Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Driving south on a Monday morning was steady sailing all the way to Coastal Highway, where they hit the typical beach traffic, and they rolled up near Beatrice’s driveway a little after eleven.
Emmett stared at the black sedan parked on the street in front of the house.
Both Beatrice’s car and Adrian’s pickup were there, so someone was visiting.
The official-looking vehicle made Emmett’s stomach give a funny wobble, and he couldn’t make himself open the door.
Lincoln was already out, overnight bag in hand from their trip, and watching him curiously. They’d planned to hang here for lunch, before going over to the club for practice, but Emmett didn’t want to go inside. And he had no idea why.
“Dude, you okay?” Roxy asked.
Her voice snapped him back to reality. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for driving me.”
“Not a problem. I think Starr has a baby crush on you, though.”
He forced a soft chuckle but felt no mirth. “Fantastic. See you later.”
Lincoln didn’t bother concealing his concern when Emmett finally ejected himself from Roxy’s car. “Is someone here? Is that what’s freaking you out?”
“I think so. I don’t know.” Those types of dark sedans reminded him of the cars lawyers drove.
He grabbed Lincoln’s offered hand and let himself be led up the walk to the front door. He let Lincoln open that door and tug him inside. Aunt Beatrice was sitting on the couch with a man who made Emmett’s stomach erupt with acid.
“Emmett,” she said as she stood, her face giving nothing away. “You remember Detective Lyons?”
“Of course.” Emmett made no move to shake the man’s hand. He couldn’t even step away from the entry. “What’s going on?”
Lyons smiled. “We finally arrested Chandler Gunn.”
Emmett swayed, everything going gray for a moment. Two arms cinched around his waist, and he leaned hard into Lincoln, not trusting his own legs to support him. “You found evidence?”
“Yes, we did. We brought him in this morning on charges of arson, assault, and second-degree murder.”
Lincoln gasped. “This guy set the fire?”
Emmett could only nod. For a year and a half, he’d lived in hope that the police would find some kind of physical evidence linking Chandler to the crime.
They had motive, but no actual evidence that Chandler had been involved.
Nothing that could be used in court to convince a jury he’d thrown the Molotov cocktail through a bedroom window and caused the deaths of three people.
Lincoln led him over to the love seat and tugged him down. He stayed close while Emmett tried to absorb what was happening. All he could find was one word: “How?”
“The guy who gave him an alibi for the night of the fire? Pete Monroe?” Lyons said.
“We found surveillance footage placing him inside of a bar on the other side of town for three hours, all of which occurred during the time the fire began. We brought him in, showed him the footage, and he admitted Chandler forced him to lie. Chandler said if he didn’t give him an alibi, he would tell police that Pete gave him the diesel fuel that he used to make the cocktail. ”
“Is that true?” Lincoln asked.
“I’m sorry, you are?”
“Lincoln West.” Emmett squeezed his hand to show it was okay to say it. “I’m Emilio’s boyfriend.”
The detective blinked once, then nodded.
“Pete admitted he gave Chandler the fuel, yes. He says he didn’t know why Chandler needed it at first, and that Chandler trapped him into the alibi after the fire occurred.
Pete has agreed to plead guilty to a misdemeanor in exchange for testifying against Chandler. ”
“Has Chandler admitted what he did?”
“Not yet. He asked for his lawyer right away. My partner is still at the station, in the small hope that he’ll want to cut a deal. Confess to what he did now that we have a witness against him.”
“But doesn’t cutting a deal usually mean he gets off easier?” Lincoln’s sharp tone made Emmett want to turn around and hug him. He was able to ask all of the questions Emmett wasn’t even sure how to voice, much less express his concerns over the eventual outcome of this arrest.
“In most cases, yes it does,” Lyons said. “To be frank, many cases are pled out and deals are made because trials are expensive. They take a lot of time, they cost a lot of money, and in a case like this, it would create a lot of spectacle in the local and state news.”
“Why?”
“Because it was a hate crime,” Emmett said.
His voice was as raw as his emotions, strained close to breaking.
“He bullied me in school for being Muslim. For being Syrian. Accused my family of being ISIS plants. He made people scared of us.” Hate and fear warred inside of him, leaving him alternately hot and cold.
