mine. You can borrow it anytime the lord compels you to."
Sumo did not believe in god and Boyd knew that. Boyd also knew that Sumo had only joined his church because was the only Asian (Chinese, though, not Japanese like the nickname suggested) in the maximum security section of the prison prison (and perhaps the entire state of Kentucky) and becoming part of the multi-racial Cult of Boyd Crowder was his only protection.
"I want to sleep." Sumo stated.
"Well, I want to read." Boyd countered.
He finally looked up at Sumo's upside-down face. They were at a stalemate until—
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The bootsteps of a guard clacked down the hallway. A random search or roll-call might be upon them.
Boyd sat up from where he lay in the lower bunk, swinging his legs over the side and placing his sock-covered feet onto the floor. He set his book down beside him.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The footsteps drew closer.
Boyd stood up.
He approached the bars of his cell just as the guard passed by.
"Eddy!" Boyd called out to him.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The blue-uniformed guard with the brown buzzcut continued past Boyd.
"Eddy!" Boyd tried again.
Stomp. Stomp. Sigh.
The guard swiveled on his feet then returned to the stretch of hallway in front of the cell where Boyd Crowder and Winston 'Sumo' Shi spent the majority of their days in an uneasy, unequal truce.
"What is it Crowder?" the guard, Edward Green, groaned, "And why do you think we're on a first name basis?"
"My apologies…Mr. Green." Boyd said, sounding sickeningly sincere while quickly checking Edward's nametag, "I don't mean to seem too familiar, I just got so caught up in the book I was reading I forgot reality."
"You do that a lot, don't you?" Edward sneered.
Boyd smiled. "Fiction is my escapism. Without it—and the grace of god— would go insane locked in here all day and all night like a rat in a cage."
"I thought you ended the church." Edward recalled. An old Smashing Pumpkins song got from his high school days stuck in his head at that moment, too.
"I did." Boyd confirmed, with a nod, then adding, "For now, at least."
"So what do you want?" Edward asked.
"I want to speak to the warden." Boyd requested.
"No." Edward refused, plainly.
"But, Mr. Green, he's gone like what I have to say and so will you." Boyd promised.
Edward snorted.
"You know how many of you idiots say stupid stuff like that to me on a daily basis?" he dismissed, "Guards and prisoners both used to tell me you were a legend, you could convince anyone anything—sell their soul or their firstborn son—and they'd do it. Now look at you, Boyd Crowder, a washed up old man…" he chuckled.
"Well, maybe you're not the kind that's convinced with words." Boyd tried, "But instead the kind that's convinced with money."
Edward blinked. "You're trying to bribe me now? Fuck off."
With that, he turn and stomped away from Boyd the prison cell. In addition to the bootsteps, his laughter was audible.
"Ooh, that was harsh." Sumo commented, sitting on the top bunk.
Boyd turned around to go back to bed. He noticed the novel he had put down on his mattress was gone.
Furrowing his brow, he checked under the pillow. The bible was gone, too.
"You take my books, Sumo?" Boyd accused, tearing the blanket from his bed to make sure the books had not somehow tucked themselves in under the covers.
Sumo shrugged above. "I ate them."
Sumo's eyes burst open at the clank of the metal celldoor opening. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Sumo squinted down from the top bunk of the bunkbed.
A figure stomped into the cell and yanked Boyd out of bed, his blankets falling to the floor.
Now, Boyd awoke. "Hey!"
"You're coming with me." A voice ordered in the dark.
It was the guard, Edward Green's.
Sumo watched, silently, as Edward dragged Boyd out of the darkened cell.
The warden's office was smaller than Boyd Crowder had expected. He imagined it should have been grand, with a mahogany desk, a brand new computer, and a wall-sized window overlooking the prison yard when the ants in orange jumpsuits played like bullies on a playground.
Instead, it was like a principal's office. Painted brickwalls, a few family portraits on the bookshelf, and a scratched-up desk that may have just been laminated to look like wood.
