Page 77 of Steady Stroke
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 ofAunt 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. Hewillspend 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 ajudge 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 yourselfright now. You didn’t cause any of this, and it’s okay to not want yourself splashed all over the media. It’sokay.”
“It’s not okay!” He ripped away from Lincoln, numb fingers losing his grip on the glass. Water splashed his ankles but he didn’t care because he wasangry.“It’s not okay. I should want a trial. I should want to tell the world the things he said to me, the threats he made. I should want to take a stand for every Muslim who’s ever been targeted or victimized because some politician told them to be afraid of us. For every Muslim who’s been spit on, sneered at, cussed out, beaten up, forno good reason.But I don’t want to be that person, because I’m not that person. I’m acoward.”
The rant robbed him of the last of his energy, and Emmett sank to his knees in the wet carpet. He had no tears left to cry, only an oppressive weight on his chest that made it difficult to breathe. Someone else was crying, and he was pretty sure it was Aunt Beatrice, but he didn’t care. In that moment, he was numb.
