CHAPTER 7: The hour of magical thinking
Friday, March 29, 2002
The cold of the concrete dug harshly into his left cheek. He could feel every pit, every fissure in the distressed blocks; could almost feel the gritty powder of the cement that held them together. It was rough. Cool. Let him focus on something other than the pain engulfing him from the arm hanging awkwardly at his left side. Justin was pretty sure the arm was dislocated.
Just a shove. That's all it was really – a shove.
Fucking dick.
He could see the photos scattered in front of him – intense splashes of copper and sapphire and cadmium shining up from the dirty ground – and he thoughtlessly moved to pick them up.
"Fuck!" The cry was wrenched from him as he slid down the wall, fighting back tears threatening at the sheer intensity of the pain.
Fuck fuck fuck! Can't cry here, Taylor! Breathe… Just fucking breathe.
As he sucked in great gulps of air, he struggled desperately to hold off the cries he knew would paint a bulls-eye on him for every hardass wannabe in the yard watching him; that would paint him as vulnerable to those who needed or wanted a target for their aggression. One of the first lessons you learned here – don't show a soft underbelly. Don't let them make you roll over. Don't let them see weakness.
And he mentally kicked his own ass for being such a stupid, daydreaming little fuck.
He always had the pictures with him. A couple of them, anyway. It brought him some peace, some small measure of… happiness… to look at them when he had a moment to do so. The hour in the yard every morning, outside the physical walls of the building, where he could actually feel the sun and the breeze on his skin… The hour outside when he could almost – almost – forget the guards and the gates and the strings of barbed wire. The hour he could almost – almost – pretend he was there waiting for them in a park or a backyard or a school lot. The hour he could almost – almost – believe that if he just pretended hard enough it would be true.
This one fucking hour of magical thinking.
He was a dad. Had a family. Had Bryn and Brian and Daphne coming to meet him, laughingly arm in arm… just around that corner of the building. They would take Bryn to the zoo or the museum. He would push her in a swing at the park, watch the coppery curls tickling around her tiny, smiling face. Brian would hold his hand as they walked – fucking touch him – and he would feel the sweet weight of Bryn's small body resting against him as he carried her.
Free… for that one magical hour he was free – waiting for them. Just around that corner.
But today Haas had been around that corner while Justin was in his magical thinking dream. Haas and his perpetually pissed-off attitude.
"Fuck outta my way, Taylor." Justin had flashes of hallway encounters with the jocks at St. James and huffed out a laugh at the improbability of jocks ever growing the hell up. As soon as the sound left his body he knew it was a mistake. This wasn't high school. This was fucking prison. You don't laugh back at the jocks here.
"Something fucking funny, Taylor?"
"Nope. Just standing here, Haas." Cool. Don't show your underbelly. But he knew he was in the middle of a Catch 22. No matter what he did now, Justin knew he would end up hurt. Didn't matter than he had just been standing there, minding his own business. Didn't matter that Haas had a whole fucking prison yard he could walk in. Haas wanted this one particular spot and Justin was in it. Simply because Justin was in it. If Justin gave in now he would be rolling over for Haas the rest of his time here. Catch. If he didn't Haas would see it as some kind of challenge. 22.
As the men stood facing off, Justin could see Haas fists clenching and unclenching and he prepared himself for the inevitable. He could feel the bile begin to churn, feel his heart rate shoot up dramatically. Haas was one of the volatile ones. Always on some edge. He was in for assault, too, but Justin was under no illusion the man was innocent. He actually bragged about nearly beating his own brother to death because he'd pissed him off. Christ!
A scuffle back in the yard seemed to pull the large man's attention. They both noticed the guards walking closer to their corner, intent on keeping the small altercation behind them from becoming a yard fight, and Justin could see Haas considering his options. He knew the moment the big man realized he wouldn't be beating the shit out of Justin today. The guards had come too close.
"You fucking laugh at me again, bitch," Haas hissed a moment later, leaning in nose to nose with Justin, "and I'll mark every inch of your pathetic little ass." As he moved to walk away he grabbed the front of Justin's brown shirt. Then he shoved him. Hard. The only sound Justin made as his shoulder impacted the pipe running down the side of the building was the whoosh of air leaving his body.
And now, here he was, slunk down on the paved yard, back pressed tightly against the brick. Staring helplessly at the prized photos scattered only inches in front of him.
"Taylor?"
The vaguely familiar voice slowly penetrated the thick fog of pain and frustration Justin had been biting back. He was surprised to hear the note of concern. He didn't get much of that sound around here.
"Let's get you to the infirmary, kid." Strong hands lifted him from the ground as his face screwed up in a tight grimace and he fought to keep his head from falling forward. That move hurt too fucking much.
"Shoulder…" he gritted out.
"Yeah, I guessed. Let's hope the fuckers up there know what they're doing today." Charles Whitefall knew the score, and it wasn't in the kid's favor. The medical treatment here was piss poor, doctors were invisible and the practitioners available were substandard. Who the fuck cared about treating inmates? He knew full well they wouldn't send him off to county for x-rays, no matter how much he might need them.
