Page 84 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he says defensively, “I’m sort of an adult now. I’m supposed to be taking care of my own business. I’m trying to get out from hiding under Mom’s skirts, and I sure as hell don’t want to go from there to hiding behind my sister.”

“Even adults need some support now and then,” I tell him, trying to smooth over his ruffled feathers. “Even adults need to be able to lean on their family when things are shitty.”

“Whatever,” he says, covering his eyes again.

“So what happened with the public defender?”

Frank sighs and sits up on the bed, leaning back against the wall and hugging a pillow over his body like armor.

“He said that I should have taken the deal. You know about the deal, right?” He waits for my nod before continuing. “I should just give up everyone that was part of the scheme and then go get on with my life. He screamed at me—literally screamed, my ears rang for an hour—for about ten minutes after the prosecutor left.”

“But you’re not guilty!”

“Well, yeah, no shit,” my brother snaps at me, then sighs heavily. “The problem is, there’s exactly two people out there who believe that, Emily. And we’re both sitting in this room.”

“What about Mar- your mother?” I ask. “You can’t be telling me thatshethinks her little angel is an evil drug smuggler.”

“Shesaysshe doesn’t,” Frank tells me, clutching the pillow tighter and burying his face in it. “But the other night she got a little… well, she had a couple glasses of wine, right? She was talking to herself, didn’t realize I was in the next room, I don’t think.”

“Oh, God. What’d she say?”

“She was looking at a picture of Dad on the mantel,” Frank says, his voice dull and lifeless. “And my mother said—and I quote—‘Why’d you do this to me, Francis? Why couldn’t he have gotten my brains instead of my looks? I know he was just trying to help his poor old mother, but why’d he have to get caught doing it? Why couldn’t he have been smarter about it?’End quote. Like the drugs really were mine, and it was Dad’s fault that I’d gotten caught. Stupid, because poor genetics.”

I’m shocked into speechlessness and sit there in Frank’s chair staring at my little brother in stunned disbelief.

“Please tell me you’re joking, Frank.” Is Margaret really that narcissistic? Stupid question. Of course she is. I thought I hated my stepmother when I walked into the house, but after that? I didn’t even truly know the meaning of the word hate until just this instant.

Frank barks out a sudden laugh, and a sudden shock of guilt—as if I need more of that right now—slaps me in the face for having believed him.

“That was a pretty terrible joke, little brother,” I say, glaring balefully at him.

“Hm? Oh. Well, my sense of humor is about twelve shades darker these days, but no,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “That really did happen. I just realized something else, though.”

“What?”

“We’re not the only people who believe that I’m innocent,” he says. “There’s at least one more out there.”

“Who’s that?” I ask. There’s no way he could know that Gabriel…

“Whoever that Ecstasy belonged to,” Frank says, grinning hugely. “They know it wasn’t mine, and, holyshit, sis. I bet they’re pissed that it’s gone.”

“Oh,gawd,” I groan. “That’s- that’sawful.” But I can’t entirely suppress a giggle, and before long we’re both gasping for air.

“Frank, I’m…” I pause and move over to sit next to him on the bed taking his hands in mine. “Look, I love you. I love you so much, Frank. I amnotgoing to let this happen to you. I don’t know how yet, but-”

“Emily,” he gently interrupts. “No. I don’t think that you can. The public defender might not be the best lawyer, but… look, sis, you weren’t the only one who hung around Dad’s office during summer vacation. The guy is right about one thing: there is absolutely overwhelming evidence here. They took the guitar case out of my hand and cut out the lining of it right in front of me. The drugs were right there. I was in possession of… of… whatever amount it was, of Ecstasy pills. It’s cut and dried. But it’s okay, Emily.”

It wasn’t that long ago that I came home to an exuberant puppy of a brother who seemed barely more grown up than when I’d left the twelve-year-old Francis Junior behind to go to college. This Frank Wilson sitting here with me is a very different young man, facing a terrifying future in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and doing it with a dignity and calm that I’d never have expected to see.

I wonder if his younger self would recognize him now any more than mine would see herself in me?

“What? No, Frank! No, it’s not okay!”

“I don’t know if they’ll let me have a guitar in prison or not. Probably not,” he says, sadly. “I suppose they won’t want anyone hanging themselves with the strings. But I’ll be able to write music, at least.”

“You’re not going to go to prison, Frank,” I assure him, heartbroken, squeezing his hands with all my strength. “You’re not.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I am. But it’s okay. I’ll write songs about it, and when I get out? Hey, I’ll have built-in street cred. Just like Robert Ferry.”

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