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The Fire Triangle
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Part Two:
Oxidizer
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Chapter 9: Conor's Story
(Continued...Part 3)
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♪ "When the fear had disappeared, I found a way
Of getting worse and more detached from every day
So, all excuses, alibis, and self-defense
Came to nothing in the face of evidence
Spinning, sinning, losing, winning
Rising, falling, calling...
Ooh, should I be banished to the dark side for all time?
Ooh, am I to blame for what was done to me?
Ooh, is there a reason for just what I came to be?
Ooh, 'cause I was raised in captivity." ♫
John Wetton – Raised In Captivity
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Vern Rodenberg was not a happy rat.
All right...he had accepted the fox-kid's insistence that he needed to tell his story from the beginning; go ahead boy, knock yourself out.
Yeah fine, except...his client had been going at it for HOW long now? And while it had all been very interesting—at times even fascinating—the budding little shtarke had yet to reveal anything of significance.
More than once, Rodenberg had come close to exploding, 'Will you cut to the chase, already?'
There was only one reason that he hadn't; Conor wasn't giving him the unabridged version for the purpose of stringing him along. After so many years as legal counsel to the mob, Vernon J. Rodenberg, Attorney at Law, had better know that shtick when he ran into it.
But now, he finally sensed that they were getting close to the action. The fugitive young silver fox's tale was at last taking him to Zoo Jersey, home of the Granite Point Youth Correctional Facility—which had also once housed a felonious young sea-mink by the name of Wesley 'Crazy Wez' McCrodon, aka The Bearfoot Bandit. As he recalled his one-and-only encounter with The Mister's young nephew, Rodenberg was unable to suppress a shudder. Oy, what had that idiot been thinking, wanting to bring THAT meshuggeneh little psycho into his organization? Well, given The Company chieftain's behavior towards the end, it shouldn't have come as a surprise.
And Conor, too, had known that Crazy Wez was a character who more than lived up to his handle. Not only that; he'd also been aware that the grey rat had once declined to represent the dangerous young felon. That, more than anything else, was what had prompted him to take the fox-kid back as a client. To be sure, it was a flimsy rationale at best; the bulk of his decision had been based on little more than a hunch.
But now...was that gut feeling about to play out?
One way or another, Vernon J. Rodenberg sensed that he was about to get his answers.
And so, he sat back and listened as Conor continued with his story.
We were on the road for only a little bit longer than the drive between Leopanon and Milfurred; it would've gone even faster, if we hadn't been held up by a car wreck.
When we stopped, I knew right away that we hadn't made it all the way to Tom's River; not yet, not this soon. I wouldn't even have checked through one of the portholes, if I hadn't heard the truck doors opening and closing. When I looked, I saw that we were on a residential street somewhere. What, now? Moving over to the other side of the boat, I saw this big, white house, with a cyclone fence around the yard next door, big enough enclose a football field. I had no idea what was on the other side—it was those fences with metal slats slats through the wire—but I could see what looked like whip antennas, sticking up, over the top of it. What the heck was going on...?
Before I could finish that thought, another one rode in over the top of it; not a thought really, more of a feeling. I needed to get the fox out of here, and right NOW!
This time, I didn't hesitate; I threw on my pack and hurried out on deck, making sure to keep low. Almost immediately, I heard the voice of the fishing cat again, coming from up towards the cab of the truck. I couldn't make out any words, but that told me I needed to get a move on, pronto.
Yeah, riiight...except even without looking down, I could tell that I was too high off the ground to jump for it. Ohhhh, WHY did I have to go and sneak a ride on board a stinking sailboat? Thanks to that stupid keel, I was at least ten feet off the ground. Even if I could make it without hurting myself, no way would someone not see me. What was I going to...?
Wait a sec; that tiedown strap! Maybe I could slide down...never mind, DO it!
I grabbed hold, wrapped my legs around the strap, and let myself go. Whoa, no...what the heck, was this thing made outta Teflon or something? I was moving fast; way too fast. If I didn't slow down, I was gonna sprain something. I tightened my grip and it worked; I quit slipping so fast, but it felt like someone was taking a blowtorch to my pawpads. I wanted to fox-scream...no wait, they'd hear. I bit my lip; tasted blood in my mouth.
My slide for life took maybe four seconds...but it seemed to take three hours.
I literally hit the ground running, bolting away from that sailboat and never once looking back, listening again for the sound of an outcry and footsteps charging after me. They never came.
Once more, I lucked out; today just happened to be recycling day and most of the residents had cardboard and whatnot put out on the sidewalk for pickup. I ducked around the first pile that I came to, and looked to see what was going on behind me.
When I did, it was just in time to see one of the water buffaloes propping a ladder up against the side of the sailboat, while the fishing cat stood nearby with his arms crossed. Whoa, I had been soooo right to get my tail out of there...but now I needed to get it in gear. If Ronnie's dad had been able to tell that there'd been stowaways on his trailer, then for sure this feline would know that he'd been harboring an uninvited guest. A fishing cat's sense of smell is way keener than an onager's.
Trying to keep cool, I turned and walked away; I didn't run, I walked. But as soon as I was around the corner, I bolted.
It turned out to be a much shorter run than I'd anticipated; about twenty yards up the street I saw a group of mammals gathered on the sidewalk. Oh, great...I could picture it already, tilted heads and raised eyebrows. "What are you running for, fox-kid?"
Instead, all I got was a couple of bored looks, with everyone else ignoring me.
I found out why when a bus pulled up to the curb in front of them. Oh-HO...so that was why they thought I'd been hauling tail.
But now, if I didn't get on board with them, they'd...
"So GET on board, you dumb fox! You wanted a way outta here? Well, there it is,"
Needless to say, I had no idea where that bus was headed, but who cared, as long as it took me away from that blankety-blank sailboat.
I rode for maybe half an hour, making sure to keep my head down; only looking up whenever we came to a stop. I also became aware of something I hadn't noticed before. My paw-pads felt as if I was doing push-ups on a hot sidewalk...I must have given myself one heckuva rope-burn, sliding down that tie-strap.
You know how sometimes the more you scratch an itch, the worse it gets? Yeah, well the more I rubbed my paws together...
