Disclaimers: I don't own Goren, Eames, or Candyland. I'm seriously broke so please don't sue.
A/N: Thanks you so much for all of you reviews and your continued support of this story. I'm so sorry for the delay. It's been a crazy few months for me. I was working, writing millions of papers (at least it felt like it), moved back to Oregon, spent a couple of months in California without easy internet access, and have been desperately looking for a job.
To all of those who wanted Goren's POV, Sketch demanded to be in charge of this chapter, so there you have it, but in order to reward your tremendous patience, I decided to offer my wonderful audience an option of reading a Goren-focused piece. It's looking like that will be the next chapter (planning to have it done this week).
Happy reading, and please review. If you don't review, I'll figure you've lost interest, so if you want it to continue, please write me your suggestions and comments.
Chapter 4: Fighting the Past
Sister Tara must be on coffee duty, I thought, wincing as the toxic liquid someone had erroneously labeled "coffee" hit my taste buds. The poor sister was notorious for her inability to make a decent cup, and this was true even when instructions were clearly written down. It's always either too strong or too weak, and it seemed that today was one of her "too strong" days. Thank God. As I had predicted, demons from the past had haunted me since my game with the good detective, keeping me up at night and forcing me to run on caffeine, sugar, sheer will power, and the occasional, lucky moments of sleep. It hadn't been an easy few days, I can tell you that much. Forgotten memories constantly floated to my mind at the weirdest moments, keeping me up at night and completely throwing me off my game.
As you can image, life on the streets isn't easy. You have to keep on your toes; your survival depends on it. That's why, when I'm not 100, I stay off the streets through any means possible, and today, that meant spending time in what the staff at St Mary's lovingly called "Sketch's Corner", a table at the mission where I play board games and tutor the homeless kids who come through here.
I felt a tug on my sleeve and looked down into the brown eyes of one of my young protégés. I squatted down and said, "What's up, Brian?"
Brian was one of the newer kids. He is incredibly shy and loves one-on-one attention. His dad had lost everything when his mother was hospitalized. I don't why or if she's still there, but a few months ago, his dad had come to the mission in search of a second chance. The only problem was Brian, and that's where I come in. After school, his dad drops him off here before going to his new, minimum wage job. From what I've heard, he's trying to pay off the rest of his debts and is searching for an affordable place. While he's doing that, the other volunteers and I help out with Brian. I couldn't help but be envious. Must be nice to have a parent like that. Red warning lights went off at the thought, and I quickly stop myself from going down that road. Not today.
Brian leaned in close as if to tell me a secret and shyly whispered, "Will you play Candyland with me?"
Looking into those Bassett Hound eyes, I couldn't say no. Despite my somewhat anti-social tendencies and complete social ineptness, I like kids, and amazingly, they like me too. Their innocence draws me like a starving man seeing food for the first time. It had been so long since I had felt such simple wonder at the world. In fact, I can't remember ever having it. Nothing should take away their innocence. Nothing. I like to think that by helping out at the mission I'm shielding "my kids" from the realities of the world for a little bit longer, but then again, maybe such fanciful thoughts are just the lack of sleep talking.
A small smile creased my face. "Sure thing, bud." I stood up and held out my hand to him. "Let's go." A big grin creased his face, and satisfaction filled me. Yup. Kids are definitely easier to handle, at least for me. I've been betrayed by too many adults to trust them easily, but with children, that stress really isn't present. It often amazes me at how a simple game can brighten up a child's entire day. It must be nice to not worry about protecting yourself and your family, finding food for the day, or trying to find shelter from the weather, weirdoes and perverts – not necessarily in that order.
