The Last Day of Freedom Read online

Over the next month, Tristan began paying attention to his fellows at the detention center. It did not take long to notice that none of them stayed longer than a week. Tristan was the sole long-term resident.

  “Where do you go after here?” he asked a scrawny, timid-looking boy who joined him at dinner one day.

  “Depends on what you’ve done. Most kids just go home. They’re put on probation, and some of them get counseling, but that’s all. The bad kids go to Cass.”

  “What’s that?” Tristan asked, his misgivings mounting.

  “It’s the lock-up for kids. The long-term detention center.”

  Tristan prodded at his flavorless stew. “I’ve been here nearly a month. Why haven’t they sent me there yet?”

  “Maybe they can’t decide what to do with you,” the boy said innocently. “You’re in too much trouble to go home, but not enough for Cass.”

  That night, Tristan decided he didn’t want to put up with the bandages on his cheek any longer. The nurse in the clinic had replaced them every few days while he’d stayed at the temporary detention center, but though the pain was gone, he could tell there would be scarring. He just didn’t know how bad it would be.

  After most of the boys had finished their showers and disappeared to their rooms, Tristan slunk to the most decrepit bathroom in the building, with its constant smell of mildew and piss and a pipe that wouldn’t stop dripping. There he plucked at the medical tape that held the gauze pad in place, biting his lip so he didn’t wince as the tape yanked out every remaining hair on his cheek. The gauze pad caught on the new scab that had formed on his cheek, and he eased it free, cursing when it ripped out a patch of dried blood.

  Only when he let the stained, gummy bandage fall to the sink did Tristan get a clear view of the damage beneath.

  His first instinct was to retch. Clutching the sink, Tristan forced himself to confront his reflection.

  Even a month after the crash, the gashes across his cheek were raw, a mess of swollen flesh and pus and scabs that hadn’t quite healed properly. It looked as though a rabid dog had torn a chunk out of his face.

  It was the face of a murderer.

  When Tristan lifted one trembling finger to his cheekbone to prod a swollen red lump crossed with stitches, the pain sent him reeling.

  Dizzy with nausea, Tristan stumbled away from the mirrors and sank to the damp floor. The tears that had refused to come in the weeks following Marcus’s death now welled up, burning as they streaked over his torn-up cheek. He welcomed the pain. His body wracked with silent sobs, Tristan hunched over his knees.

  He wanted to die.

  Why had it been Marcus, not him? He should have been the one cut lifeless from his seat, not his brother. Marcus had suffered enough already. Years and years of enduring operations and seizures and long periods of sickness, and for what? There was no justice in this world.

  Then his memory sent him the cruelest gift of all—a vivid scene played itself out before him, of a hot summer’s day two years past when he and Marcus had gone down to the river near their mom’s house and jumped from the rope hung over a wide swimming hole. Marcus’s face was lit with laughter, and his small limbs flailed comically as he plunged from the rope into the lazy current below. It had been one of his longest periods of good health, a charmed time that nearly led their parents to mend their failing marriage.

  Tristan could remember the scent of sunbaked dirt on the breeze, and the welcome chill of the river as he splashed out to tackle Marcus and lift him on his shoulders.

  As the memory faded, Tristan’s entire body shook. Tears dripped from his chin onto his jeans, where they vanished against the dark denim.

  It was gone. All of it.

  His family, his brother, his own freedom.

  When he could cry no more, he stood weakly and faced his reflection for the second time, eyes swollen and bloodshot. Hopelessness weighed heavy on him, narrowing the world to a dull monotone.

  His face was repulsive.

  Experimentally, Tristan dragged his hair forward to see if it would cover his gutted cheek. His hair had been getting sloppy before his arrest, and he hadn’t touched it since then. The longest tendrils hung just past his eyes—close, but not enough. In three months he might be able to hide the better part of his cheek.

  Crumpling the foul bandage into a ball and dropping it into the trashcan, Tristan left the derelict bathroom and slunk back to his room. Though he encountered no one in the hall, he kept his chin close to his chest, eyes trained on the floor. He didn’t know how he would face breakfast the next morning.

  From the second he stepped into the cafeteria, Tristan noticed a dozen pairs of eyes following him towards the breakfast line. Some of the older boys sniggered, and the scrawny boy he’d spoken to the day before stared unabashedly. When even the cafeteria lady gave him a quickly-concealed look of shock, Tristan nearly turned and stomped back to his room.

  He should have just stayed there and starved.

  He took his tray to the far corner of the cafeteria and ate facing the wall, though even that wouldn’t silence the whispers and taunts that followed him. A pair of girls were talking about him from the table just behind his, their hushed voices still carrying clearly.

  “Yuck! Did you see his face?”

  “Poor kid. I wonder what happened.”

  “He looks scary! Like, I bet he’s done something awful.”

  “Yeah, probably. He’s been here nearly a month. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Ugh. No.”

