J is for Judgement

there's no justice in the legal system. Then he turns around and tells me we have to turn ourselves in. I go, 'No way, Dad. I'm not going to do it, and there's no way you can make me.' "
    "What'd he say to that?"
    "He didn't say anything." He tossed the sock ball against the wall again and caught it on the fly.
    "You think he might have gone ahead and taken off without you?"
    "Why would he do that if he was going to turn himself in?"
    "Maybe he got scared."
    "So he leaves me to face all this shit by myself?" His look was incredulous.
    "Brian, I hate to say this, but your father isn't exactly famous for sticking it out. He gets nervous and he bolts."
    "He wouldn't leave me," he said sullenly. He tossed the socks in the air, leaned forward, and caught the wad behind his back. I could see the title of the book now: Tricks with Socks: 101 Ways to Amuse Yourself with Underwear: "I think you ought to go ahead and turn yourself in."
    "I will when he gets here."
    "Why don't I believe that? Brian, I hate to sound pompous, but I have a responsibility here. You're wanted by the cops. I don't turn you in, that's called 'aiding and abetting.' I could lose my license."
    He was on his feet in an instant, half lifting me, hauling me off the bed by my shirt, fist cocked back, ready to bust my teeth out. Our faces were suddenly six inches apart. Like the lovers. Anything cute about this kid was gone. Someone else stared down at me, a person within a person. Who could have guessed that this vicious "other" was hidden behind Brian's blue-eyed, California perfection? The voice wasn't even his: a low-pitched gravelly whisper. "Listen, you bitch. I'll tell you about aiding and abetting. You want to take me in? Just try. I'll kill your ass before you can lay a finger on me, you got that?"
    I stilled myself, scarcely daring to breathe. I made my body invisible, beaming myself into hyperspace. He was nearly cross-eyed with rage, and I knew he'd strike out if he were pressed. His chest was heaving, adrenaline pumping hard through his nervous system. He was the one who killed the woman when the four of them escaped. I'd have bet money on that. Give a kid like that a weapon, give him a victim, some subject to vent his rage on, and he'd attack in a white heat. I said, "Okay, okay. Don't hit me. Don't hit."
    I thought the rush of feelings would make him extraordinarily alert. Instead, emotion seemed to slow his senses, dulling his perceptions. He pulled back slightly. He brought my face into focus, frowning. "What?" His manner seemed dazed, as if his hearing had gone out on him.
    My message had finally reached him, through some impossible maze of supercharged neurons. "I just want you safe when your dad comes back."
    "Safe." The very concept seemed alien. He shivered, tension rippling through his body. He released me, backed away, and sank onto the chair, breathing heavily. "God. What's the matter with me? God."
    "You want me to go in with you?" My shirt was permanently pleated across the front where he'd gripped it in his fist.
    He shook his head. "I can call your mother." He bowed his head, running his hand through his hair. "I don't want her. I want him," he said. The voice belonged to the Brian Jaffe I knew. He wiped his face against his sleeve. I thought he was close to tears, but his eyes were dry . . . empty. . . the blue as cold as a gel pack. I sat and waited, hoping he would say something more. Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he began to look like himself again.
    "It'll look better in court if you return voluntarily," ventured.
    "Why should I do that? I got a legitimate jail release." The tone was petulant. The other Brian was gone, receding into the dark recesses of his underwater hole like an eel. This Brian was just a kid who thought everything should go his way. On the playground, he was kind of kid who'd cry, "You cheated!" any time he lost a game, but he would always be the cheater, in truth.
    "Oh, come on, Brian. You know better than that. I don't know who screwed with the computer, but believe me, you're not supposed to be out on the street. You've got murder charges filed against you."
    "I didn't kill anybody." Indignant. By that, he probably meant he didn't mean to kill her when he pointed die gun. And why should he feel guilty afterward when it wasn't his fault? Dumb bitch. She should have kept ~ mouth shut when he asked for the car keys. Had to argue with him. Women all the time argued.
    "Good for you," I said.