Twisted Palace
Page 53
“I’m still debating what my options are.”
His uncharacteristic reserve piques my interest. “You’re Easton Royal. You have all the options.”
“Shockingly enough, there are some people who don’t subscribe to that theory. They’re wrong, of course, but what can you do?” He grins and then chugs the rest of his drink.
“I’ll sic Ella on you. You can’t hold out against her.”
He snorts. “Neither can you.”
“Who’d want to?”
Whatever comeback he was going to make is halted by Dad’s appearance at the door.
“Hey, Dad.” I raise my drink. “We’re having breakfast…” My happy greeting trails off as I take in his somber expression. “What’s up?”
“Halston is here and he needs to see you. Now.”
Shit. On Sunday morning?
I don’t spare a look at East, who’s likely frowning. I slide my stone face into place and walk through the space my dad makes for me.
“What’s this is all about?”
I’d rather know what I’m going to be confronting, but Dad just shakes his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
Meaning Grier wouldn’t tell him. Awesome.
Inside the study, Grier’s already seated on the couch. A stack of papers about two inches high sits in front of him.
“Hello, son,” he says.
It’s Sunday and he’s not at church. That’s my first warning. Everyone but the worst kind of people go to church down here. When Mom was alive, we went like clockwork. After we buried her, Dad never made us go again. What was the point? God hadn’t saved the only worthy Royal, so there wasn’t much hope the rest of us were getting past the pearly gates.
“Good morning, sir. I didn’t realize lawyers work on Sunday.”
“I went into the office last night to catch up on some things and there was mail from the prosecutor’s office. I spent all night reading it and decided I should come here this morning. You’d better have a seat.”
He gives me a thin smile and waves to a wing chair opposite him. I notice that he’s not even wearing a suit, but khakis and a button-down shirt. That’s my second warning. Shit’s going to go down.
Stiffly, I sit down. “I’m guessing I’m not going to like what you have to say.”
“No, I don’t think you will, but you’re going to listen to every word.” He points to the stack of paper. “For the past couple of weeks, the prosecutor’s office and the Bayview police have taken statements from your classmates, friends, acquaintances, and enemies.”
My fingers itch to grab the papers and toss them all in the fireplace. “You have a copy of those? That’s normal?” I reach for the pile, but he shakes his head until I settle back in my chair.
“Yes, as part of your constitutional rights, you get access to all the information they acquire, except for some documents the courts deem attorney work product. Witness statements are produced so that we can prepare a defense. The last thing the prosecution wants is for us to get a conviction overturned because they didn’t give us the appropriate evidence prior to trial.”
Over the pounding of my heart, I say, “That’s good, right?”
As if I hadn’t spoken, Grier continues. “It’s also a way for them to show us if they have a strong case or a weak case.”
My fingers curl over my knees. “And by the look on your face, I guess the case against me is strong?”
“Why don’t I read you the statements and then you can make your own judgment? This one is from Rodney Harland the Third.”
“I have no idea who that is.” Feeling faintly better, I rub my palms against my sweatpants.
“Nickname Harvey.”
“Still doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe they’re interviewing people that don’t even know me.” It sounds ridiculous as I say it out loud.
Grier doesn’t even look up from the page. “Harvey the Third is five-eleven but likes to brag that he’s six-two. He’s wider than he is tall, but because of his massive size, no one disputes his obviously false claim. His nose is broken and he has a tendency to lisp.”
“Wait, does he have curly brown hair?” I remember a guy like that at the dock fights. He doesn’t get in the ring much, because despite his size he hates taking hits. He ducks and runs away.
Grier looks up from the sheet of paper. “You do know him then.”
I nod. “Harvey and I fought a couple times a while back.”
What could Harvey say? He was involved in this up to his tiny ears.
“Harvey says that you fight on a fairly regular basis down in the warehouse district, usually between Docks Eight and Nine. That’s your preferred space because one of the fighters’ fathers is the dock manager.”
“Will Kendall’s dad is the dock foreman,” I confirm, feeling a bit more confident. Every guy down there is fighting because he wants to. Mutually agreed upon beatings are not illegal. “He doesn’t care that we use it.”
Grier plucks his shiny pen off the table. “When did you start fighting?”
“Two years ago.” Before my mom died, when her depression was spiraling out of control and I needed an outlet that didn’t include being pissed off at her.
He jots something down. “How did you hear about it?”
“I don’t know. In the locker room?”
“And how often do you go there now?”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought we went over this before.” The fight thing came up the first time Grier and I met over this murder mess—the one I’d wrongly thought would go away because I didn’t do it.
“Then you won’t mind going over it again,” Grier says implacably. His pen is poised, waiting for me.
Dully, I recite the answers. “We usually go after football games. We fight and then go to a party.”
“Harvey says you were one of the more regular participants. You would fight two or three males a night. These fights never lasted more than approximately ten minutes each. Usually you came with your brother Easton. ‘Easton is a real dick,’ according to Harvey. And you are ‘a smug asshole.’” Grier pulls down his eyeglasses and peers over the top of the lenses. “His words, not mine.”