Wait, no...that IS important, Mr. Rodenberg; way important, and if you'll just hear me out, you'll understand why.
Okay...well, eventually when I looked out the window, I spotted what looked like another food-cart pod...except way bigger, and the stalls looked a lot more temporary.
Heh...yeah, you know what I was looking at Erin...a farmer's market. Right...but what really got my attention was all the produce trucks backed up off to one side...many of 'em with open-sided stake beds. Whoa, I bet I could catch a ride on one of those bad boys; there had to be at least one that was heading in the same direction as me.
I got off the bus just as the doors were about to close, earning myself a none-too-friendly look from the driver. Whatever...I had more important concerns at the moment.
It wasn't until I got inside, that I found out where I was. They had this sign right in front of the entrance, 'Pompton Plains, Farmer's Market, Wednesdays and Fridays, May - September.
Well, what was I gonna DO, Snowdrop...ask somebody and have 'em get all suspicious on me? Anyway, I also knew how I'd ended up in this place...I had seen that name before, on the side of a truck-cab. This was the home turf of the cartage outfit, hauling that sailboat down to Tom's River.
No beating myself up about it though; not this time. If I hadn't bailed when I did, I would have been caught for sure. Truth be told, I almost felt like laughing. Pompton Plains! What a stupid name for a town; how the heck had they ever come up with that one?
Probably, I should have gone looking for a ride right then, except...I figured there was no point in making that move until closing time began to roll around. When that happened, there'd be all kinds of animals climbing on and off those trucks, and nobody would notice one more. Well, that's what I thought, anyway.
Don't get me wrong, guys. I wasn't gonna just jump on board the first truck I saw headed southbound. I knew better than that by then; if I wasn't at least three quarters certain that I could pull it off without getting nailed, I'd abort.
Well, I was gonna have to take SOME kinda risk, Mr. Rodenberg. Look at all the other stuff that went down by the time I got to Pompton Plains.
In the meantime, there was nothing for me to do but check out the farmer's market, and that's what I did. I had never been to one of those bad boys before...and it was nothing like I expected.
Yeah, there were produce stands...a lot of 'em selling something called 'Jersey Corn,' either fresh, steamed, or sometimes roasted. I didn't run into that last one until later though; and trust me, it's important.
But, as I'm sure you know, Erin...farmer's markets aren't just for produce. They had stalls selling all kinds of stuff—soap, homemade jewelry, scented candles, flavored cooking oil, dishracks; even toys. There were clowns, there were strolling musicians, and there was face-painting and massage-chairs.
And then there was this animal that I'll never forget for as long as I live.
She was a panther, a fortune-teller who used Tarot cards to make her predictions. She had a table set up in front of this really small trailer, with candles burning at either end. She wasn't dressed like your standard fortune teller; you would never have mistaken her for a gypsy. Instead, she wore what looked like monk's robes and a cape with a Celtic-Knot border, topped off by a sash around her waist. I later found out she'd been wearing what's known as a Druid's Cloak. She was younger than your average soothsayer too. Late twenties, maybe early thirties.
Noooo, I didn't stop to get my fortune told; too expensive. Swami Pantheress charged ten bucks for a simple reading and a cool sixty smackers for the whole nine yards. I had more important things to spend my money on than stuff like that. But I did stop to watch...and what happened next is the part I'll always remember.
She was dealing the cards for this ground-squirrel, when she stopped all sudden-like, and pulled back from the table.
"You, there."
I'd been watching the deal, but when I raised my eyes—what the foxtrot was Ms. Kitty looking at ME for—and why was she looking at me like that? She had her face all crinkled up and I could swear that her tail was twitching.
"You there...fox-boy," she said again, in this weird accent I couldn't quite place. "Do y'know how Pompton Plains really got its name, then?" She had the most wicked grin on her face I'd ever seen...up until then that is. "S'from the famous Pompton-Pink granite."
"Yeah, whatever," I said, waving her off and walking away. I was trying to look cool, but I could feel my tail shivering. How the heck...?
No guys...I swear; that is what she said to me. And, of course, it wasn't until later that I realized what the heck she'd been talking about. Believe me, I spent many a long night afterwards, turning those words over in my mind.
After wandering around for a little bit longer, I began to smell something...something really good that was making my mouth water. I followed it with my nose and came to a stand run by an old Cape porcupine selling something called 'Mealies', which turned out to be Afurican-style roasted corn.
I immediately got in line and bought an ear. "Careful, et's hot off the fire," she said. But either I was too quick or she was too slow. Yowtch! It felt like I grabbed hold of the business end of a branding-iron. I dunno how I didn't drop the thing but somehow, I managed to hold onto it. But when it finally got cool enough to eat, though...mmmmm, it was dry and spicy and oh-so-good.
Well, maybe you'll get the chance, Erin. Jason m'Beke's mom does mealies all the time, and....
Okay, okay...sorry, Mr. Rodenberg.
Yeah, the corn was great, but as soon as I finished it, I found out I had another problem. Now my paw-pads were really hurting, even worse than before. I needed to find me some cold water, ASAP.
That was when I spotted a stand selling fruit and veggie juices. Not homemade; store-bought stuff in bottles—set out in these long tray-tub things full of cracked ice.
Ahhhh, just what I needed.
I went over and grabbed a couple of pawfuls of ice. Oh yeah, that was better.
Actually, it wasn't. Right away, I heard an angry voice behind me.
"Hey you...!"
Aggggh, grrrrr, not again! I turned around and there was this badger in an apron, with her paws on her hips. And not some crotchety old biddy, more like my mom's age, right before she passed. Before I could answer, she jabbed a finger at the tray-tub beside her.
"Go on...put it back!"
I just blinked at her. What the fox? Was she really that upset over a couple of pawfuls of...
"You heard me. Put it back...NOW!"
"Okay, okay-y-y." I said raising my paws, and then I went over to the tray and dumped back the ice where I found it.
Did that satisfy her? Nope...only made her madder.
"Don't play stupid with me...fox kid. Put back the juice you took."
Ohhhh-kay, now I got it. Someone must have ripped her off earlier, and now, because of my species, she was assuming that I was the culprit, returning to the scene of the crime.
As if I'd ever...and besides that...
"I didn't take any juice, look..." I spread my arms, "See? Nothing on me."
