Page 77 of Lovetown, USA
He doesn’t see me, and that’s probably for the best. He’s with his attorney across the atrium, talking and smirking like ain’t shit wrong, sporting that same punchable face that makes my fists ball up. All that old rage, years of it, comes flooding back, and for a second, I imagine myself crossing the floor, planting my fist where that smug expression rests, and drawing blood until I’m satisfied.
“Hey, Doc. You good?”
But my attorney, Landry Jones, comes up behind me and squelches the inferno before it can ignite.
I turn around and greet him with a handshake. His grip is firm. Steadying.
“Let’s keep it together today,” he says knowingly. “We’re getting closer to the end.”
Inside the courtroom, the benches are half-full, the air on full blast. Landry and I get seated behind the defense table as the room buzzes with chatter. I feel like my name and crimeare engraved on my forehead:Trey David Montgomery. Aggravated Assault.
A few minutes later, the burly bailiff calls the case. “State of Texas versus Trey Montgomery, case number 09475.”
Judge Barnes enters, robe swinging, and takes her seat. She’s stern, but not unkind, the kind of judge who takes no shit and suffers no fools.
“Mr. Montgomery,” she says, peering down at me. “Do you wish to change your plea today?”
Before I can open my mouth, Landry rises. “No, Your Honor. Absolutely not. My client maintains his innocence.”
She nods once. “Then we’ll proceed with today’s hearing.”
It’s an evidentiary hearing, so I don’t have to say a word, but I damn sure listen.
The prosecution calls its first witness—Officer Ramirez, the first responder on the scene. He recites the report; a concerned neighbor, yelling, signs of a struggle, and a severely wounded Jarvis lying on my living room floor. Landry counters on cross, hammering home the fact that the officer never saw me throw a punch.
I’m guilty as fuck, no doubt about that. In fact, I’d do that shit again and hopefully kill him the next time. But Landry convinced me that this is the way to go. Deny, trial, then an offer from the prosecution that doesn’t result in me losing my medical license. So far, they’ve only offered a reduced sentence, so no dice on that.
We have a secret weapon. Two, actually, but we’re hoping it doesn’t come down to that.
This shit goes on for hours. A nurse is called, the head of hospital security, even a dog walker who was outside my house at the time of the incident.
Landry objects a few times, citing sloppiness during the discovery phase. I barely hear any of it. I’m too focused onJarvis, and how hard it is to be in his presence and not choke the fucking life out of him.
I stare down at my hands. Healing hands. But also? Weapons. At least they were that day.
Finally, Judge Barnes decides she’s had enough. “I’ve reviewed the motions, and I see that counsel for the state has yet to turn over the full phone records for the plaintiff. I’m going to allow the hospital security footage and the testimony of the first responding officer. The dog walker’s testimony is inadmissible.” She looks at a sheet of paper. “We’ll set this for another hearing in thirty days.”
The gavel cracks once, and just like that, my life is in limbo again.
The red brick ranch I grew up in looks exactly the same, thanks to my pops. I pull into the driveway and feel my body releasing its tension, smiling when I see the little crack in the blinds where my mother is undoubtedly peeking out the window, waiting for me to pull up.
She’s standing in the doorway when I walk up, beaming because her baby is home. I pull her into a hug, noting that she’s a little shorter than she was last time I was here. I kiss her cheek, smell her, and slip her a few bills as I always do. She slides them into her pocket with a smile, then leads me to the kitchen table.
She fixes me a plate of sandwiches and gives me a glass of iced tea. A quick glance out the back window tells me my father is out there on the screened-in porch with his pipe in his hand.
My mother’s eyes follow mine. “Let’s go bother him,” she says with a cheeky grin.
I open the door for her and we step out onto the back porch. Cicadas scream in the heat, heard but not seen.
“Boy, you look like hell,” Pop says when he sees me. “It didn’t go well?”
I set my plate on the table and lean down to kiss his cheek. He hates it, but I don’t care. I’ve never cared. Just because he’s stunted emotionally doesn’t mean I’m not gonna get affection from my daddy when I need it.
Growing up an only child should haveentitledme to some affection. It’s not like I had to share the love with anybody else. But my daddy was always a stoic man, present in body and mind, but not heart.
I bite into my chicken salad sandwich and nod at Mama, who’s watching for it. Satisfied, she turns her attention to her crochet needles and whatever it is she’s creating.
“It went fine,” I say around a mouthful of chicken. “I gotta come back in thirty days.”
