Chapter 13 Mickey #2
“That’s what I said. I told Morrison I saw his hand go into his jacket.
The surveillance footage from your cameras backs me up.
She showed me the still frames over a video call.
You can see his hand go inside the jacket and you can see the angle change right before the shot.
The state attorney isn’t buying accidental.
They’re holding at attempted murder of a law enforcement officer.
He’s looking at fifteen to life if it goes to trial. ”
“That’s good,” Tex says. “What about the other three?”
“The other three pled out. Aggravated assault. Hate crime enhancement. The big one, the one you put into the wall, he’s looking at four to six.
The other two are looking at three to five each.
They pled fast. Nobody wants to sit in front of a jury and explain why they beat a man in a bar because he was gay. ”
“They should have to explain it,” Tex says. “They should have to sit in that chair and say it out loud.”
“I agree. But their lawyers are smarter than they are, which is not a high bar. Morrison said they took the deals within forty-eight hours. The state attorney’s office wasn’t inclined to negotiate but the defense attorneys knew what a Bay County jury would do with a hate crime against a cop’s friend in a bar everybody knows.
They pled fast because fast was their only play. ”
“I’m sure glad I put those cameras in,” Tex says. “Every frame of footage is now sitting in the state attorney’s office. Best thing I’ve ever done.”
“There’s one more thing,” I say. “Morrison said the state attorney might want me to testify. At the trial. If it goes to trial.”
“In person?”
“Could be video. Could be a deposition. But they might want me in the courtroom.”
“How soon would a trial happen?” Tex asks.
“It’ll be a while. Could be a long time. Could be years. These things take time. If they want me in the room, I’ll definitely be there.”
“I figured you’d say that.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “I’ve been thinking about something. You know the second floor at the bar? The event space Stormy has been working on for wedding receptions and parties.”
“What about it?”
“I’m putting in an elevator,” Tex says.
“Why the hell would you put an elevator in the bar?”
He studies the wall behind my bed. Then he looks at me and his face is the most honest I’ve seen it since the night I woke up and he was sitting in the chair with blood on his apron.
“Because if rehab takes longer than we’re hoping,” he says, “or if things go different than we expect, I want that space ready for you to come home to. The second floor is wide open. It’s a beautiful space with good light and the bathroom is already plumbed.
I can make it accessible with wide doorways and a roll-in shower.
You’d be right upstairs. Right above me and Stormy and Sheila.
You’d hear the music at night and smell my coffee and bacon first thing in the morning.
There’d be someone in the building twenty-four hours a day.
Your people would be ten steps away. Well, ten steps and an elevator ride, which is why I’m putting in the damn elevator. ”
The room blurs. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes because I refuse to cry in front of Tex over an elevator. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m not asking for your permission, Mickey.
I’m telling you what I’m doing. The contractor comes next week.
Stormy’s already picked out tile for the bathroom.
There’s another thing. When I went to your house to check on things, I took my measuring tape.
I measured the front door, the bathroom, the hallway, the front steps.
Your house would need considerable renovations to accommodate a wheelchair.
And those things take time. That’s if, and it’s a big if, you could find someone to do the work.
It’s not easy finding construction workers here in the middle of the summer. Especially these days.”
I let out a sigh. “I know, Tex. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it too. It’s an older house and everything is narrow. The bathroom would have to be completely redone or a new one added on to the house. New doors and the kitchen renovated too.”
“This isn’t charity,” he says. “You’re my best friend which means you’re family.
You’re going to need a place to live when you come home.
And I’d rather that place be ten steps from my kitchen than alone in a house with two steps you can’t get up.
And when you don’t need it anymore, the elevator’s still handy for someone’s MeeMaw to use at a wedding reception. It pays for itself either way.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“Mickey, I want you there. I really do. You’re closer to me than a brother.
We never got to live together like a lot of friends do.
We didn’t get to room together in college since we didn’t go.
