November 17, 2003
Priestly stood nervously in the hallway outside the conference room while the attorney and his entourage got set up for his deposition. Trucker smirked at him. He'd insisted on coming, foregoing the surf for the morning in favor of driving Priestly to the meeting. He was secretly relieved to have Trucker there, though he hated his friend's amusement at the sight of him with his flat brown hair, conservative black dress pants and sage green button down. Tucked in, no less. He couldn't help pulling at the cuffs and the neckline, though Trucker kept chiding him about it.
He really hadn't thought there would be much for the lawyers to ask him, considering his role in the actual event was a small one. The lawyer for the state explained, however, that the first part of the deposition would consist of the prosecution's questions for him, followed by questions from the defense attorney. The entire thing would be captured both on video and by a court reporter's transcription.
Between the two, they had him in the room for over three hours. Trucker was allowed to sit in so long as he remained silent. There were times when Priestly was sure he was about to say something, but he kept quiet. He rubbed his forehead a lot. Aside from just questions about what happened with Holly at the church, they asked about his life in general growing up in the church, his relationship with his father, and how he felt about various things seemingly unrelated to the matter at hand. The state prosecutor also asked him to tell them about what happened afterward, so he told them about Dale beating him. The lawyer for the defense tore him apart on that one, badgering him with stuff like 'Why didn't you call the police if you were so badly assaulted?' and 'Why didn't you see a doctor or go to the hospital?' The defense attorney pulled out snapshots of him with his Mohawk, combat boots, studded bracelet, eyeliner and his I lost my virginity. Can I have yours? t-shirt and asked him if he thought it was an appropriate shirt to wear in public where young children could see it. The state prosecutor shut the defense down, however, demanding to know when and where the photos were taken and what relevancy Priestly's wardrobe had to the case. The two attorneys went back and forth for a while before, finally, the question was dropped.
The prosecuting attorney made strenuous objections many times, and many times he seemed to win those arguments. Priestly wasn't sure what all the technical stuff meant, and he didn't know how anyone decided the outcome for the objections when there was no judge in the room. Maybe the fact that the video tape would be shown in the courtroom and the transcribed court reporting given to the jury to read over kept them honest. He didn't know. He did know that when he was finally released from the deposition, he felt like he could sleep for a month. He was angry and hurt all over again. The inferences made about him by the defense attorney…that he was no better than Dale Bennett just because he wore a sexually suggestive shirt, for example, left him feeling dazed and raw.
Outside the conference room, Trucker put a hand on his shoulder and just looked at him for a few minutes before tipping his head toward the parking garage. "C'mon. Let's get out of here," he said, giving Priestly a little push.
Priestly walked beside him quietly, mulling the whole thing over. He didn't know what to make of it, whether Dale was any worse off now or not. He sure hoped nothing he said or did or wore kept Holly from seeing justice. God, he'd hate it if that happened.
Trucker tried to draw him out, but Priestly had a headache and just wanted to shut his eyes on the ride back. When the VW stopped and Trucker switched off the ignition, Priestly lifted his head from the window and realized instead of being home, he was in Trucker's driveway. "I figured you needed a beer and didn't have any at your place," he explained.
Priestly grinned a little at that. More likely, his friend wanted to keep an eye on him without being obvious about it. Well, he wasn't going to turn down the beer, so he guessed he'd have to play along and let Trucker babysit him for a while.
The calls had stopped. After the one note on his door, he hadn't received any others. Priestly wondered now, as he unbuttoned the shirt collar and rolled up the shirt sleeves, whether there would be any further harassment. He sat with Trucker out on the back deck and gulped down a beer, smirking when Trucker said,
"It occurs to me I might be sending the wrong message, giving you a beer at a time like this."
"Don't worry, Truck," he said, eyes closed in the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun, "I'm not going to start drowning my sorrows. I know the guy was just a jackass trying to get a rise out of me, trying to paint me as some jerkwad freak with no respect for anyone as a way of discrediting me. Might as well be my fucking Dad."
"Priestly," Trucker said. Priestly opened his eyes at the firm note in his voice. Trucker leaned toward him and looked him steadily in the eye, at least until he turned to look out over the back fence. "Kid, I told you before. You saw what you saw. You told them. Where it goes from here, that's out of your control. You did what you could. You did the right thing. It isn't your fault if things don't come out the way they should."
Priestly's eyes shot to Trucker. "You think they'll let him off?" he asked desperately. God, he hoped not. The thought of him out there walking around and sneering, free to just prey on anyone he wanted… Priestly felt a chill that nearly had him rolling his sleeves back down.
