Troublemakers

Molly Parker

Laine Masterson is a local legend. She might even be able to bring the jocks down.

Able. Yes.

Willing?

Doubtful.

She analyzes me from my black hair to the edge of the table between us. “Thank you for coming in, Molly.”

Her office is weird. Neat. No pictures. No belongings except for the bubbling percolator filling the air with a promise of coffee.

“Please call me M. I’m not a Molly.”

“M, then.” She reaches for her legal pad, clicks her pen and pins the Masterson stare on me. 

I will not flinch.

“You said that the jocks killed Ray.” Her eyes widen as if silently asking for my trust.  “Did you see them?”

“They wore masks,” I say, fighting to keep calm. Excuse fishing never was a sport I enjoyed.

“Hear them?”

“Yeah, but their voices were muffled.” I lie back into my chair to get comfortable for the legal run-around. “But I know it was them.” 

Laine’s brows deepen the one prominent line on her face. “How?” 

“Since the Movement started, the jocks tried to get us in line.” 

She doodles something. “Movement?”

“It’s what we call ourselves. Anyone else would call us punks.” 

Her attention turns back to me. Just like it has been described in tale upon tale of Sherriff Masterson’s abilities, her relentless stare makes me want to squirm. Thank God I’m not here because I did something wrong.

“What do you mean ‘get us in line’?” she asks.

“They’d jump us. Harass us. Spread rumors.” 

“Did you report it?” 

How I hate those four words. “In the beginning.”

“Why not after?” 

“The first few times I tried, I was told we provoke people. So it’s always our fault.”  

How long, I wonder, until she insinuates the same thing?

The scratching of pen to paper puts me on edge. Come on insulation. Where is my shell of toughness when I need it most? I can’t let these people see how much this hurts.

“Some of my deputies say you guys are troublemakers.”

Why the fuck am I even talking to her? “No shit. We’re trying to land their football team in jail.”

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, warning me that I won’t like what she’s about to say. “My son is the football captain.” 

Ah. There it is. Legend or not, Laine Masterson won’t help me. She has to protect her son and cover her own ass. “Well then. I see I’ve wasted your time.” 

Laine shakes her head and pours me a cup of coffee. She pushes the mug across the table with a sugar pot. No milk. “So this attack on Ray was unprovoked?” she asks as I stir in some sugar and take a sip.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh?”

“The time before this, we fought back. We got them good.” I add an extra spoon of sugar to compensate for the lack of milk. That and to avoid her stare for just a few seconds.  “They got us better. Ray was our source of strength.” 

“He told you to fight back?” 

“No.” 

“The night he was killed, why didn’t he run?”

I turn my focus on her. She doesn’t sound like she doubts me. She actually sounds like she cares. I hate her for it. It’s easier to handle the run-around from people who are obvious about betraying those they have to protect.

Still, the back of my throat stings at the fake sympathy in her voice. “He tried to reason with them. To get this madness to stop.” 

If I was alone I’d cry. Because of loss. Because of anger. Because this is a game I’m going to lose.

I sip my coffee instead. It goes rancid in my mouth as memories of that night taunt me. The crack of Ray’s bones against wood. Ray’s blood speckling the killers with every hit he takes. Their howling shouts as they hit him some more. His pleads for mercy provoking them to lynch him.

Laine’s cell phone goes off, yanking me back to now.

She takes the call. “Describe it.”

Her rage rolls over me as she disconnects. She shoots out of her chair and hurls the phone across the room.  The shattered pieces tinkle to the floor as she draws her anger into herself.  “We identified one of the killers.”

So they’d done their job for once. So will the defense attorneys. Justice will miss the court date.

I will not cry.

So I laugh.