A/N: This story takes place directly after my other fic "Letters from Elwood: The Liberty of Lies." HOWEVER - you do not have to read that story to understand this one. This can stand alone.

LETTERS FROM ELWOOD:

FALSE WITNESS

by Jo Z. Pierce

"Elwood! You're gonna get us killed!" a young Jake screamed at his younger brother.

"No I ain't."

Within a year or two, Elwood would be able to comfortably sit behind the wheel of any car. Based on his body type and build, people guessed that Elwood would soon be quite tall. But with orphans, no one really could know for sure. Until then, he was just another skinny little boy.

And right now, he was the skinny little boy just able to see over the steering wheel of a 1965 Pontiac GTO.

"Okay then...You're gonna get ME killed!" Jake rephrased his panicked plea, asking Elwood to slow down.

"No I ain't."

Jake was always getting himself into one bad situation or another. Most of the time, these situations could have been easily avoided. Tormenting the Penguin too many times was easily avoided. Or trying to pull a fast one on some kid in class, then underestimating his opponent's skill or strength. Whatever the situation, it always led to some back pedaling, fancy footwork, or an elaborate web of lies woven to dig himself out of the mess.

But for once, this bad situation wasn't even his fault. This time, Jake found himself in the passenger seat of a stolen car his little brother desperately wanted to drive.

"Come on, Elwood! I ain't kidding!"

Elwood shrugged it off, as he concentrated on the road, and made himself comfortable. He had finally figured out the clutch, and now he was learning about speed. Elwood didn't have a lot of experience driving, but even at twelve, he was a natural. Jake only wished they weren't practicing down the residential streets.

Jake covered his eyes dramatically as they swerved to avoid a kid that had jumped out into the middle of the road. The boy was no older than Jake. The car spun out as Elwood hit the brake. Completing the full 360 degree spin, barely missing the row of cars parked along the street, he resumed as if nothing had even happened.

"Jesus Christ, Elwood!"

"Don't worry, Jake," the younger brother assured Jake with a devilish smirk on his face. "I've got it all under control. Otherwise, we'd already be dead."

Jake looked at his younger brother in complete shock, mouth gaping open just a little. Then he turned and looked out the front windshield again, and sat back in his seat. With a deep breath, he settled in for the ride. Jake found his own space, and maintained his own brand of calm composure.

"Yeah, man. I know," Jake finally said. "You're good."

Ever since that time, Jake never doubted his brother's driving skills again. He understood his brother had the knack. He was one with his cars. And it wasn't just keeping his hands on the wheel, or keeping the car between the yellow lines on the road.

Jake could control the chicks, with a good line, a suprisingly convincing smile, and his big brown eyes. But for Elwood, it was all about the road. Ever since the first time he and Jake went joy riding in a stolen car, it was clear that Elwood would always be the one behind the wheel. Making some form of contact with the road was just his thing.

Twelve years later, in the summer of 1978, Elwood still found himself turning to the road.

A few days ago, he was in Chicago, trying to figure out his life, and where he was going. Honestly, he hadn't thought about that in a long while. When he was six, he thought about being a police man. When he was eight, he wanted to be a musician. By the time he left the orphanage, being a car mechanic at least seemed like a way to keep himself near cars, and away from the law, in between gigs.

Now everyone he cared about either was too far away, or had turned their backs on him. Jake was in Joliet. The band had completely split. Some girl he thought he fell for turned out to be a wrong number. Even meaningless one night stands weren't satisfying. Everything just felt like a dead end street. No matter what he thought about - his brother, the band, or women - nothing seemed to be turning out right.

A road trip wasn't how he planned to spend his summer. What? With the price of gas? Still, he decided this was the time to hit the road, and to see the United States of America, the way tourists never do.

With a full tank of gas, he loaded up the Caddy with a few 8 track cassettes and a small briefcase, and he didn't look back.

The first few hours were the toughest. Elwood found himself thinking a lot about motors. And the band. And Jake. It was better than the alternatives, he told himself. Last thing he needed was to get distracted from his driving while thinking about chicks. Then, every time he told himself that, he'd spend the next few hours thinking about them. So instead, he made sure to think about shock absorbers.

Those first few days, it seemed like he drove every back road in the northern half of Illinois. He must have filled up the tank ten times, just riding in circles through depressed towns and middle class havens alike. Then he moved east into Indiana. There, too, he'd drive the highway, or the backroads. It didn't matter. He just had to keep moving. When the music on the radio started to suck or offer nothing but static, he knew that he'd gone to far. At that point, he would either pop in an 8-track, or turn the car and head in a new direction.

He'd robbed a car not too long ago, and the money was good. Eight hundred bucks. But most of the money had run out by now. He put aside some cash to pay his rent while away. That was only about sixty dollars. The rest went to a hotel room for that one night stand, a few tanks of gas, and a whole lot of booze. He'd have to start shopping in places that offered him the "Five Finger Discount." Nick it, then pawn it off somewhere down the road. He'd sleep in the backseat, and do what he had to do to keep the Caddy on the road.

He wasn't going back to Chicago until things were sorted out in his mind.

Three days later, he was back in Illinois. Interstate 55, heading south into Springfield was pretty much a straight run. This was the heartland, he told himself. But if it was the heart and soul of the United States, why did it suck so much?

Finally in Springfield, he pulled the Caddy into the parking lot of the first post office he could find, and walked in. Politely, he asked the postal worker a few questions, then bought a few stamps, some paper, and some envelopes. He took them over to a counter, and scribbled a few notes.

He wondered if all the stuff he abandoned in his place was still there, or if Lloyd thought he'd decided to take off for good. He pulled out a few twenties, folded them up, and stuffed them between a letter.

August 1, 1978

Lloyd,

Here's the money for the room, for August. Don't know when I'll be back.

Don't sell my stuff, but you can have the food and booze in the fridge.

Tell Sam he was wrong.

Elwood

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few other notes that he had been scribbling to people over the past few days. The note to his boss. Screw that. Who needed a straight job, anyway? No reason now, was there?

The note to the bitch who stood him up a few days ago? He looked at the letter, and put it back in his pocket. Let her wait, the way I waited for her.

Then there was the note to Jake.

August 1, 1978

Dear Jake,

The band got a last minute gig in San Diego. Sorry I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. It's a regular booking, Thursdays through Saturday nights. Maybe a few months. The band is really excited for a regular gig.

I'll write when I get there, then when I settle in, but it may be a while.

Your brother,

Elwood