Still, this did not surprise Boyd. It was a state prison, not a for-profit one.
"I didn't know you worked so late." He commented as Edward shoved him into the small office, slamming the door behind them.
The warden smiled. "I don't, usually." He scoffed, "They don't pay me enough."
Boyd smiled back, mimicking the laughter. Instant rapport with the older, white-haired man in the gray suit.
"Boyd Crowder." Boyd introduced himself, extending a hand to shake.
Edward grimaced when the warden took and shook it.
"James Richland." Warden returned, then gesturing to the metal foldingchair in front of the scratched desk, "Have a seat. I know who you are, Boyd."
Boyd released Warden's hand and sat down in the foldingchair.
"And I know who you are, Mr. Richland." Boyd replied, "Is this a social visit or did Mr. Green tell you about my offer?"
"I don't normally socialize with prisoners." Warden said, "What is your offer, Boyd?"
"I can see from the state of the shower facilities, and of this office, that your prison is having funding troubles, Mr. Richland." Boyd noted, gesturing at the water-stained ceiling tiles, "I can help with that."
"How?" Warden inquired, narrowing his eyes in caution and interested.
"By robbing a bank." Boyd declared.
The next morning was a Saturday.
Boyd sat with Sumo and the other members of his congregation in the beige prison cafeteria.
The table was long, like in that old painting of the Last Supper, but there were a little more than twelve of them. Boyd did sit in the middle like Jesus had, though.
The congregation (eight whites, four blacks, two latinos and an asian) ate their breakfast in wary, mostly-silence. None of them knew what the plan was now that Boyd had disbanded his church after four years.
Were they still a group? Or were they individual targets to be picked off by the Aryan Brotherhood and the Black Guerilla Family?
The men at the other segregated tables stared at Boyd's integrated table wondering the same thing. But everyone in the room wore orange, except the guards.
For now, they all stayed in their seats.
"You're not eating, Boyd." Sumo commented. He eyed Boyd's plate of intact egg-like substance and stale biscuit. "If you don't want it, I'll take it."
He reached across the table towards the meal. A skinny hand swatted his chubby fingers away.
"Ho, there, Sumo! Not fair, not fair at all!" Dickie Bennett declared, "Seeing your size compared to mine, I think I need that food more than you do."
Boyd looked up from the book he was reading in his lap under the table. Sumo had given the novel back to him that morning from its hiding place. It was still warm.
He faced the messy brown mohawk and overgrown mustache of his former enemy.
"I was gracious enough to forgive your trespasses against people that I care deeply about, one of whom who is dead because of you." Boyd stated, "I accepted you into my fold, which is more than you deserved—but I will not give you my breakfast, Dickie Bennett." He turned to Sumo, "Sumo, you can take it."
Sumo grinned and grabbed the plate, sliding it towards him.
Dickie grumbled to himself next to Sumo. "You fat slant-eye—"
"Hey!" Boyd warned, "No racism. That's one of the rules of sitting at my table."
Dickie rolled his eyes. "You, Boyd, are the one who used to be a Neo Nazi if I recall correctly."
Boyd sighed at the memory.
Had he ever really believed that crap? Or had he just wanted something to believe in and a reason to be a pack leader? Did he really believe in god?
There was nothing Boyd Crowder knew for certain. Except that he loved Ava—and that when he escaped this prison it would be Raylan Givens that came after him.
Boyd rose, book still in hand.
He walked around the long table and smacked Dickie on the back of the head with the book.
Dickie cried out in pain, then whirled around to glower up at Body. "Ho! Now what in the hell was that for?!"
Boyd raised the book high over his shoulders with both hands, preparing to strike again.
Dickie hopped up and raised his first, preparing to punch Boyd in the face.
Gasps echoed around the wide cafeteria, the eyes of the men in orange and the eyes of the men in blue all watched the two Harlan County natives stare at each other, silent and still.