But she was already whistling through her fingers, and beckoning with the other paw.
"Security...over here."
I should have bolted right then and there. Not one, but TWO animals came sprinting at her call; a security guard and a cop, a red stag and a wolf respectively.
"Yes, ma'am, what's the problem here?"
She pointed at one of the display trays...and to a divot in the ice where a bottle must have been. "See, there?" And then she pointed at me. "This fox-kid stole a bottle of juice from my stand."
"I did NOT!" I shot back, and spread my arms again, "If I stole that stuff, where is it?" That, I thought, should have ended it, but I had forgotten something.
"What do you have in there, son?" It was the deer, and he was pointing at my backpack. No, I didn't have any juice in there...but I did have something like 300 smackers in cash. And, as the wise-mammal says, the only way a fox-kid gets his paws on THAT kind of money is...
It was no use; the wolf-cop was holding out a paw and crooking a finger at me; 'give it up kid', he seemed to be telling me '...now.'
I passed him the backpack—praying that somehow, he wouldn't find the money.
Incredibly...he didn't. He just felt through the fabric, zipped it open, took a quick look inside, and then closed it up and gave it back to me. I had wisely chosen to stash my roll at the bottom of the pack, underneath my change of clothes.
"Nothing in here, ma'am." He told her, shaking his head
Ohhhh, somebody up there...
...hated my guts. "He took it Aunt Lita, I saw him." It was another badger...a boy, somewhere in his early teens. "He drank it and threw the bottle in there." He was pointing at this trash can.
"Oh, come ON!" I tried to protest...but the security guard was already on his way over.
I knew he was going to find an empty bottle in that can; what I didn't expect was to see him pull out a couple pieces of a broken bottle.
That was when I noticed two things; the cop and the security guard were no longer looking skeptical—and the younger badger, now sighing with relief, was wearing the same kind of apron as his aunt.
"Why didn't you say anything before?" she asked him.
"I-I'm sorry, I thought he paid for it." He kind of shrugged...and bang! That was when everything clicked into place. Now, I really knew what was going on here—and I let out the mother of all fox-screams.
"You lying PUNK!" As luck would have it, I hadn't put back all of the ice that I'd taken, I had dropped a couple of pieces, and now I scooped them up and pegged them at badger-boy, hard as I could. He ducked and I missed...but that was all she wrote as far as John Q. Law was concerned. I felt the stag grab me from behind.
No, Erin...I didn't. This was before I got my face bent out of shape. I WAS able to squirm out of his grip, though; a little skill I'd picked up playing Ringolevio—and bolted down the aisle-way. About ten feet further on, I found a space between two of the booths...wide enough for me to handle, but not the animals chasing me. I slipped though before they could catch me, but I was in a major jackpot over here. A wolf...agggggh, grrrrr, why'd that stinkin' cop have to be a wolf? He'd be able to track me by way of my scent, no matter how well I kept out of sight, or wherever the heck I tried to hide. I had to get out of here...and like five minutes ago.
Wait...look over there; an empty stall, right across the aisle from me...with a table, covered over by a cloth. I darted across and ducked underneath.
I made it, but not before I heard the badger-kid again.
"There he is...he went under there!" Oooo, I could have torn off his tail for that!
But right now, I had other problems; I bolted through to the stall on the other side...startling the heck out a vicuna selling wall hangings. Jumping over her table, I landed on all fours.
Big mistake! In my panic, I'd forgotten about my burned paw-pads. But I sure as heck remembered them now. When my forepaws hit the ground, it felt like I was playing 'The Floor Is Magma'—for real! I fox-screamed, jumped up, and tried to run. I managed about three steps, before someone grabbed me by the tail and hoisted me off the ground, literally turning my whole world upside down. And just to make it even more humiliating, it wasn't even the cop or the security officer who had me; it was some elephant trash-collector guy, holding me up with his trunk.
And then, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, someone called out, "Hey, look...a fox pinata!" and right away a crowd began to gather, laughing and pointing, and having a grand old time. No one—not even once—asked the elephant what he'd grabbed me for. I was a fox, and that was all they needed to...
Sorry, yeah...getting bitter again. Anyway, it didn't take long for the wolf cop to get there, this time with another officer in tow, a springbok.
That was when I finally quit struggling and went limp. Resistance was futile; they had me.
"I'm going to ask this elephant to put you down," it was the wolf, standing upside down in front of me, while his partner went into half crouch off to the side, "Can I count on you not to run for it?"
"I-I won't try to get away," I said...and meant it. Even with my paw-pads at 100%, there was no way I could outrun a springbok; they're only the third fastest animal on the planet.
They read me my rights and cuffed me, and then put me in the back of a police cruiser. All the while I kept protesting that I hadn't stolen anything, but they didn't seem to hear me. After leaving me alone for what seemed like ages, the wolf came back and announced that I was under arrest for petty theft. I had expected that...but then he told me I was also under arrest for misdemeanor assault—the ice I'd thrown at that badger kid—and for resisting arrest; trying to run away afterwards.
No, Mr. Rodenberg...this time you're wrong. I could have co-operated a thousand percent with those cops, and things would have ended up exactly the same way for me.
Although...yeah, I didn't know it at the time.
Pompton Plains wasn't an actual town; it was part of a township whose name I can't remember; sounded something like 'Peacock'. Anyway, the closest police department was the Pompton Lakes PD...and that's where they took me.
I have to admit, these guys, at least, treated me pretty decent. When the eland who took my paw-prints noticed the burns on my pads, she sent me straight to the infirmary before we went any further. The rest of my booking went, well, pretty much by the book, except for...
When they asked me for my folk's phone number, I gave them the one for the Danbeary Foster Home. That was when they found I didn't have any real parents—and that was when their attitude towards me changed, at least the attitude of the officer in charge, this black bear with a big gut. I only saw him for maybe a minute but...
Oh no, he didn't get brutal on me or anything...just the opposite. When I told him I was an orphan, he looked like a guy trying not to let on that he's holding four aces. I didn't find out why until much later.
Okay, now I'm sure you already know this, Mr. Rodenberg. But Erin won't, so please bear with me for a sec.
Uh, no, sorry...I promised to tell her everything, and that's what I'm gonna do.
