Jack Barker: In The Pocket

By Douglas Coiner

This is a book you will not want to put down. Jack Barker was a tough cop and seven years in Federal Prison made him even tougher. And now that he was out he has just one goal. He has to find and eliminate the enemy from his past who murdered his daughter and threatens his grandson. His sixteen-year-old grandson, Jeremy is in witness protection hiding from the maniac who murdered his mother, but Jack is not satisfied. He tracks Jeremy to a Foster Home in the Sacramento Pocket Area and poses as a crossing guard near the local high school to keep an eye on the boy he hasn't seen since he was a toddler. No one can know his identity, not even Jeremy, as it might lead the killer to the boy, What Jack did not expect was how quickly he would become attached to the kids he shepherded across the street each day and how quickly they would come to depend on him for protection from the gangs and preditors of the rough neighborhood. I becomes a story of intense love and brutal violence as Jack and his ex-partner Chastity Ortiz search for the criminal genius who threatens Jermy while Jack takes on the gangs and misfits who threaten the kis he has come to care for. The tension builds steadily until we reach the explosive climax that you will never see coming. You will also learn to look at our problematic Foster Care System in an entirely different way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667194844

Book preview

Jack Barker: In the pocket

Chapter one

  Jack Barker sat silently in the courtroom, enclosed in his own thoughts. There were at least a dozen voices arguing and pontificating from different locations about the chamber, but it was all just noise to him. He thought his defense attorney may be speaking directly to him, but he could not be sure. The only things authentic to him were the thoughts inside his head. There was such a hubbub, so much contention, and for what? The evidence was irrefutable. His guilt was conclusive. It was time to stop all the noise and get on with it.

  The gavel banged two or three times and the room fell silent. Jack looked up and his gaze lingered on Mitzie Collins, who was the judge presiding over his case. He had always liked Mitzie because she allowed no bullshit in her courtroom. Her rulings were succinct and to the point, and the prattle of the lawyers seldom swayed her.

  Jack’s lawyer, Joseph Branson, was tugging at his arm, urging him to stand up, so he grudgingly rose to his feet and continued to study the judge.

  Mr. Branson, Judge Collins proclaims ceremoniously. Your client is accused of aggravated assault, vehicular manslaughter, and fleeing the scene of a felony. How do you plead?

  Thank you, your honor, Branson replies in a practiced magisterial voice. We plead not guilty and will prove that all charges against our client are false.

  Thank you, Mr. Branson, She replies. Mr. Hart, would you care to present the people’s case?

  Thank you, your honor, The prosecuting attorney returns as he looks down at his notes. DDA Franklyn Hart representing the people of California.

  I know who you are, Mr. Hart, Judge Collins reproaches. Please read the official charges.

  Yes, your honor, Hart says abjectly. The people of California will prove that Jonathon, Jack, Barker did willfully and with malice strike down…

  Your honor, can I say something? Jack says indifferently, causing a few of the people in the gallery to murmur nervously.

  Jack, Judge Collins admonishes benevolently. How long have you been a cop?

  Too long, I suppose, Jack drones.

  And how many times have you been in my courtroom?

  Several times, He acknowledges. Just never from this particular venue.

  Still, She smirks. You know that you are not supposed to speak right now. Now is the time for the lawyers to speak so we can know what we’re all doing here.

  I just wanted to save all these people some time, Jack utters impassively. Ain’t no use goin’ through all this legal bullshit when we all know I’m guilty.

  Jack? Branson bewails loudly as the confused crowd begins to chatter. What are you doing?

  Quiet down! Judge Collins’ orders as she pounds her gavel peevishly.

  Jack’s longtime partner Chas jumps up from her seat two rows behind him and shouts irately in her Cuban accent that Jack had always found to be adorable.

  Jack, what’s wrong with you? She screams. Are you crazy?

  He turns and shrugs to her whimsically, which only seems to stoke her ire.

  Jack, you have to let me handle this, Branson pleads. Chances are they’re not gonna convict a cop on this kind of crime. Give me a chance, please.

  Quiet in the court! Judge Collins calls sternly. Quiet down everybody!

  Jack turns and looks at her innocently, causing her to grimace and shake her head.