"Go on, Dickie, hit me." Boyd invited, "Hit me."
"Boyd, why?" Dickie asked.
"Hit me." Boyd growled.
The intense look in his eyes hazel eyes made Dickie fear not hitting him more than he did hitting him.
Nervously, but with full force, Dickie balled his fist and punched Boyd in the jaw. Boyd's head turned to the side, a few drops of blood and saliva flinging through the air.
Everyone in the cafeteria (except Boyd) gaped in shocked. Even Dickie was shocked at what he had done.
Boyd stood there. He turned his head to face Dickie again, waiting expectantly for Dickie to hit him again.
Dickie shrugged then tackled Boyd to the white tile floor of the cafeteria in a storm of punches.
The inmates erupted into roars, leaping from their seats at the long tables.
The guards shook themselves out of the shock that a once-model inmate would provoke a fight and did their jobs, waving guns and batons around the calm the rowdy crowd.
Sumo stood. "Get off of him—"
"No." Boyd interrupted, looking up past Dickie as the shorter man punched him on the floor at Sumo, "Let him."
Sumo sat back down.
Eventually, the guards arrived to pull Dickie off of Boyd and pull Boyd off of the floor. They were in no hurry.
Two guards dragged Dickie, kicking and waving his arms to get free, while just one, Edward Green, took Boyd without protest in the opposite direction, the book still in his hand.
When both involved in the fight were gone from the cafeteria, the inmates returned to their morning meal without further incident.
Boyd sat on the cold metal table of the white-walled infirmary. He held the novel lightly in both hands.
Edward paced back and forth. He was nervous already.
"We can say your injuries were so bad we had to send you to a real hospital…" he muttered, "but they're gonna ask questions once they see you were never brought to a hospital or that you escaped from one."
"Don't you worry about the authorities." Boyd calmed, "Worry about how we're gonna rob this bank. You cased the place like I told you to, right?"
Edward stopped, turning to Boyd. "I did. Three tellers, no security guard, one of them's gotta gun behind the counter but there's bulletproof glass in between so I don't know what he'll be able to do with it."
"You don't know for sure it's bulletproof glass." Boyd cautioned. "Don't let it get to the point he reaches for that gun."
"I'll try." Edward gulped, "You sure this will work, Boyd?"
"Eddy, there are two things I'm good at." Body declared, "Orating and robbing banks."
Edward raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were good at talking, too?"
Boyd raised an eyebrow right back. "I am. That's what orating means."
"…oh." Edward realized, "I thought it meant—nevermind…"
Boyd slid off the table into a standing position. "Let's go."
The nondescript van parked the in front of the bank in Eddyville. Nondescript, in this case meant white and windowless so the kind one would imagine a serial killer had and so would immediately be suspicious of.
Inside, Edward turned from the driver's seat to look back at Boyd.
Boyd was seated on the metal floor, unsecured except for handcuffs, out of sight to anyone that would look in the windows in front of and beside Edward. He had fresh bruises from the rough ride over as well as from the Dickie's punches.
"You gone let me out of these or am I gonna have to hold the gun like this?" Boyd asked, shaking his connected wrists, the chains jingling.
"I'm not going to give you a gun." Edward snorted, "I'm not stupid."
His rifle sat in the passenger's seat next to him. Even it had been buckled in.
Boyd grimaced. "You'll let me out of these, though?"
Edward nodded. "Hold on."
Boyd waited as Edward unbuckled himself, then his gun, then exited the van. He walked across the sidewalk to the other end of the van, then stepped onto the street in order to open its back door.
Boyd squinted in the sunlight when the door slid open. He outstretched both hands so that Edward could unlock the handcuffs.
"You know, Mr. Green, there happens to be an Eddie in the book I'm reading." He conversed as Edward, dug for the key in his jeans pocket.