As we began to make our way over to my assigned table, the door to the mission opened, and I turned my head to see Goren and Eames enter the building. I quickly turned my head away and prayed that they hadn't seen me. While Brian happily chatted away about this and that, I couldn't help but cast an occasional wary glance toward the two detectives, especially when Father Miguel stepped up to greet them. They haven't seen me yet. Maybe I can still avoid them. Brian's cheerful voice penetrated my panicked mind. Don't be such a wuss! You can't just up 'n' leave 'im like that! He shouldn't be hurt just because you're a wimp! At the scolding of conscience, shame crashed over me like a wave hitting the shore. To ease my conscience, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Why don't we go raid the kitchen for some of Sister C's brownies?" I mentally rolled my eyes. Not only are you trying to bribe a kid because of a guilty conscience. You're also teaching him to rebel. Great move!
The kid's eyes grew large with amazement. "Really?" Within the next second, his shoulders slumped, and he announced, "I'm not allowed in there."
Looking into those eyes filled with wonder and defeat, I couldn't help myself. So much for the big bad street kid, huh? What a load of bull! If they only knew. . . I shook my head at the thought and forced a smile to crease my face. "It'll be our little secret, huh?" I winked at him, and the two of us made our way into the sacred lair of Sister Catherine, who ruled the room and its staff with an iron fist. Man, she's gonna have a heart attack if she ever finds out.
I pulled open the refrigerator door, and after scrimmaging through its contents, I held up the plastic container with pride. God! It was like being a kid again, and I must say that it felt good. Handing one of the gooey, rich, chocolate and peanut butter dessert to Brian, I took a large bite of my own. Just as I was about to swallow, I heard a voice say, "I think those are for dinner."
I jumped a foot in the air and almost dropped the brownie. Aww, hell! I thought, cursing myself for not being more alert.I heard Brian gasp, his eyes filled with guilt. We both spun around to meet the amused gaze of Father Miguel. "Hey, Padre," I greeted meekly.
Chuckling, he stepping forward and said, "Give me one of those." Shooting him a grateful look, I handed over one of our contraband. Taking a bite, he sighed. "These are delicious. No wonder you risked her wrath."
Brian stared on in wonder and relief. I knew he couldn't believe that Father Miguel had joined our little raid, but I knew that this gentle man didn't have the heart to scold us for our childish trick. In fact, I think he enjoyed it as almost as much we did.
Looking up, I met the eyes of the other man. "Sketch, I need to talk to you," he said softly in Spanish, a language that I first learned while staying with my grandmother and that I became fluent in while living in the group home and growing up on the streets of LA. It turned out to be a very important skill. The city is full of Latino gangs, and it can be very dangerous not to know their language, especially so that you knew if they had a beef with you. When I met Father Miguel, I first spoke to him in Spanish, and by some unwritten agreement, we had continued that tradition. Gotta keep up them skills, ya know?
Not today, dammit! I wanted to shout at him. . .at all of them, but I knew I couldn't. It would only make things worse. I heaved a resigned sigh. Why did they pick today of all days! The one day for me to recuperate . . .to get some of my energy back . . .to try to drive these memories from my head. Somehow, though, it seemed to fit the tone of the last couple of days. Resigned to this fact, I nodded, and with a quiet sigh, I bent down to say, "Bri, why don't you go get the game and meet me at the Corner?"
"Okay," he replied happily as he went off towards the game shelf.
Grabbing the plastic container that sat on the counter in front of me, he explained, "The detectives want to talk to you."
I nodded, acknowledging his statement. Nothing new there.
"At the station."
My head shot up at that little tidbit. I knew what that meant. They didn't just want to talk to me; they wanted to interrogate me! I was a suspect. "Fuck!" I cast an apologetic look towards Father Miguel. He had scolded me many a time about my language, especially in front of the kids.
Suddenly, suspicion filled me. It was a natural response. I'd been betrayed by many people in my life, and I had a sinking feeling that maybe I could add the good padre to the list. Hurt filled me at the thought. I'd always thought that Father Miguel was one of the good guys, and it was one of the reasons that I had kept coming to this mission. Trying desperately to hide the depth of my disappointment and pain, I sneered, "With you as my escort?" I kept watching the door, expecting them to barge in and haul me off at any moment.
