Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(11)
He said, “Her CDs weren’t in the car when it burned.”
If my CDs weren’t in the car, obviously I’d removed them before lighting the car on fire. Or I’d brought them into the house to listen to something or reorganize my CDs, a favorite hobby of anyone with two books full of CDs. Maybe by mood this time. I don’t actually remember, and I didn’t then either. I just remember the exasperation I felt as he said it. “A few days later, I saw her CD case in the house.” And the prosecutor looked at the jury like he’d found the smoking gun.
Eric said, “She didn’t want to go to Greece.”
As my dad said, that’s just stupid. I hoped my lawyers would have an argument because all I could think of was, That’s fucking stupid. I tried to go twice.
He said, “She borrowed my gas can a few weeks before.”
Okay, that did look bad. Really bad. And my explanation after the fact wouldn’t help much. The last time I’d driven through Alabama, before borrowing the gas can, I’d been jumped coming out of a gas station bathroom because a high schooler told her boyfriend and his buddies, “That’s the pervert was usin’ the ladies’.” I was only spared serious injury when a trucker named Jimmy T saw my uniform and stepped in about the time I hit the ground. Jimmy T told me as he helped me back to my car that he didn’t much care for my “lifestyle and such. But that uniform means somethin’.” And “you can’t come back to Jesus if yer already dead.” Guess he wasn’t a “once saved, always saved” sort of Christian.
To avoid a repeat of the experience during Thanksgiving that year, I was planning to only stop at busy truck stops if I could. Just in case, I borrowed Eric’s gas can. But on the way back I’d given it to someone who came up to me and said he was out of gas—I figured it’d do him more good than giving him money. And then they’d found the molten remains of a gas can in my car.
This was the prosecution’s big moment. And they played it up, and Eric was happy to play along. He wanted to be a state trooper when he got out and moved home to Ohio. His brother was a trooper and told Eric his association with a known felon wouldn’t look good on his application.
He said, “She joked about the whole thing. She didn’t seem scared at all.” We’ll ignore that assessment of my fear level because he didn’t know. I did joke about it. That’s true. My outward reaction to the entire affair didn’t fit what everyone seemed to think should have been my reaction. Seemed like they’d have believed me if I’d cried in front of them. But they didn’t grow up in the Family. They didn’t grow up in constant fear. They hadn’t learned sometimes all you can do is fucking laugh.
Sheriff Horton took the stand, after a small commotion caused when he walked into the courtroom wearing his gun and the Air Force police had to take it from him. He corroborated Eric’s opinion of my unlikely affect. He said I was too calm when I talked to him. Most people, he said, “They’re crying or foaming at the mouth to kill the bastard who did it. She laughed about it.” See what I mean?
Gary asked him if he’d tried to find the white car the neighbor had seen speeding away, if he’d looked at anyone else.
Horton shifted in his seat and said, “Well, no. But she wouldn’t take the polygraph.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Gary told me. “This is what happens. You’ll even start to believe you’re guilty. Just hang tough until it’s our turn.” He didn’t seem the type to play cheerleader. Leading up to the trial, he’d been all business. How I was holding up wasn’t any of his concern. Now he was trying to comfort me, and that scared me. I knew I wasn’t guilty. But guilt or innocence had never mattered all that much in my experience. And I was learning my experience in the Family wasn’t as unique as I’d believed it to be when we left.
In between testimony, Gary paced the hall and talked to himself. The Apostle prayed with Mom—turns out he was useful after all. Dad sat in a chair and looked dazed. I stood outside and smoked. And I thought about going to prison.
I’d been locked in rooms before. The Family believed problem cases like me needed to be isolated from the rest—one bad apple and all. The last time, when I was fourteen, I broke down after only two days. The walls closed in and I couldn’t breathe and the world got dark. It changes you each time. You go through the first few hours in silence. Then you start talking to yourself. You time your pulse. You pick at split ends, scabs, and ingrown hairs. You sleep. And when you wake up, the room is smaller. You have to get out. Your chest tightens. You need space. Just a little breeze. You have to see the sky. One star. You tell yourself it’ll be okay, they’ll let you out. But you don’t believe your own words. The harder you try to control your breath, the worse it gets. You start hearing voices. You start to really panic then, and you’ve lost. Once the panic starts, it doesn’t end. You can learn to ride the waves, but every single wave is a fight for survival. And you don’t come out stronger. You lose something each time. You lose faith in yourself. I wasn’t doing it again.
The prosecution rested and my lawyer Gary took over. My new sergeant, the guy who replaced Peters, said, “Every airman on base is driving a car they can’t afford. That’s what idiot kids who’ve never had any money do.”