Legally, they could only hold me for six hours before either releasing me to my parents' custody—meaning the Kaneskas—or remanding me to youth detention. Neither of those options was particularly appealing to me, but obviously I would have preferred the first one.
No such luck; because I was technically a violent offender, I wasn't going anywhere but to Juvie. Even so, they were supposed to inform the Kaneskas of my arrest. When I asked about it later, I was told that they had basically washed their paws of me. And who knows? Maybe they did; it sure as heck didn't surprise me when I heard.
The nearest Juvie facility to Pompton Lakes was the Morris County Youth Detention Center, and that's where they took me next. It was almost midnight when they put me in the back of a police cruiser, but if they'd waited until morning, they would have gone over the deadline. Go fig.
The holding cell where they put me was about as comfortable as an outhouse...and it smelled like one too. Even so, I was out like a light from the moment my head hit the...well, whatever that thing was; it sure as heck wasn't a pillow.
The next morning, after a 'breakfast' where I couldn't even finish a single bite, I was taken to an interview room for a talk with the prosecutor handling my case, a maned-wolf, by the name of Peter J. Shanks. I can remember his name, right down to the middle initial.
And you're about to find out why, Mr. Rodenberg...better grab yourself a piece of that safety-bar, coz this coaster's getting ready to hit a big one.
When he tried to ask me about what happened at the farmer's market, I told him I didn't want to say anything until I saw a lawyer. What the heck, I'd seen enough episodes of Claw and Order.
And this is what he said, "This may seem like a silly question son, but do you have money to pay for an attorney?"
Whoa, I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that yeah, he was right; it WAS a silly question. Where the heck was a kid, my age—with no family—supposed to get that kind of cash? Every cent I possessed had been in my backpack. And that money had long since been divvied up by Pompton Lakes cops...or that's what I thought.
Anyway, I just told him no. When I did, he just kind of sighed, shook his head and dropped his pen on the desk.
And then he leaned across the table at me.
"Son, let me be frank with you, 'kay? If you're going to insist on having a lawyer to represent you, then The State will have no choice but to assign a public defender to your case. And that's something you really want to think twice about."
"Wh-Why?" I asked, totally confused, "Why wouldn't I want a lawyer?"
Shanks leaned in even closer. I remember he was tapping the table with a finger-claw on something like every third or fourth word. "Tomorrow morning you're going to be entering a plea in front of Judge William Woolsey. And, trust me, if you insist on asking HIM for an attorney, it's not going to go well for you. There's nothing he likes less than seeing the judiciary's resources wasted on petty..."
Oops...Erin, you wanna help him up? There...you okay, Mr. Rodenberg? Hey-y-y don't look at me; I told you to brace yourself.
Yeah, I'm sure it's what he said to me; it's something else I won't ever forget.
Because, bunny-girl, that's almost exactly what jerk-weed Rudy Camembert—or whatever his name is—that's what he told me when he tried to get me to shine on asking for a lawyer, you follow what I'm bringing out?
Right...and now Mr. Rodenberg—now YOU know why I pulled my Usual Suspects gag on that dirt-bag chamois. Coz when he said that, I knew I was gonna get my tail thrown in Juvie, no matter what the heck I did...so I might as well go down swinging.
Yes, I would have, Counselor—even with your help. Like I told you at the beginning, you got no idea of what you're dealing with over here—or who you're dealing with. What I told you so far is only the tip of the stinkin' iceberg.
No...YOU listen! Whatever your worst-case scenario is over here, forget it! What's really going on is like a zillion times worse.
Sorry, but I can't say that too many times.
So anyway...yeah, I gave in...but not before making one last stab at pleading my case, insisting that I hadn't stolen any juice.
"We have two witnesses who say otherwise," Shanks told me, "And even if we didn't, we have you on police body-cam, assaulting the vendor and resisting arrest."
I tried to tell him that I hadn't assaulted anyone or tried to resist my arrest. It was no use, throwing that ice counted as assault, and trying to run away was considered resisting arrest.
I know, right? But I didn't know it back then...OR that they actually had zippity about me on bodycam.
So...I agreed not to ask for a lawyer and plead guilty at my arraignment. Long story short, I got sentenced to 30 days at the Morris County Juvenile Detention Center...more than I expected, but that was the minimum sentence for a violent offense by a juvenile in the State of Zoo Jersey. Even so, Shanks had kept his word that the judge would go easy on me if I copped a plea. And it could have been a lot worse...or that was what I thought at the time.
Before I could start serving my sentence, though...I had to go through something called intake—at another youth facility, way down in the southern part of the state, in a burg called Boardentown. I thought the whole thing was crazy—Morris County Juvie was only a couple of miles up the road from the courthouse—but needless to say, I was in no position to argue.
They sent me down in a cruiser driven by this hippo. Nice guy; he responded to everything I said by telling me to shut my foxhole.
When we got to the intake facility, it turned out to be a pod attached to the Zoo Jersey Juvenile Medium Security Facility—or The Johnstone Campus, as it was better known. It was the second toughest youth jail in the state; I already told you 'bout the toughest one.
It was an older building than the Morris County Youth Jail. Built out of red brick, it had seen some better days. I wouldn't exactly call it crumbling, but it wasn't what you'd call pristine either. On the other paw, the double row of razor-ribbon fence surrounding the place looked almost brand new. So did the CCTV cameras mounted on top of it. Everything about the place looked seriously forbidding and I was glad I wouldn't be serving my thirty days here.
Little did I know...
The hippo escorting me took me down a path flanked by security fences on either side and through a double set of armored-glass doors to Reception and Processing. Right away, I noticed something strange; the bighorn sheep behind the desk was wearing a completely different uniform than him. My escort was done up in the standard blue serge of every police officer from here to West Side Story. The sheep behind the desk, on the other paw, was dressed in all black, with a matching fatigue cap; he almost looked like a mercenary soldier. There was no name-tag pinned to his chest; it was sewn onto his shirt...using a thread so dark, I couldn't make out what it said. And whereas every officer I'd seen up to now had worn a patch on his sleeve with a seal of some kind—Morris County, The State of Zoo Jersey, or whatever—the only thing on this guy's sleeve was a sort of a monogram; the same design you saw on the side of that hovercraft, Erin. I didn't know it yet, but I was about to be handed over to the tender mercies of a private corporation...and not an honest one.
