Chapter 20
20
“ H i, Adrian,” my mother greets when I enter her office.
I called her on my drive home from Essie’s, and she insisted I come to her office. She’s only invited me to the Prison Exoneration Program’s headquarters once before, so whatever she needs, it’s important.
I stare over her shoulder at the framed pictures on the windowsill.
Her and my father in front of the Grand Canyon.
Her, my grandmother, and me in Puerto Rico.
The three of us again when I graduated from law school.
I always have to do a double take at pictures with my father. We’re almost spitting images of each other. The genetic gods did everything they could to form me into a memory of him.
Other than those photos and her degrees, there’s no other personalization here.
“How are you?” I ask, sitting in the white leather chair before her desk.
She reaches to her left, collects a thick manila folder, and leans forward to drop it on the space in front of me. “I need something from you. ”
I slide the folder off the desk, settle it on my lap, and flip through the top three pages. “What’s this?”
“A man from Blue Beech requested our services. We did our research and accepted his case. And since you apparently live there now,” she says with annoyance, “I’m asking you to help me. My caseload is full, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s innocent.”
Ninety-nine percent sure is huge for my mother. As someone who called it blasphemous to ever state you were one hundred percent about anything, it’s a rarity to even hear ninety-nine.
I flip back to the first page. “Reckless driving and felony manslaughter.”
“Prosecutors claimed he purposely hit a vehicle head-on with two teenagers and killed one. The entire town loved the kids and hated the man. He was the easy fall guy, and other than hearsay, the information doesn’t match up.”
“There are photos of his wrecked truck.”
“The man was drunk that night and had an alibi, and they never looked into anyone else.”
I close the folder. “I’ll look into it. Ask around.”
“An innocent man is behind bars, Adrian. I’m asking you to make this a priority.” She grabs her coffee mug, the PEP logo on it, and takes a drink. “I arranged for you to meet with him at the prison tomorrow. I’ll text you the details.”
“I’ll be there.” It’s not like I have a choice, but if an innocent man is in prison and I have the means to help, I will.
“Thank you.” She trades her cup for her phone and unlocks the screen. “I’m working late and ordering Chinese. Do you want to stay and eat?”
I close the folder and tuck it beneath my armpit before standing. “I can’t, but rain check?”
She nods. “Rain check.”
When I return to my car, I text Essie. She still hasn’t replied by the time I’m back in Blue Beech. On the drive to my mother’s office, I called and asked my abuela to make her infamous sopa de fideo—we call it the medicine soup. Anytime we get sick, she brings it over. It’s a miracle worker.
“Knock, knock,” I say, walking into her home without actually knocking.
She’s in the kitchen with Terrance. He’s washing dishes while she’s in front of the stove, stirring the soup. She drops the spoon on the counter and marches up to me, smacking her hand against my forehead to check my temperature.
“You’re not sick,” she says.
I shrug. “I had a craving for it.”
“What did I tell you about fibbing?” She swipes her oven mitt from the counter and whacks me on the side of the head with it. “If you’re taking this to someone else, don’t fib about it.” She retreats a step and returns the mitt from where she took it. “But one rule.”
Terrance laughs in the background while turning off the faucet.
I shut one eye and massage my head. “What’s that?”
“Don’t you dare take credit for making it.” She shakes her head, as if running out of patience with me. “No way will I allow a woman to start a relationship with a man she believes will cook for her, only to be disappointed later.” She skeptically stares at me. “And unless you plan to spend time with me in the kitchen, she’ll definitely be disappointed, my dear.”
I cross my arms and fake offense. “Well, that’s rude.”
She smiles brightly and pats my chest. “Rude but honest.”
“How do you know it’s for a girl?”
“Because I know everything.”
I kiss her cheek, not even bothering to argue.
She’s always had an intuition like that.
“Thank you,” I say. “I promise to tell her you’re the brains behind the soup. ”
I never planned to take credit for the soup. I’d look more like an idiot by faking I could cook rather than telling her my expertise was in ordering pizza or blending a protein shake.
“That’s my good boy,” she says in the tone as when she tells my dog the same thing.
I open the soup lid, inhale the scent, and turn off the burner.
I steal a cookie, shove it into my mouth, and grip the pot while telling them, “Thank you.”
When I’m in my car, I secure the seat belt around the pot and text Essie again.
No reply.
I go back and forth on what I should do.
On the one hand, I don’t want to overwhelm her.
On the other, I know whatever River went there to tell her was bad.
