“Okay,” I said, feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach.
“What’s option two?” Dad asked.
“Plead guilty. Try to work a deal where your incarceration time is nowhere close to a year. Maybe ninety days. Maybe only sixty. Maybe none at all—maybe I could set something up where you just get probation. That’s not so bad. It just means that you’re on your absolute best behavior at all times, and that you have to meet with a probation officer on a regular basis. Be ready for a surprise home inspection at any time.”
Dad nodded. “What would that mean for college?”
“Well, I’m not a college admissions counselor. It wouldn’t be ideal, obviously. His juvenile criminal record would be permanently sealed when he turned eighteen, so this wouldn’t haunt him for the rest of his life.”
“So you think it could just be probation?”
“It could be.”
“When would we know?”
“The system doesn’t move fast. Could be a few weeks. Could be a few months.”
“Jesus.”
“What’s your suggestion?” Mom asked.
Mr. Nickles sighed. “I’d love to say that I could deliver a not-guilty verdict for your son. I’m simply not convinced of that. Maybe I can dissuade them of the idea that he was going to sell it, though that’s not remotely a guarantee, but your son’s backpack was in his possession the entire morning at school. Even if it wasn’t, the idea that a fellow student had access to two ounces of marijuana that they could hide in there…you understand what I’m saying, right?”
“Yes,” said Mom. “So your suggestion is to plead guilty.”
“My suggestion is to wait to see what kind of deal I can work out. Again, it could just be probation. I assume Curtis was going to be on the straight and narrow from now on anyway—this just puts some extra eyes on him.”
“Thank you,” said Mom.
“Anytime.”
“I don’t want to plead guilty,” I told my parents from the back of the car. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
They ignored me.
It’s difficult to convey the sheer awfulness of the following weeks.
My mom took a month-long leave of absence from work, and I was assured that this was most definitely not good for our finances, especially now that I’d added lawyer fees. The concept of “fun” no longer existed in my world. No television. No time outside that wasn’t carefully monitored as if I were already in prison. Mom had acquired some textbooks, and the only thing I did all day was study them until Mom yanked the book out of my hand and asked me questions about what I’d learned. I hadn’t realized that being home-schooled involved being yelled at all the time.
I never wavered in my side of the story, but I also stopped actively pushing the “It was Mr. Martin” narrative. It wasn’t doing any good. Presumably the state troopers had questioned him about the marijuana, and he’d credibly denied any involvement. (Nobody was keeping me in the loop on what was happening with the serial killer, but for my own sanity I had to believe that they’d at least sent somebody over to ask him about it.)
One positive thing was that Mr. Martin and his friend hadn’t broken into my house and tried to kill me and my family. I suppose that planting drugs in my backpack had been his next move, but he wouldn’t take it further than that as long as I was a good little boy.
I didn’t get to talk to Tina, of course. I wondered if she believed that Mr. Martin was the real culprit, or she thought she’d been sort-of dating a drug dealer. Again, for my own sanity I had to believe it was the former. If anything, I’d never offered her any weed.
Thanksgiving arrived. All of our extended family lived in the lower forty-eight, so Thanksgiving generally just involved the three of us, unless my parents invited friends over. I honestly thought that this year Mom would slap a turkey TV dinner on the table in front of me and say “Enjoy, asshole!” But, no, she went all-out as usual, with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, rolls, and pumpkin pie.
We ate in uncomfortable silence. Nobody gave thanks for anything.
At the beginning of December, she had to either go back to work or officially quit her job. She decided that being my full-time captor wasn’t how she wanted to spend her life, so she returned to her job at the bank but reinstated the policy that there would be frequent random calls, and I’d better answer immediately.
“I don’t care if you’re in the middle of taking a shit,” she informed me. “You’d goddamn well better answer the phone when I call.” Mom had taken up the use of profanity since discovering that her son was a criminal.
I goddamn well answered the phone every time she called. I was left each day with textbook reading assignments (Mom wouldn’t prepare tests; she’d just look through the chapter and ask questions) and a gargantuan list of chores.
Throughout all this, of course, I had the ever-present worry that Mr. Martin wasn’t satisfied with where he’d left things. I’d planned to wait until he let down his guard, and he might be planning the same thing. It would be stupid of him to try anything else—he had most definitely won this round—but that didn’t mean he was done with me.
I also had the constant sick-to-my-stomach dread of how the plea bargain would go. What if Mr. Nickles said, “Sorry, Curtis, there was nothing I could do. It’s five years in juvie hall for you. As your lawyer, I’m advising you to kick somebody’s ass the first day, or else your life will be a living hell and you’ll always have to give up your dessert”?
Wednesday, December 20th. Snow everywhere. Thirteen degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Twenty-five below Celsius. Cold.
Technically, the second-to-last
