Read Online Extenuating Circumstances by Jonathan Valin - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Valin
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didn't want to come down, you know . . . I just wanted to stay up there for the whole day. But Lessing, man, he wouldn't give me the number."
"What number?"
"For the bank card, man. The password number. He just . . . wouldn't. So I got mad. I says to him, 'I'm going to show you, man. I ain't some little prick you can jerk around. I'm a man."'
"What did he say?"
"He was kinda messed up. His face, I mean. He just kinda grinned at me like he was daring me on, you know. Like he didn't have no respect for me at all. Like he didn't care."
Carnova took a deep breath and wiped his face again. His nose was dripping snot and he wiped it, too, with the back of his hand. He sat there for a moment, breathing hard.
"I drove down to the Ferry, down there on River Road. And I pulled Ira out, and I says to him, 'I'm gonna give you one more chance.' But I can see he's pissed off now. I says, 'Give me the money.' That's when he hit me."
"Lessing hit you?"
"Yeah," Carnova said, as if he still couldn't believe it himself. "Ira shouldn't have done that, man. Not to me. Not that night. I picked up this rock and I hit him back with it. Right in the face." Carnova shuddered. "Man, it made a weird sound. Ira just kind of wobbled around and then he fell. I says, 'Get up!' But he ain't moving at all. That's when I start to get scared. I stoop down there and listen to his heart, and it's like . . . I couldn't believe it happened, man. He was dead. I started shouting at him, like, 'How can you be dead, man!' And then, I don't know . . . I just lost it. I started pounding on his face and his chest. Screaming at him, 'How come you're dead? You can't be dead!' Shit like that, you know. I mean I'm so pissed off that he's dead, I just can't think straight. I take this rock from the ground and start pounding his head with it, cursing him and crying and shit. I must've hit him a hunnert times. There's blood all over me."
Carnova's eyes lit up weirdly. "I tasted his blood, man. It was all over my face and my mouth, and I tasted his blood." The light in his eyes went out, and he slumped forward in his chair. "I drug his body over to this old shack. Put some siding over it. Drove around in his car for a few hours, then ditched it." Carnova looked up, exhaustedly. "That's about it." All four of us stared at the kid for a moment. Then Art stood up. "Did you get that?" he said to the stenographer.
The stenographer nodded.
"Good." Finch stretched his arms over his head, then slammed one hand down on the table in front of Terry Carnova, making the kid jump in his chair. "We're going to do this again, Terry. And again. Until we're satisfied with what we got. That okay with you?"
Carnova nodded stupidly, slumping back again in the chair. The defiant look he'd had on his face -that brazen, self-congratulatory look of celebrity- had vanished. He was just an ordinary kid now, who knew that his moment of glory had come and gone unapplauded.
Staring at him bent over in the chair, his dirty blond hair falling across his face like a veil, I tried my best to think of him as human. To think again of the ugly, predictable history that had made him what he was the poverty, the ignorance, the abuse, whatever. I couldn't make myself do it. I couldn't make myself feel a thing for Terry Carnova.
When Finch started asking the same questions again, I got up and went out into the hall.
12
Terry's teenage girlfriend, Kitty Guinn, was sitting on a bench outside the interrogation room smoking a cigarette. She stared at me pointedly as I walked by, holding up her right hand, like a kid in high school trying to get the teacher's attention. Greasy red hair braided in pigtails and fastened with bobby pins. A pale, freckled, red-eyed face, already aging, already old. No shape to speak of beneath a striped cotton shirt and jeans. I gave her a hard look, and she jerked her hand back quickly, ducking her head to her breast.
"Please, mister," she said in a nervous, down-home
"What number?"
"For the bank card, man. The password number. He just . . . wouldn't. So I got mad. I says to him, 'I'm going to show you, man. I ain't some little prick you can jerk around. I'm a man."'
"What did he say?"
"He was kinda messed up. His face, I mean. He just kinda grinned at me like he was daring me on, you know. Like he didn't have no respect for me at all. Like he didn't care."
Carnova took a deep breath and wiped his face again. His nose was dripping snot and he wiped it, too, with the back of his hand. He sat there for a moment, breathing hard.
"I drove down to the Ferry, down there on River Road. And I pulled Ira out, and I says to him, 'I'm gonna give you one more chance.' But I can see he's pissed off now. I says, 'Give me the money.' That's when he hit me."
"Lessing hit you?"
"Yeah," Carnova said, as if he still couldn't believe it himself. "Ira shouldn't have done that, man. Not to me. Not that night. I picked up this rock and I hit him back with it. Right in the face." Carnova shuddered. "Man, it made a weird sound. Ira just kind of wobbled around and then he fell. I says, 'Get up!' But he ain't moving at all. That's when I start to get scared. I stoop down there and listen to his heart, and it's like . . . I couldn't believe it happened, man. He was dead. I started shouting at him, like, 'How can you be dead, man!' And then, I don't know . . . I just lost it. I started pounding on his face and his chest. Screaming at him, 'How come you're dead? You can't be dead!' Shit like that, you know. I mean I'm so pissed off that he's dead, I just can't think straight. I take this rock from the ground and start pounding his head with it, cursing him and crying and shit. I must've hit him a hunnert times. There's blood all over me."
Carnova's eyes lit up weirdly. "I tasted his blood, man. It was all over my face and my mouth, and I tasted his blood." The light in his eyes went out, and he slumped forward in his chair. "I drug his body over to this old shack. Put some siding over it. Drove around in his car for a few hours, then ditched it." Carnova looked up, exhaustedly. "That's about it." All four of us stared at the kid for a moment. Then Art stood up. "Did you get that?" he said to the stenographer.
The stenographer nodded.
"Good." Finch stretched his arms over his head, then slammed one hand down on the table in front of Terry Carnova, making the kid jump in his chair. "We're going to do this again, Terry. And again. Until we're satisfied with what we got. That okay with you?"
Carnova nodded stupidly, slumping back again in the chair. The defiant look he'd had on his face -that brazen, self-congratulatory look of celebrity- had vanished. He was just an ordinary kid now, who knew that his moment of glory had come and gone unapplauded.
Staring at him bent over in the chair, his dirty blond hair falling across his face like a veil, I tried my best to think of him as human. To think again of the ugly, predictable history that had made him what he was the poverty, the ignorance, the abuse, whatever. I couldn't make myself do it. I couldn't make myself feel a thing for Terry Carnova.
When Finch started asking the same questions again, I got up and went out into the hall.
12
Terry's teenage girlfriend, Kitty Guinn, was sitting on a bench outside the interrogation room smoking a cigarette. She stared at me pointedly as I walked by, holding up her right hand, like a kid in high school trying to get the teacher's attention. Greasy red hair braided in pigtails and fastened with bobby pins. A pale, freckled, red-eyed face, already aging, already old. No shape to speak of beneath a striped cotton shirt and jeans. I gave her a hard look, and she jerked her hand back quickly, ducking her head to her breast.
"Please, mister," she said in a nervous, down-home
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