Chapter 31 Ronan
Thirty-One
Ronan
“I think you’re going to prison for a very long time.”
Detective Harris backed off, and Detective Kowalski got up from behind the desk in that claustrophobic holding room that grew smaller and smaller with every passing second. He pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt.
“Ronan Wentz, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
They read me my rights and took me to processing where I was booked and fingerprinted and had my mug shot taken along with photos of my bruised and swollen knuckles.
A bus was waiting to transport me to the county jail, where I was strip-searched, given an orange jumpsuit, and tossed in a cell with a scared-looking skinny guy. He flinched when I looked his way.
I lay on the bottom bunk, staring at the mesh wiring and torn mattress of the bunk above me, one thought running through my mind.
I’m not like him. I have to trust Shiloh. I’m not like him.
But I was behind bars. After going through the humiliating process to get here, those words were flimsy and weak.
I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.
That afternoon, a guard came to tell me my public defender was here. I was handcuffed and taken to the visitors’ room where a tall guy—maybe forty—with a receding hairline and glasses was sitting at a table with a file in front of him.
“Mr. Wentz? I’m Forrest Perry, your court-appointed defender.”
I sat across from him, my handcuffed hands in my lap. Just like my dad had once.
Perry shuffled through the papers. “To be perfectly frank with you, this doesn’t look good.”
“I didn’t touch Dowd,” I said. “I found him at this place he hangs out, and I warned him to leave Shiloh alone. That’s it.”
“Because you think it was him who trashed her place.”
“I know it was him.”
“How?”
“He all but told me a few weeks back, before graduation. And the security footage—”
“Shows a guy covered head to toe in black. No prints. No DNA.”
“It was him. And when I confronted him, he confessed and said he was sorry.”
Perry’s brows rose above his glasses. “So you admit to confronting Dowd that night? He’s currently at UCSC Medical in intensive care and said it was you who put him there.”
“He’s lying. That night, I told him to lay off, and I walked away.”
“If that’s true, who beat the hell out of him?”
“Don’t know.”
Perry met my gaze for a minute, then waved a hand. “Never mind. It’s not our job to prove who did, only that you didn’t. But I’m going to be honest, Mr. Wentz, this is an uphill battle. Looking at your files…your history with Dowd…”
Your father’s bloody crime…
“I didn’t do it,” I said. “That should count for something.”
The words sounded stupid and weak in my own ears.
Perry rapped his fingers on the file. “You want to fight this? Enter a not-guilty plea at your arraignment? Because I can talk to the DA and see about cutting a deal. Otherwise, you could be looking at twenty-five years behind bars. Maybe more if the charges stick and the judge decides you intended to kill Frankie.”
The possibility of a life spent in prison made my chest so tight I could hardly breathe. But I had Shiloh. I had tenants who needed me. For the first time, I had something to fight for. The system had ruined my mother. Maybe this time would be different.
“No deal.”
Perry studied my face for a moment, then nodded.
“Okay. Tell me what happened.”
***
My arraignment was the following afternoon.
I was bused to the courthouse and marched into a hallway with a dozen other inmates there for the same reason.
Shiloh had tried to contact me at County, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of her seeing me there.
Or at the hearing, which I knew she and Bibi would show up for.
The orange jumpsuit was a uniform of humiliation and degradation.
They had called me a criminal at Central High School, and now that was what I was, guilty or not.
Less than human. A kind of animal that had to be restrained, caged, and guarded.
The cuffs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.
Finally, the side door to a courtroom opened, and we were shuffled in, the chains connected to my feet and handcuffs rattling. I kept my head down, but there was no avoiding it. Shiloh was there, in the front row, between Bibi and Maryann Greer.
Fuck.
Shiloh was so beautiful—light-years from the sick, sobbing girl I’d seen a few days ago.
Because she’s so damn strong.
And if she could be that strong, maybe I could be too. I lifted my head and nodded at her, my gaze full of apologies.
Tears filled her eyes, and she nodded back, her support unwavering. I felt like crying too.
On the other side of the courtroom sat Mitch Dowd. Beside him was Mikey Grimaldi, both come to watch me go down, I guessed.
Forrest Perry sidled up to me as the inmates in front of me were read the charges against them. Each entered a plea, and the judge moved on to the next.
“Second thoughts?” Perry murmured.
I leveled him a cold stare. “You giving up already?”
“No, no.” He held up his hand. “I just need to know the score before we enter a plea and this all becomes really real.”
News flash, I wanted to tell him. It was already really real. Being locked up, watching your back in the yard or in the showers or at mealtime was really fucking real.
Perry leaned in to me and nodded at the older man with a head full of white hair at the front of the courtroom. “Judge Jack Norman. He’s a tough old guy. No nonsense but fair. Could’ve been worse.”
“Docket number 29575,” the clerk said. “Ronan August Wentz.”
I was unshackled from the line of waiting inmates, and Perry and I moved to stand at the defendant’s table, our backs to the crowd. At the other table was the district attorney—a severe, sharp-looking woman in an expensive suit, her blond hair tied up in a tight twist.
“Lydia Wells,” Perry muttered. “This isn’t going to be fun.”
Judge Norman read over the file and then peered down at Perry. “Before a plea is entered, I believe there is an issue of probable cause?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Perry said, getting to his feet.
“My client was brought in for questioning without the presence of an attorney, and the grounds for his subsequent arrest are purely circumstantial. In fact, the allegations rest solely on the word of Franklin Dowd, who has a well-documented history of animosity toward my client and whose father—formerly of the Santa Cruz Police Department—still has friends on the force. Honestly, Your Honor, this entire situation feels like a classic setup, and we move to dismiss the charges entirely.”