His uncharacteristic reserve piques my interest. “You’re Easton Royal. You have all the options.”
“Shockingly enough, there are some people who don’t subscribe to that theory. They’re wrong, of course, but what can you do?” He grins and then chugs the rest of his drink.
“I’ll sic Ella on you. You can’t hold out against her.”
He snorts. “Neither can you.”
“Who’d want to?”
Whatever comeback he was going to make is halted by Dad’s appearance at the door.
“Hey, Dad.” I raise my drink. “We’re having breakfast…” My happy greeting trails off as I take in his somber expression. “What’s up?”
“Halston is here and he needs to see you. Now.”
Shit. On Sunday morning?
I don’t spare a look at East, who’s likely frowning. I slide my stone face into place and walk through the space my dad makes for me.
“What’s this is all about?”
I’d rather know what I’m going to be confronting, but Dad just shakes his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”
Meaning Grier wouldn’t tell him. Awesome.
Inside the study, Grier’s already seated on the couch. A stack of papers about two inches high sits in front of him.
“Hello, son,” he says.
It’s Sunday and he’s not at church. That’s my first warning. Everyone but the worst kind of people go to church down here. When Mom was alive, we went like clockwork. After we buried her, Dad never made us go again. What was the point? God hadn’t saved the only worthy Royal, so there wasn’t much hope the rest of us were getting past the pearly gates.
“Good morning, sir. I didn’t realize lawyers work on Sunday.”
“I went into the office last night to catch up on some things and there was mail from the prosecutor’s office. I spent all night reading it and decided I should come here this morning. You’d better have a seat.”
He gives me a thin smile and waves to a wing chair opposite him. I notice that he’s not even wearing a suit, but khakis and a button-down shirt. That’s my second warning. Shit’s going to go down.
Stiffly, I sit down. “I’m guessing I’m not going to like what you have to say.”
“No, I don’t think you will, but you’re going to listen to every word.” He points to the stack of paper. “For the past couple of weeks, the prosecutor’s office and the Bayview police have taken statements from your classmates, friends, acquaintances, and enemies.”
My fingers itch to grab the papers and toss them all in the fireplace. “You have a copy of those? That’s normal?” I reach for the pile, but he shakes his head until I settle back in my chair.
“Yes, as part of your constitutional rights, you get access to all the information they acquire, except for some documents the courts deem attorney work product. Witness statements are produced so that we can prepare a defense. The last thing the prosecution wants is for us to get a conviction overturned because they didn’t give us the appropriate evidence prior to trial.”
Over the pounding of my heart, I say, “That’s good, right?”
As if I hadn’t spoken, Grier continues. “It’s also a way for them to show us if they have a strong case or a weak case.”
My fingers curl over my knees. “And by the look on your face, I guess the case against me is strong?”
“Why don’t I read you the statements and then you can make your own judgment? This one is from Rodney Harland the Third.”
“I have no idea who that is.” Feeling faintly better, I rub my palms against my sweatpants.
“Nickname Harvey.”
“Still doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe they’re interviewing people that don’t even know me.” It sounds ridiculous as I say it out loud.
Grier doesn’t even look up from the page. “Harvey the Third is five-eleven but likes to brag that he’s six-two. He’s wider than he is tall, but because of his massive size, no one disputes his obviously false claim. His nose is broken and he has a tendency to lisp.”
“Wait, does he have curly brown hair?” I remember a guy like that at the dock fights. He doesn’t get in the ring much, because despite his size he hates taking hits. He ducks and runs away.
Grier looks up from the sheet of paper. “You do know him then.”
I nod. “Harvey and I fought a couple times a while back.”
What could Harvey say? He was involved in this up to his tiny ears.
“Harvey says that you fight on a fairly regular basis down in the warehouse district, usually between Docks Eight and Nine. That’s your preferred space because one of the fighters’ fathers is the dock manager.”
“Will Kendall’s dad is the dock foreman,” I confirm, feeling a bit more confident. Every guy down there is fighting because he wants to. Mutually agreed upon beatings are not illegal. “He doesn’t care that we use it.”
Grier plucks his shiny pen off the table. “When did you start fighting?”
“Two years ago.” Before my mom died, when her depression was spiraling out of control and I needed an outlet that didn’t include being pissed off at her.
He jots something down. “How did you hear about it?”
“I don’t know. In the locker room?”
“And how often do you go there now?”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought we went over this before.” The fight thing came up the first time Grier and I met over this murder mess—the one I’d wrongly thought would go away because I didn’t do it.
“Then you won’t mind going over it again,” Grier says implacably. His pen is poised, waiting for me.
Dully, I recite the answers. “We usually go after football games. We fight and then go to a party.”
“Harvey says you were one of the more regular participants. You would fight two or three males a night. These fights never lasted more than approximately ten minutes each. Usually you came with your brother Easton. ‘Easton is a real dick,’ according to Harvey. And you are ‘a smug asshole.’” Grier pulls down his eyeglasses and peers over the top of the lenses. “His words, not mine.”