"Fuck. Fuck!"
"Hang on, Taylor."
"Photos," Justin said, drawing in a deep breath. "Get my daughter's photos."
The words stunned Whitefall. This kid had a kid? Jesus damn, he was just a boy and the guard was fairly sure the kid was gay.
"I'll make sure Carter gets 'em. C'mon, son."
An hour later, as he sat on break outside the infirmary where the kid was still waiting to be seen by any kind of medical provider, Charles Whitefall looked at the beautiful little girl smiling up at him from the photo in his hand and made a decision. He would not fucking let them do this to another boy. Not fucking again.
Even if it cost him his damned job.
TCTCTCTC
Brian sat staring blankly at the phone in his hand. It had been a full two minutes since the call ended and he still hadn't fully processed what the guard had told him. Justin was hurt. The medical treatment at Mercer was for shit. Get there and do something.
"Brian, Marty wants to see you."
The sound of Cynthia's voice through the intercom shocked Brian out of his deep freeze. Shit. He didn't have time for Ryder right now.
"Cynthia, tell Marty I can't see him. Cancel everything I have this afternoon. I have to leave."
"Brian? What the hell are you doing? And exactly what do you want me to use as an excuse with Marty?" The woman was used to Brian's idiosyncrasies, but you don't blow off the boss, for chrissake.
"Tell him I'm sick. Tell him my fucking mother died. Tell him my goddamned wife's in fucking labor! I don't give a shit. Just do it."
"Okay, boss." Shit. She knew Brian well enough to know arguing with him when he was like this was futile. I hope to hell he knows what he's doing, she thought.
Before his assistant even had the time to disconnect the intercom, Brian had dialed a now familiar number on his cell.
"George Pappas."
"George, Brian Kinney."
"Brian. If you're calling about the appeal, I don't have an…" Brian's anxious voice interrupted the attorney's words.
"Justin's been hurt."
"What the hell happened?" George was instantly on alert. Christ, the kid had been through enough already!
"Don't have details yet. His shoulder. Apparently they don't want to send him to the hospital, but they don't have the fucking facilities..." Brian's hand had been tapping the top of his desk and the attorney could suddenly hear it slam down even on the other end of the phone. "Fuck!"
"Yeah. They only have an infirmary. Basic shit. I know… How did you find out?"
"One of the guards called me." Brian, phone cradled between shoulder and chin, pulled on his suit jacket as he hurried toward Cynthia's desk. "George, listen… the guard said I should get to Mercer now. I think you need…"
"I actually have a meeting scheduled with him today. I'm already on my way. You… go."
As Brian closed the phone, holding it tightly in his clenched hand, he looked into the questioning face of his assistant. He knew she'd heard the end of his conversation and knew she'd worry the shit out of him for some kind of explanation. She was the one who would have to face a very pissed off Marty Ryder. He would owe her at least something. But not now.
"Don't call me unless the wife has twins, Cynthia."
"Got it, Boss." She gave him that cocked-head, wide-eyed stare he had come to interpret as 'we'll talk later,' and he nodded slightly.
Getting on the elevator, he punched the button for the parking garage and leaned back against the reflective walls, watching the crisp reflection in the polished surface across from him. Everything he had worked toward in his life stared back at him. The perfect image. The man who had everything – career success, money, looks, men. And a whole load of bullshit rules created to maintain that image. He had gotten it all – raised himself up out of the for shit life he grew up in. He could have anyone he wanted – and he had. A couple of them right here in this fucking mirrored box. And right now it meant nothing. Absolutely. Nothing. Not the success, the men, the rules…
Brian closed his eyes against the hollow feeling his own image created inside. Yeah, he had done it all. No apologies. No regrets.
No substance.
Until…
A wave of emotion rolled over Brian at the thought of Justin hurt in that fucking institution. And he realized that, as scary — as fucking paralyzing as it was to think of the man injured there, just the mental image of him filled Brian up – filled in the hollow shell that had reflected back at him just a moment before. There was more substance in his life on that one day than the rest of the week combined. Tuesday lived. The rest of his life merely existed.
He loved his son. God, he loved that little boy and the depth of his feelings for him had come as a total surprise. He had come to love Daphne in a way he had never loved Lindsey, or any other woman. She had become truly his sister, truly his confidant. Unconditionally and reciprocally.
As much as Brian had depended upon and loved Mikey and Lindsey and Debbie… none of those relationships had been unconditional. For any of them. And now… that just wasn't enough anymore.
Because of Justin. There were no expectations there. Given the circumstances there just couldn't be. This relationship – and yeah, it was a relationship – was on a totally different level. A level Brian had never before experienced. A man he couldn't touch, couldn't hold, couldn't… fuck… filled him. Took away the emptiness, but engendered an entirely alien sense of longing.
