CHAPTER 4: Just pushing a rock up a hill

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

"Absolutely not, Marty. You've known this for almost a year, now."

Marty Ryder sat back in his chair, an exasperated breath escaping as he folded his hands behind his head. Kinney was going to be the death of him, or his agency, for chrissakes.

"Send the Doublemint Twins, or send Kip. He's always bucking to be in the big leagues. Reschedule the presentation. Whatever you need to make it happen. But if you need me involved, it won't be on the 29th." Brian sat across the desk from his employer, his long legs crossed at the knee, presenting an elegant and determined figure.

"Brian, you are an executive with this company. I need you, as an employee of this company, to do this presentation. On the date scheduled. In Chicago." Marty slid the pertinent file folder across the desk toward the man.

Brian picked up the folder and looked through the information contained inside. Slowly, he then closed the file and placed it perfectly back in front of his employer as he stood up. He stopped his walk toward the door and let his shoulders slump slightly as he turned back around to face his boss. "You agreed to this, Marty. Over ten months ago, you agreed to this arrangement. I will work on Saturday, on Sunday, Christmas, Ground Hog Day and your ex-wife's second cousin's fucking birthday, if necessary! But I do not work on Tuesday."

"It's not negotiable, Brian," Marty spoke up as Brian opened the door to leave the office. Marty needed Brian to be there, agreement or not. He'd been a fool to agree to the man's ludicrous demands last year, but he'd literally been over a barrel with the Maars account and would have agreed to just about anything to have Brian nail it down. And that moment of weakness, and sympathy for Brian's claims of a continuing family issue, had come back to bite Marty's ass one too many times.

"You're right. It isn't negotiable," Brian said somberly. "But it is this simple, Marty. You can continue to do without me on Tuesdays per my contract rider, or the Ryder Agency can continue on without my talents altogether. Ball's in your court."

Brian Kinney had never been falsely modest about his talent, nor did he underestimate his worth at the Ryder Agency. He knew he was damned good at his job – fucking brilliant actually. Oh, he knew that Marty would bluster and bitch, but he wouldn't fire Brian. Not for that, anyway. The Ryder name may be on the door, but the Kinney talent was what got the client's to cough up the money.

Brian reached over and pressed the intercom. "Cynthia, could you tell me why the designs on the Burger Box account aren't up on the network?"

"They've been posted, Brian. I'll check to make sure but they're probably still in queue. By the way, there is a Mr. Honeycutt here to see you."

"Send him in. And, Cynthia… did you get those pictures printed for me?"

"I have them here. She's a beautiful child, Brian. Anything I should know about?" Brian could literally hear the smirk in the woman's voice.

"Probably, but now's not the time for sexual tips, Cynthia. Just bring in the pictures when you show in Honeycutt." He wished he could discuss Bryn with his assistant. Cynthia had been his right hand for years, and she knew more about his personal life than any assistant should ever have to know. But this… this was private.

Brian heard three quick raps on the door as it snapped open and Cynthia walked in, Emmett following close behind, a virtual explosion of colors. A fucking rainbow Molotov cocktail.

"Christ, Emmett," Brian said, his tongue in his cheek and his hand over his eyes. "They could use you in the Middle East. You could blind the enemy and the fucking fighting would be over in minutes!"

"Good to see you, too, Mr. Monochrome." Emmett swept across the room, the free end of his aqua boa trailing behind him as he settled himself on the chair near Brian's desk.

"Here you go, Brian. The photos you wanted." She laid the small stack of prints on the corner of his desk. "You need anything else." She eyed the colorful man beside her boss warily.

"No, Cynthia," Brian chuckled. Emmett was a sight today, but then he always was. He had never met a prouder fag than Emmett Honeycutt. "Thanks." He smiled up at the woman who nodded slightly, took another surreptitious look at Brian's flamboyantly colorful guest, and retreated.

"She's quite a lovely thing, isn't she?" Emmett asked as Brian placed the photos in a large manila envelope. "A bit on the anxious side, though."

"Uh… Honeycutt… that's not anxiety you picked up on. That's embarrassment – for you. What the hell are you wearing, anyway?"

"Spring, Mr. Kinney. I'm wearing spring. Pittsburgh could use a bit of it right now. Have you noticed how gloomy it is out there today, all gray and depressing?" The colorful man ran his long fingers slowly over the edge of Brian's desk, measuring his next words. "Makes one feel a bit like being in prison, doesn't it?"

Brian's hand stilled noticeably on the flap of the envelope he was holding, and his heartbeat sped up just a fraction. It's just a word choice, Kinney… merely a coincidence. "I'm sure I wouldn't know, Honeycutt."

"Brian..."

