Ride to Freedom

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Ride to Freedom copyright @ 2014 by Sophia Hampton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

RIDE TO FREEDOM

When you are told your
Miranda rights—which is unfortunate because it means you’re going to be arrested—they say: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

I am one of those provided attorneys.

My mother thinks my career choice is a terrible one. She thinks it provides little income and that helping the dregs of society is a waste of tax money. But, I don’t see criminals when I talk to my clients. I see a man who spent his life being abused by foster parents or a woman who needed to steal groceries for her hungry children. I see the possibility of innocence hidden under the heavy weight of judgment.

My latest case involves a woman who tried to steal TV dinners for her three kids by hiding them in her coat. It could have worked, if it wasn’t July.

I look over her police statement with a glass of merlot in my hand. I wish people listened more to their Miranda rights and used their right to remain silent. It would make my job as their public defender so much easier. I see this woman as a mother more than a thief, but I need to convince a jury of that conception. The problem is that people tend to be unforgiving, especially when it comes to impoverished strangers.

The wind slams against my house and I hear something crash outside. It could be a tree branch or my trash can rolling into the road. I set down my glass and rush to the door. When I open it, I see the rain has begun to pour down.

I step outside and I’m immediately soaked. My garbage can is still upright, shielded by the house. I circle around my home and see that there are no tree branches down. I open the sliding glass door in the back of my house and I step in. I wring out my auburn hair and peel my wet shirt away from my skin. It clings back onto my body, hugging every curve.

I walk into my bathroom and look in the mirror. In an attempt to try to fix my hair, I search for a hairband in the drawer underneath my sink. After moving my brushes and combs out of the way, I find one. I glance back at the mirror and see a man staring back at me.

I spin around to face him. He’s tall and almost too broad to fit in the doorway. His hair is pitch black, cropped short, and dripping wet. His gray irises cut through me like a blade. As lightning strikes and fills the house with light, his muscular build becomes more apparent and menacing.

“Tobey,” I scowl. “How did you get in here?”

He grins, leaning against the door frame. “Your front door. How could you work with criminals and not know the distracting noise trick to break into houses?”

“I suppose the same way I dated you and didn’t know you were full of shit,” I say. He raises an eyebrow, my vulgar language foreign to him. “I haven’t seen you in almost a decade. How do you know what I’ve been doing?”

“I’ve kept tabs,” he says. “You’ve defended a few of my friends, too.”

“I’m sure I have,” I say. “I suppose that means you’re still hanging around with your biker gang? You still fuck people over for your own benefit?”

“Damn, Grace,” he says. “You’ve acquired a mouth in the last few years. Do you kiss your bitch of a mother with those lips?”

“No,” I say. “I kissed you. Obviously, your lips were tainted with something offensive.”

A flicker of regret passes over his face, but he blinks and his cocky expression returns. “I’ve heard you’re quite good at your job,” he says.

“I do my best,” I say.

“Have you ever had to defend a person accused of murder?” he asks.

“A few. Why?”

“What were their verdicts?” he asks and I swallow hard.

“One received a lesser sentence of manslaughter,” I say. “The other two were found guilty. It’s a hard charge to fight. The jury doesn’t want to risk letting a murderer walk free. Why? Are you associating with murderers now?”

He shakes his head. “Did you hear about the murder and robbery at Alston’s Gun Shop? Tim Alston was shot six times in the chest and several guns were stolen,” he says.

I only nod in response. The news had covered it for the last couple of days because the robbery meant that there could be violent men with unregistered guns.

Tobey continues, “Well, I knew Tim. He may have sold me some guns under the table. The night he was murdered, I went to see him about getting an M9. He was paranoid because a cop had come in earlier that day asking questions about his sales. He refused to sell me the M9 or and told me he wouldn’t sell me anything else ever again. I may have gotten loud, grabbed and shoved him-”

“Tobey,” I interrupt him. “Did you kill the gun shop owner?”

He grits his teeth. “No. I can’t believe you would ask me that. You know me.”

I bite my lip, but I know what he says is true. Tobey is selfish and self-absorbed, but not a sociopath. “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I do know you. You used to tell me that there were three things you would never do…”

“Murder, rape, or hurt children,” he finishes. “I may have threatened to kill Tim a few times, but it was all simply to remind him that there are more frightening things than the police. I wouldn’t murder my gun dealer.”

“And the police suspect you?” I ask.

“Yes. There’s a BOLO out on me right now. Apparently, whoever did kill Tim wore the exact same hoodie that I wore when I attacked him. The murderer is about the same height as me, too. Someone is trying to frame me, Grace. I just know it.”

There is a tilt of truth in his voice, but I’ve known Tobey since he was sixteen. He’s a thief, he assaults people, and he has a tendency to lie to get himself out of trouble. How trustful can I be without being naive?

