Chapter 5
(Johnny)
I cast a furtive glance at the door, willing it to stay closed until after I’d finished touching bases with my attorney. It was bad enough not being able to go down to the restaurant to sit across from Draven at one of those candlelit tables, but I couldn’t deny that he was right about the potential of being recognized. We’d already had it happen in the hot tub, after we’d pruned ourselves in the pool and climbed out shivering and desperate for a way to warm up. The couple had been nice enough, though and only fanned out for about a minute after dropping into the hot tub across from us. Too bad we both knew from experience that things didn’t always go that way, so we’d lingered long enough to get warm and not seem rude, then we’d headed in to dress, walking past the packed restaurant as our stomachs growled, a reminder that we hadn’t had anything to eat since we’d parted ways with the rest of our bandmates at Rocktoberfest.
Since I’d stayed behind in the room, I’d only bothered pulling on a pair of shorts after a brief rinse to wash the chlorine off. Bored, I’d sprawled across the bed, fully intending to lose myself in some Call of Duty only to discover that I’d missed three calls from my lawyer since we’d left the room, and each had been punctuated by a message informing me that we needed to talk.
That couldn’t be good.
“Oh good, you got my messages, I was beginning to worry,” Mr. Sousa declared when he picked up the phone.
“Yeah, well, now you’ve got me worried, so what’s going on?”
My heart was hammering in my ears as I waited for the answer, knowing I was going to hate whatever it was. It was after ten on the east coast, which meant that whatever this was, it had unfolded after business hours had concluded for the day.
Shit, that was gonna fuckin’ cost me and this whole mess was costing enough as it was. I was gonna wind up having to book myself for children’s birthday parties if we couldn’t get some shows organized soon. My bank account was looking that bad already.
“Stephannie McCall passed away tonight after suffering a hemorrhagic stroke as a result of intracranial hypertension following the head injury she received in the accident,” Mr. Sousa explained. “You are now facing two charges of vehicular manslaughter instead of one.”
For a moment I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even think about breathing, all I could think about was the furious grandmother of the three children who’d now lost a second parent and how she’d vowed to make sure that I rotted behind bars for all eternity for killing her son-in-law. She’d done everything in her power to try and get the judge to deny me bail while we waited for the trial, including speaking to countless reporters, even ones from the dirt rags, claiming I was being given special treatment. I’d surrendered my passport, which helped, as did not having property anywhere else outside of the apartment building I owned in the city I’d grown up in, and I only had that because I’d inherited it from my grandparents.
She’d organized protests outside of the courthouse, blasted my address on social media resulting in several unpleasant encounters with lurkers until I’d started going out the back way and hopping the fence into a neighbor’s yard. Fortunately for me, they’d known me forever and didn’t believe for one minute that I’d caused that wreck, which I hadn’t. I just wished I could prove it. Sadly, if I’d actually been on my phone and driving distracted the way she and her lawyers insisted, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place, because I’d have video footage of what happened. Footage they’d accused me of scrubbing from my phone before handing it over to investigators when they’d requested it. I hadn’t even forced them to get a subpoena for it. Right from the very beginning I’d cooperated fully, not that they’d cared when faced with a grieving family and three fatherless kids.
“Johnny, did you hear me?” Mr. Sousa asked, his voice sounding distant, like it was fading in and out.
“Y-yeah,” I stammered, trying to clear the spots from my vision. “I heard you, now what the fuck are we supposed to do?”
“There’s nothing we can do unless more evidence turns up,” Mr. Sousa explained. “As I’ve mentioned before, putting Mr. umm, Hellcat on the stand isn’t an option I’m in favor of.”
“It’s Halketts, and Rebel was the only other one there that night.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Mr. Sousa explained. “But given his condition at the time, I don’t see where his presence can work in your favor.”
“Maybe because it was his car and the only reason I was driving it was because I was the one who was sober,” I growled. “Between that and the toxicology report you can at least show proof that there was no recklessness going on that night. I was just trying to get my buddy home when some maniac came whipping around me and went lane hopping like he was playing Grand Theft Auto .”
