“Rainbow!” Sophie cheers, bouncing over to give me a hug. Her plastic bracelets rattle with every step.
I mechanically wrap my arms around the girl and glare at her mother over her head. It’s the first time I’ve seen Mrs. Renshaw since Wes was taken yesterday, but my urge to stab a utensil in her eye is put on hold when she grins and lifts a plate in my direction. My stomach growls out loud when I see what’s on it.
“How did you—”
“When life gives you a box of Hungry Jack, runnin’ water, and a freezer full of thawed deer sausage, you make breakfast! And lucky for us, y’all had pancake syrup!”
Sophie releases me and skips back over to the counter to get me a fork and knife from the drawer.
“Thank you,” I say to Sophie instead of her mother, accepting the cutlery as Mrs. Renshaw’s sparkling eyes land on her son.
“Carter, why don’t you keep Rainbow company while she eats?”
The intention I see in them makes my stomach turn and my jaw clench but not enough to keep me from devouring this food.
I walk back into the dining room with Carter on my heels and sit down without acknowledging his presence. Not that he even notices. He plops down across from me and begins rambling on about everybody he saw at Burger Palace last night.
“Yo, you remember JJ, right? From the football team? That motherfucker is swole now. He was standing right out front, sellin’ steroids and workout videos! Can you believe that shit? And I swear to God, I saw Courtney Lampros blowin’ somebody between two parked cars. I’d know that fake red hair anywhere.”
Yeah, I bet you would.
I swallow my last bite without even tasting it and hear someone begin talking even louder than Carter up in the living room.
“Good morning. This is Michelle Ling, reporting live from inside the Fulton County Courthouse.”
My fork clatters onto my plate as I dart up the five or six stairs to the living room, where Mr. Renshaw is sprawled out on the couch with his poorly splinted leg propped up on the coffee table, messing with the remote control. He points it at the TV, mashing buttons with his knobby thumb in vain.
“Gotdamn it! I was right in the middle of watchin’ Hillbilly Handfishin’! Now I ain’t gonna know what happens!”
“We are hours away from today’s public execution—”
“Then why in the hell are you interruptin’ my show now?” Mr. Renshaw barks, chucking the now-worthless remote onto the coffee table.
“But we are going to start bringing you even more exclusive, behind-the-scenes footage from the capitol as Governor Steele works tirelessly to enforce the new law”—her face is sallow and lifeless, and she sounds as if she’s reading from a script, no doubt prepared by the governor himself—“beginning with the first-ever televised sentencing.”
Michelle Ling sweeps an apathetic hand out beside her and pushes open a massive wooden door. It swings wide, revealing a courtroom as big as a grocery store and as empty as church on Monday.
There’s no jury.
No plaintiffs or defendants.
No witnesses waiting to be called forward.
The pews are all vacant, except for a few uniformed officers.
And there, standing next to the raised wooden judge’s podium, is a tall, slender, bald man I recognize instantly as the bailiff from the executions.
Upon seeing the camera, he adjusts his uniform, lifts both hands as if he’s about to conduct a symphony, and shouts, “All rise! The honorable Governor Beauregard Steele is presiding.”
The two officers in the front row stand as Governor Steele breezes in through the doorway behind the bailiff. He’s wearing a black judge’s robe, but he left it wide open in the front to accommodate his sizable belly, and the sleeves are about three inches too short.
“Be seated.”
The chair behind the podium squeaks loudly as Governor Steele sits and taps the tiny microphone in front of him, “Ladies and gentlemen, I declauh that the Georgia State Superiuh Court is now in session. I hereby call to order the case of the People Versus …” Governor Steele shuffles a few papers around on the podium until the bailiff comes over and whispers something in his ear. “Wesson Patrick Parkuh!”
He slams his gavel down, and I feel the blow directly in my own chest.
No. No, no, no.
“Bailiff!” He swings his gavel in the direction of the man on his right with the enthusiasm of a game show host. “Bring out the accused!”
I’m no longer in my body. I’m not even in my living room. I’m in the back row of that courtroom, clutching the smooth wooden bench in front of me so hard that my knuckles turn white as the bailiff pushes through the door behind him and reenters the room, dragging Wes by the elbow.
My Wes.
The camera zooms in on his beautiful face, and thanks to the power of HDTV, I can count every black eyelash as he stares at the floor, every stubborn strand of hair that refuses to stay tucked behind his ear, and every worried crease in his lips as he chews on the corner of his mouth. He’s right there. Larger than life. So close I can touch him.
So, I do.
I step toward the TV as Mrs. Renshaw and Sophie and Carter come running up the stairs. Wes’s eyes stare back at me the moment my fingertips graze his cheek, but they’re not happy to see me.
They’re downright hateful.
“Rainbow! Get away from there!” Mrs. Renshaw snaps. “Jimbo, don’t just sit there! Turn that godforsaken thing off!”
“I tried, Agnes! They’re broadcastin’ it on every damn channel!”
“Well, try harder!”
“Your Honor.” The camera cuts away from Wes and over to the judge’s stand, where one of the police officers in the front row is now addressing the governor.
I yank my hand back and stumble away from the screen.
“The accused has been charged with violating the one and only true law, the law of natural selection, by procuring and administering life-saving antibiotics to a mortally wounded citizen. The evidence will show that an open bottle of Keflex was found at the scene of the crime with the accused’s fingerprints on it, and the accused was identified on sight by an eyewitness. I motion to find the accused guilty as charged.”
Governor Steele leans back in his chair and folds his hands across his stomach. “Very good then. Very good. Does the, uh, defense have anything to say?” He turns a beady eye on the second officer in the front row, who stands at attention and violently shakes his head.
“Jimbo! Turn! It! Off!”
“I’m tryin’, woman!”
“Very well then.” Governor Steele nods at the mute officer in approval, and his chair squeaks loudly as he leans forward and breathes into the microphone. “Mistuh Parkuh …”
The bailiff drags Wes over to the judge’s stand, but Wes doesn’t hurry. He crosses the courtroom on long, lazy legs, taking his time as the bailiff jerks on his elbow. With his hands cuffed and ankles shackled, he still manages to make that orange jumpsuit look cool as he stands in a carefree pose before the governor. Wes, the Ice King. He only acts that way when he feels threatened. It makes me want to reach into the TV and hug him from behind. Wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek on his back, like I used to when we would ride through the woods on his dirt bike.