Hurt flashed across his face. "C'mon, Sketch. You know me better than that." He took a step towards me, but I unconsciously took a step back towards the alley-side exit, ready to bolt at any moment. With a deep sigh, he stopped. "They don't know you're here. They simply asked me to contact them the next time I saw you." Casting a quick but wary glance towards the door, I carefully examined his face, hoping to see some sort of indication that he was telling the truth. Instead, I saw amusement flicker in his eyes.
"What?" I asked, completely confused.
"I introduced them to Sandy." He chuckled. Sandy is one of our volunteers, and she is a talker. She'll talk your ear off if you give her the chance. Even if you try to cut her off or ignore her, she'll follow you around, completely unfazed. Nothing stops her when she's on a roll. So you hear about her kids, work, her husband, her sister, her parents, her brothers, and anything else that may pop into her head whether you want to or not.
So it was with disbelief and amusement that I greeted his announcement. "You didn't."
He nodded. "Had to. Once I saw you and Brian slip in here, it was the only way I could come in here and talk to you."
"Some priest you are," I teased, "Are you sure that doesn't break one of your vows?"
He shrugged, completely unrepentant. "So about this predicament. You gonna tell me what's going on?"
My automatic tough guy façade kicked in, so I answered with an air of confidence, "It's nothing."
He rubbed a hand over his face, a gesture I had come to recognize that signaled his frustration. It was a mannerism that he often used when dealing with me. I wonder why? "C'mon, Sketch. I know you think you can handle this on your own, but you could be in some serious trouble here. They said that you're somehow involved in the case of Jonathan Robinson. Talk to me. I want to help." His eyes begged me to let him in on what is going on. Over the past few days, I had been tempted to tell him what was going on, but my gut kept telling me not to. Perhaps in time, I would have, but it takes a while.
I greeted his plea with silence.
He heaved a sigh. "Fine. At least let me come with you to the station when you go."
I shook my head. "That's not necessary."
"It's not that I don't think you can't do this. It's just that I don't trust them to treat you right. All I want is to make sure that you're rights are protected."
He had a good point, but still, a struggle ensued within myself. On the one hand, I knew that every state had different laws dealing with minors and the police. Hell, I've had first hand experience with it back in California, but I wasn't sure what the New York law said on the whole thing. I knew one thing for sure: I wasn't going to let a technicality like that help get the guy off. So, if protecting the case meant that a priest had to baby-sit me, then so be it. At the same time, I knew he was a nice guy, and he would do his best to make sure I was treated right – something after my years on the streets didn't trust the cops to willingly do on their own. Also, I knew that if he came with us, he'd learn things about me that I may not want him to know.
There was only one thing to do. I shrugged and said, "It's your time to waste."
Relief flittered across his face. "Glad to hear that. So when do you want to do this?"
At his question, I fell silent, my brain and my gut warring with one another. My brain told me that I could put it off for a little bit, or at least until I felt up to it. In my gut, however, I knew they wouldn't stop combing the streets, looking for me. If I was a suspect, then there would be an APB out for me, and I'd have to look over my shoulder until I went in. I could probably hide from them, but what would be the point? They could accuse me of trying to obstruct justice or something. Cops made up charges all the time.
"Sketch?"
I looked at him and could tell that it wasn't the first time he had called my name. My shoulder slumped in defeat, and dread raced through my veins. "Might as well do it now."
He put a hand on the shoulder and looked at me with concern. "Are you sure? You look exhausted. Maybe we should do it tomorrow."
Resolute in my decision, I stated, "I'll be fine." I just hope I don't regret this.
He squeezed my shoulder and said, "Okay. I'll have one of the sisters call a church lawyer before we leave, and I'll stay with you until he gets there. Deal?"
I nodded. "Deal."
