Title: Trial
Rating: PG
Synopsis: Painful revelations during Jack's trial.
Category: Slash(mostly implied, but still there), angst
Warnings: More angsty David.
Feedback: Yes, please. Constructive criticism is welcomed eagerly.
Archiving: Just ask, I suppose.
Note: This is honestly the first story I've ever written in first person point-of-view. This story couldn't be written any other way, though. I guess Trial can be placed alongside my Newsies ficlet. They're not exactly the same storyline, but they're parallel. More angsty David, implied slash. Yeesh. At least this one's longer, right guys? I promise I'll have some fluff soon. I got the dialogue in this story from a script of Newsies found at http://www.angelfire.com/movies/disneybroadway/newsiesscript.html
To Crunch-- *goes teary-eyed* Your review for Newsies Ficlet was my first story review ever. And it was so nice! Thank you. I'll have to think of something nice to do for you. You say you don't like slash? Hmm . . .well, I'll come with something.
Thank you to my other reviewers, as well. You're what made this fic happen.
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Most of them are there. The judge looks annoyed, but I'm not surprised; Race is looking smug, like he does when he just stacked a poker deck in his favor. Some of them are scraped and bruised, but for the most part they seem fine. All except one, who's missing. It's the missing boy I'm worried about. Where--
"Where's Jack?"
Good. My voice was steady. With this fear churning up inside me, I was afraid it wouldn't be. Denton's saying something about meeting at the restaurant. I'm too busy searching faces to hear the rest of what he says.
I look at Race and Spot. They don't look upset--at least, not any more upset than can be expected. They don't seem to know where Jack is, either, but at least they don't think he's . . . I'm not sure where I think he could be. I don't want to think about it.
The judge is trying to clear us out and, still, there's no sign of Jack. Wouldn't he have to be tried with the other Newsies? Maybe I should ask Denton.
The door opens as I'm shuffling closer to Denton. I look up.
Jack.
"Hey fellas!" His voice is cheerful, cocky. It should be reassuring, so why is my skin crawling? It might be the bruise high on his cheekbone, or the handcuffs. It might be. But what really knots my stomach is the smirk on Snyder's face.
"Hey, Denton. I guess we made all the papes this time. So, how's my picture look?" He's so confident he'll win, we'll win. He must not see the look Snyder's giving him. The one that's staining my thoughts cold and fearful.
Denton hesitates. "None of the papers covered the rally. Not even the Sun," he finally says.
I turn to look at Denton, surprise yanking my gaze away from Jack's face, but not before I see his expression. He's confused. So am I.
"Case of Jack Kelly. Inciting a riot. Assault. Resisting arrest."
"Judge Monahan," Snyder begins, his voice oily, "I'll speak for this young man." They've already started the trial while I'm still trying to figure out what Denton was saying, what effect this will have on the strike. I'm floundering, freezing.
"You two know each other. Ain't that nice." Jack is fighting back in the only way he can: with his words. Somehow this anchors me, pushes back the tide of fear. If Jack is still fighting, there's still a chance. I relax a little.
"This boy's real name is Francis Sullivan. His mother's deceased. His father's a convict in the state penitentiary. He's an escapee from the House of Refuge where his original sentence for three months was extended to six moths for disruptive behavior."
With these words, the tide rushes in again, shaking my hold on Jack. I look desperately at Jack, waiting for him to deny the charges, to prove me right about our friendship. Needing to be proved right.
"Like demanding we eat the food you steal from us."
He can't deny it.
I feel sick and have to look down. I don't need to hear the rest of the trial and the growing desperation in Jack's voice to know that enough damage has been done. I'm supposed to know words, but the only way to describe how I feel is . . . lost.
Every memory I have of Jack is false. From the very beginning, all I heard were lies. I want to figure out who Jack Kelly--Francis Sullivan--really is, but I don't have any place to start. And the thing that's really eating me up inside is . . . if he lied about something as simple as his name, then he can't have been telling the truth when he talked to me about his feelings.
* "It's just improving the truth a little"*
I want to scream, to cry, to punch someone, to walk out and quit. I won't, though. That's one truth Jack taught me: to not give up, to go down fighting. And it's something to cling to while I fight through this pain. Maybe if Jack could be right about that, he could be right about other things. I'll think about it later, when my stomach isn't rebelling and my throat isn't burning.
"I ask that the court order his incarceration until the age of twenty-one, in the hope that we may yet guide him to a useful and productive life."
I hold my breath, hoping for what I know is impossible.
"So ordered." The sound of the gavel is so final.
"No!" Les shouts.
No.