Pulse: BBW Contemporary Rock Star Romance (47 page)

Lieutenant Presley Watkins plopped his pen into his mouth, waiting for an answer from the man sitting to the right of him. The man seemed somewhat uneasy about Watkins, whom the district attorney had commandeered from his usual investigatory assignments for this “special circumstance,” as they called it. Presley Watkins was very familiar with Jaidon Marsh's criminal history, but he was also acutely aware of the circumstances surrounding Marsh's death. Stetson Carthswaite and Jamie Simmons had entered his office determined to find out who took Jamie's brother, Carter. Watkins had sensed an aggressive impulse in Stetson; when Jamie Simmons entered his office at the crack of dawn, his face bloody and nose broken, claiming that Stetson shot Marsh in cold blood, Presley was not surprised. Stetson had rubbed Watkins the wrong way from the moment they met. He just knew there was something off about Stetson.

He assured the D.A. there was no conflict of interest. This was not a sham comment. Presley believed with all his heart that Stetson Carthswaite killed Marsh and that it was not in self-defense. Marsh may have had a rap sheet a mile long, but a crime is a crime, and it was Presley's job to seek justice, particularly in this circumstance, where he was privy to special information pertinent to the crime committed. No matter what, no matter how, Presley Watkins would make sure that Stetson Carthswaite went to the electric chair for the crimes he committed.

The man in front of him averted his eyes, choosing instead to look at the ground, out from under Watkins' heavy gaze. He was a mechanic, Latino, with no priors, fully legal. The presiding prosecutor returned from lunch, spaghetti sauce dribbled on her white shirt. She plumped down into the empty metal chair beside the Hispanic mechanic. She took a deep breath and smiled, parsley stuck in her main tooth.

“As a general proposition,” she said, looking at the mechanic in his blue jump suit, “do you think that a police officer is more likely or less likely to tell the truth than a witness who is not a police officer?”

The mechanic thought for a moment. “Neither. Police officers are people just like anyone else. He would tell the truth, unless he was trying to save hisself from something he done.”

The prosecutor smiled. “Good answer.” She looked over at Presley Watkins, whose smile turned into a scowl.

The day wore on, as Watkins watched scores of people move in and out of the courtroom. The people he thought would serve well on a jury, unafraid of sentencing the man to the justice, which he deserved, were all chosen as backups. And, on top of that, the people he thought were the softest about letting a man get away with murder were the prosecutor's top choices.

Three of the chosen people he found especially abhorrent were the Hispanic mechanic, a waitress with red hair and witch's nose, and a slight, frail pharmacy technician. All these subjects were sympathetic to what they called “the wrongfully accused,” and it was clear to Presley that these fools were so soft, so forgiving, so gullible, they would let a murderer go free, even as he stood on the witness stand with his arms still covered in blood.

And that, for Presley, simply would not do.

--

Presley Watkins stood outside the door of Mr. Hernandez's car garage. This was the first of three people Watkins had determined were not fit for jury duty, people who stuck a thorn in his side on the path of justice. He finished his cigarette and crushed it into mulch on the pavement. The sun beat hard and hot down on the back of his neck. Watkins was only somewhat nervous as he watched from several yards away that Hernandez handed a mysterious plastic bag to a customer from behind two large trash bins. Hernandez was never caught selling drugs, but Watkins knew everything about everyone in Baggs. The court of law may have dictated that Hernandez was innocent until proven guilty, but Watkins knew the truth. It was his duty to make sure he stood in Hernandez's way to getting a spot on the jury. Sure it was illegal, but the courts were slow and plodding and, in Watkins' eyes, criminally inefficient.

But suddenly he got a better idea, and checked his watch. Two hours until sundown. He decided he would find Hernandez in his element, and then call Michael Ingram, his new partner, for backup.

He spent the next few hours getting drinks at the local bar where most drug deals took place. As the sunset, he could see Hernandez pull into the parking lot after work. Mike Ingram sat in the car next to him.