The thing that really struck me about that ram, though, was his attitude; half bored, and half anxious—like he couldn't wait to clock out and go home. If this dude had been a high school kid, I would have pegged him as a slacker. No kidding, I've seen sloths work faster than that guy; it took him nearly an hour to finish processing my paperwork. Back at Morris County Juvie, they'd gotten it done in less than ten minutes.
Whoa, no wonder that hippo was in such a bad mood.
Anyway, they took me to a holding cell, same as your standard holding cell, except...they left the door open. That was weird...or that's what I thought, until I realized it opened onto a small commons-area with absolutely no way out except for this one, electrically operated door. I later found out that this was also where they stashed the kids waiting on case reviews or disciplinary hearings. There were CCTV cameras all over the walls.
The only way to describe my new accommodations was 'dingy.' There was like this thin, black film, all over everything; the walls, the sink, the floor, even the bed...which had a mattress so thin you could read through it, and pillow, WHAT pillow? Ewww, get me outta this place.
I went outside to the commons area and nearly fell right on my tail. The floor, which was painted in baby-puke green, was like a stinkin' nonstick griddle. I hadn't noticed it when they'd brought me here, coz a guard had been holding me by the arm, but now... What the heck did they use to wash the floors here? Or...did they even wash them at all? I had to practically skate my way to the nearest table; the kind you see on playgrounds except bigger, all of one piece, with the seats attached permanently. It was almost too big for a fox, but then I didn't have a whole lot of choice. There'd been no attempt to accommodate different size species in here; it was strictly one size fits all. As I hauled myself up onto one of the seats, I had to wonder how a rodent was supposed to deal with this place.
And on the subject of 'strict', it was pretty obvious that wasn't how they enforced the rules in this lock-up. When I sat down at that table, it turned out to be covered with more graffiti than an abandoned car in Happytown. Oh, good NIGHT...how the fox had I ever ended up here? I laid my head between my arms, thinking about Jimmy. Wherever my buddy was right now, he couldn't be any worse off than...
Whoa...full stop. Someone was there. I slid off my seat, and looked around, fast.
There were two of them, a dhole, and a coatimundi, coming towards me from either side...
I know, right? If the same thing happened today, I'd grab whatever weapon I could get my paws on and back my tail into a corner.
Because, Erin...that way nobody can sneak up on you from behind—and it's hard for more than one guy to come at you at a time.
But even a newbie couldn't mistake these guys for anything but trouble; scruffy, dirty, mangy, and wearing these beat-up, tan jumpsuits that looked like they hadn't been washed since cassette tapes were a thing. What really made my tail shiver, though, was their eyes. Deep, red, and sunken, they seemed to look at nothing, like something out of Night of the Living Dead. Oh, and did I mention that they were both at least three years older than me?
Just the same, they seemed friendly enough—at first.
"Hey dude," the dhole said, waving as he walked up to me, 'S'up?"
He offered me a high five and I returned it...very quickly, so as not to give him a chance to grab me. His paw was rough, and I could feel the prickle of his finger claws, very sharp, like he deliberately kept them that way...which he did, of course; that was another trick I wouldn't learn until later. Just the same, I wasn't completely out of my depth. At the same time, I kept one ear turned backwards in the direction of his buddy. Even then, I knew the trick of walking up on either side of a guy, so he can't see both of you at once; another thing I'd learned from playing Ringolevio.
"Watchoo in for, fox?" I heard the coati ask.
"Theft, assault, and resisting arrest," I said, making a point of leaving out the words, 'petty' and 'misdemeanor.' I didn't want to look like too much of a lightweight.
They came closer, and I felt the fur on the back of my neck beginning to stand up. Another thing I'd picked up from Ringolevio was learning to tell when someone was getting ready to make a move on you. And these punks were making it super obvious; the way one would talk while the other moved, the way they watched my paws instead of my eyes.
Finally, the coati asked me, extra-friendly like, "Ya gotta cigarette, fox?" And that killed whatever doubts I had that I was being set up. Even if I smoked—which I didn't—any cigs I'd had on me would have long since been confiscated. These dudes had to know that. And like...what were they gonna do, light up right in front of a dozen stinkin' security cameras? Whoa, I could almost smell what was coming. I would tell them I didn't have any smokes; they'd accuse me of lying and disrespecting them, and then...game ON!
So...I decided to beat them to the tip-off. I knew I was gonna get the snot kicked out of me, but once the word got around that I was willing to fight back if someone leaned on me, that would be the end of it.
Yeah-h-h...I know what you're going to say, Mr. Rodenberg—and you're absolutely right. That thing might work with a schoolyard bully, but not with a couple of hardcore street-ganger types.
But what the heck did I know back then?
Now, uhmmm, what happened next is something that isn't easy for me to talk about, so please...gimme some space over here, okay?
Instead of saying no, I said 'yeah,' and pretended to reach for my pocket. The coati-kid didn't fall for it, but his buddy did. He reached out to accept my offer.
...And I bit him on the arm. He yelped and pulled back, and I turned on his partner.
Too slow; he bit me on the shoulder. But he only managed to get me with his two front fangs, and got my claws across his face for the trouble. He let go and I ducked down fast—just in time to dodge the dhole, when he went for my neck with his teeth. Ohhhh, foxtrot...biting the neck full-force is how you KILL a guy. Every predator knows that; it's baked into our genes. Only now did I finally I realize just how far I'd gotten in over my head... and there'd be no such thing as backing out at this point.
But then...just like that my mood shifted. It was like that time I thought Ronnie had snitched on me, only way, way stronger. The heck with this, the heck with everything! All I'd done was try to take a summer getaway, and now here I was in Juvie with two guys trying to off me...and for what? Because some punk badger-kid didn't want to admit that he'd broken a lousy juice-bottle! At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to tear the world apart.
But the world wasn't available, and so I'd settle for these jerks instead.
I lunged at the dhole-kid, caught him by surprise, knocking him down...but only down on one knee. He threw me off, as easy as tossing away a sweater, only to catch a slice across the face from the coati's claws; he'd been coming at me from behind when it happened.