"We need to discuss Vic's party, Emmett." Brian tried to redirect the dangerously uncomfortable direction of this conversation. He couldn't know. How would he know? This was all just a fucking odd fluke. "I've been thinking about it and you can use the loft on the 26th. But it would have to be late evening."

"Brian…" Emmett tried again to voice his concerns. He was beginning to feel worried for his friend. His behavior at Babylon on Friday, his consistent unavailability every single Tuesday for months…

"Do you fucking want to discuss Vic's birthday or not, Emmett? That's what I asked you here for this morning!" Brian's voice carried an obvious edge of anger, unaware as to just how much he was giving away by his reaction. "If not, you can walk your rainbow ass out of here."

Emmett sat quietly, simply watching Brian, taking in the reactions of the man. He had never been intimidated by the Kinney mercurial moods and temperament. And his intuition had served him pretty well during his life. He knew Brian was going to be angry with what he had done, but… he could feel that Brian needed him. "Of course I want to discuss it, Brian! We can make it an amazing day for Vic… But…"

"No but, Emm…"

Emmett took a deep breath and steeled himself. "But, I wonder if you will be up to it. I… I know where you go on Tuesday, Brian." His voice had softened as he said the last.

Brian leaned back against his chair, his eyes closed and his jaws clenched. Honeycutt knew?

What. The. Fuck.

"What is it you think you know?" It was almost a whisper.

"It's the boy, isn't it? The boy from the trial." They'd all seen how difficult the trial had been for Brian. He'd obviously fucked the boy, at least according to Michael's account, and then the news reports. Brian had never said anything to them directly about it, had never talked to them about the boy or the attack or the trial, had refused to allow anyone to attend the trial. When the case broke, the entire gang had been stunned to hear the reports on the news, mentioning a prominent Pittsburgh advertising executive in connection with the attack of a high school senior. It was then that Brian began distancing himself from his friends, a fact that, in retrospect, had Emmett fighting his own feelings of guilt. God, the badgering they had given him!

"Justin. His name is Justin." The quiet words surprised Emmett. He was so certain Brian would be defensive and deny what Emmett knew to be the truth. But he sounded… relieved. And Brian was relieved, much to his own surprise. He had spent the last year avoiding his friends – at first because he couldn't deal with their inquisition, and then because he… didn't want to share. Share Justin.

"How did you find out?"

"I followed you," Emmett stated, matter-of-factly.

Brian's eyes widened and his jaws clenched again. Emmett fucking followed him? "Christ!" He could see the man visibly flinch at his exclamation, one hand wrapped up tightly in the flowing boa, the other pressed against his chest. Emmett. The queen. Wrapped in his pride cloak and jewel encrusted dagger. On a covert surveillance mission.

Brian laughed at the image until tears ran down his face.

TCTCTCTC

Eleven months earlier:

"State your name and age for the court, please." George Pappas' voice belted out in the quiet room.

"Brian Kinney. I'm 29." Brian could already feel the bile threatening to rise from his stomach. He had been prepared for his testimony, as well as one could be, by George Pappas. The DA was going for the full monty with this trial. The man, it seemed, had a few mayoral aspirations and a hard line conviction of a young gay boy would endear him to the conservative political machine.

The perfunctory background questioning began.

What do you do for a living, Mr. Kinney.

How long have you lived in the area, Mr. Kinney.

Do you have any criminal history, Mr. Kinney.

Then it became personal.

"Mr. Kinney, are you acquainted with the defendant, Justin Taylor?"

He could hear George's voice during coaching. Keep it short. Don't expound. Answer only and exactly what you are asked.

"Yes, I am." George nodded to his witness. He feared Brian's temper during the cross, but at least he could set some ideas in the jury's mind prior to that. Brian had to maintain a balance between caring and removed where it concerned his knowledge of Justin. Too familiar and the jury would read bias into his perceptions. Too removed and they would doubt his character.

"And, exactly how are you acquainted with the defendant?"

"We… had a one night stand." His heart plummeted as he looked toward Justin, saw him close his eyes and stare at his hands folded on top of the defense table.

"You had sex?"

"Yes."

"Was that on the night of September 24, 2000?"

"Yes."

"Now, you stated for the court that you are 29 years old?"

"Yes."

"At the time of your one night stand, Justin Taylor would have been 17, above the age of legal consent in Pennsylvania?"

"Yes, he was." He wanted to look at Justin again, wanted to reassure him, comfort him. But he couldn't. The boy was facing prison and having his sex life dragged out in front of his family, his friends – the fucking world. He was being fucking devastated and nothing Brian could do would offer any comfort for that.

"Did the defendant spend the night with you that night, Mr. Kinney?"

"Yes. I drove him to school the next morning." George gave Brian a pointed look. No harm done – this time, but don't expound!

"Could you tell the Court what occurred the morning of September 25th?" This was a crucial point… getting the jury to understand the outing of one Justin Taylor. Everything hinged upon that important event.