With a deep breath to settle my nerves, we re-entered the general area. Looking around, I spotted the two detectives still talking to Sandy, and within an instant, Goren spotted us, a fact that was confirmed when Eames turned to look at us as well. I needed to keep up my façade. There was no way that I would let them get the upper hand now. I crossed my arms, leaned against the nearest wall and watched them approach.
"Sketch, we need you to come with us," Eames said.
"So I hear." I glanced back over to my table and saw that Brian had the game ready and was watching us very carefully. "Give me a minute."
Goren tried to step into my path, but I easily dodged his attempt. His bulky frame was no match for my wiry one. My body had been trained to avoid tight space, to easily avoid any sort of unwanted bodily contact, and to quickly get around obstacles. Without even glancing back at them, I went to the table and squatted down next to Brian. "Hey, kiddo. I gotta go now." Disappointment spread across his face like a tidal wave, and guilt hit me just as hard. I hated upsetting my kids, but there wasn't anything I could do. "But I tell you what: when I get back, we'll have a day. Just you and me. We can do anything you want. Deal?" I held out my hand.
He looked up at me with an extremely serious look on his little face. "Promise?"
I smiled and ruffled his hair. "Promise."
His mouth started to twitch and before you knew it, a wide grin creased his face. "Deal." He surprised me by skipping the handshake and giving me a large huge. Such signs of affection are still foreign to me. It wasn't unusual for one of my kids to grab my hand or to spontaneously hug me, so I was getting used to them. Both they and I were starved for affection, and we were able to feed one another. That said, the conditioning from past, especially the times when affection equaled weakness, made me feel extremely uncomfortable with such blatant displays of emotion. Secretly, though, it also made each such gesture precious in its own right.
Awkwardly patting him on the back, I whispered in his ear, "Think really good about it 'cuz I'm expecting to have a blast!"
He pulled back and nodded eagerly. The sadness that had mired his face a few minutes ago had been replaced with excitement and pride. "I will, Sketch. I promise."
I smiled at him and said, "You do that. Now, go ask Sister Catherine to play with you. I know for a fact that she loves Candyland."
"Okay." He turned to run through the hallway, shouting, "Sister Catherine!" at the top of his lungs. One crisis adverted; another to come. With a sigh, I turned to join my escorts and met the contemplative gaze of Goren, who seemed to be trying to figure me out. Good luck with that, I thought as we all walked out of the mission.
At the station, they stuck me in what could only be an interrogation room. That would explain the metal chairs, drab gray paint job and, of course, the two-way mirror. I took a seat in one of the extremely uncomfortable, cold chairs, and Father Miguel sat next to me.
"We had a few follow up questions for you," Detective Goren stated as he and Eames walked into the room and sat across from us. He opened a brown leather portfolio and began to leaf through some of the papers. "How did you meet Mr. Robinson?"
Don't give away too much. With that thought, the lie slipped easily from my lips. "Never met 'im." Of course, I had met him when I first moved here, but he had told me to get lost. That was the thanks I got for trying to warn him to keep Nicky safe. The next time I saw him, he was shoving my sketches at me and yelling at me with his face beet red.
Goren's forehead creased as if in confusion, and his eyes fixed on me like a laser. I fought the impulse to shift in my seat. "But didn't you have a fight about your sketches?"
There was nothing about this man that said he was forgetful or prone to confusion. Indeed, I bet he's quite the opposite. Judging by the thickness of his portfolio, I'd bet he's probably one of those people who writes everything down even when they don't have to. I leaned back in my chair, showing him that his effort had been wasted. "Yeah."
"If you never met him, how could he have them?" Eames chimed in, obviously following her partner's chain of thought. I'm not sure that many people could do that. He strikes me as a pretty complex guy.
I knew that there wasn't an easy, credible way to get out of this, so I tried to come up with a version that wouldn't give away too much and went with a part of the truth. "Simon Carson asked me to sketch the Stock Exchange building for someone named Robinson."
"How did he get the sketches that he 'returned' to you?" Eames piped in.