Rubbing his cheek, dhole-boy screamed, "Whose stinkin' side you on, moron?"
The coati-kid screamed right back. "What'joo dissin' me, dog?" and shoved him with both paws.
Ho-LEE foxtrot, I couldn't believe what I was seeing; they'd forgotten all about me and...
Wait, no...something was wrong. No, no...not something, somebody. Somebody else was...
Something grabbed me from behind...
A-And that's the last thing...I...remember...
Uhhhh...I...I need to take a break for a minute, okay?
No, no...I-I'll be fine, just gimme a second... No Erin, don't touch me.
I woke up something like 40 hours later, in the infirmary—if you could call it that dump an infirmary.
At least...that's where I think I was. I couldn't really see anything; my face was all covered in bandages and they had slipped down over my eyes. But my nose was still okay...and there was no mistaking that 'hospital' smell from when I'd been taken to see my mother. That...and the 'other' thing I'd smelled in her room, only it seemed to be coming from a whole bunch of places at once. Then something stuck me in the arm, and I tried to scream...only to realize I was already screaming; been screaming ever since I woke up.
But now I went back to sleep again.
I didn't find out 'til later how long I'd been out...or that the kids who'd beaten me up thought they'd killed me.
Or...that it was just blind luck the staff had gotten to me so fast. The guards had been on their way to the holding cells with another kid when the beating went down. Mind...they didn't rush me to the infirmary out of any sense of duty or anything. That was something else I didn't find out about until later.
Anyway, that was how it went for the next couple of weeks. Or...maybe it was the next...month? I'm not sure. I'd wake up screaming, they'd sedate me, and then repeat. I think one time somebody slapped me and told me to shut the heck up, but that may have been just a bad dream.
What wasn't a dream was that I was in a world of hurt...and I don't just mean physically. When I finally managed to wake up without screaming, I found out that I was shackled and cuffed to the bed...and no one would tell me why. As a matter of fact, nobody was telling me anything; no one was talking to me...or to any of the other kids, for that matter.
Other...? Oh yeah, right...I was in a ward with maybe seven or eight other beds; I can't be sure. Between the restraints and the bandages, I wasn't able to see a whole lot. What I could see didn't look too good, though. The beds were all yard sale specials. flaking paint, rust, and constant creaking—and they didn't smell very good either.
But that was nothing compared to the 'food' they served us. Eeee-yecch! and I thought the grub at Morris County Juvie had been sickening.
Okay...I need to jump ahead here. I didn't find out why it was like this until a while later, but...I-I-I think you're gonna want to hear about it now, Mr. Rodenberg. And again, forgive me if it's something else you already know, coz for sure, Erin won't.
The Zoo Jersey's Juvenile Corrections system was run by a private company, Aker Correctional Management. That meant it was a for profit prison system—which meant the motto was 'Cut Costs...At Any Cost'. That's why the grub was so awful and the medical care was a stinking joke. Heck, there wasn't even a doctor on staff; only a couple of nurse practitioners. Oh, they had a doctor on call, but they never brought him in for anything less than a life-or-death situation. Why they didn't bring him in on me, I have no idea...but I never saw the guy.
Ahhhh, you'd be right about that, Mr. Rodenberg...no, they didn't X-Ray my face before they set it. Heh, just like I thought...YOU know how these private prisons operate. And the only thing they gave me for the pain was Tygernol...which, for me, was like trying to put out a house fire with water balloons. Later on, though, I kind of had cause to be grateful for it; I got hurt again and got put on some serious painkillers...and ended up getting hooked on 'em.
But that's for later. Right now...about a week and a half after I woke up, I had a visitor...someone I did not particularly want to see, my old buddy from the prosecutor's office, Peter J. Shanks.
When he sat down beside me, he was all Mr. Kind and Caring, insisted they take the cuffs and shackles off. And, just like I did the first time, I fell for his grift like a truckload of bricks. I think a lot of that had to do with his species. Your average maned-wolf looks a heckuva lot like a king-size fox with long legs...and you know how big my species is on trusting each other. Anyway, between that, and the pain, I was willing to listen to just about anything he said.
That is, until he told me that the State was going to charge me with having started that fight in the holding cells—which, technically, I had—and that this time, I was going up for FELONY assault.
"Second offense in less than two days," he told me, shaking his head and looking oh, so regretful,
But what really got my attention was when he informed me that the kids who'd kicked my tail had gotten two weeks in solitary—and that was it; no other charges filed. What? No way...here I was, chained to a hospital bed, with a busted face—and they were gonna let the punks who did it walk and blame ME for everything? Nooo! WAY!
That's basically what I said to him, although, uh, errrr...not in those words, if you follow what I'm bringing out. He just let me go on until I ran out of steam...which didn't take long, given my condition.
And then he leaned forward, with an elbow on his knee.
"So...are you saying that you didn't attack first?"
I just stared at him; would have fox-screamed if it wouldn't have hurt so much. Yes, I had...and there was no point in trying to deny it; I had seen those security cameras. True, if I hadn't moved first, those jerks would have. And then they would have pulverized me before I could get in even a single hit...but just try explaining that to this guy.
Ahhhh, okay Erin...you're right. they wrecked my face anyway. But, knowing what I know now, I can tell you something; even if I hadn't moved first, I would have ended up being blamed for that fight.
Anyway, Shanks advised me—again—that if I skipped the lawyer and entered a guilty plea, the judge would go easy on me; it was basically the same song-and-dance he'd given me before.
Except this time that maned wolf lowlife was lying through his fangs. When I finally got to court, the minute I finished entering my plea—yeah, I pled guilty—His Honor, the sheep laid into me like a grizzly bear on a salmon.
"So...this is how you pay baaack The State for giving you a break...is that it? Less than 24 hours after sentencing, you commit an even more violent offense than the first time." Sheesh, to hear him talk, you would have thought I'd gone for those punks with a chain-saw. "Well let me tell you something, young FOX," He spat out the word like something spoiled, and leveled a finger, "The law knows exactly how to deal with your kind. Accordingly, I am going to designate you as an incorrigible and sentence you to one year in the maximum-security juvenile facility at Granite Point Zoo Jersey...sentence to commence upon determination that the defendant has recovered sufficiently to begin serving his time. Bailiff?"