He was wearing civilian attire, jeans and a white t-shirt. Boyd was given the clothes taken from him upon arrival in prison; a white buttondown, dark jeans and a black coat.
"I hate that nickname." Edward dismissed. He had found the key.
"A couple bankrobbers, too." Boyd continued, "And a cop trying to catch them. It's one of those things you just know is going to end badly, but you can't bear to take your eyes off the page."
"Is this a book club or a bank robbery?" Edward snapped.
He grabbed Boyd's wrists and shoved the key into the lock. As soon as he turned it, Boyd shook his hands free, from the cuffs and Edward's grasp, letting the metal falls.
"Free at last!" Boyd declared, "Thank god almighty, I am—"
"Shut up and put those on." Edward ordered. "Hand me mine."
He pointed behind Boyd. There were two skimasks and two pairs of gloves in a black cloth pile.
Boyd reached behind him with his newly freed hand and slid the pile forward across the metal floor. He picked up one glove, slipped it on, then another, slipped it on.
Finally, he picked up the black skimask with both hands and pulled it over his tall brown hair and angular face. Now, only his hazel eyes were visible.
"Let's do this, Eddy."
"Now, normally I like to cause a distraction before I rob a bank." Boyd told Edward, "But since I don't have any emulex today, I'll have to improvise."
They marched through the glass doors into the local branch of a chain bank. Boyd scanned the off-white colored room while Edward shot at the ceiling.
"Everybody down this is a robbery!" he shouted.
Shrieks. Gasps. The usual.
Boyd watched as the businesspeople and stay-at-home parents dropped to the blue carpet. They gazed up at the robbers in disbelief and fear.
Who actually expects a robbery when cashing paycheck at the bank?
The closest person to Boyd's black shoes was an elderly woman crouched on the floor behind a navyblue couch. She hoped he had not seen her, but he had. She had her large cellphone out, the kind with the bigger screen and buttons built for a senior citizen's ease-of-use and eyesight.
Boyd squatted down to her level. "Excuse me, ma'am, may I borrow your phone?"
The woman stared into his ski masked face, her glasses-covered eyes wide. It took a few moments before she moved, arm shaking as she handed him the phone.
"Thank you." Boyd thanked.
She could see his smile though the cut out in the mask for his mouth, large and almost shark-like
He then rose, taller than everyone in the room because he and Edward were the only ones standing. He glanced at the phone's screen, then dialed three numbers.
9-1-1
Over by the wooden tellerbooths, the most fearful of the three tellers was shoving stacks of money through the tiny rectangular hole in the glass to Edward's bag, held open so that the cash would fall in.
Meanwhile Edward trained his gun and his eyes on the man who had survived previous robberies and could stop this one were he able to reach for his shotgun under his desk. He was not. Both his hands were raised in surrender above him.
(Of course, this meant that Edward was not watching the fearful teller.)
The phone rang in Boyd's hand. He pressed it to his ear.
"9-1-1 what's your emergency?" the operator asked.
"Hello, my name is Sadam Osama, I'm an illegal Muslim immigrant from Nigeria and I'm going to blow up the closest elementary school unless the president closes Guantanamo Bay and releases all the prisoners." Boyd declared. "Thank you."
He hung up the phone and dropped it onto the carpet beside the old woman it belonged to.
The sirens could already be heard somewhere in the distance—probably hurrying in the direction of the nearest school.
Boyd turned to Edward.
"Distraction achieved." He informed.
"I've got the money." Edward replied, without glancing back at Boyd. Bag of cash in one hand, he backed away from the counter, continuing to the point his rifle at the teller with both hands raised in the air.
Boyd turned and exited the bank, while Edward had backed his way out of the building with the bag of money.
Boyd was already sitting in the back of the white van, skimask removed, when Edward slid open the back door to throw in the stolen cash.
"You know Guantanamo Bay closed already, right?" he asked the prisoner, tugging off his own mask and gloves.
