………………………………………It's Going
This was damning. Ponyboy, clearly shaken, left the stand, made his way back to his brothers. I imagined I saw blame in the eyes of the jury. Johnny just looked straight ahead, expressionless.
I'd been getting worried about him again. He seemed vaguely suicidal. I'd asked the guards to keep an eye on him but I'd been met with brusque dismissal.
"He's fine," the guard said.
"He's not fine. He hardly eats. He's, he's…" but I couldn't express it or describe it any more. Maybe because I knew he wasn't eating because he was skin and bones but I didn't know anything else. After a day in court I'd go to my hotel bar and drink and brood about the trial. I'd left Johnny to his own devices.
I'd visit. That's it. I had to make sure my client was somewhat mentally stable. But first, one drink.
I headed to the sanctuary of my hotel bar, that strangely lit, windowless room that looks like the dead of night no matter what time you pop in to sample the waters of oblivion.
"Martini, Mr. Williams?" the bartender said as I approached. I nodded, loosened my tie and hooked a leg over the barstool.
I sipped the drink, wanting it to last. Wanting it to dull the sting of what Ponyboy said Johnny would do.
"How's the trial going?" the bartender said, running a rag along his gleaming bar.
"It's going,"
When I arrived at the police station, untouched by the martini, they told me he already had a visitor.
"He's been there a while. I'll bring you down," A young guard said, and I noticed how his gun rested against his hip.
His visitor was Ponyboy, distraught, his voice full of tears.
"I'm sorry," he was saying, reaching across the table, his head down, "they're gonna kill you cause of what I said," Johnny looked at him with calm concern, smoked a cigarette and squinted through the smoke. Then he noticed me. Ponyboy did, too, and hastily wiped his eyes.
"Hey, Mr. Williams," he said.
"Do you mind if I talk to Johnny alone?" I said.
"No, I was just leaving," and he hurried out.
"Here," I said, setting a deli sandwich in front of him.
"What's this for?" he said.
"It's for you. You need to eat something,"
"I eat," he said defensively, pushing the sandwich away.
I sat down, wishing I was at a bar instead of a jail, wishing I didn't have the trial and this kid's life hanging over my head.
"You don't look like you do," He looked at me sullenly and I was reminded of how he looked at me when I first met him.
"Look, I know it's tough, this trial, but you gotta trust me," I said this and looked at him pleadingly. His expression softened a bit but I wondered who I was trying to convince, him or me.
I felt acutely over my head many days and Ponyboy's testimony slammed into me, knocking the wind from my defense. He'd claimed Johnny premeditated the murder of someone, whoever happened to jump him next.
"I could, uh, I could get someone for you to talk to, like therapy…" It trailed off. I felt so bad for this damn kid but I had no reference for what he was going through. If I'd been abused by my parents, beaten by these socs, driven to murder, then arrested and in jail for weeks maybe I wouldn't want to eat, either. I just didn't know. I didn't know anything.
"Look, I don't know. I don't know what you're going through and I don't know how the trial's gonna turn out. But I believe I can win, at least I've got a shot. So you have to have faith, too. And if you don't you at least have to eat,"
I was done. I had nothing left to suggest.
Johnny looked me square in the eyes, something I couldn't recall him ever doing. He reached for the sandwich and took a bite.
