Don't Go L.J. Breedlove (books to read fiction TXT) 📖

“There’s a number of reasons. Did you ever meet any of their other children?”

Ryan thought about it. “Not that I recall.”

“So, they’re all in So Cal, and if you were to attend a family gathering you would start asking questions when you saw cousins who look like you. I’ve seen some photos, actually. You’re a striking young man. You’ve got some cousins who look just like you.”

“OK. But by that time, I was 18, why didn’t they tell me the truth? Why adopt me in the first place if they were never going to tell me?”

“I don’t know. Those would be rational actions, and I’ve had two days to think about it and all I can come up with? These are not rational people.”

“There’s something else, though. What aren’t you telling me?” Ryan looked at her steadily.

“Do the math, Ryan,” she said wearily. “Your mother was sentenced to 20 years in prison. Your father got longer, because her attorney convinced the jury he was the main culprit, and she was as much a victim as you were. The jury didn’t completely buy that, she was convicted. But it was a manslaughter conviction not first degree.”

“And...,” Ryan prompted. “Rip the Band-Aid off, Doc.”

“And she got out on good behavior the year you turned 18. That cruise? She went with them. That visit up here when they took you to dinner? Her parole visit, she was sitting at another table because she wanted to see you.”

Ryan was stunned. He couldn’t process it. He could process the tears that were sitting unshed in the doctor’s eyes.

“They chose her,” he said numbly. “They chose her over me.” And he got up and headed for a bathroom. He made it into the room, although not all the way to the stall, before he vomited.

“Ryan!” Clarke called after him.

He should have seen that coming, Ryan thought. But he hadn’t. It seemed like if a woman killed her son she should be locked away for life. And not life is 20 years, and 20 years is really 12 with time off for good behavior. Oh, you’re out now? At, what 38? Something like that?

He started to clean up the mess. But Dr. Clarke was in the doorway. “Leave it,” she said gruffly. “I called a custodian.”

“No one gets paid enough to clean up someone else’s vomit,” Ryan said, but he left it, and followed the doctor back to her office.

His phone was ringing in his backpack. He fished it out and frowned. A land line number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Ryan?” It was hard to hear for all the noise at the other end.

“Yes?”

“It’s Cage, I’m in jail. You need to come bail me out.”

Chapter 17

9 p.m., Saturday, OHSU Psychiatric Clinic — Ryan compartmentalized. He could feel himself do it. One moment he was freaking out, in a total melt-down. The next, he was the calm editor Cage needed him to be. He briefly wondered what that looked like from the outside. He’d ask Clarke on his next visit.

“Where are you?” Ryan asked.

“In jail!”

“Yeah, I got that,” Ryan said dryly. “ICE detention? Downtown? Someplace else?”

Silence. “Downtown? Maybe?”

“What did they charge you with?” Ryan probed a bit. “What have they set bail at?”

“Ryan, I don’t know any of that shit. Get me out of here.”

Ryan tried not to laugh. “Is there someone nearby? Hand them the phone.”

He could hear a muffled discussion, and then some guy said tentatively, “Hello?”

“That guy is a reporter. I’m his editor,” Ryan said, letting some amusement show. “Can you tell me where he is and what he’s been charged with so I can bail him out?”

“Oh! I’m just one of the protesters,” the guy said with a bit more confidence. “But I don’t think he’s been charged with anything yet. If you get down here fast you can probably get him out because he’s a reporter before they do anything. It’s a madhouse, and the locals are pissed at the feds for dumping us all on them.”

“How many people did they arrest?” Ryan asked, as he walked out the door, with a wave at Dr. Clarke.

“There was probably about 50 of us out there protesting. I think they actually laid hands on about 20 of us. Do you want to talk to your reporter again?”

“Has he calmed down?” Ryan asked. He tucked his phone under his ear, started the car and switched his phone over. He headed down the steep streets that led from OHSU to PSU and to the downtown Justice Center. They really were going to have to do better training for those covering the protests, he thought grimly. If Cage was this clueless, he hated to think what the others would be like.

“He’s fretting about his camera, but I think they took it, and checked it at the counter. Look there’s a line for the phone. Can I make my call now?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry to tie it up. Thanks, I owe you one. Tell Cage I said so, and I’m on my way.”

“I think I’m good, but I’ll tell him.”

Dial tone filled the car, and he shut it off. He almost turned it back on again, because without it, he could hear wailing in the back of his head — from the vault, he thought with an eyeroll. Not now, he told it.

He found a parking spot and shouldered his way through the mob scene to a harried uniformed cop at the intake cage. He handed him his Eyewitness News ID badge — the badges had been Cage’s idea actually. He’d designed them one weekend. They had absolutely no value, but they worked just fine with people who respected things like badges.

“You’ve got one of my reporters,” he said. “Thought I’d come down and take him off your hands.”

The cop snorted. “Gladly. Those federal sumsobitches rounded up a bunch of protesters for putting signs up on a school fence. Pussies. Ought to try to be down here at 10 p.m.”

“I think they tried that. It didn’t go