"I don't know," Trucker shrugged helplessly. "I sat in there trying to figure out how it seemed to be going. I don't get all that legal junk."
"Me, neither." He pulled from the bottle again and added, "I'm just glad it's over."
Trucker had him stay for dinner and drove him home afterward. "Remember," he said, "you did what you could."
He nodded. "Thanks, man. I'll see you tomorrow."
November 19, 2003
"Looking good, man," Mike encouraged, dodging his jab. Priestly ducked his reply but missed the subtle lead of his hip and caught a foot in the gut, spilling to the mat.
"Spoke too soon," Priestly rasped, jumping to his feet, purposely drawing a deep breath in spite of the pain because it seemed to make the pain fade faster. Priestly glanced at the clock as Mike removed one glove and reached for his water bottle.
"You done?" Mike asked, wiping his face with a towel.
"Yeah, I've got class in twenty minutes." Priestly nodded. "Thanks for the pointers."
On the first day of fall classes, Jude's friend, Mike, had run into Priestly at the UCSC fitness center where he stood staring at the bulletin boards with all the private notices, special course offerings, and special interest posts. Priestly had just pulled a phone number tab from an ad for kickboxing classes when someone said behind him, "Hey, man, if you need a sparring partner, I could use the workouts." Admitting to Mike that he'd been a straight-A student who studied piano until he was a junior in high school and didn't know how to fight had taken a lot of humility, but Mike just shrugged it off.
"Dude, I got beat up almost every day of my childhood until I suddenly grew like six inches the summer before eighth grade. When I went back to school that fall, the guys that used to hassle me just assumed I'd suddenly learned how to punch just because I was taller. They left me alone. And then I started taking Tae Kwan Do classes."
They reserved one of the empty workout rooms several times a week, and Mike showed him the basics of self defense.
"You have good raw material," Mike encouraged. "You're pretty solid, you move well, and you look like you have an attitude." When Priestly rolled his eyes at that remark, Mike laughed. "Hey, man, if that wasn't what you were going for, I'm sorry, but try to see it from the other side. What would you be thinking if you saw you walking down the street?"
He had to admit that Mike had a point, so he'd let it drop. The good thing about Mike was that you could make a total moron out of yourself in front of the guy and he wouldn't tell anyone. Priestly was glad of it, because his first few matches with Mike had been worse than humiliating. He'd come along pretty well, but he also knew that he was no match for Mike if he ever got on the guy's bad side. Mike had been training since he was fourteen. He'd been training for like five minutes. No contest.
Having lost track of time, Priestly was too late for a full shower, so he just sort of sponged off at the sinks with a few damp paper towels before grabbing his bag and running to his philosophy class. The instructor wasn't there when he got there, however, and didn't show for the next ten minutes. Just as a couple students headed for the door, a clerk from the admissions office came in.
"Can I have your attention?" the clerk waved. He moved over to the white board and picked up a pen. As he began to write something, he said, "Mr. Buchanan won't be able to make class today due to some unexpected family issues. He's asked that you split into your in-class groups and discuss the following question…"
Can virtue be profitable and still be virtue?
Priestly jotted the question down and searched out the two girls and the guy that made up his in-class group. When they were all together Nathan suggested they sit down at Starbucks and kick the question around for a few minutes. Priestly nodded. "I have to be at work at three, though, so I might not be able to stay that long."
He rode over to the Starbucks with Nathan, tossing his messenger bag on the floor of the car. They went over the philosophy question first. Priestly filled three full pages of his notebook with quick thoughts and held impromptu interviews of the Starbucks baristas, which the group thought was a great idea, seeing as how it was a for-profit business. A couple other customers chimed in, which always seemed to happen when Priestly began waxing philosophical about anything. Melanie and Erin, the girls in their group, added some references from the textbook from different schools of thought.
Eventually, however, they wandered off into other topics. Priestly lost track of time again, as he was prone to doing, anyway, and when he glanced at the display on his phone he leapt to his feet.
"Shit! I'm going to be late if I don't leave like, ten minutes ago. Can somebody give me a lift to 6th and Nelson?"
"Sure, Priestly," Erin said, rising. "I'm not too far from there."
Climbing in her little Nissan pickup, he tossed his bag down on the floorboard, checking the time on his phone again. Man, he was going to hear it from Joe. Shit. Priestly was not in the mood. Erin turned down the stereo as it came out blasting with the ignition of the engine. "Okay," she said, "so…6th and Nelson?"
He grinned. "That's the place."
They chatted aimlessly about nothing in particular as she drove until suddenly a black car with fleet tags and dark windows slammed on its brakes in front of them before whipping around the corner.