They brought me back to the infirmary ward; the only good part was that they didn't cuff me to the bed again. "But try anything funny, kid and it won't be just shackles. Act out, even one tiny little bit, and you get the muzzle."
HA! Like I was in any kind of shape to pull a fast one...even if I'd wanted to.
I spent three more weeks in the infirmary. The day before I left was one of the worst in my life. That was when they took the bandages off my face for good.
Oh no, they'd changed them a couple of times before that...but I'd always managed to avoid looking at my reflection when they did; I didn't want to see what those other kids had done to me.
Not this time; soon as the wraps were off my muzzle, this boar-guy guard shoved a mirror in my face and told me, "Take a look,' in that 'or else' tone I was going to be hearing a lot of in the next few months.
I think he said something else, but I don't remember. When I saw what was in that mirror...Oh God, I had never wanted to cry so badly. But I couldn't make it happen, couldn't manage even a single tear. And ever since that day, I've never been able to cry...not even once.
I don't...really want to tell you what my face looked like. But I can give you an idea. When I finally landed in Granite Point, I started picking up all kinds of nicknames based on my appearance; Brokeface, Boomerang, Lefty—my muzzle was bent to the left—and Snaggles; that fight had left me with one of my fangs sticking out over my lip.
But the nick that stuck, the one that stayed with me even after I fell in with The Company was 'Z-Face'...or sometimes just, plain 'Z'. That was what my muzzle looked like after my beating—and that was my handle, right up until the day of my corrective surgery. The main reason it hung with me was coz of the animal that first laid it on me...none other than Crazy Wez McCrodon himself. I'll tell you more about him in a minute.
I was sure that I wasn't going to get much sleep that night, and I didn't. But not for the reason I expected. Just after 1:00 in the morning, someone shook me awake and stuck a flashlight in my face.
"Pack it up, kid."
At first, I couldn't believe what was happening; they couldn't be moving me now, I wasn't nearly healed up enough. It wasn't my decision to make and I knew it, but still...
They marched me out to a bus with steel mesh and bars over the windows. There were two other kids already on board, a deer-buck and a clouded leopard. It was midsummer by now, and the deer-kid should have been in velvet, but neither of his antlers were showing. Later on, I found out why; it was what he'd done with those points that had gotten him sent to Juvie in the first place.
When they opened the doors to that bus though...ewww! At least one of this bucket's previous passengers had been unable to hold onto his lunch. No, make that more than one.
As if that wasn't bad enough, we didn't go directly from there to Granite Point. Instead, we took this kind of zig-zag route, stopping off at two other jails to pick up more prisoners, a sable and two mice. I had no idea what a couple of rodents could have done to get sent to a place like Granite Point, but I got a clue when the two of them raised their heads and howled—nearly getting their cage kicked down the length of the aisle for their troubles. They were Grasshopper mice, one of the toughest rodent species you're ever gonna meet. No kidding, these guys eat scorpions and coral snakes for snacks. Later on, they ended up in the same crew as me.
That sable-kid, though. When they brought him on board, everybody on the bus wanted to duck under their seats, even the guard watching over us—and that guy was a full-grown moose.
All of us were wearing cuffs and shackles, except for the mice, who they were transporting in a plexiglass box.
This kid was not only cuffed and shackled, he was also muzzled and wearing mittens over his paws.
Noooo, not quite the same as that VR-3 thing they did to me, Mr. Rodenberg; he was under even heavier restraint. They had a collar around his neck, with a chain attached...and they were using it to basically drag him on board. He had black fur, unusual for a sable, with a white patch under his throat and a tail that way too long for his species.
When he passed by where I was sitting, I saw him turn and look at my face—and kind of smirk, like he would have loved to finish the job. That was when I knew...I just knew; this was the jerk who'd grabbed from behind on that fateful day. That was when he stopped being scary and turned into someone I just wanted to destroy. I would have gone for him right then, but by the time I made the connection, he was already well past me. Another time, I thought.
They took him all the way to the back of the bus, and locked his collar-chain to a bar attached to the wall. One of the guards who'd brought him on board stayed behind...and even sable-boy wasn't gonna mess with her; she was a seriously hard-bodied wolverine.
Nobody said a word during that ride; anyone who tried to speak up was told to shut-up. Muzzle-boy tried it one too many times and got zapped with a taser for his troubles. After that, even HE decided to keep it zipped.
When we finally arrived at Granite Point, it was nothing like what I'd expected; no dark, forbidding castle, like the old Cliffside Sanitorium. This place...
What...they reopened Cliffside as a prison? Viomax, huh? Yeahhhh, that's something AKER would have done.
But like I was saying, at first glance, Granite Point looked more like a college campus than a jail; I later learned the place had started life as a seminary, of all stinkin' things. Most of the buildings were covered in vines, and all of them were built out of—what else—pink granite, with tall windows and a tiled roof; there was even a clock-tower.
But still...
Granite Point got its name from the fact that it was set on a rock outcropping, formed by a loop in the Wallkill River. That meant there were cliffs on two sides of the place; not nearly as tall or as steep as at Cliffside, but that wasn't the point. There was absolutely no vegetation on either one of them. Anyone trying to climb down those bad boys was going to stand out like a tarantula on a snowbank. And even if you made it that far, there was nothing but bare ground for the next hundred yards—and the officers had plenty of eyes on that patch of ground, as we were about to find out in the next couple of minutes.
When they took us off the bus, any remaining thoughts that Granite Point might not be that bad were gone in a stinkin' flash. The place was surrounded by a spiked, wrought iron fence, and behind that, not one, not two, but three separate chain-link fences, topped by triple coils of shredder-wire. On the one in the middle, they had signs posted every three or four yards—no text, just lightning bolts. You can guess what that meant, I think. As for that clock tower, it had been converted into a guard tower, complete with searchlights. And that 'ivy' covering the buildings was actually blackberry vines...stuff that made the razor-ribbon on top of the fences look like licorice whips.
Holy foxtrot, who did they think we were, a bunch of Hannibal Lechwe wannabes?
Yeah...right Erin. But as a matter of fact, one of us was exactly that...and I think you can guess which one.
They marched us up to a front gate that looked like a leftover from Castle Dracula. I remember they had this iron sign over the entrance, a sign no kid who's ever done time in The Point can ever forget.