"A friend of mine had my Jeep for the night. It had been vandalized and the word 'FAGGOT' had been spray painted across the passenger side, in neon pink. I…I dropped Justin off at St. James Academy, his school, in that Jeep." Brian drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes before continuing. He looked toward the defense table and saw… tears and bright blue eyes. His breath hitched as he said, "I… essentially outed him."

"When you say 'outed', for those on the jury who may not be familiar with the term, what do you mean?" George empathized with Brian's pain. And with Justin's. They had both been caught up in a major clusterfuck of circumstances that led them to this courtroom, a clusterfuck from which neither man would ever completely recover. He knew Brian thought he should be sitting at that defense table in Justin's place.

"Justin is gay, was gay long before I met him, of course. But he hadn't told anyone. The kids, teachers at his school, his parents – no one knew. When I drove up with him in the Jeep with that graffiti on the side, when the students all stood there and stared at him as he got out and walked to the school… they all suddenly knew. One boy called him by name and asked if he wanted to su… perform a sexual act on him. God…" Brian felt his own tears of remorse begin to sting and he balled his hands into fists, willing them to not fall. He heard murmurs run through the courtroom and he had to keep his eyes trained on George's just to keep from beating his fists against the witness box in frustration. Fuck! He had messed up so fucking royally!

My life is a fucking mess… because of you and your fucked up life, Brian.

And Justin was paying for it.

He was able to remain somewhat calm as George led him through the morning of Tuesday, September 26, 2000. Through the beating given to Justin by Hobbs' and his gang. Through the truth. He only hoped to whatever god might care that the jury heard it. Believed it.

"No more questions, Your Honor."

"Mr. Horton, you may cross-examine."

"Are you in the habit of picking up young boys for sex, Mr. Kinney?" Brian's jaw snapped tightly shut and his back stiffened. Yeah, he knew where this was leading. Right out of the fucking box! Goddamned homophobic prick.

"Objection!" George Pappas was instantly on his feet. "Counsel is well aware of the implications of his question, Your Honor. He is also well aware that the de jure age of consent in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is 16." *

"Mr. Pappas is also well aware that the potential de facto age of consent in this Commonwealth, Your Honor, is 18, based upon the corruption of minors statute. I am simply attempting to address the character of this witness." **

"Statute does not apply in this instance, Counsel." Shit! George Pappas was well aware of the statute, as was his 'learned' opponent. It did not fucking apply! And they both knew that. They were also both well aware that what the jury heard, the jury could not unhear, regardless of any objection ruling by the judge. Fuck the man. Fuck him.

"Objection sustained. The jury will disregard the question. Mr. Horton, you will refrain from this type of questioning. Rephrase or move on."

"My apologies to the Court, Your Honor." The DA nodded slightly in the direction of the judge, an abashed look on his face. Inside, however, he was smirking. He had gotten his point across. Kinney was now a letch who preyed on children in the eyes of at least some on the jury, and his testimony would subsequently be colored by that perception.

TCTCTCTC

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

Justin stood in line in the 'dining hall' of Mercer Prison, his tray half filled with a few of the more edible looking items from the kitchen. He was almost laughing at the similarities between prison food and that at St. James Academy – mystery meat Wednesday – when his felt a shove from the line behind him causing the tray he was holding to fall to the floor. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath as he heard a guard loudly admonish him to clean up his mess. "Fuck!"

There was not a lot of heavy violence in the lower security institution. It did happen, but for the most part the weapon of choice was intimidation. A hard shove here, a lost lunch there. Just the stronger keeping the weaker in their place. As he looked down at the mess his now useless lunch had made on the gray tile, he tried to suck back the feeling of hopelessness that threatened him. He felt lost in some fucking cosmic film noire, doomed to repeat cycle after cycle of a battle he was always on the losing end of. All of his naïve dreams of leaving the torment of St. James and getting out into the possibilities and potential offered by the real world were just so much delusional bullshit. There had just been a trade of one institution for another, one torment for another. A single night… he'd had one single fucking night of that 'real world'. And that night had both expanded every hope he'd ever had of what life could be, and had contracted his reality into this tight little ball of hell.

"Problem, Taylor?"

Justin startled and turned to stare into the rugged, dark skinned face of the speaker. The dark eyes of the guard that watched him gave nothing away. They just… were. Intense. Unreadable. Ancient.

"No. No problem," he replied as he reached down to retrieve the fallen tray and pick up the scattered remains of what had been his lunch. He took the napkins and wiped away the spilled peaches, picked up the now dirty sandwich and tossed everything in the trash can.

"Don't let it break you, kid."

"What?"

"Lock-up. It can break the good men." Justin turned his head, a little surprised at having his thoughts so easily read. But, then again, this was prison. Every thought ran along these lines, he'd guess.

