Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 04 - BOY ON TRIAL - A Legal Thriller by Clifford Irving
Authors: Clifford Irving
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me that when Carter went away fishing that weekend, her mom had locked her in a closet without food or water. Without even a place to pee: no bucket or pot. Her mom kept her there for two days.
A storage closet, Amy explained. “There was a light. I found the string. So at first it wasn’t dark.”
She didn’t have a watch and she didn’t know what time it was. There was no room on the closet floor to curl up but she could sit with her knees folded against her chest and her back against some cardboard boxes, and that way she could sleep for a time, then wake, then sleep again. She kept the light burning. She wasn’t cold, there was a coat in the closet and she wrapped herself in it. But the closet was damp and smelled of mold.
Late on that first day, or during the night, she had no way of knowing, the bulb flickered, turned pale orange, then died a slow death. So then it was fully black. She didn’t care so much about being hungry and thirsty but she hated it when she had to pee on the floor, in the inky dark, in the place where she sat and slept.
The smell worsened the second day. She wanted to do more than pee but she held it in until she had stomach cramps. She sobbed with the pain. Sometimes she banged on the door and begged her mother to open it.
“I thought I’d die in there. Like, buried alive.”
There was nothing I’d ever seen on television or in movies, or read in books, or heard from another person, that was like this story. This was the most awful true story I’d ever heard.
“Why did your mom do that, Amy?”
“She was mad at me.”
“Why? What did you do?”
She didn’t answer that. Ginette, on the third day, flung open the door and yanked her out. Hauled her across the floor by one arm — almost pulled the arm from the socket. “And she had this knife in her hand.”
Amy tried to dodge past her. To show what Ginette did, Amy clenched her fist and brought her arm downward. Her fist bounced off the bed. I felt the blow as if the bed had been my shoulder.
“A big kitchen knife?”
“No, more like a steak knife.”
“Did it hurt a lot?”
“You bet it hurt.”
Amy stumbled out the front door of her house into the road. It was a cool, cloudless fall day, a perfect day to climb rocks. Duwayne and I came biking by. We didn’t know that the A-1 Self Storage, which we had seen from the road, was where Amy lived.
Ginette showed up at the hospital after they called her. She was sober, and she kept crying. She told Amy they had to blame it on Jimmy, or else Ginette would go to jail.
“When Carter came back from fishing,” Amy said, “he walloped her. Remember his hand? He said he got it caught between the boat and the pier? Bullshit. He broke her cheekbone. Her face is still all swelled up. He threw out the liquor. Smashed all the booze bottles in the yard. Made her go out there afterward and clean up the glass.”
“And he’s still saying Jimmy did it?”
“Two people from social services came round. So Carter gives his version of what happened. He’s like, ‘You can’t give poor Jimmy the third degree about it. He’s all busted up about what he did.’ But these people saw my mom’s cheek. Ginette says, ‘I slipped in the shower. Hit my face on the faucet.’ The woman asked a lot of questions. The man had a tape recorder. I don’t think they believed the Jimmy story or the faucet story.”
“Did they talk to you, too?”
“They want me to come in on my own to their office. Carter says not to go. I think that’s why he wants to hurry up and leave for Sayville. Maybe leave Long Island.”
“For where?”
“Florida.”
“That’s… far away, Amy.”
“And I don’t want to go,” she said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have to get out of there.”
I thought that over, and I wasn’t quite sure what she meant.
“Do you mean leave home?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“For good?”
“For the rest of my life.”
Her mother had stabbed
A storage closet, Amy explained. “There was a light. I found the string. So at first it wasn’t dark.”
She didn’t have a watch and she didn’t know what time it was. There was no room on the closet floor to curl up but she could sit with her knees folded against her chest and her back against some cardboard boxes, and that way she could sleep for a time, then wake, then sleep again. She kept the light burning. She wasn’t cold, there was a coat in the closet and she wrapped herself in it. But the closet was damp and smelled of mold.
Late on that first day, or during the night, she had no way of knowing, the bulb flickered, turned pale orange, then died a slow death. So then it was fully black. She didn’t care so much about being hungry and thirsty but she hated it when she had to pee on the floor, in the inky dark, in the place where she sat and slept.
The smell worsened the second day. She wanted to do more than pee but she held it in until she had stomach cramps. She sobbed with the pain. Sometimes she banged on the door and begged her mother to open it.
“I thought I’d die in there. Like, buried alive.”
There was nothing I’d ever seen on television or in movies, or read in books, or heard from another person, that was like this story. This was the most awful true story I’d ever heard.
“Why did your mom do that, Amy?”
“She was mad at me.”
“Why? What did you do?”
She didn’t answer that. Ginette, on the third day, flung open the door and yanked her out. Hauled her across the floor by one arm — almost pulled the arm from the socket. “And she had this knife in her hand.”
Amy tried to dodge past her. To show what Ginette did, Amy clenched her fist and brought her arm downward. Her fist bounced off the bed. I felt the blow as if the bed had been my shoulder.
“A big kitchen knife?”
“No, more like a steak knife.”
“Did it hurt a lot?”
“You bet it hurt.”
Amy stumbled out the front door of her house into the road. It was a cool, cloudless fall day, a perfect day to climb rocks. Duwayne and I came biking by. We didn’t know that the A-1 Self Storage, which we had seen from the road, was where Amy lived.
Ginette showed up at the hospital after they called her. She was sober, and she kept crying. She told Amy they had to blame it on Jimmy, or else Ginette would go to jail.
“When Carter came back from fishing,” Amy said, “he walloped her. Remember his hand? He said he got it caught between the boat and the pier? Bullshit. He broke her cheekbone. Her face is still all swelled up. He threw out the liquor. Smashed all the booze bottles in the yard. Made her go out there afterward and clean up the glass.”
“And he’s still saying Jimmy did it?”
“Two people from social services came round. So Carter gives his version of what happened. He’s like, ‘You can’t give poor Jimmy the third degree about it. He’s all busted up about what he did.’ But these people saw my mom’s cheek. Ginette says, ‘I slipped in the shower. Hit my face on the faucet.’ The woman asked a lot of questions. The man had a tape recorder. I don’t think they believed the Jimmy story or the faucet story.”
“Did they talk to you, too?”
“They want me to come in on my own to their office. Carter says not to go. I think that’s why he wants to hurry up and leave for Sayville. Maybe leave Long Island.”
“For where?”
“Florida.”
“That’s… far away, Amy.”
“And I don’t want to go,” she said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have to get out of there.”
I thought that over, and I wasn’t quite sure what she meant.
“Do you mean leave home?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“For good?”
“For the rest of my life.”
Her mother had stabbed
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