“Or at least that’s what I’m telling you,” he says, reading the suspicion in my face. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” I say, thinking that doubt is so much heavier than trust and faith is lighter than air.

I pour some merlot into a wine glass and hand it to Tobey. He drapes his leather jacket over the back of a chair and sits down at my dining room table. It’s so strange to see him in a domestic setting. I had thought of him often since we broke up during graduation, but I always imagined him either on his Harley-Davidson or roaming around the streets at night. I never pictured him contained in a house or hunted by the police.

“So, do you know who would want to kill Alston?” I ask.

“No,” Tobey says. “He sold to anybody and everybody, so maybe he pissed another gang member off.”

“Do you know who would want to frame you?” I ask, sitting next to him.

“You do remember the kind of person I am, right?” he asks. “If I haven’t pissed off three people before I wake up, then I am doing a piss poor job at my life.”

“What about angry ex-girlfriends?” I ask. “I remember you had a lot of crazy women following you around.”

He smirks and asks, “Would that make you jealous?”

I took a sip of merlot, pretending to consider his question, before I respond, “Which part? The part where the police are trying to track you down or the part where you had to beg your ex-girlfriend to save your ass?”

His smile disappears, as he says, “You were always more to me than an ex-girlfriend, Grace.” Then, he takes my hand, but I pull it away.

“Was there anything valuable in the gun shop? Other than the guns? Something worth killing for?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. Tim was a secretive guy though. I’m sure he had a few things hidden in there.” He takes a gulp of his wine and then attempts to change the subject, asking, “So…what about you? Have you been dating anyone? Some rich, holier-than-thou lawyer?”

“No. Not that it’s any of your business. I’ve been concentrating on my clients for the past few years and I don’t want any distractions in my life.”

“You can’t say our relationship was a distraction,” he says and I shake my head.

“No, I can’t,” I say. “But talking about the past never helped anybody, especially when somebody is accused of murder. Plus, we have no leads as to who killed Alston.”

“Well, let’s go find some leads,” he says, standing up.

“What?” I ask, getting on my feet. “Where?”

“The gun shop,” he says, causing me to gape at him.

“The police are still investigating the gun shop. Nobody is allowed in there.”

“Don’t you remember how many places I broke into in high school? And…I’ve only gotten better with time.”

“No, Tobey,” I say. “We are not breaking into an active crime scene.”

I fold my arms across my chest, as he takes a step toward me. He kisses me and I taste a little bit of merlot as his tongue touches mine. I push him away, but it’s a second too late and he grins.

“You’ve only gotten better with time, too,” he says, as he saunters toward the door. I scowl and grab my raincoat, thinking that I shouldn’t have cared if my trash can rolled into the road. My own life is about to become a collision course.

***

Alston’s Gun Shop is between a liquor store and an adult movie arcade. I keep my eyes on the LED sign for Absolut, as Tobey picks the lock to the gun store.

“Remind me why I’m doing this,” I say.

“Because you believe in justice so much that you would break the law to find it,” he says.

“Oh, God,” I mutter, “I’m breaking the law.”

“No, you’re not. You just happened to come upon a door,” Tobey swings the door open, “that happened to be wide open and you went inside to investigate.”

He walks into the store without looking back, so I hurry inside after him. Glass is all over the floor, along with a riflescope that was either dropped by the killer or simply unwanted. I’m distracted by the blood splatter patterns, while Tobey jumps over the glass case. He moves to a door in the back and goes into another room.

I form my hand into a gun shape and pretend that I’m shooting Tim Alston. Tobey is about the height of the murderer. I glance around the room. There’s two surveillance cameras. One is in the back corner and the other is above the register. According to Tobey, the videos didn’t show the man’s face. It only showed the same hoodie that Tobey wore earlier in the day.

As I look at an empty wall display below one of the cameras, I realize that all of the plastic hooks that are used to hold up the rifles are in pairs of two except one of them. I walk over to it and see that it can turn. I turn it one notch and a drawer pops out. A single videotape is inside the drawer, so I take out the tape.

“Tobey!” I call out, as I slide over the counter and walk into the room where Tobey is shuffling through papers on Alston’s desk. I set the tape in front of him and watch his eyes widen.

“Where did you get that?” he asks.

I shrug and simply say, “Secret drawer.”

He gapes at me and then laughs, shaking his head. He pops the tape into a VCR in the corner and the TV screen immediately comes to life.

“I thought the police took all of the surveillance tapes,” I say as the video begins to play.

“Tim was always worried about being robbed, so it was rumored that he had another camera in the back of the shop,” Tobey says. “Maybe he knew he was going to be murdered and this shows the killer.”

The video shows a policeman loading assault rifles into the back of his car. Tim appears and talks to the policeman, but the policeman suddenly takes out his handgun and points it at Tim’s chest. The policeman appears to be shouting. Tim raises his arms, showing he’s defenseless, then the policeman forces him back into the shop.