I want to be there for her, and if I have to use the excuse of not letting good soup go to waste, I’ll use that excuse.
When I get there, none of the lights are on in the main house. I grip the soup pot while strolling down the lit walkway that leads to the back. The sounds of crickets chirping and the rock waterfall cascading into the pool echo through the night.
“Not a good time, my man.” River’s voice startles me.
I stretch my neck to find him slumped on a pool chair, inches from Essie’s door. He must have dragged it across the concrete from the row of others to the door.
“She’s sick.” He leans back and takes a hit of a joint.
I awkwardly hold up the pot. “I brought soup.”
He stares at me, untrusting. “Did my sister ever tell you what happened to her?”
I’m clueless about how to answer, and I scramble for words.
My lack of response confirms I have no idea what he’s referring to. That takes away any luck of River saying a word to me about Essie’s past. It was a test, and I failed.
We’re interrupted by a beam of light when Essie’s front door opens. River hurriedly snubs out his joint and jumps to his feet when she walks outside.
“River,” she says in a weak voice, “can you please tell Mom I’ll talk to her in the morning?—”
She freezes when she sees me. “Adrian, what are you doing here?”
I carefully walk closer to them, like an unwanted door-to-door salesman. “I, uh … brought you soup.”
My heart twists when I see Essie’s face. It’s red and splotchy. I can tell she’s been crying.
She stares at me distantly, her eyes cold and empty. You’d think I was a stranger to her.
Essie isn’t only dealing with a stomach bug now.
No, now, she has the weight of something stronger.
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” I continue before she asks me to leave. “Guaranteed to make you feel better.”
I feel like a clown for those last words.
Soup. A Band-Aid. Winning the lottery.
Nothing will help her right now.
River, taking the hint, collects the pot from me.
“Thank you,” Essie finally says, bowing her head to conceal her face from me.
“Will you text me tonight?” I’m pressing my luck. “If you need anything or want to talk.”
I’ve never rambled in front of someone so much in my life. Not even during my first court case, when my client told me I was a disgrace to attorneys worldwide because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with a legal reason to elude the charges from him hiring hookers on his wife’s company credit card.
Essie keeps her chin tucked while nodding. “Good night, Adrian.”
I stand there, my spine stiff, while she retreats into her house .
“It might be best to give her space,” River tells me apologetically. “She’s going through a tough time.”
“Why?” I call out when he follows her.
“It’s not my place to tell others’ stories.” He holds up the pot. “Thank you for this.”
I turn away but then stop. “Wait.”
River pauses and furrows his brows.
I dig the Skittles bag from my pocket that I forgot about. “Give her these for me.”
He tilts his head, curious how I know her favorite candy, but then shakes off the thought like it’s the least of his worries. As he walks through Essie’s doorway, I hear him mutter, “Fucking Prison Exoneration Program,” before shutting the door behind him.
Darkness engulfs me as I drive through the thickets of trees to go home. At night, it’s eerie as fuck out here.
If I permanently move to Blue Beech, it’ll be closer to town. There have been too many strange noises for me to feel at ease here.
Tucker hops off the couch as soon as I walk in.
“Hey, boy,” I say, petting him.
He walks next to me and licks my cheek when I kneel to grab his food bowl. I feed him, and while he devours his dinner, I open the folder at the kitchen table and sit.
The wind whistles through the thin window as I stare at the man’s decade-old mug shot. His face, pale and boxy, is weathered and wrinkled. His dark eyes have a hardness as he glares at the camera. The description under his photo says he has a glass eye and a single tattoo. I flip to the tattoo photo, and it’s a smiley face on his right arm.
I continue reading through Earl’s file .
A decade ago, the courts charged Earl McGrey with reckless driving, driving under the influence, and manslaughter. He was sentenced to forty years in prison. The evidence against him is strong, and there are no other signs of wrongful convictions in the court file.
A witness reportedly matched the make and model to the truck they saw speeding down a rural highway. Paint on the truck’s hood matched the victim’s car. The truck was not only in Earl’s name but also parked in his driveway when the police arrived to question him.
The address they arrived at?
The one where I’m currently staying.
Earl lived here.
He was also so drunk that night that he could hardly stand when they arrested him.
Tucker nestles against my side as I speed-read through the rest of Earl’s file, knowing I’ll reread it a hundred times. I’ll have every sentence nearly memorized by morning.
Ethan Leonard, eighteen years young and the school’s quarterback, died in the accident.
The underage victim was only sixteen, a junior in high school. She suffered severe wounds but survived the accident.
And that girl was Essie.