I shrugged and turned to look at her. "Don't know. Coulda been from anyone." Another lie.
I knew exactly how he'd got those sketches. He'd swiped them from Nicky's room; I wonder when exactly he realized that they were mine.
Two lies in the span . . .of what – five minutes? God, what is happening to me? I thought with dismay. How many more lies am I going to tell? How many will I have to remember? I began to feel nauseous. I hate having to lie. I may not be the most forthcoming guy, but when I do talk, I tend to be honest. At least, I used to. It may not seem like it, but I've discovered that keeping track of lies just takes too much energy. Of course, when it comes to survival or protecting my family, all bets are off. For that reason, these lies came easily.
"Why did he give them back?" Goren asked.
"He never said."
"So he demands a refund and then what happened?"
"I told 'im to get lost, he shoved me. I fought back. He backed off." I shrugged. "End of story."
So far so good. Nothing too painful. Keep cool. These were the words that kept running through my head. While I started to relax a bit, I kept my guard up. You never know what tricks cops will play, especially these two. Who knows what they have up their sleeves. They brought me here for a reason, and it wasn't just for this nice little chit-chat.
"You told us you didn't know Danny Rodriguez, is that correct?" he asked, completely changing the course of the conversation again. I knew it was a ploy to throw me off, and it did for a moment. I had had a hunch that they would bring him up eventually, so the mention of his name didn't really faze me. In fact, I was handling this interrogation fine until he put a damned picture of Danny on the table in front of me and turned it so that his face was directly in front of me. I could feel the cracks in my armor beginning spread. I didn't know how much longer I could withstand their onslaught without incriminating myself. Gathering what was left of my resolve, I swallowed hard and nodded.
"Really? Because you match the description of AJ, his adopted son," Goren stated, as he pulled out what appeared to be a thick manila file from under his portfolio. From my point of view, I could just make out the name written on the file tab, Rodriguez, Daniel February 14, 2003. The big guns had come out. Oh, yeah. This is going to hurt like shit, I thought, knowing that this time there was no game to help me avoid this perceptive detective. I swallowed hard and began to prepare myself for the pain that would surely follow this new encounter.
He opened the file and pointed to a notation. "See it's right here. 'Male Hispanic runaway. Tawny eyes. Dark hair. On Last seen wearing an oversize denim jacket, backwards LA Dodgers baseball cap, and jeans. Was also carrying a ratty green backpack.'"
"Seems to fit you to a 't'," Eames agreed, playing their little game. The way the two of them were able to play off one another was quite something. I had had a lot of run-ins with cops, but the connection and interaction between these two was unique and hard to find. It was as if they could anticipate each other's moves and thoughts. Definitely a plus for partners. I couldn't help but wonder if it came from them being something more.
In answer to her statement, I shrugged, trying to continue to play it cool. There was no way that I was going to show them how nervous I am. I didn't want to go where they were taking me, so I tried one last time to deflect the course of the conversation. "The name's Sketch." At least now it is, a voice in my head chimed in.
Looking into Goren's eyes, I knew that my plan had backfired. For a second, his intense gaze seemed to try to pierce my soul before darkening with resolution. He had made some sort of decision, and I had a feeling that I wasn't going to like it.
"Maybe you don't recognize Mr. Rodriguez from this picture. How about this one? Or this one? Or this?" He asked, calmly placing several morgue and crime scene photos on the table. These pushed me to the brink of my exhausted mind.
"Detective, I must protest!" Father Miguel shouted, but it was too late the damage had been done. He couldn't protect me now, not from my own memories. I swallowed hard as my mind whirred at his insinuation, aggravating my already pounding head. People say, "Pictures are worth a thousand words", and these gruesome, painful pictures were permanent records of a time and place that I would rather forget. Looking down at them, the past and the present began to mix in my head. Suddenly, I could smell the distinct, copper-like smell of blood, hear the sound of the sirens wailing in the background, and feel the ache in my arms from the dead weight of Danny's body. I could taste my tears as I begged him to hold on until the paramedics arrived, and I could feel the pain in my heart as I helplessly watched the light slowly leave his eyes. It was then I knew that he was dead and that my life would never be the same. In order to maintain what was left of my sanity in my sleep-deprived condition, I decided that I wanted to avoid looking at further items that could take me deeper into my memories.