"Jesus!" Erin cried.
He shook his head. "Would it be the end of the world if they had to turn at the next corner and circle back?"
"I know, right?" she nodded.
As Erin pulled to the curb outside the grill a few minutes later, Priestly popped open the door and grabbed his bag off the floor of the truck. "Thanks for the ride," he said, tipping his chin at her by way of goodbye.
As he stood up, he saw the same black car parked across the street from the grill. The windows were too dark for him to see in, but it was almost as if the driver saw him because just as he tried to move to where he could see the plate, the car peeled away from the curb and took off down 6th. He wasn't fast enough to see if it had the same yellow fleet tag as the one before.
Shrugging it off, he tugged open the grill's door, calling loudly, "Hi, honey, I'm home!"
Priestly was relieved as he looked around and saw the place was under control. All he needed was for people to be four deep at the counter. Sally smiled at him from the table she was clearing. Jen peeked at him from the register, where she was tallying the prior day's tickets. Trucker was nowhere to be found out front, so Priestly assumed he was in the back.
Greeting Trucker in the back as he washed his hands was the last chance Priestly had to say anything not sub related. The place went from dead to insane shortly after and stayed insane. Once in a while they all just sort of exchanged glances, wondering where the sudden bottomless supply of customers was coming from. Tourist season in Santa Cruz was officially over after Labor day. Trucker had even warned him that these were typically the lean months, November through the end of February.
"This is crazy," Priestly moaned as another small group entered the shop. He smiled in relief, however, as he realized it was some of the regular construction guys. "Hey!" he called, turning to hand Jen a couple wrapped subs. "Is there something going on out there we don't know about?"
"You didn't hear?" Riley took off his hard hat, pointing over his shoulder. "Moko's Café on 9th is on fire. Everything three doors down on both sides of the street and on the street behind it is evacuated."
Priestly exchanged glances with the others and lifted his eyebrows. That explained the crowds. Displaced workers and patrons, most likely. "Nah, man. All we know is we've been slammed non-stop since about 3:30. Everybody okay?"
Riley shrugged. "I don't know. Pacific's closed between 9th and 10th. There are fire rigs all over the place, total chaos."
"Any firemen that come in eat free tonight," Trucker announced, spooning soup as fast as he could.
Jen slid orders under the rail faster than Priestly could fill them. Joe had gone home, but Sally offered to stay and was zipping around the dining room. Priestly didn't know what they would be doing right now or how they'd be doing it if she'd gone home, too.
"Truck?" he called out as he flipped 8 portions of meat for subs, "we need more people working here."
"Tell me about it," he snorted, looking skyward as the door pulled open yet again.
Priestly glanced over his shoulder. "Firemen, Trucker…" he said, nodding his head back at them as Jen asked if the fire was under control yet.
"Yeah," one guy nodded. "It's out now. Finally. The B crew was just coming in to finish up when we left."
Trucker turned and gestured at them. "C'mon, guys, you can wash up in the back room. It's got a deeper sink than the bathrooms. I'll show you."
"Hey, thanks," the guy said. Four firemen proceeded to troop after Trucker into the back room. They were equally pleased when Trucker refused their money.
The tips were good. Especially from the grateful firefighters, but by the end of the night Priestly thought he might just flop on the floor and go to sleep. Trucker asking him to go lock the front door was the only thing that kept him from doing it. He reached in his pocket for his key ring, which held his apartment key, Trucker's house and gate keys, and the keys to the front and back doors of the grill.
"Shit," he frowned, slipping into the back room to check his bag. They weren't in there, either. He thought back to the way he'd slung his bag on the floor of Erin's truck and, before that, Nathan's car. Since his bag just had a flap and didn't zip, they must have fallen out. He pulled out his phone and told Trucker, "I think I dropped my keys. I can't find them." Someone picked up at the other end. "Erin?"
"Yeah…" the voice on the other end of the phone was wary. "Who's this?"
"Priestly," he said. He'd never had to use the phone numbers for his philosophy group before, but he was glad he had them now.
"Hi. What's going on?"
"Can you check the floor of your truck for a set of keys?"
"Uh-oh. Sure hang on…" He heard a lot of rustling and then nothing until a minute or two later when she came back to the line. "No, they're not here. I really looked, too. Under the seat and under the mat and everything."
"Thanks, anyway."
"Do you need a ride or something?"
"Nah, I'm good. I'll see you Friday."
"Ok," she answered. Priestly heard her disconnect.