"Just because I've been in prison for the past five years don't mean I don't keep up-to-date on current events." Boyd responded, "I also know we had a presidential election three years ago—though, being a felon, I was not allowed to vote."
"Rand Paul wouldn't have won anyway." Edward dismissed.
"Do you take me for a libertarian, Mr. Green?" Boyd asked.
"Well, I know you wouldn't have voted for Bernie Sanders." Edward reasoned, "You were too un politically correct with that distraction phone call you made."
Boyd shrugged, "Nothing will make law enforcement move faster than a black, Muslim illegal alien."
"We need to move fast." Edward stated, "Somebody in there would've called the police by now and that old teller might come out with his shotgun."
"This is where you and I part ways, Mr. Green." Boyd declared. "Now give me my share of the money and I will be on my way. You'll travel lighter and faster without me and my half weighing down the back of your van."
"Oh, no, no, 'Mr'. Crowder." Edward countered, "I'm taking you back to prison. The deal I made with the warden was that I get half, he get half and you get nothing but the room, board and free meals provided by the government to you in the Kentucky State Penitentiary."
Boyd sighed. He had suspected this would happen.
"Eddy, I do hope you're joking." He said, "Because I can appreciate a man with a sense of humor—even if his timing and his delivery leave something to be desired. What I can not appreciate, however, is betrayal. You're not the first fool who tried to doublecross me after a robbery."
"I didn't give you a gun for a reason." Edward reminded. "What are you gonna do to stop me?"
"The book I'm reading…" Boyd mused, reaching behind him to pick it up with one hand, "I forgot to mention that I'd read it already. Several times. It came out the year I was born and was a favorite of a friend of mine back in high school."
Edward groaned, "Not this book stuff again."
"Now, normally I'd never spoil the ending of a good book." Boyd continued, "But 'cause you're not gone have a chance to read it for yourself, I guess I can make an exception."
"What?" Edward demanded, raising his rifle.
But before he could aim the weapon at Boyd and shoot, Boyd pulled a shiv from the book, lunged forward and stabbed Edward in the neck.
Edward choke. He dropped the gun to grab his open and bleeding throat. His eyes, wide, gaped at Boyd. He tried to speak but only gurgling noises sputtered out with the blood and saliva.
He fell backwards, down onto the gray asphalt street behind him.
Boyd stepped out of the back of the van to stand over Edward who glared up at him, shock turning to anger, then the realization that he was about to die.
Boyd chuckled, shaking his head and watching Edwards's blood spill from his neck to pool on the pavement around his body, soaking into his white t-shirt. The shiv still stuck out of his throat, but it did not stop the bleeding.
Boyd bent down beside Edward to whisper, "The man named Eddie? He dies."
Then, he picked up the rifle, stood, and was gone.
It was dark in California, especially in the small town of Lebec where the city light-pollution could not taint the dark, starry skies and especially on the ranch Ava Crowder—now Jacklyn 'Jackie' Leonard—lived and worked, caring for the property and the special needs children that the owner ran a school for.
Now, she sat in the lamplight of her livingroom, her almost-five year old son on her lap, in the red armchair by the wooden coffeetable. On top of it sat a tablet, tuned into a particular satellite radio station.
Right now, Christian rock music was humming. Not exactly Ava's favorite genre, but her son, Zachariah Leonard, seemed to enjoy it.
"Mama, when's the shouting man gonna come on?" he asked her.
He looked up at her with her own green eyes that sometimes, in the bright sunlight, looked like Boyd's hazel. He had Boyd's brown hair, too, though it did not stand straight up like cornstalks like Boyd's did, and he had his soft cotton pajama shirt button-up to his neck, the way only Boyd, and now his son, would find comfortable.
Ava was in her nightgown, past knee-length and thick, because she lived with her young child and not a grown man. She had slippers on her feet.
"In a few minutes." Ava promised.
But she should not have. Instead of the famous (infamous?) prison preacher from Tramble State in Kentucky, the un southern accent of an announcer broadcast instead.