“When my father was selected to a board of trustees over Chandler’s dad, he told me to my face that he was going to burn our house down with all of us inside it and rid the world of four more dirty Muslims.”
His voice did break then, and with that crack came hot tears.
Chandler had cornered him in the locker room, no one else around, and he’d said those words with so much rage that a terrified Emilio Sharif had believed him.
He’d told the principal, who did nothing.
He told his parents, who reported it to the police, who did nothing.
No one put his statements on record, so the police had nothing to go on after the fire, except Emilio’s own word.
And no one had believed the word of a hurt, grieving, dirty Muslim boy.
Lincoln tucked him into his arms, and Emmett clung while he let out the tears.
He wasn’t ashamed of crying in front of Detective Lyons or Aunt Beatrice.
They weren’t sad tears, they were angry tears.
Bitter, angry, ragey tears that needed to come up and out so they didn’t eat him alive.
No one had believed him at the time. No one had listened to him.
No one listened until another white kid spoke up and told the truth.
“I’m so sorry they didn’t believe you,” Lincoln said.
Had he said that last bit out loud? It didn’t matter, because Lincoln understood him better than anyone. He understood and he was trying hard to help Emmett keep himself together when he wanted to shatter into a thousand sharp pieces and fling them at everyone who’d called him a liar. And worse.
Someone else moved in on his other side. A whiff of Aunt Beatrice’s perfume told him who had turned him into a sandwich filling of love and support.
“It would definitely be a polarizing trial,” Lyons said.
“The Gunns have money, and they’re a big part of their community.
Emilio would have to testify, and there would be a lot of outrage thrown in his direction from Gunn supporters.
He’d lose his anonymity, especially if the trial made the national news.
He’d likely get a lot of support on social media, but there’s another side that would shred him bloody. ”
No one had to name that hateful group.
“I just want this over with,” Emmett said. “I want it over and Chandler behind bars.”
Lyons squatted in front of him, pensive, but determined. “If Chandler makes a plea deal to avoid a lengthy trial, would you be okay with that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Be aware that even if the DA and Chandler’s attorney strike a bargain, the sitting judge is not required to uphold that deal, especially not when it comes to sentencing. Chandler is responsible for the deaths of three human beings. He will spend time in prison.”
“I want this over.” Emmett rested his head on Lincoln’s shoulder.
“I would be okay if he made a deal. I don’t want to testify in a trial.
I don’t want cameras in my face. I don’t want my life and my family ripped apart on social media any more than they have been.
” He couldn’t stomach the idea of reporters getting into Lincoln’s or Aunt Beatrice’s or Adrian’s personal space.
Of Off Beat losing business because of his association with it.
“All right,” Lyons said, standing again.
“The arraignment is tomorrow morning. We have your original recorded statement, but if you would like to speak directly to the judge tomorrow, you can. Victim statements go a long way toward swaying a judge when they consider sentencing minimums and maximums.”
“I don’t know.” Emmett wasn’t sure he had the strength to stand in front of a judge and say it all over again. The harassment and the threats and how his entire family had been taken from him.
“I understand. If you decide to come, the hearing begins at nine thirty.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Lyons’s gaze shifted past him. “Take care of him, okay?”
“I will,” Lincoln said.
Aunt Beatrice walked him out. Emmett noticed Adrian lingering at the bottom of the stairs, his sympathy falling off in waves. All Emmett felt in that moment was drained. Empty.
Exhausted.
The wave of happiness he’d rode home from the Bounds house was gone, burned away by the intrusion of his violent past. Not even knowing that Chandler Gunn would finally pay for his crime soothed his frayed nerves.
“Can I get you boys anything?” Aunt Beatrice asked after a while.
“A glass of water?” Lincoln said.
She returned with two glasses of water. One she handed to Emmett, along with one of his Xanax.
He swallowed it dry, not interested in the water.
He didn’t want to calm his parched throat or ease his queasy stomach.
His family was dead, murdered, and he deserved those slight discomforts, because he was too much of a coward to want a trial.
“Stop that,” Lincoln said.
He grunted.
“Stop whatever bad things you’re thinking about yourself right now. You didn’t cause any of this, and it’s okay to not want yourself splashed all over the media. It’s okay.”