“You know we have to see him actually make the deal,” Ingram said.

“No. We'll do what we have to do. I'm glad you came along, kid. You're better off hitting the ground running. Don't you think?”

“I guess. Are you sure this is legal?”

“Of course not. We can't help it, though. He's guilty, I saw him earlier make the deal. I've known for years. I know everything that happens in this town, sir. But you're a good man, so I know you'll watch my back. Right?”

“For sure, Lieutenant. If he's guilty, I definitely don't mind bending the rules.”

Watkins smiled, feeling secure his new partner would reciprocate his feelings of brotherly love.

“OK let's go,” Watkins said. They stepped out of the car.

When they reached the back entrance, Ingram tried the doorknob quietly.

“No,” Watkins said. “Let's do it this way.” He grabbed a steel pipe from the side and slammed it against the door as hard as he could. The door opened to a sea of people, all gyrating against each other, inebriated and dancing. Watkins walked over to the jukebox with a bolt cutter and cut the cord. The music died and everyone stopped dancing.

“Good evening, everyone! My name is Lt. Presley Watkins. We are here to arrest you. Who knows what sorts of trouble you're in!”

Everyone, feeling his or her hidden crimes vibrating in public, stepped away from Watkins slowly, as if he were made of radioactive waste. He walked from person to person, looking them in the eye.

“My partner here, Michael Ingram, will help you get the handcuffs on. That is, unless you know the main person I'm looking for.” Watkins reached the bar and grabbed a random man's hat, dumping the drugs hidden in the lining of the felt. He shook the drugs in the beer glass, ruining them.

He shouted, at the crowd, without so much as blinking. “Who here knows where Edgar Hernandez is hiding?” The crowd was silent.

“He's here, boss,” Ingram shouted from the back of the room, by the bathroom. He held Hernandez by his wrists, which were already cuffed behind his back. Watkins walked over to the back of the room, all eyes on him. “Hi Edgar. It's been a whole day since we last met. It's clear to everyone here you would be a horrible jury member. You're coming with me.” Watkins took Hernandez by his hands and shoved him into a police car.

IV

Carter remembered the only person besides he and Stetson who witnessed the incident at the archeology dig was Jamie, his brother. He was the only person, therefore, who could have framed Stetson for murder. In his panic, Carter knew that his plans almost never worked out. He knew that he was weak, powerless, and ineffectual at fighting the people who were determined to put Stetson behind bars and eventually in an electric chair. And he knew that no one would listen to him as a witness. Never mind that Carter would testify against his brother, calling him out as a liar that he was. Carter was well aware of his surroundings--a small town in the middle of nowhere could get away with corruption national politicians would envy. No one would listen to Carter, he was certain, because Jamie would cast him out as a homosexual. So he needed a backup plan. Jamie was an idiot, he knew from everything his family had told him growing up, even though he didn't grow up with Jamie. He drove Stetson's blue truck up the mountain toward the cabin in the mountains where all this had started. He pulled into the driveway, a knot in his stomach pulled violently as he saw Jamie's car standing there.

“Calm yourself Carter,” he said to himself. “You have to save him. This time things are going to be different. You can do it.” He thought for a moment, and suddenly a light bulb clicked in his brain. He jumped out of the car and made shaky steps toward the cabin. Carter held his hand in his pocket, hiding something. Then he knocked on the door.

“Jamie? Let me in!” He knocked harder, his courage growing. “Jamie! Open the fucking door! I know you're in there!” There was still no response. But then a shadow appeared from behind Carter.

“The door is open, dumbass.”

Carter wheeled around to face his brother, who stood calm and collected on the porch, pinning Carter between himself and the front door. “What the hell do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about what happened. I know it was you.”

“No you don't. I wasn't the guy who murdered an innocent person.” Jamie smiled.

“It wasn't murder and he wasn't innocent!”