"Fine," I said in a low voice. Resolution filled me. I didn't want them to know the blow they had scored with that one. I can get through this, I kept telling myself. "I knew 'im, but I didn't kill him."
"Oh, that's right. A burglar did it. Did he by any chance have one arm?" Eames asked sarcastically.
I looked at her, trying to hide my frustration. All cops are the same. They are so blinded by their desire to arrest someone that they don't care who they target, and they discount all alternative possibilities. No wonder I didn't trust 'em.
"Detectives, I really don't think you should be badgering him like this," the priest once again protested. The poor man was trying, but he didn't have a clue on how this game was played. "Besides I don't see what a case in California has to do with the unfortunate death of Mr. Robinson."
Refusing to explain, the interrogation continued. "You ever see a card like this?" Goren asked, as he pulled out an evidence bag from his pocket. Inside, I could see a small white card. I picked it up and read the message neatly printed on the side: Johnny. Johnny. Johnny. Found you again. Guess who's next? This only confirmed that my Satan had indeed killed Jonathan, a realization that made me swallow hard.
Johnny. It had been so long since I had actually seen or thought it. When I was a kid, I hated the nickname, and even now, I can hear the devil in my head hiss: Johnny. Johnny. I refused to open that door because if I did, it would lead to even more painful memories, and at this point and time, I couldn't afford that. Not here. Not in front of him. Feigning ignorance, I replied, "No."
"Oh, c'mon, Ghost!" Goren taunted, the room suddenly feeling much smaller, and I fought against his attempt at intimidation. I had met many bad asses on the streets, and I'd never backed down from a fight. Yet, in my current condition, it was difficult to maintain my tough, devil-may-care attitude. Keep cool, I kept telling myself. He pointed his finger at me. "A similar note at the Rodriguez scene." He pulled out another evidence bag from Danny's file. I didn't even have to pick it up to know what it said: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. Second time's a charm. "The bodies. . .the notes. . .the fight. . .they all lead back to you." Suddenly his voice became soft and coaxing. "I mean, it was your birthday. Tell me, did Detective Rodriguez try to stop you from taking a little something to celebrate? Is that why you killed him?"
Apparently calling me a murderer really didn't sit well with Father Miguel because he adamantly stated, "Now, Detective, that's really. . ."
My eyes flew to his face and adamantly stated, "I ain't a thief."
"Really?" Eames asked, a skeptical note in her voice. "Because according to our source in LA, you've been in and out of juvie for pick pocketing, purse snatching and shoplifting. And it was just a coincidence that there was an report of a robbery the day before."
Okay. So I guess technically I am one, but in my mind, the petty crimes I had done in my life weren't really illegal; they were a matter of survival. I only stole when I was on the streets so that I wouldn't starve. Therefore, for me, thieves were the burglars or robbers who threaten people with weapons, break into house, and do other crazy, violent stuff like that.
The thing that got me is that they wouldn't have known about my record if their "source" hadn't told them about it. There was only one person who hated me enough to spill that kind of information, and that was Danny's partner, Scot Cameron. Panic started to consume me. Stupid idiot! You should've realized that they would contact Danny's partner about his case. Scott would be more than happy to turn their attention to you. How could you be so stupid? I mentally groaned.
Scott Cameron. The name brought a bad taste to my mouth, and in fact, he was one of the reasons that I lied to them in the first place. The guy hated me because I beat his kid up for trying to steal money from me, but daddy dearest is in denial. Blamed me for the entire thing and even tried to get Danny to kick me out. When Danny was murdered, the bastard tried to pin that on me as well.It's likely that he's done the same here.