I let out a breath. Smart to bring up my history with Frankie before the prosecution could do it. But I never pressed charges against Mitch. If I had, I might’ve had something to fight back with.
Fucking stupid.
Judge Norman thought this over. “Ms. Wells?”
“Your Honor, it’s laughable for the defense to reduce the accusations against Mr. Wentz as hearsay or a conspiracy among law enforcement when the defendant has a clear history of violence and criminal behavior and who has, in fact, assaulted Frankie Dowd in the past.”
Perry shook his head. “A typical high school fight, Your Honor, is hardly grounds—”
“However,” Wells interjected, holding up a hand, “if the accusation from the victim himself—rendered from his hospital bed in the critical care unit, no less—isn’t sufficient, prosecution is prepared to submit an eyewitness. Michael Grimaldi.”
Someone in the audience gasped. Shiloh, I thought. Mikey got to his feet, looking like a Boy Scout in a suit, hands folded in front of him. Mitch caught my eye, his expression smug.
Beside me, Perry stiffened. “What’s this?” he whispered.
“Bullshit,” I hissed back.
Wells smiled calmly. “Mr. Grimaldi will submit to deposition and stipulate that he was there on the night of July thirtieth and can attest that Mr. Wentz did indeed perpetrate the heinous attack that left his friend clinging to life.”
Perry cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “The arresting officers made no note of any testimony from Mr. Grimaldi that would give them probable cause.”
“Mr. Grimaldi will testify that given the severity of Mr. Wentz’s attack on Frankie, he feared for his own life and fled the scene. But after visiting his friend in the ICU, he knew he could not remain quiet.”
“Is there an affidavit?” the judge asked, annoyed. “Or are we just having a conversation?”
“Here, Your Honor.” Wells handed a document to the bailiff.
“With regard to probable cause, I respectfully refer Your Honor to the detectives’ report that clearly gives motive.
Mr. Dowd will plead no contest to the vandalism of the Rare Earth Jewelry shop, the owner of which is romantically attached to Mr. Wentz. ”
Judge Norman set the affidavit down. “It is the determination of this court that probable cause has been sufficiently rendered.”
“Your Honor—”
“Mr. Perry, do you wish to go forward in entering a plea? Or perhaps you’d like to talk it over with your client?”
Perry adjusted his glasses and stood straight. “In light of Mr. Grimaldi’s affidavit, I ask for time to consult with my client.”
“I thought you might. This arraignment is hereby postponed to the day after next.” Norman banged his gavel.
I was shuffled out of the courtroom, hardly able to catch a glimpse of Shiloh.
In the hallway, Perry asked the guards to back off. “I need to confer with my client.” He leaned against the wall beside me. “So that wasn’t ideal.”
“They’re lying,” I said. “Grimaldi wasn’t there. I tagged his car a few months ago. This is bullshit. It’s vengeance.”
“Which we’d have to prove.” Perry glanced up, and I followed his gaze to Ms. Wells, who’d entered the hallway surrounded by her assistants. “I hate surprises. Let me see what we’re up against.”
He conferred with her for a few minutes, his expression growing grimmer by the second, while she wore the look of someone who held all the cards.
Perry rejoined me, loosening his tie.
“Well, this just gets better and better,” he said dryly.
“They have cell phone footage taken back in June. You’re shown telling Frankie that you will ‘fuck his shit up’ if he messes with your girlfriend.
They have photos of your bruised hands from the night in question, they have an eyewitness, and they have the victim’s own word.
If this goes to trial, they’re going to go for attempted murder in the first degree. That’s a life sentence, Ronan.”
Like father, like son.
“But if you take the deal, they’ll reduce the charges. Second degree attempted murder or even aggravated battery and injuring with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. You could get ten years instead of twenty-five. Behave yourself, and you’re out in half that.”
I stared at him. “You want me to plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit so I can spend ten years in prison instead of the rest of my life.”
I’d lose everything. Shiloh. She is everything.
“The case against you was already strong, but you add Grimaldi…” Perry shook his head. “That changes the game. If you want to plead not guilty, that’s your right. But it’s a risk. A long shot. If we lose…”
If I lose…
I closed my eyes and thought of my mom. How she tried to go through the system and how it failed her. Again and again until she was dead.
The rest of the inmates had finished rendering their pleas, and the guards motioned it was time to get everyone shackled back up and moved out.
Perry put a hand on my arm. “I know it’s a tough call, but this is what we’re up against. Think long and hard about it.”
That night in my cell, I thought about it.
I thought about handing over five or ten or fifteen years of my life to prison because that was my best bet.
But the raging anger at the unfairness of it all burned out, leaving bitter ashes of regret.
This was my fault. I was Russell Wentz’s son.
His blood was in my veins, and it didn’t matter that I tried to do right and protect those I cared about. The poison corrupted and corroded me.
I flexed my bruised knuckles in the dim light.
My fault. Because I like it too much.
But Shiloh… Christ, how could I not fight for her? For us? Ten years in prison wasn’t the torture—it was ten years without her. That was unsurvivable.
The night grew late. The sounds of other inmates coughing, cursing, or snoring echoed in the hollow hallways. My cellmate cried himself to sleep, as usual.
Sometime deep in the night, I was still awake when footsteps approached and stopped outside my cell.
“Hey, Wentz.”
I held up my hand as a guard shined a flashlight in my face through the bars.
“Mitch Dowd is a friend of mine. A good friend.”
I tensed all over, my chest tight.
“He wanted me to pass on a message about your little girlfriend’s shop.” He leaned against the bars, his voice low. “It won’t stop until you do.”