“Of course it was. Both of us were there. Don't lie, Carter.”

“You piece of shit. You wanted him to kill us. It was you all the time, trying to get us killed without having to take the fall!”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You do. And I can prove it,” Carter said.

“Oh yeah? How?”

“We have tapes. The judge is about the throw out the case, because your good buddy Jaidon was going to sell you out. He was going to tell everyone you did it and that he was trying to stop you. He went to the police station before he left.”

Jamie's heart jumped several beats. “You're lying.”

“No. I can show you.” Carter reached into his pocket, as his brother stood with his back to him, and pressed the record button on a tape recorder.

“I don't care. He's still going to fry. I'll just say Jaidon was a liar and thug. Thugs can still be murdered you know.”

“So you admit it then? You slimy bastard.”

“Are you retarded, Carter? We were both there and know what happened. You saw it, and I saw it. I just wish my little plan to off you and your lover would have worked out better. Too bad Jaidon didn't have the guts to shoot you while you were on that fence post. And I would have done it myself if there weren't witnesses.”

Carter pulled the recorder out of his pocket and hit the stop button.

“Ha! I got you bitch. Now everyone will know you were lying.”

Jamie's pupils dilated as he inhaled in shock. “Give me that, faggot. They'll never believe you.”

“Maybe not me, but definitely this recording,” Carter said, jumping off the elevated wooden porch onto the damp mountain earth. He started for Stetson's blue truck, Jamie trying to grab him. In an instant, Carter realized not all the powerlessness he had felt through his life need be his destiny, and he jumped into the truck, locking the door. As he pulled around and out the driveway, down the road, he could see through the rear-view mirror Jamie aim a small pistol in his direction. A loud metallic bang followed a small orange flash. Carter's heart raced, not just from fear this time, but also at last, because he hoped.

V

The cell was small and smelled of piss. Stetson leaned back against the cement wall in his orange jump suit. The guards were cold to him when changed out of his clothes, but he could tell they were afraid. He was a murderer in their eyes, and given his size, any sudden movement send the guards' pulses pounding. The truth was obviously that he wasn't a murderer, but he did kill someone, so the sentiment was not altogether without warrant. Stetson found himself for the first time able to watch his own behavior and intentions. This was no doubt some kind of growth from the love he had for Carter, another guy, something he thought was impossible for him. Stetson was a straight man, large and looming, with a big dick and hunger for women. But falling in love with Carter changed his own perception of himself, and circumstances required him to grow up emotionally. He found himself surprised by his reaction to being framed for murder by that piss ant Jamie. He thought a proper response to Presley Watkins' handcuffing him should be shock, fear, awe, anger, or surprise. But he felt none of these things. Instead, what he felt in that moment, and for the 12 hours after, was utter and complete arousal for Carter. This and nothing else filled his mind as he was placed into a police cruiser, booked, photographed, fingerprinted, and changed. He wanted to make love to the kid again, as often as he could, because something mysterious had taken over him. Carter dominated his thoughts, flooding his blood with the fire of a thousand suns, and he wanted nothing more than to fuck his brains out, if only to show the kid that he belonged to Stetson. Passion, loyalty, protectiveness exuded from his heart towards Carter, unending. The guards even noticed his massive erection when making him change. Stetson didn't doubt that this did anything to allay their fears of what his body was capable of, yet another sign of their inferior status as men. They simply looked away in shame and embarrassment.

When the guard finally came to his cell to feed him lunch, the fluorescent lights burned through his eyeballs.

“Lunch big guy.”

“That mean it's noon?” Stetson asked as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“It's 3 actually. You've got a visitor.” Stetson sat up in his chair, dropping his burrito onto the dirty floor. The guard walked away and a loud buzz released the prison cell door. Stetson got up and followed the guard out onto an open picnic area, enclosed by metal wire on the perimeter of the large space. The guard shut the door behind him and Stetson could see Carter standing at the gate.