John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

When the introductions were taken care of and the opening formalities completed, Judge Verone turned to Stephanie Buckman.

“Miss Buckman, I see you’re here alone,” he rasped, intentionally avoiding the term ‘Ms.’, which in his view represented a concession to overly sensitive activists. “I was expecting to see Mr. Petrelli here with you.”

Stephanie smiled uncomfortably. “Frankly, Your Honor, so was I. But I’m prepared to proceed without him.”

Verone returned the smile briefly, then made it disappear. “I’m not so sure you are, Miss Buckman,” he said. “I’ve read your petition, and I am prepared to rule it out of order unless you can cough up a compelling reason to violate the privacy of hundreds of innocent people so you can go on a fishing trip for one caller.”

Stephanie remained standing while the attorneys on the other side of the aisle lowered themselves into their chairs. She could feel their mocking smiles as she gathered her thoughts. She opened her portfolio, glanced at her notes, and began.

“Your Honor, a convicted felon and a confessed killer is running free today, following a daring and bloody escape from the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center. We have within our reach the mechanism to bring him back into custody. By allowing access to Omega Broadcasting’s telephone records, you allow us to track this young man down and put him back where he belongs. The People don’t want to violate anyone’s privacy, Your Honor, but sometimes, the common good must prevail.”

“Is that all?” Verone asked.

“Well, no, Your Honor:’ Stephanie said, pulling the lengthy petition out of her brief case. “In our petition, we cite several precedents which I’d be happy to review with you.”

Verone held up a skeletal hand to cut her off. “No, Miss Buckman, that won’t be necessary. Appearances notwithstanding, I’m still young enough to read what is submitted to this court.” He pivoted his head to the defense table. “Mr. Morin,” he said to a gleaming attorney in a Brooks Brothers suit, “I presume that you have a slightly different take on this matter?”

Morin buttoned his suit jacket as he stood. “Yes, Your Honor, we do indeed,” he said. In flawless and flowery prose, he recounted the incalculable harm that would be inflicted on the First Amendment rights of all citizens were the plaintiff’s requests to be granted. After enduring three minutes of breathless oratory, Verone yawned widely and loudly, causing Morin to stop in mid-sentence.

“Do you have any information to present to me here that is not already played out in your written response?” Verone asked, taking advantage of the brief silence.

Morin smiled coyly, as though he had been waiting for this opportunity. “Yes, sir, Your Honor. In addition to all of the arguments thus far presented, the defendant feels that the entire issue is moot, due to events of this morning, in which the information sought by the People’s petition was already provided by alternative means.”

Stephanie’s mouth dropped. She hadn’t been back to the office since nine o’clock that morning, and no one had told her anything about alternative means. What the hell kind of game was Petrelli trying to play, anyway?

“I have no idea what counsel is talking about,” she said in reply to the judge’s inquisitive look.

Verone’s gaze returned to Morin. “Enlighten us all, Mr. Morin, please,” he said.

Morin told of the Nicholsons’ return from vacation, and of their discoveries upon their arrival home. “Several points are proven here, Your Hohor,” Morin concluded. “First, that good police work does not have to involve civil rights violations, and second, that the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office is wasting a lot of people’s valuable time—and my client’s valuable money—just to win a few votes.”

“That last comment was uncalled for, Your Honor,” Stephanie objected.

“On the contrary, Miss Buckman, I believe that it is overdue,” Verone shot back. “I think we all know what’s going on here. Your boss is taking a bath on this case, and he’ll try anything to win, including leaving you out to dry all alone with this turkey of a petition. Miss Buckman, I want you to go back to your office and tell Mr. Petrelli that there is no provision in the Constitution whereby it can be suspended to support the political aspirations of prosecutors. Tell him if he tries a stunt like this again, I’ll throw his butt in jail for contempt. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Stephanie said with a smile. She could just see herself saying those things to Petrelli. God, what she would give to do it and still have a job.

“Petition denied?’ The gavel sounded like a pistol shot.

The gun made Nathan feel safer. The heft of it in his hands, the press of it against the small of his back gave him the sense that the odds were more even. Like The Bitch had said, it was dangerous for a kid his age to be wandering around alone at night. If some bad guy chose him as his prey, Nathan would be ready.

He saw in a Western once how this cowboy had developed a reputation as a killer, and even though he tried to hang up his guns and get on with his life, the bad guys wouldn’t let him. People felt compelled to prove themselves against his reputation. Well, Nathan was a famous killer now. He had told everybody that it was an accident, but maybe they wouldn’t believe him. Maybe somebody would want to prove themselves against him.

Yeah, he’d be ready, all right. He’d made up his mind to take the gun with him. Like the clothes he’d borrowed from the Nicholsons, this gun would somehow be returned once he was across the border in Canada.

The Honda in the garage posed a bit of a problem. It had a standard transmission, and he remembered from the fun farm how tricky they could be. In fact, the hardest he’d ever seen his grandfather laugh was the first day Nathan had gotten the old Ford to move, jerking and jolting across the field, spewing gravel everywhere. He just prayed that he still remembered how to do it.

The laundry was finished now, and he’d already cleaned the place up. He had another note to write, but that wouldn’t take long. With three hours to go till dark, he had nothing left to do but wait. The waiting drove him nuts. For two days now, he’d been stuck inside, unable to do anything but wait and worry.

After a while, boredom began to wear on you, making your mind play tricks. Boredom made you hear things that weren’t there, and think things that weren’t right. Sleeping was about the only activity that made real sense, but he was way too keyed up for that. Besides, he’d slept like a log that morning.

The digital clock on the VCR switched to 6:00 and he thumbed the POWER button on the wimpy little six-button remote. You couldn’t even punch in the channel you wanted; you had to go through the numbers one at a time. He flopped backwards onto the couch but bounced back to his feet when the pistol in his waistband objected. He drew it out and lay back down, resting the gun on his chest.

Nathan was the lead story on the news again. They were again showing the grainy picture of him in his bloody coveralls. They cut to a picture of the BMW before Nathan could pick up on what the announcer was saying.

“.. believe they have located the vehicle used in day two of Nathan Bailey’s daring escape attempt from the Juvenile Detention Center in Brookfield, Virginia. According to police sources, a BMW sportscar matching the description of the vehicle taken from the residence where the young man spent the night last night was recovered in a church parking lot in Jenkins Township, Pennsylvania, about thirty miles north of Harrisburg. For the details, we go to…”

He turned it off. This wasn’t possible. In just a few hours, the cops had undone a two-day head start, and Nathan still had hundreds of miles to go. His mind raced for a solution, for a way to get ahead of them again.