"Listeners, unfortunately we will not have the Prison Preacher Radio Hour on the air tonight. Prison warden James Richland has informed us that his inmate Boyd Crowder is unavailable at the moment. Hopefully this will be resolved by next Sunday. For now, enjoy some of your favorite gospel—"
Ava reached past Zach and tapped the tablet off. Zach folded his arms and glared up at his mother.
"You said—" he began.
"Well, I didn't know, Zach and I'm sorry." Ava replied. "I guess I'm going to have to read you a story instead." She smiled, trying to coax Zach out of his pout. "Now, which one do you want to read with me?"
She was careful to speak in complete sentences and correct grammar around her son. She did not want him to grow up talking like a 'hillbilly'.
He had learned to talk early, so she had had to stop cursing, and had learned to read at three years old by memorizing every line then matching the sound to the word on the page. It was just picture books now, but chapter books would come soon.
"I don't wanna read with you, I wanna listen to the shouting man." Zach insisted.
"You heard the announcer." Ava shrugged, long blonde hair shaking with her shoulders, "He's not available tonight."
She wondered what had happened to Boyd.
Had he been beaten? Killed? Broken out?
She tried to guess which one, and which one she would have preferred to have happened. Three years ago, it would have been killed. A year ago, beaten.
But time had worn away her hatred for Boyd while leaving her love for him untouched. And, there was the love for her son, too, the strongest feeling she had ever felt. She could not help but see Boyd's face when looking at her little boy.
"Why?" her little boy demanded.
"I don't know." Ava admitted.
Zach hopped off his mother's lap, jumping onto the surface of the coffeetable where he crouched, picking up the tablet. He pressed the touchscreen, turning the satellite station back on.
A man's voice bellowed an old spiritual Ava recognized from Sundays in Nobles Holler when she had been hiding out from Bowman. She stood outside the small wooden church, not wanting to step into a sacred and safe place.
Just like the holler was a refuge for Ava, and other white women, from their abusive husbands, the church a refuge for the black citizens of Harlan County from the white ones who would rather see them hang from trees than live quiet, unbothered lives tucked away in the valley of the mountains.
Ava did not want to disturb that.
A sly friend of Ellston Limehouse who also did not step inside the church saw Ava idling outside one morning, listening to the singing sail out the glass-less window of the airconditioning-less building.
He had offered to have the preacher baptize her in the nearby river. Ava knew his offer had less to do with god and more to do with seeing her in a wet t-shirt.
Limehouse had scolded his friend for that.
The music stopped.
Ava glanced up from her memory to see that Zach had tapped the tablet again. He liked Christian rock, but not gospel, apparently. She was still trying to get him to appreciate bluegrass, too.
"Why'd the shouting man go to prison?" Zach asked. "That's where the bad people go."
"I don't know why." Ava lied, "But I guess it was because he was a bad man."
"But he's a preacher." Zach reasoned, furrowing his small forehead.
"Maybe, he's not a bad man anymore." Ava hoped (though completely doubted), "Maybe he turned good."
"If he turned good, why didn't they let him out?" Zach wondered.
He was now sitting on the coffeetable with his little legs swinging back and forth, too short to touch the brown-carpeted floors beneath them with his sockfeet.
"Because he might turn bad again." Ava answered.
Zach's legs stopped swinging. He cocked his head to one side in confusion.
"Will I turn bad, mama?" he inquired, "Will you?"
"No." Ava stated, with certainty. She was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to assure him. "As long as you make the right choices, and do the right things, like I'm teaching you, then you'll never turn bad."
"Why does anyone turn bad?" Zach followed-up.
"I don't know, honey," Ava sighed. She reached forward with both arms and pulled Zach off of the coffeetable and back onto her lap. "And I think, sometimes, the bad people don't know either."
There it is! The first chapter! Hope you liked it!
Please review if you did and want me to continue it!