Love Letters From the Grave(8)

‘Wendell,’ whispered Charlie, hardly knowing the man, really, yet hardly able to take in, now, that he was dead, that Charlie would also be dead if he hadn’t ducked below the dash, and that the whole robbery had gone very, very wrong indeed. ‘You should have—?

‘Shut your mouth, boy, or I’ll shoot you myself,’ hissed a voice in his ear.

A fist pounded against his temple. Charlie reeled, helpless. In a daze, he was flung up against the wall of the bank, frisked, and dragged to a paddy wagon.

He was only vaguely aware of his body being battered, bruised and lacerated by the cold, hard surfaces of the police vehicle as he was manhandled into its yawning darkness. He was stunned - rendered almost insensible by the ferocity of the attack on him and the other members of the gang. His head was spinning, his world violently turned upside down.

As the paddy wagon screamed toward the police station, he tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Where were the other members of the gang? His mind raced a mile-a-minute as he sped toward the unknown, alone in the paddy wagon apart from the law-enforcement officer, who wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, glaring, and held the butt of his gun a few inches from Charlie’s head throughout the journey.

Charlie shook his head, trying not to cry. He was supposed to be intelligent. He was an honors student, a 4-H participator. And yet he had given no thought to any of the consequences which might be associated with robbing banks. He had not even thought of himself as a member of the gang, simply a skilled driver and lover of speed. A hired hand. Although he was only 15-years-old, he was big for his age and much more mature than other boys of his age. He might look as old as Wendell, but the truth was, he was just a kid. And now he was headed to who knew where?



He was headed to jail. Thrown into a holding cell with two drunken vagrants who’d been caught in a brawl, scrapping over the ownership of a coat they’d found hanging on a fence, Charlie curled himself into a corner and tried to quell the uncontrollable shaking in his limbs. Shock was causing his system to shut down: shock at what had gone on, shock and outrage at himself that he hadn’t thought this through properly. He ducked the flailing arms of his cellmates, who were still battling out the fate of a coat that was long gone, gulping back sobs.

Through the fog that had engulfed his mind, Charlie heard his name being called. He looked up, expecting to see the sheriff who had manhandled him so roughly into the jail before disappearing to have his wounds attended to. The sheriff was certainly standing beside the metal gate, but it was the man beside him who was calling out Charlie’s name.

‘You don’t look like a bank robber,’ he said now, loosening his tie and wafting his hat in front of his face. The air was pretty stagnant in the jail.

‘I’m not a bank robber,’ said Charlie, hardly able to push his words out. ‘I’m a … just a driver. I was only driving. It wasn’t meant …’ He stopped short, afraid he wouldn’t be able to hold back his tears if he continued, so determined was he to act like the man everyone had assumed he was. The man he was yet to be.

‘We’ll have to let the judge decide whether you’re a bank robber or not, boy.’ The man with the hat fanned himself again as he looked Charlie up and down. ‘Either way, you’re in a mighty pickle.’ He sighed, then gestured to the sheriff to open up the door. ‘My name is Adams. The court has assigned me as your public defender.’

‘You’re a … a lawyer?’

Adams nodded, his face somber, then led the way into a small, featureless office that was only marginally more cheerful than the jail cell.

‘I was just driving,’ said Charlie again, taking the seat that Adams pointed to. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone. Why do I need a lawyer?’

Placing his hat carefully on the table, Adams sighed deeply, then read aloud from a scribbled list that he’d extracted from his pocket.

‘The attempted robbery turned out to be an incredible blood bath. The other … driver …’ Adams paused to let the word sink in. ‘He’s dead. Five of the other members of the gang were killed at the site. The oldest member of the gang, the ringleader, Hepworth, was seriously wounded. He’s being treated in the prison hospital. He’d better hope he dies there, because he’s headed for the electric chair if he makes it out alive.’

Charlie stared at the table, his eyes burning with tears. Six members of the gang, dead. Wendell killed. Hepworth dying or nearly dead. He was the only one to make it out unharmed. How could this all have happened?

‘The … the woman,’ he whispered. ‘I could hear a lady screaming. What … what happened?’

‘Mrs Olsen.’ Adams was once again reading from his list with a calmness that wasn’t reflected in his sad, wary eyes. ‘A customer. An innocent bystander. Yes, she was killed at the bank, along with …’ He totted up the names on his list with agonizing slowness. ‘… four police officers, two detectives and two of the bank’s employees. Moreover, in addition to your gang's leader, three police officers, three detectives, two customers, the bank guard and the bank manager were wounded. So that’s … what, fifteen people killed and eleven people wounded. That makes it one of the bloodiest crime events in the entire country since the Crash. I hope you’re proud of yourself, boy.’

Charlie shook his head, tears spilling down his cheek, numbed and confused by the carnage wrought during the attempted bank robbery. It was surreal - like a bad dream. It was almost impossible to believe that it had happened and that he was a part of it. He had not even thought of himself as a member of a "gang." And he certainly had not given a single thought to what consequences might result from robbing the bank. After all, he and Wendell were simply drivers of the get-away cars, and, unlike the other six members of the gang, were not even armed.