  Jack, she says calmly. Let your lawyer handle your case. You’re just going to make things worse.

  A jury will find me guilty your honor, Jack says flatly. So why not just get this over with.

  So, you want to waive a trial by jury?

  A bench trial’s fine with me, Jack replies.

  Your honor! Branson protests.

  Sit down, Joe, she tells him. Your client has opted for a bench trial. Am I understanding that right, Detective Barker?

  Yeah, mutters.

  Jack! Stop this! Chas yells frantically.

  Detective Ortiz, you will remain silent or I will have you removed. Judge Collins warns.

  Chas drops into her seat dejectedly and prays softly as she clutches the cross she inevitably wore around her neck.

  So, Mr. Barker, The judge continues. Is it your decision to wave council?

  Yeah. I can speak for myself. Jack replies.

  Jack, come on, Branson pleads.

  Sit the fuck down, Joe, Jack snaps. I know what I’m doin’.

  The lawyer also drops into his chair and shakes his head in dismay.

  Very well, The judge says pointedly. How do you plead Mr. Barker?

  Guilty, your honor.

  Very well, The judge states firmly. The court accepts your plea. You will be remanded into custody until time for your sentencing. Court is adjourned. Bailiff, you may escort the prisoner out of the courtroom.

  Thanks, Mitzie, Jack says with a nod.

  Good luck, Jack, she replies softly.

  The bailiffs are on their way to escort Jack back to his cell, so Branson speaks as quickly as he can to tell him about the appeals he will file on his behalf. But Jack looks past him as he spies his daughter in the back row of the courtroom. There is contempt in her eyes, but he dismisses it and waves to her to come over. When she shows no inclination of coming, he cocks his head pathetically and motions to her a second time.

  She rises hesitantly and moves toward him. She is also a police officer in the San Francisco Bay Area, and he cannot help but feel pride as she marches toward him in her dress blues.

  Hi kid, Jack utters tenderly. Did you bring Jeremy?

  Of course, I didn’t bring him, She snaps. You think I would want him anywhere near this shit?

  I was just hoping I could see him one more time, he says sadly. Before I go inside.

  There is no one more time, Jack, she seethes as she moves closer. You will never see him again. I don’t want him to know you.

  I’m his grandfather, Jack pleads.

  You’re a murderer, she growls.

  I killed a man who needed to die. Jack proclaims. You can’t hold that against me.

You try to contact my son, She says haltingly. And I’ll make your life more of a living hell than it’s already gonna to be.

  She turns and hurries out of the courtroom, and his heart is filled with anguish by her rebuff. He had expected her disappointment but, being a cop herself, he thought she might be a little more understanding. He knew he had done what he needed to do, and he was not sorry for his actions. But he was truly sorry for his loss.

  The bailiffs take him by the arms to escort him out as Chas follows behind, calling for him to be strong.

  You will survive this, Jack, she cries forlornly. You’re strong. You’re Jack Barker. No one can break you.

  As they get to the door that led to the jail, Jack stops and turns to gaze at her. There is sadness in his eyes, and this worries her. He would need all his strength and all his guile to survive the years he would spend in prison. He was well known, and some of the men inside would be motivated to kill him.

  Just survive, Jack, She says through clenched teeth. Just survive and I’ll wait for you here.

  I love you, Chas, he mumbles as the guards shove him through the doors.

  She is taken aback by this uncharacteristic show of affection, and as tears well up in her eyes she grows angry.

  You had to make me cry, didn’t you? She whimpers rabidly. You pinche pendejo.

Jenifer Hamilton was a good cop. She was smart, methodical, and as dedicated as they came. Perhaps a bit too dedicated, according to her ex-husband who had left her four years ago. He had proved to be a man of weak character with a self-serving disposition that made him boorish. And that was only the beginning of his many character flaws. He was a terrible father to Jeremy. He wanted nothing to do with the little boy who took away even more of his wife’s time. He resented his son and treated him like a rival instead of a child. And Jeremy was not a needy kid. He was quietly intelligent and had become a self-entertainer at a young age. The boy seemed to sense his father’s displeasure with him and became very withdrawn. And now, that he was a teenager with his own friends and his own agenda he seemed to pull away from her even more. No, she did not miss her husband. The day Timothy James Hamilton disappeared from her life was a day of freedom not, not remorse.