“Unfortunately, the lack of evidence proving your claim that there was another vehicle involved that night has yet to be substantiated due to the extensive fire damage done to Mr. and Mrs. McCall’s vehicle. The only statements we have remotely collaborating your story are flimsy at best, considering Mr. Halketts condition at the time of the accident and the head injury suffered by Mrs. McCall who couldn’t be certain that there were two pairs of headlights reflected in the passenger’s side mirror or if the image was distorted due to the rain that had collected on the glass.”
“And because I’m the idiot who stuck around after the accident, the whole mess falls on me when we both got run off the road by the same asshole that night,” I growled. “And there was another vehicle, besides the one that ran the McCall’s SUV off the road. I just wish the fucker in the green van would come forward and admit to what they saw. They were right there, like two car lengths behind me. The asshole driving like a pinball hell bent on destruction had to have cut them off, too. I don’t see how they can keep quiet about it with how publicized the incident has been.”
“As I told you right from the beginning, you may need to offer a reward in order to get someone to come forward.”
“Why?” I snapped, springing up from the bed to pace and shove my fingers through my hair until it was sticking up everywhere. “I shouldn’t have to pay for the truth. And what if I do offer a reward? What’s to stop that Doolings lady from claiming that it was a bribe to try and get someone to lie for me? It seems like I’m damned no matter what I do at this point.”
“Then you have nothing to lose by offering the reward. If it is an issue of finances, then it might be time to liquidate what assets you have in the hopes of having a future after this trial is over.”
“What assets? My apartment? I inherited the building and there is a clause that states that it cannot be passed outside of the family. I sing, I don’t have a bunch of expensive instruments I can sell and in case you missed all of the articles Mrs. Doolings printed and turned over to her lawyer, I’ve got a bit of a party boy reputation, which means I wasn’t exactly shoving money in the bank as it rolled in. If I hadn’t just played Rocktoberfest I’d be worried about paying you right now, so where am I supposed to get reward money from even if I was willing to offer one, which I’m not?”
“I wish I had another solution to suggest, but I’m afraid that it looks like we will be stepping into the courtroom with very little in the way of options outside of the plea deal you previously turned down. In light of recent circumstances, I see little chance of that going back on the table.”
“Good, because I’m still not willing to admit to something that I didn’t do, even with the promise of less time behind bars,” I snapped. “I didn’t cause that accident.”
“And I believe you, wholeheartedly,” Mr. Sousa declared. “But the judge and those jurors aren’t going to care what I believe, they are only interested in what I can prove, and right now, all I can prove is that you were there that night and attempted to render aid to the victims after the accident. While that might help you with sentencing, it can just as easily work against you because of your refusal to admit guilt and accept responsibility for what happened. That is, unfortunately, the way the legal system works.”
“Yeah, well, it sucks. No wonder innocent people rot in jail or flee the country, they know no one cares about the truth, just about punishing someone for what happened so they can make themselves feel better about having done something. Maybe it’s time that I took to social media and then sat down and contacted some of the reporters who first reached out to me. There’s no reason for me to keep saying no comment while that Doolings lady spins the narrative however she wants.”
“Now that is one choice that I can get behind,” Mr. Sousa said. “Just be careful not to do anything that could be construed as blaming the victims or vilifying their family members in any way, no matter how many harsh words you might have for Mrs. Doolings. Remember that she’s a woman grieving the deaths of her daughter and son-in-law and has just been left with their children’s best interests to look after.”
“Well then it’s a good thing she can’t sue me for shit, not even future royalties at this point, because I won’t have any coming in.”
“Yes, I had noticed that rather intriguing clause in your contract when they initially voiced their intent to file for damages. It’s rather clever, and fortunately for you, iron clad.”
“It better be, we paid enough in legal fees to ensure things were set up to protect the band as a collective,” I explained.
“Yes, well her lawyer was most displeased to learn that should you be found guilty, the very nature of the accusation means that you contributed to your own inability to continue to perform with the band and thus forfeit all future earnings.”
“Precisely,” I replied. “Not only does it protect my bandmates, but it keeps people like her from trying to double up. You don’t get to put me behind bars and try to weasel money out of me. It’s bullshit that the legal system lets people get away with that. They’ve got all kinds of crap about how you can’t be tried twice for the same crime. Well, if that’s really true, then you should not be able to pursue someone in both criminal and claims court, it isn’t fair. So we insured that we could never be taken advantage of that way, at least not through our music.”