"I know your story, Taylor. Viciously beating up a jock, putting him in a coma." The guard chuckled. "Been here long enough to call bullshit when I see it. So, just watch your head as much as you watch your back. Don't become…this." The older guard stood and watched the young man for just a moment too long before nodding once and returning to his post along the wall. He'd seen these kids before. Innocent or near enough, fucked by a system they could have survived if they hadn't ended up for years behind bars. Seen it eat them up and puke out something unrecognizable. And this boy was a prime target – for the system and the meat eaters that populated it. Young, pretty, slight… Just like DeVonn.

And, as long as there was a breath in his body, he wouldn't let that happen again.

The short, almost innocuous encounter with the guard – Whitefall, according to his badge – caused a shiver along Justin's spine. He couldn't deny that there was a battle to hold on to some grain of sanity going on inside him, a battle he fought every waking moment. Whitefall could obviously see it. Watch your head… Justin knew it was experience the guard was speaking from, not some kind of psychological insight. He turned back toward the dining hall and saw him in the line of guards along the far wall, standing tall, unreadable eyes already taking in the various other men in the room.

He sat in his cell later in the afternoon, obsessively rerunning the lunch encounter with Whitefall. He had been keeping a journal, of sorts, since shortly after he arrived at Mercer. There was no best friend here to help him sort and organize his thoughts and feelings. There was no art to help channel his emotions and perceptions. There was no intellectual stimulation to encourage him and make him think beyond the obvious. Everything he had to sort, channel and encourage him was right here, caught up in the spiral wire binding of a 150 page college rule notebook.

Dear Bryn:

Hey, Muchkin, it's me again. Your dad.

Your dad.

Every time I write that, I ache, Bryn. To hold you – to see you – to just know you are okay. That you are growing and happy and healthy. It's all I want. If I never have anything else in my life, Bryn – if I knew that you were happy and healthy, I would be okay. I make a vow to you right now that when I get out of this place – a place I hope in my heart you never know about – I will find a way to make sure you are happy and healthy. You may never know me, but I'll be here for you with everything I am if you need me, Bryn.

I had a strange run-in today with one of the guards. He seemed to know that I'm close to losing my battle to stay sane in here, to keep a handle on that part of me that makes me Justin Taylor and not Inmate Taylor and it's a painful war. He was telling me, I think, to make sure I keep fighting, no matter how painful it is. It's so fucking hard, Munchkin! And it's not about whether I'm guilty or innocent, or right or wrong. I know the truth about that. It's about you and your mom, and even about Brian.

God, Bryn… Brian is amazing. We had a kind of 'moment' when he was here yesterday. Did I tell you that he is here every Tuesday? Yeah? Well, I'm telling you again. He is here every Tuesday. So is your mom. And I live for Tuesday. The rest of the week is kind of one long sleepwalk. I only wake up for those few hours they are here.

But yesterday? He looked at me and it was just us. Not another soul around. No guards, no prison walls, no barbed wire outside the windows. Only Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney. And I told him, as much as I could with a look, that I love him. And God, I love him, Bryn. And I heard him 'not say' that, too. I know, I know. You don't have to tell me. Dreamy eyed school boy fantasies. Well, if that's the kind of fucking fantasy that keeps me hanging on, then I'll keep it, thank you. You'll understand someday. Maybe I'll understand someday.

God, there are so many things I want to write here, Little Munchkin, that just aren't appropriate in any way to write in a journal to my daughter. Even if you will never see it. Maybe I'll have to start a journal to Brian, to share all the things I want to share with him. I could start with the dream I had the other night. I dreamed about our lives. We were all sitting around a big table – the one in his friend's house that he has told me so much about – having dinner on Sunday. All of his friends were there, and you were there, and your mom. With all the baked ziti and lasagna and bread and wine we could handle. I could fucking taste it, Bryn! Brian was holding you and I was sitting between him and your mom, and we were all laughing over something his son, Gus, had done or said. And everyone was happy!

And it fucking seemed so much more real than Mercer.

I love you, Munchkin.

Later,

Daddy

*The age of sexual consent, straight or gay, in Pennsylvania is (and ostensibly was in 2000) 16. There are no statutory limitations in Pennsylvania on who a person of 16 can have sex with, as long as that partner is over the age of 16 as well. .us/

**The corruption of minors statute makes it a crime for anyone over the age of 18 to corrupt the morals of a person under the age of 18, enticing them to commit any crime or violate their parole, or engage in any activity that would result in 'deviate' sexual activity. Since consensual sexual activity is legal at or above the age of 16, the statute would not apply unless some other (criminally enticing) circumstance was involved. This was, of course, a legal ploy by the DA. blog/pennsylvania-age-of-consent/