Damn, Damn, Double Damn! They could have all kinds of information about me from that bastard. Aw hell! What have I done? Keep calm, I warned myself, finally staving off the wave of anxiety that had threatened to consume me. In its place, rage at Scott began to consume me. That damned Cameron has done it again. He's pointed them to me out of pure spite, and they buy it because he's a COP. Damned blue wall. Reigning in my temper, I freely stated, "If I were, I never would'a stole from Danny! We were cool. It was. . ." I was all set to tell them about Scott's little drug-addicted thief of a son, but Eames beat me to it.
"Him?" She asked, throwing the sketch I had given the cops for Danny's case onto the table and completely deflating my indignant bubble. I stared once again into the face of the man who ruined my life and was about to end Nicky's as well. My eyes scrutinized my work, noting details that I had since forgotten. I'd done this one right after Danny's murder, during a rash attempt to purge myself of the demon. I had also done it in the naïve hope that the cops would use it to catch the guy responsible.
The door opened, and a woman stepped into the room. My mind barely registered her introduction as my lawyer. I missed the good Father's attempts to talk to me, reassure me or whatever. His voice simply became drowned out by my own thoughts. Everything became too much for my tired mind. I could feel myself slipping, slipping back into the past. . .back to the day of Danny's murder. Flashbacks of the day and others bombarded my mind, and my eyes focused on the notes that he had left for me. A sinister voice whispered in my head, Johnny. Johnny. I'm coming for you, Johnny. No matter what I tried to do to try to break myself from the downward spiral I could feel myself slipping into. The voice continued to taunt me. Johnny. Johnny. Johnny. Each time, it pulled my closer and closer to the horrors of the past, and I could feel myself withdraw from the present.
As I did so, I failed to notice the confusion that marked the face of Father Miguel at my current state. I missed other things as well. Goren's look of concern at the priest's explanation. The wrinkle in his forehead growing deeper. His brown eyes casting almost helpless look towards Eames. Maybe if I had seen it, I would have said something, but I was too lost, feeling numb. Johnny, Johnny, I'm coming for you Johnny.
Thud! I flinched at the sound of a loud slamming of a book on a table, a sound that I allowed to echo through my brain and drown out the nasty voice. Still numb, I turned my eyes towards the man across from me, noticing that his portfolio was now closed. His brown eyes filled with something that looked like compassion.
I don't know why she did it, but my lawyer, who I later learned was named Claire Montgomery, then and there terminated the interview. "Detectives, I think this has gone on long enough. You don't have any evidence tying my client to the Robinson murder."
We all knew she was right, so there was little they could do. Turning towards us, she ordered, "Let's go."
Relief filled me. I knew I had reached my breaking point, and I had the sneaking suspicion that if we had been stuck in that confined space much longer, I would have broken. I could feel my mask already beginning to fracture, and it wouldn't be pretty.
Following the example of Father Miguel and the lawyer, I automatically stood up. I was bit nervous to see if they would try to detain me anyway. I mean, you hear about abuses all the time, and being a street rat, I didn't trust cops as far as I could throw them. As we left the room, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and I felt as if I could breathe again.
The concerned glances of the good father finally registered in my tired brain, and I gave him a questioning look.
He explained in his native tongue. "I'm just concerned about you."
I looked over at him. His eyes glowed with concern, and I have to say that it touched me. "I'm fine." I wasn't sure how convincing I was, but I had to try to maintain my strength. Otherwise, I could very well go insane.
As the door to the elevator closed, I happen to hear a voice say, "You need to get to the Robinson's. . ." The door closed before I could hear the rest. What the hell does that mean! Something has happened. God! Did he get to. . .No. That can't be it! Panic ceased my heart, and my blood ran cold. As we descended the eleven floors, impatience and terror ate at my soul. God! What if I'm too late?
A/N 2: Yippee! It's
finished! Finally! What do you think? Should I keep going?