“Well, you have managed to do that part well enough,” Mr. Sousa said. “Perhaps speaking with the media will encourage the party in the green van to step forward, though I fully understand why you have been reluctant to do so before now.”
“Yeah, it’s a whole other damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation waiting to happen,” I explained. “And I’m not about to be blackmailed by someone wanting cash just to get them to do the right thing. People always wanna talk about morals, but they never wanna admit that what’s convenient and easy play as big a part in why people do the things they do as an honest desire to do the right thing. A part of me feels like whoever it is has just been waiting for me to wave some money around before coming forward, and it’s not happening. The only way I’d ever consider promising anyone anything is if the cops were willing to be there at the meeting and prosecute them for-for, what the hell is it when you get in the way of the truth coming out?”
“Obstruction.”
“Yeah. That. Because it’s fuckin’ bullshit that I should have to offer anyone anything to tell the truth.”
“I hear you,” Mr. Sousa said. “People love to take cracks at lawyers and call us sharks, but the average person is more devious than any lawyer I’ve ever known. Yours wouldn’t be the first case I’d seen where no one stepped forward to clear their conscience until someone offered to pay them something. Then folks have the gall to wonder why countries enact stances against negotiating with terrorists. It’s because once you give in to one person, the whole world thinks they can take advantage of you. I will keep you apprised of anymore changes should something else crop up.”
“I’d prefer no more cropping, thank you very much.”
“You and me, both.”
He ended the call then, as I flopped face down on the bed and screamed into one pillow while beating my phone against another one. Yes, I probably looked like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum when Draven stepped back into the room, especially once I’d started kicking my feet and snarling every curse word I’d ever learned into that thick, furry, noise-canceling mass of memory foam. The touch of his hand on my shoulder was jarring as the whirling thoughts in my head froze in mid-air before crashing to the ground. I could hear him trying to speak, and while the words were impossible to make out, despite his straining, just hearing the low murmuring tones was enough to ground me and remind me that I wasn’t alone and really needed to pull it together before I ruined our vacation with my bullshit.
When he took his hand away, I nearly lost my shit again, only I knew what he was doing and waited for the words I both needed and loathed .
“Come on, Johnny, talk to me, what happened? Are the guys okay?”
Oh shit, I’d never even considered that would be the first place his mind would go, though after his pyro incident and Jagger getting electrocuted, I should have. Look at me, getting all wrapped up in my own bullshit and forgetting what he’d been through. Seeing me freaking the fuck out, what else was he supposed to think when everything had been fine and flirty when he’d seen me last?
“Y-yeah, they’re fine, everything’s good, just shit with my case is all and no, I do not want to talk about it or anything going on with it until after we’ve had all the fun we possibly can here in Palm Springs. It might be the last vacation I have for the foreseeable future and I’m not gonna let them ruin that for me the way they’re trying to ruin my life!”
“Breathe.”
The word was a growled whisper in my ear as his hot breath ghosted over my shoulder, raising goosebumps as he attempted to smooth out the mess I’d made of my hair. He said nothing more until he’d fixed it to his satisfaction and tugged me around to face him on the bed. When I opened my mouth to tell him that I was breathing, dammit, he smooshed my cheeks together until the only sounds that spilled from my lips were unintelligible. Then he smiled, kissed my nose, and gave a little tug on the short hairs of my undercut. It was enough to get me to take the first full, deep breath I’d managed since I’d gotten Mr. Sousa on the phone. The room was wonderfully cold and a welcome contrast to the heat of the hot tub, which had started cooking me a little. That cool air filling my lungs helped me relax a bit further, while the second inhale brought a whiff of something delicious. My rumbling stomach chose that moment to give its loudest growl yet, and finally, I could smile again, even if it was forced.
I was Johnny Fuckin’ Amaral, goddammit. No matter what else happened, no matter what they did to me, I’d still be the man my aunt and uncle raised me to be. People refusing to believe me didn’t change the truth.
When he inclined his head in the direction of the table in the corner of the room, I scurried from the bed to grab a seat, waiting to see what he’d brought us, though I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t happy about letting it drop. If only I could explain to him the gift he was giving me by honoring my wishes. Maybe one day I’d package my appreciation and present it as a song, so the whole world would know just how much he meant to me. How much he’d always mean, even if thousands of miles, and iron bars, were keeping us apart.