"Look, I'm tired," Johnny said. I didn't blame him, it was a long day in court. We were in the visitors' room at the jail. I'd brought him a pack of cigarettes and he smoked one with some difficulty because of the handcuffs.
"I know, but I thought I should warn you about tomorrow," He looked up at me through the smoke and he looked exhausted. Like all these days in the jail and at the trial have been so bad that he didn't need a warning about tomorrow. But tomorrow promised to be a little worse.
"They're going to show the autopsy pictures tomorrow," I said. I'd tried to get the judge to rule against showing those photos, it didn't add anything. But autopsy photos were always permitted.
I worried about his reaction. He was wracked with guilt as it was, and the autopsy photos were grisly. He'd seen Robert after he had killed him but dazed and post adrenaline and with the darkness, it wouldn't be like the glossy, stark, bloodless autopsy photos. Hearing the jury gasp. I shook my head. I didn't want him to see those ...
Those photos. Damn it. In court the next day I glanced nervously at him while the state prepared exhibit A.
Johnny looked ashen. I could hear Mrs. Sheldon crying somewhere behind us. The jury leaned forward expectantly. You could feel the chill go through the school skipping teen girls as they looked at the pictures and realized Johnny had done that to another human being.
I wasn't sure what Johnny would do, maybe shut his eyes like he did when Sarah Collins described the after effects of his beating by the socs. Maybe look down and away like he usually does. But he stared at those pictures, his expression angry. I thought I knew him well enough now to know that anger was at himself.
.......................................First Witness
My first witness. The pathologist. He was pencil thin in a dark suit. He looked accustomed to the witness stand, calm and prepared.
"You performed the autopsy on Mr. Sheldon, correct?" I said.
"That is correct,"
"And as a part of the autopsy you check the blood alcohol level of the corpse at the time of death?"
"That is also correct,"
"Could you state for the jury Mr. Sheldon's blood alcohol level at the time of his death?"
He consulted the paper he had brought with him.
"0.4,"
I knew this number might not mean anything to the jury, but when I was through with this witness, it would.
"And could you tell us what is the blood alcohol level that indicates intoxication?"
"0.08 to 0.1 indicates legal intoxication,"
"And how many drinks per hour would someone need to consume to reach a blood alcohol level of 0.08 to 0.1?"
He thought a minute, the lines of his face arranged in a thoughtful configuration.
"It varies based on gender, weight, metabolism, and the last time one has eaten but generally it takes three drinks in one hour to reach a blood alcohol level of 0.08 to 0.1,"
I glanced at the jury. They seemed to be following along.
"And how many drinks per hour did Mr. Sheldon consume to obtain a blood alcohol level of 0.4?"
"I could make an educated guess that Mr. Sheldon may have consumed five to six drinks per hour,"
"No further questions, your Honor,"
......................................Ponyboy
I had a headache. A raging skull buster. God, I was in over my head. I sat at the bar of the hotel, glancing at the muted gleam in the chrome, the twinkling of the liquor bottles behind the bar. I ordered one martini just to take the edge off, just to get all the flies going in the right direction, just to get the memory of Johnny's expression today out of my brain.
It was set before me and I didn't even have the heart to feel guilty about feeling glad the martini had arrived. I took a sip, closed my eyes to taste it better.
"Mr. Williams?" A young, anxious voice. I didn't want to open my eyes.
"Mr. Williams?" I opened my eyes and saw Ponyboy sitting on the stool beside me.
"Hello, Ponyboy," I hoped I didn't sound as tired, defeated, and unpleased to see him as I felt.
"Want a soda?" I said, sipping guiltily on my martini.
"Yeah, sure," He was staring glumly at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar.
"Those autopsy photos today," he began, sipping his pepsi, "they made Johnny look pretty guilty, huh?"
"That was the point," I said, fishing out the olive and eating it.
"It's not fair. Johnny had to do it because of the socs drowning me, and they were drunk," He stared down into his drink like it was whiskey instead of soda.
"I'm just so worried they're gonna find him guilty,"
I didn't have the energy to give him hope. He was right. It was possible they'd find him guilty.
"If Darry had never yelled at me and hit me that night none of this ever would have happened," he said.
I noticed then how he was different from Johnny. Ponyboy blamed the socs and Darry for this situation. Johnny blamed himself, owned his own actions in a way Ponyboy seemed incapable of. Funny.
"Listen, Ponyboy, I have a lot of witnesses, I've barely begun his defense. I'm confidant I can present his side in a very sympathetic manner," I finished my drink, Ponyboy finished his. He looked unconvinced.
I ordered another martini. I felt a bit unconvinced, too.