It read, "In Optima Cura Pueri."
Heh...coz Mr. Rodenberg knows what that means Erin. It's Latin for 'In The Best Interests Of The Child.' Yeah, I gave myself a face-pawlm too, the first time someone told me what it meant.
Something whizzed past us, overhead, and we all ducked instinctively—an RC drone, one of two that they had patrolling the perimeter at all times. I later learned those bad boys were fitted out with infrared and had 360-degree vision capability.
Our reaction to the drone was good for a laugh from the moose-guard. I saw him get on his radio, but couldn't make out what he was saying. Not that I cared, it had started to rain and none of us kids were dressed for that kind of weather.
After a moment, the gate swung open and we got our first look at the officer who was soon to become the bane of our existence.
He was a polar bear by the name of Bill De Nallie—I found out later that the kids all called him Lurch, though never if he was close enough to hear you. In fact, we weren't even allowed to address him by his real name. Ahhh, I'm getting ahead of myself again, sorry.
Anyway, if that was how he looked, it wasn't how he talked. Remember that drill instructor from the movie Full Metal Jackal? Give that guy a deep voice and Jersey accent and you have Sergeant William 'Lurch' De Nallie. He also liked to use his baton as visual aid.
As we soon found out, when they finished the head-count.
"All right, you snots...get your tails inside." Lurch pointed with his baton at the entrance door where an elk was standing sentry. "In there...there!" he slapped his stick against the fence, "Move, dangit!" Another slap. "Move, move, move!"
And we moved—not very fast. How fast can you go wearing shackles? They made the clouded leopard kid carry the mice, and the sable kid had it even worse with that muzzle on his face. That, of course, only served to stoke Lurch's anger. "I said move, you little snots! You want some a' this?" he slapped the stick against his paw. "Then MOVE!"
That was our serenade, all the way to the door—which immediately slammed shut behind us with deep, metallic...not a clang, but more of a thud.
They say the sound of a prison door closing behind you is the most terrifying thing in the world; but for us it was almost anticlimactic. Heck, we barely even heard it over that bear, roaring his head off.
He brought us into a dimly lit, circular room with a tiled floor the color of spoiled mustard and drain in the center. They lined us up, and then—finally—they removed our cuffs and shackles and let the mice out of their carrying case. I remember that when they took the sable-kid's muzzle off, he was finally able to stand up to his full height. Whoa, and I thought he'd look scary before. He was bigger than he'd looked at first, and older too. Old enough to have been sentenced as an adult; that's was I thought when I saw him without that thing on his face.
And then...I was surprised to see the wolverine guard pull out a pair of glasses, which he snatched out of her paw with a hiss of disdain. Strangely enough, when he put them on, they only served to make him look even more....
"Eyes front, you little snot!" Oops, I had forgotten about Lurch. "You look where you're told—nowhere else!"
I hurriedly turned my gaze forward. After administering some similar correction to a couple of my fellow arrivals, he began to strut back and forth in front of us, with his baton behind his back.
"Welcome to Granite Point, boys. My name is Sergeant William De Nallie. You will address me either as 'Sergeant' or 'Sir,' not by any other name...PERIOD!"
He gave us a few seconds to process this and then actually seemed to mellow out a little.
None of us were fooled.
"Tell me boys...do you know the joke they tell about this place?"
Nobody answered. We could tell he didn't want one.
"It goes like this," he said, "Question—how does a kid end up in Granite Point?" Out came the stick, slapping hard into his other paw. "Answer—he messes up everywhere else!" He stopped and swung his baton sideways indicating each and every one of us in a wide, sweeping arc. "So, get this through your messed-up heads. Never mind the name Granite Point Correctional Facility, you are not here to be corrected! You are not here to be reformed! And you are especially not, I repeat, NOT here to be rehabilitated. If that was even possible, you would never have been sent here." He stopped walking and drew himself up to his full height, with his arms folded. Sheesh, talk about your walking skyscraper. "YOU are in Granite Point to be incarcerated. There are no counselors here, there are no therapy sessions here, there is no sympathy here. There is only, 'Yes sir, no sir, whatever you say, sir.'" He lowered an eyebrow and raised the other. "Do I make myself clear?"
This time, he expected an answer...and he got one.
But not the one I think he wanted...
"You big jerk; I bet you can't even count to three!"
Noooo Snowdrop, it wasn't me...I may have had a messed up 'tude by then, but I wasn't suicidal. Nope, wasn't me...and it wasn't even the sable kid. It was that deer buck with the sawed-off antlers.
As for Lurch, he didn't lose his temper, he didn't even seem to get angry; he just kind of smirked at Bucky Smartmouth.
And then his voice became very soft, almost a purr.
"I can count to three, kid." He raised the stick, and brought it down with a loud crack. I couldn't bear to look, but I couldn't help hearing. "That's one," he said, and swung it again, "That's two," And one more time, "And that's three. See, I can count to three." The smirk vanished, replaced by bared fangs, "Now, get up!"
I didn't think anyone would be able to get back on their feet after a triple swat like that one, but somehow, the deer-kid managed it. Lurch, meanwhile, had his baton behind his back and had brought out that smirk again
"As a matter of fact, I can even count to four...which is the number of days you little snots are going to be spending in Total Isolation, thanks to your buddy's big mouth."
Aggggh, grrrrr... even I knew what that stinking polar bear was talking about; The Hole, had to be.
That was when I first discovered that the Granite Point staff believed in collective punishment; step out of line and your whole crew suffers. Oooo, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to sink my fangs into deer-boy's neck. And I wasn't the only one; the sable kid seemed to be barely restraining himself.
These thoughts were immediately dispelled when Lurch let out his loudest roar yet.
"All right, boys...get 'em off...you heard me, STRIP!"
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Author's Note:
I chose Pompton Plains, New Jersey (Zoo Jersey) as the locale where Conor gets busted based on the fact that it's the town where I was born. I was not, however, aware of how it got its name until after I began writing this chapter. The idea for the fortune teller came from a Zootopia-themed Inktober pic by artist Aaronjay.
And big thanks to former sheriff's deputy and correctional officer Walt Reimer for some timely technical advice, especially regarding Conor's booking process.