I got the bar and you became a cop. We were always eight minutes apart, but I love the idea of this.
Me and Stormy working the bar, you right upstairs, Sheila bossing all of us.
It’ll be a family compound. Built on top of a biker bar.
Can you think of anything more us? We’ll have so much fun.
It’ll be great. I’m excited about this.”
I wipe my eyes and the room reassembles itself through the wet blur. “Thank you,” I say. Two words. They’ll never be enough. But they’re what I’ve got.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Stormy. Three nights ago, he came downstairs after closing with a piece of paper.
Wouldn’t look me in the eye. He just held it out and said, ‘I drew something. You don’t have to look at it.
’ Mickey, it was a full blueprint. A fully accessible apartment on the second floor with wide doorways, a roll-in shower, lowered counters.
He’d measured every wall. He’d figured out where the elevator shaft could go without messing up the load-bearing structure.
He’d researched ADA specifications on his own.
Little Stormy who could barely speak when I brought him home drew up a floor plan for your apartment because he loves you and didn’t know how else to help.
He handed it to me like he was slipping me a note in class that he wasn’t sure I’d want to read.
I looked at it and called the contractor the next morning. ”
“I’m not surprised he could do something like that. Stormy’s smart as hell. He can do anything.”
“Smart doesn’t cover it. He thinks in dimensions I can’t see.
I’m standing there looking at an empty room and he’s already built an apartment in his head, complete with measurements and plumbing routes and a note about which direction the bathroom door should swing so the wheelchair has clearance.
The door should swing out. He specified that.
And he’s right because if the door swings in it blocks the turning radius.
He’s been talking non-stop about turning radiuses. ”
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “This is a lot for you and Stormy to take on.”
“One hundred percent sure. We’ll be ready for you when you come back from Jacksonville, if you need it. And maybe you won’t. Rehab takes time and maybe you walk out of there on your own two feet. Either way, the space is yours. If you want it and are okay with it.”
“God, yes, Tex. I’m more than okay with it.
You’re the best. I’ve been dreading trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do coming back to my house alone.
I was thinking I might have to rent an accessible place and you know what the housing situation is like in a tourist town.
This would be great. I appreciate it, Tex.
More than I can say. It takes a load off my mind. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Alright, then it’s settled.” His grin spreads across his face, and I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
“Before I ask what I’m about to ask, I want you to know that I have practiced this conversation.
I practiced it in the truck on the drive over.
I rehearsed multiple versions. There was a gentle version, a direct version, and a version where I ease into it with a story about a pelican.
I’m going with the direct version because the pelican story takes about twelve minutes and I don’t think either of us has that kind of time right now. ”
“What pelican?”
“It doesn’t matter. The pelican is not the point. The pelican was a transitional device and I’ve decided to skip the transition. Here we go.”
“Don’t you dare start,” I warn.
“So,” he says, grinning wider. “Is your stalker coming today?”
I glare at him, then pick up a sausage link and take a bite. I chew slowly to give me time for a comeback. “I thought we talked about the stalker thing already,” I say. “We’ve talked it to death.”
“Yeah, we did. Is he still stalking? Is it a daily thing now?”
“Benji comes to visit when he can.”
“Every day?” Tex asks.
“Pretty much.”
“Has he missed a day since you got here?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s the definition of every day.” Tex watches me closely. “Okay, I have to ask because I’m dying to know and I’m very confused. Is Benji your type? Because I never picked up on that if he is.”
I almost choke on the sausage bite and cough before I do. “Why would you ask me that?”
“From what I’ve seen, this guy is small, about five-eight, and dresses like he’s on his way to a designer photo shoot.
Don’t get me wrong. That’s not a problem as far as I’m concerned.
The issue is, your type for the last decade has been blue-collar guys who could bench-press a truck. That’s why I’m asking.”
“No, he’s not my normal type. You know my type. You’ve seen them, met a few of them over the years.”