Happy Baby

Author:Stephen Elliott [Elliott, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780330438315
Google: yKKyNwAQFo8C
Publisher: Picador
Published: 2005-11-14T13:00:00+00:00

“Well?”

“Well what?”

I think about asking for another cigarette but don’t bother. “The police,” I say. I’m sweating but it’s not hot in this room. “Why did you tell them that?”

“Tell them what?”

“That you were going to shoot us. That you were going to shoot the occupants of the bedroom if they walked out of the room? You threw it all away. Why did you say that?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” I wish there was a window in this room or less light but there isn’t. “It matters,” I say. “They’re going to use that against you. They put it in your report. They told the people that live there you said that. They met them right outside of their building and they said they had caught the robbers and that the youth had a gun and he had intended to use it had they caught him. That means for sure it’s in your paperwork. And the prosecutor is going to present that to the judge. And you are never going to get out. You are never going to go home again. You will be here until you’re eighteen and possibly longer if they can figure a way. Because it’s a different crime now. You’ve elevated the crime. You’re no longer eligible for placement. Who can even imagine what they’re going to call that, the places you’re going to be. They’re going to hold you until you’re eighteen.”

George’s hair and eyebrows come together. He blows air into his cheeks. “Fuck you,” he says.

“Fuck me? Fine. Fuck me. Don’t talk to any more cops. You understand?” I realize that I’m shaking the table so I grip the table harder and shake it as hard as I can. “I don’t care if they smack you with spoons, stick a hook in your penis, or what they threaten you with. You wait. Don’t trust any of them. Not the teachers, not your guardian, or the guards or the lawyers. Definitely not the social workers or anyone who presents themselves to you as your therapist. That’s a setup. They’re out to get you. They fucking hate you.”

He’s crying now. I’m making him cry. “They are out for you. They don’t give a shit about you. You’re just food to them. They’re going to eat you alive. And if a judge asks you, if you even get that chance, which you probably won’t. But if you ever do, if the judge brings you into the courtroom. If a judge asks you if you were really there that first time and if you had a gun then you say no. You hear me? You say no. You say it wasn’t even your gun. You were just carrying it for the other man. The older man. You were carrying it for him. It was his gun. Do you get that now?”

He’s sitting upright. Tears are streaming from his hard eyes. The tears keep running, pouring over his cheeks, snot hanging from his nose, water dribbling over his chin, soaking the collar of his shirt, forming small puddles on the table.

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