  Tristan’s shoulders tensed. He wanted to throw his tray at them, but that would cause a scene, and scenes attracted the attention of dangerous kids.

  When he was approached at the end of breakfast by the secretary, he wondered if the nurse was going to snap at him for taking off the gauze bandage prematurely. She alone did not give him a funny look. He could have kissed her. Instead she said, “If you don’t mind finishing up quickly, you have a visitor.”

  “Who?” His thoughts immediately leapt to his parents, though they had not reached out to him in any way before now.

  “It’s your public defender, honey. He’s here with details of your next trial.”

  Tristan stood at once, eager to learn more, and followed her down the hall. Mr. Morrison was waiting for him in a sparsely furnished side room, looking smarter than ever in a suit and polished black shoes.

  “How are you?” Without waiting for a response, Mr. Morrison continued, “I’ve spoken with the judge from your first hearing. He’s told me that your twin charges of vehicular manslaughter and driving without a license guarantee a minimum two-year sentence at the Cass County Detention Center. However, it will be extended if they find the charges of arson and theft to be true.”

  Cautiously Tristan took the seat across from him. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

  “Unless you have thought of any further witnesses who might back up your claim, I would counsel you to plead insanity.”

  “What happens if I do?”

  “You’ll be given a mental test to prove your unbalanced mental state, and afterwards you will be taken to the state mental hospital until you are fit to be released. If you repeat your earthquake story, it might be enough.”

  “I won’t do it,” Tristan said, panicked. Anything was better than a mental hospital.

  “Your misgivings are understandable,” Mr. Morrison said evenly. “But the secure detention center is not a nice place. You might find a mental hospital to be less harsh, and if you receive the necessary counselling, you could be re-evaluated and released before two years have passed.”

  “I’d still rather go to the detention center,” Tristan said. Mental hospitals were the stuff of horror movies. The idea of living in one, and subjecting himself to intense mental scrutiny, terrified him.

  “In that case, we will proceed with your fa
ctfinding trial. This one is run by the juvenile court, without a jury. The prosecuting attorney will present evidence, and he bears the burden again of proving your charges beyond reasonable doubt. Afterwards, the judge will determine your sentence. Most juvenile offenders get away with probation and counseling, but in cases of manslaughter, you have to serve time.”

  “When’s the trial?” Tristan asked dully.

  “Tomorrow morning. We hope to relocate you as soon as possible. This place was not intended for long-term residency.”

  “I noticed,” Tristan said. Even though he knew what to expect this time around, the prospect of another trial set his stomach churning.

  His future would be decided tomorrow.

  The factfinding trial took place at a much smaller building adjacent to the detention center. Mr. Morrison, the judge, the prosecuting attorney, and the witnesses formed the entire assembly this time; Tristan felt a twinge of guilt for forcing the witnesses to attend yet another trial.

  Everything proceeded as before, until the witnesses were finished restating their evidence. Mr. Morrison did not have to call “objection” this time; the witnesses knew their lines. When they were finished, the prosecuting attorney and Mr. Morrison began firing questions at each witness in turn.

  To the police officers:

  “Was there any evidence of alcohol involved in the car crash?” (They hadn’t checked, since Tristan had been unconscious).

  “Describe the location of the crash. Were there any hazards present?” (The police officers acknowledged the rain and the darkness and the sharp bend in the highway).

  “According to Google Maps, the crash took place along the most direct route between the houses of Mr. Fairholm and the previous Mrs. Fairholm. Did you find anything to suggest that Marcus Fairholm was in the car against his will?” (No, they had not).

  To Mrs. Hughes:

  “Do you acknowledge the possibility that you may have left your keys in the Buick which was later crashed?” (Reluctantly she did).

  “Were you well enough acquainted with Tristan Fairholm before his arrest to provide a judgment of his character?” (No).

  To the firefighters:

  “Did you examine any remaining wiring in the kitchen of 176 Lincoln Court to determine whether the fire might have begun spontaneously?” (They had tried to, but most of it was destroyed).

  Eventually the judge thanked the witnesses and stood. “From the evidence provided by these witnesses, Tristan Fairholm is has been proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt of vehicular manslaughter—likely involuntary—and driving without a license. He has also been proven guilty of theft, though the evidence suggests it was not premeditated theft. The allegations of arson cannot be proven.” He looked directly at Tristan. “Tristan Fairholm, you are sentenced to three years at Cass County Detention Center, after which point you will receive counseling to facilitate your return to society. You will have to undergo rigorous testing before you are allowed to obtain your first driver’s license.”

  At the judge’s words, Tristan went cold. Would it have been better to plead insanity? He already knew he would never be able to return to life as normal once his sentence was up. No one would forget his crime. His future would be marred forever by a single evening of panicked mistakes.

  And so his life as a regular teen ended and his stint at Cass County Detention Center began.

  Chapter 5