He was in love with Justin. And he wasn't going to hide it anymore.
Brian turned the ignition in his Jeep and pulled out onto the highway toward Mercer. Justin needed him.
TCTCTCTC
Eleven months earlier:
"You will finish high school, Justin. You will go to art school."
Brian sat on the hard bench next to the beautiful young man, mindlessly staring at the ducks paddling in seemingly erratic circles on the water.
Justin huffed out a sardonic little laugh. "That is so unlikely, Brian, it rises to the level of the impossible. If I'm convicted, no reputable school would even consider me after prison. And, even if I am acquitted, I can't go back to high school after this." He broke off a small piece of bread and tossed it aimlessly toward the river. "I'm just so fucking screwed."
Brian wrapped his arm around the heartsick young man. He could feel the tremors in the slight body, and knew it had nothing to do with the chill still hovering in the April air. Brian pulled Justin closer and wished more than anything that he could tell him everything would be fine. That life would be back to normal after the trial. But Brian wouldn't lie. Normal wouldn't come again for any of them. Especially Justin.
"That guy over there," Brian said, pointing to a stylishly dressed man talking on a cell phone. "Tell me about him."
"Brian…"
"Go on. Tell me." It was a game they had played before to distract themselves and pass the time. And right now, Justin needed the distraction.
The young man nudged Brian's shoulder with his own and sighed. "Sure," he finally said. "Stock broker. Eats alone every day because he has no friends. He's too obsessed with amassing a fortune. For himself. He doesn't care about the investors. Loves insider trading and Oprah. Lives in an apartment on the floor below the penthouse in the Regency Building since he can't quite afford the cost of the penthouse. Yet. His guilty pleasures are listening to re-mastered recordings of Meneudo and dancing salsa naked in his kitchen."
"You're getting good at this," Brian praised. "But… you're wrong. He's a plumber."
"Plumber? Really, Brian. Dressed like that?" Justin giggled quietly. Brian smiled at the beautiful sound.
"Yes, a plumber. Do you have any idea how much they make?" He glared at the boy in mock astonishment. "But, alas," Brian sighed, "the poor man is having a bit of a plumbing crisis himself. Right now, he's calling yet another plumber to check out his faulty ballcock and blocked overflow tube."
Justin laughed – really laughed – and Brian realized he hadn't heard that sound in days.
At least for a moment Justin was happy.
"God, Brian. You're incredible."
"It's true. I am," he replied, tongue in cheek.
Justin reached up and kissed the older man gently. "Thank you, Brian. For being here."
"Always, Justin. Always."
TCTCTCTC
Friday, March 29, 2002:
Justin lay on the cot in the prison infirmary, his breath coming in short, labored pants and a cold numbness creeping slowly up his arm. He cradled the still aching arm closely to his body and tried to remember what the hell had happened to him. He had been looking at Bryn. Her picture. All copper curls and blue eyed wonder. God, she was beautiful. He had done that. Somewhere inside himself he smiled. It didn't reach his lips.
George Whitefall stood anxiously looking through the small wired window of the infirmary door. He could tell instantly that something was very wrong as he watched the boy's body slowly start to jerk and his head tilt to the side. Fuck!
Fuck!
Three minutes later, Brian Kinney stood in the lobby near the administration desk of Mercer prison, George Pappas at his side. They had been battling with the desk clerk for over five minutes about the legality of withholding an inmate from a scheduled meeting with his attorney.
Brian felt the vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. Flipping the phone open he read the text message from Cynthia:
911, Brian. I think we have twins. Charles Whitefall? Call this number immediately. 555-5252.
Oh, fuck, he thought as he dialed.
George watched his friend walk to the far corner of the lobby, his phone to his ear and the color slowly draining from his face.
"Shit!" Brian exclaimed. "George, he's in serious trouble. Justin."
George Pappas didn't take time asking for clarification. He turned back to the generic looking man behind the administration desk and spoke with quiet, firm authority.
"Justin Taylor is my client. I am his attorney. I have a scheduled, approved meeting with my client right now. And I don't give a shit where Mr. Taylor is at the moment or whether you think it is the right time for me to see him. Unless his section is on lockdown, you will either produce him immediately for me to talk with, or you will take me to him. Immediately. Do. You. Understand?" The threat in Pappas' voice was suddenly unmistakable. There was no more room for question.
"Mr. Taylor is currently in the infirmary, Mr. Pappas. You may follow me, but I'm afraid Mr. Kinney is not on the attorney list. He will need to remain here." There was absolutely no concern or disdain in the man's voice. It was completely void of emotion.
Brian nodded his understanding. He just fucking wanted something done. "I'll be here, George. Let me know if…"
George nodded in acknowledgement as he followed the clerk through the reinforced door. And Brian waited for what seemed an eternity.
NOTE: Although at times allowed, it is not common practice for attorneys to be taken to the infirmary to see inmates. For the purposes of this story, I ignore that fact completely.