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Chapter Seventy-Seven
Point of View: Narrator

It took an exceedingly long time, but finally Zoe listened to the tone as somewhere in the state of Florida a phone rang at an entirely inappropriate hour of the night.

"Hello?" a blurry voice answered the phone.

Zoe took a deep breath, "Hello, is Jane there?"

"Speaking?"

"Jane, my name is Zoe Sinclaire. I'm calling regarding your son, Nick."

In Florida, Jane Carter sat up and flipped on the light on her night stand. Her boyfriend shifted next to her on the bed, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the lamp's glare. Jane clutched the blankets to her chest. "What about him? Is this the Los Angeles police department?" she asked.

"No, I'm a --"

"Because if this is the LAPD and you need a character background of Nick or a testimony, I'm going to have to go through my lawyer." She paused.

"I'm not calling from LAPD, I'm a --"

"Reporter?" she guessed, "I don't do interviews. Unless you're willing to pay for it..."

"Pay for it? What?" Zoe asked in disbelief.

"Well I suppose I can do an interview," her voice wasn't even a little reluctant. Jane twirled her hair around her finger, "Well my son is a very, very complicated man..." she paused, then sighed dramatically, "I've never been so worried for him.. in all my life... Locked up in his own home... alone..." she was squeaking now.

"I'm not--" Zoe tried again.

"I can't believe the justice system! Breaking up our family like this," she muttered. "I'm not even allowed to visit him..."

Zoe interjected quickly, "I'm a friend of Nick's, I'm not conducting an interview, I'm calling because I wanted to talk to you about your son."

Jane froze, her hand clutching the phone to her ear. A friend of Nick's? she thought, disdainfully. What a waste of time and perfectly good quotes.

"Can I talk to you about Nick?" Zoe asked.

"No, I'm sorry, not right now," Jane answered, "It's much too late, and I'm very busy. Good bye." She hung up.

Zoe held the phone away from her ear and stared at it in disbelief.

Nick's thank you seemed somehow even more poignant now.



Outside a club in Los Angeles, wobbly from too much alcohol, Desi stumbled along the sidewalk, pausing to puke in a bush. A couple of scantily clad women walked by, laughing at him as they teetered on their stilettos. Desi leaned against the pole that held up a stop sign and pressed his cheek against the cool metal as neon lights flashed around him dizzingly.

It seemed impossible to believe that just a couple months ago he'd been entangled in a bed in the penthouse suites of fancy hotels all over the United States, having crazy, steamy sex with a beautiful, successful woman. Krystal had been coveted by every red blooded man in America - and most every other country, too, for that matter - and he had been the one that got to have her every night after her shows, untying the long strand of leather that twined around her to make up her last 'costume' of the night on stage. He could remember the taste and feeling of her, and the way she was always so pliable under his touch when she'd taken too much drugs and passed out on the bed.

He was pretty sure that's how she'd ended up pregnant.

Desi slid to the ground, his back against a random car, and blinked his eyes sleepily, staring up at a large, illuminated Burger King sign.

Krystal had kicked him out after he called an ambulance upon finding her, drenched in blood, in the bathroom at the last stop of the tour, clutching her wrist. "Tell them it was a false alarm, tell them someone else called," she demanded when they knocked on the door. Desi had wandered to the door and acted confused, perplexed, that someone had called 911 and sent them to their hotel room. "You've got the wrong room," he'd lied.

"Don't you ever tell anyone about this," Krystal demanded.

Desi rubbed his forehead and slipped sideways onto the cement. The grittiness of the ground felt interesting on his cheek and he hummed as he fell asleep, passing out on the streets of Los Angeles, which had become his home over the last couple months.

Ever since he got that phone call from Krystal.

He pulled out his cellphone and called his voicemail, playing the old message for about the hundredth time.



Leon was pacing. The radio was crackling, but through the static he could hear them talking about Nick and his poor pitiful self in his big fat mansion under house arrest and how the photographers had clustered outside of it. Nick, the reason he was stuck in this cell for 160 days.

"Carter was placed under house arrest after he expressed a legitimate reason to fear for his life, should he be placed in the Los Angeles corrections center. After the dramatic arrest of his girlfriend, Kayla Sinclaire's exboyfriend, for assault charges less than a week ago, the singer expressed his fear that the ex might strike back if given the opportunity..."

"Fuck right I would," snarled Leon, spitting at the radio, where it was laying on his cot. "Damn fuckin' straight." He kicked the barred door of his cell and leaned against it, sticking his arm out the door, banging on it loudly. "You hear that?" he yelled into the dead air around him. Guys from other cells were yelling back complaints. "If I ever get a hold of that guy, he's fuckin' dead!"



Nick was laying on the floor in his living room on his back, legs up on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The officer stood a few feet away. Nick was exhausted. He'd spent the entire morning trying to get the guy to smile. It was like the British guards with the fuzzy hats. The guy wouldn't crack.

Nick glanced at him. "Do you talk at least?"

No answer.

He stared at the guy.

Nothing.

"God damn it," Nick muttered, flopping his arms out on either side of him. "I'm bored," he complained. "No I'm worse than bored. What's worse than bored?" he looked at the cop. Still nothing. "You're like a rock," he complained. He sighed. He stared at the ceiling again. He sighed again. He looked at the blinking red light on his ankle. He looked at the cop. "This sucks."

"It's supposed to," the cop muttered.

Nick jumped up, "You do speak." He walked over and stood right in front of the guy, staring at him closely. "Speak again."

Nothing.

He sighed. "I didn't even do it," he said, turning away. He threw himself dramatically on the sofa, propping up his head on the far arm, so he was still staring at the cop. "I really didn't."

The cop didn't respond again.

Nick sighed and rolled over, burying his face in the cushion.



"The most we're going to be able to reduce this charge to, without some really solid proof that she killed herself, is a manslaughter charge instead of the homicide that they're trying to pin on him now," the lawyer's voice was deep and apologetic.

Brian squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead, "Come on, you're like super lawyer, you're supposed to pull rainbows out of your ass and make good things happen, like the Care Bears or something."

"I'm sorry, Brian," the lawyer answered, "But there's a lot of evidence piling against him, and the fact that he waited so long to come forward --"

"He didn't remember!" Brian interjected.

"It doesn't matter. He can't prove that he didn't remember. It looks like he took time to make up a good story."

"Nick would never do that," Brian argued.

The lawyer sighed, "Look, I get that. You know that, I know that. The judge? She doesn't know that."

"I'll do a testimony," Brian said quickly, "I'll testify that he's not like that."

"Brian, thats sweet, but you're his best friend. Of course you'd defend him. Get an enemy - get someone whose opinion isn't biased to say that and maybe you've got a character statement, but the judge already hates him. If we parade a bunch of his friends up there to testify for him, she's gonna chuck him in jail in spite."

Brian sighed and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"Manslaughter won't get him life, which homicide could. He'd be out within five to ten years."

Brian felt his blood run cold through his veins. "You put Nick in jail for five to ten years and he's gonna die."

"He won't die, they have a nice facility..."

"He might live physically through it, but he'd die emotionally, if nothing else. Besides, you know the horror stories you hear about jail..." he paused, "Nick's a pretty boy, let's face it. You know what would happen in there."

"We could ask for a facility that would be a bit more understanding of the situation than this corrections facility."

"We need to find proof that Krystal killed herself," Brian said, "Because Nick going to jail is not an option."

The lawyer sighed, "Well, good luck with that. They already combed her house and there was nothing to suggest that she was suicidal there." Brian closed his eyes. There had to be something that would help... something that could get Nick cleared.