  When the alarm clock chimed at seven AM on Monday morning, Jen had already been awake for more than an hour and, as always, she had been thinking about work. It was five years ago that the San Jose P.D. had promoted to detective, but the case she was now working on was one of the most formidable she had ever taken on. Her partner Alex Johnson had labeled the thief they were after as ‘The Squatter’ because of his propensity to break into houses holding high-end artwork and then waiting for the homeowners to return instead of making a clean getaway.

After the homeowners, who were always a heterosexual couple, entered the house, he would tie them together, back-to-back, and either rape the woman or beat the man as their partner lay helplessly beneath them. But he would never do both. Only once did he rob a house where there was only one occupant, and he shot the woman in the head as she walked in the front door. It was so out of character that it was not accredited to the Squatter until they found the one painting left behind with the letters rfp written in the lower left corner in silver ink. This was his signature, the initials on the valuable painting that he left at the scene as a testimony that it had been him who committed the crime.

  Now, with great effort, she puts the image of The Squatter out of her mind and rolls slowly from her bed. The hardwood floor feels cool and damp as her foot touches it, which was not unusual this time of year in the San Francisco Bay Area. She had lived in suburbs of the City for most of her adult life, having been born in Redding a few hundred miles to the north, and later moving to Burlingame, before settling in Daly City six years ago. She loved the area she now called home. The temperature was usually cool even in the summer, which seemed to be more important to her the older she got. Her chosen neighborhood was quiet yet had quick access to the major highways in the area. What she liked most was that when she climbed the small hill behind her house, she could see the Pacific Ocean to the west and the San Francisco Bay to the east at the same time. She was an Aquarius, and the sight of water had always brought peace to her.

  She throws on her robe to guard against the coolness and walks down the short hallway to the kitchen, stopping to listen at her son’s bedroom door before knocking lightly to see if he was awake.

  Jeremy? She calls in a low voice and waits for a reply.

  There is no answer, so she knocks on the door with more vigor and calls his name with more volume.

  Jeremy! She calls. It’s time to get up!

  Go away! He calls back in a drowsy voice.

  It’s Monday! She says forcefully. A school day! I leave in thirty minutes and you need to be ready!

  I’m gonna walk to school! He grouses irritably.

  No, you’re not, She shouts through the door. Now, get up and get ready.

  She continues to the kitchen and aggressively pushes the button on the coffeemaker before she goes to the cupboard and takes a box of Pop Tarts from the shelf. After dropping two of the strawberry pastries into the toaster, she takes an orange from the fruit basket and cuts it into slices without removing the peel. The Pop Tarts are soon ready, so she takes them out of the toaster and places them on a small plate before she heads back to her bedroom to dress.

  On her way back down the hall, she passes her groggy son as he stumbles out of his bedroom wearing his favorite camo pajama bottoms. She stands to the side as he marches toward the bathroom with the usual morning snarl on his face.

  Good morning sunshine. She trills as he passes and smiles to herself as he ignores her and staggers onward.

  She quickly dresses for the day, choosing a light blue pantsuit and white pumps along with a white scarf with blue polka dots to highlight her shoes. Last, she goes to the gun safe in her closet to retrieve her 9mm service weapon, which she tucks into the holster in her waistband beneath her light taffeta blouse.

  She returns to the kitchen to find Jeremy sipping a cup of hot coffee as he munched on one of the Pop-Tarts.

  I cut up an orange for you, She says as she goes to the cabinet and takes out a baggie containing her daily regimen of vitamins and mineral supplements.

  Citrus upsets my stomach, he says, not sounding quite awake.

  Want a vitamin? She offers.

  Maybe when I’m thirty, He says finally looking at her.

  If you’re trying to talk about my age, you might not make it to thirty, She says looking at him sideways.

  You’re not old enough to get teased about your age, He says as he sets his coffee cup on the table and attempts to rub the sleepiness from his eyes.

  Thank you for that, She says somberly as she pours herself a cup of steamy coffee. Get your coat, let’s go.