Trucker locked the door and continued cleaning up as Priestly dialed Nathan. "Fuck," he muttered as he got his voicemail. "Nathan, it's Priestly. I think I must have dropped my keys in your car today. If you find them on the floor, call me back. I'm locked out." He rattled off his number even though he knew Nathan's caller ID would have it.
"You're not locked out. I've got a key you can use," Trucker said.
"I know. But I figured it would sound more urgent that way."
He slogged through cleanup and the next day's prep alongside Jen and Trucker. Sally finally left, at Trucker's insistence, at eight o'clock. It felt like forever before Trucker asked the usual question: Anybody need a ride?
In the VW, Trucker asked, "Would you mind if we just ordered a pizza or something instead of barbecuing?"
"Nope," Priestly said, eyes closed, moving only his mouth to reply.
Somehow, though, he got a second wind after they ate and asked Trucker if he could use the laptop to do his homework.
"Yeah, man. But do you mind if I turn in?"
"Nah. I'll let myself out."
"You can crash on the couch if you get too tired to go home," Trucker offered.
"Thanks," Priestly nodded.
"The keys are on the counter. Don't forget them. And that ring has my only other set for the back gate, so don't lose them."
"Mine aren't lost," Priestly reminded him. Nathan called back to confirm he had them, but he wouldn't be able to get them back to Priestly until the next morning.
He drafted a five page essay on the group's "virtue" discussion before deciding he'd had enough fun for one night. He saved the draft, figuring he'd come back the next day to finalize and print it off. Technically, he had the day off, but he'd probably see if Trucker needed help at the grill. Since he knew he'd be back the next day, he left his bag on the back of the office chair.
Priestly let himself out the front door, not wanting Trucker to wake up if he used the door in Trucker's bedroom that led to the back deck. Trucker told him it was okay, but the last couple times Priestly used it, he'd woken the guy up. Cutting through the park was the fastest way to the bus stop that would get him home, though, so Priestly locked the front door and went around through the side gate into the back yard and from there, through the back gate.
It was late. From a distance, he could see the band that played that night just packing the last of their gear in an old Ford Econoline van, slamming the doors. The lights rigged to the gazebo suddenly flipped off, plunging the area into a darkness that the scattered walkway lights didn't quite reach. The few people who'd stayed to the very last song were wandering back to their cars and homes, blankets tucked under arms and coolers in hand.
As he drew closer, Priestly saw the red glow of a cigarette in the shadowy darkness near the now darkened gazebo. A voice called out,
"Priestly?"
Squinting into the darkness as if it would help him see, he asked, "Do I know you?"
"No," the voice answered. "But you're going to. And you're going to wish you didn't."
Priestly considered his options, altering his course away from the advancing figure. Too late to go back to Trucker's. He'd never get the gate unlocked in time. It was just one guy, but it was one guy who could be armed. A guy who, Priestly guessed, was the driver of the black car. A guy who he also guessed was Bennett's crank calling relative. He definitely had Bennett's size in common.
Priestly knew turning his back on the guy wouldn't be a good idea, and he was coming too fast to keep walking without turning his back on the guy. So he just stopped and waited for the inevitable confrontation, wondering what he could use besides his fist and his feet. Keys. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, sliding his index finger through the key ring before poking the spines of the keys up through his fingers. He kept his hand in the pocket of his jacket.
"Bennett," Priestly said flatly. It was a guess, but it was the right guess. The guy's eyes widened just a little.
"How'd you know that?" a humorless grin spread across the guy's face.
"Family resemblance," Priestly said. "Pervert must be in the bloodline."
The guy's face darkened. "Thought I told you to forget the bullshit you thought you knew."
"Can't forget the truth," Priestly shrugged, stepping back as Bennett stepped forward.
The first lesson Mike taught him was that the best thing was to just not be there when the fist or foot came, so Priestly did as advised and watched Bennett's shoulders and hips…the points where punches and kicks began. He had to take his hand out of his pocket, though, because it was throwing his balance off.
Bennett managed to land the first blow in that moment, connecting with Priestly's jaw with the force of a guy who looked to be about 6'4" and 240. Priestly was three inches shorter and easily sixty pounds lighter, so it felt just great. He popped Bennett in the nose, keys and all, and took a few big steps backward as he reeled. He knew better than to think they were done. He watched carefully, still backing away.
He should have known better than to think a guy like Bennett would fight fair. A few blows later, when it was apparent Priestly might actually win the fight, two other guys stepped out of the shadows, each one just as large as Bennett. All the ducking and evading in the world wasn't going to save him. There was no way a fight of three against one would end well for him. That left one option, an option he hated.
Run.
Run like hell.