  I’m walking, He says bluntly.

  It’ll take you twenty minutes to walk to school from here, She expounds. I can drive you there in five. So, come on.

  I don’t want to get there any earlier than I have to, He tells her as he takes a bite of the tart, she had heated for herself.

Look, I know it’s not easy being a freshman. She says with genuine empathy. It’ll get easier. Do the older guys pick on you?

They don’t bother me, He says flatly. They know about my rep.

  Your rep? She says with surprise. You’ve been in high school for less than a month and you have a reputation?

  Don’t worry about it, He says defensively. It’s just some crap that followed me from eighth grade.

  You did crap in eighth grade? She says with astonishment. Who am I raising here, Tony Montana?

  Who?

  Tony Montana, She explains hesitantly. Scarface. You know, Al Pacino?

  Sorry, He says as he shrugs and takes another bite of her Pop Tart.

  No worries, She says awkwardly. Let’s get going.

  I really would rather walk, He tells her again.

  If I let you walk, how do I know you will even go? She asks skeptically.

I don’t want to ditch, he insists. I just don’t want to get there early.

  She stops and looks down at him pensively.

  Don’t hate school, She appeals. School can be the best time of your life if you let it.

  I just don’t get why I even have to go, He bemoans. I can learn everything I need to know on YouTube.

  There’s a big difference between looking at something on the computer and having someone teach you something. She says. What if you have a question?

  I’ll ask Alexa, He blurts.

  It’s not the same as asking a teacher. She says.

  What about when I’m doing my homework? He persists. There’re no teachers here to ask then.

  Homework is just one of life’s necessary evils. She laments. Like taxes and Kanye West.

  Homework should be illegal, Jeremy demands. We’re at home teaching ourselves out of our books while they’re getting paid for it. That’s just wrong.

  Well, like my father used to tell me, She says as she picks up her purse and digs for her keys. Just try to stay on the right side of wrong.

  Wow, He says looking at her strangely. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you quote your father before.

  That’s because your grandfather never said or did anything worth quoting. She says uneasily.

  He was a detective, Jeremy attests. Just like you are. He must have done something good in his life.

  He’s not in prison because he did something good, she says. He was a bad cop and a crappy father.

  But at least you know where he is, Jeremy counters. My dad’s off the grid. I can’t even find him online.

  You looked for him? She asks, sounding displeased. Contacting that man would be a huge mistake.

  How do I know that? He demands. I’ve never met the man. Maybe he’s changed.

  That man, She admonishes pointing a wary finger at her son. Left the country and changed his identity because he didn’t want to pay child support. He wants nothing to do with either of us. If he did, he would contact us, not wait for you to track him down on the internet.

  I know, He admits looking down. Just sometimes I wish I had some family. Did you ever think about remarrying or taking in a foster kid or something?

  Nobody wants to marry a woman cop, She says. And I’m definitely not taking in a foster kid. Half of the creeps I deal with grew up in the Foster system. No way in hell am I having you share your life with one of those screwed up kids.

  I guess I’ll just have to wait for Grandpa to get out of the big house, He’s says half joking.

  Just promise me you won’t contact him without my permission, she instructs. I need to check him out before I let him anywhere near my child.

  I promise, He says. Until I’m eighteen.

  When you turn eighteen, I’m kicking you out, so I can rent your room to a medical student, She teases. I can’t depend on you to take care of me in my golden years.

  I thought you were already in your golden years, He cracks with a wry smile.

  Two age jokes in one morning? She retorts. You’re grounded, buddy.

  For how long? He smirks.

  What difference does it make? She says as she heads for the door. At my age, I’ll probably forget about it by tomorrow, anyway. See you after school.

Jen worked for the Police Department in San Jose and since she drove opposite of the commute, it took her less than thirty minutes to get to work. When she gets to the station, it surprises her to find that her partner Alex is already at his desk studying something on the computer. She knew that it would take something of major importance to get him out of bed this early, so she hurries to his desk and looks over his shoulder.

  What got you out of bed at such an ungodly hour? She asks as she sees that he was looking at a picture of one of the houses the Squatter had hit earlier this month.

  Hey, glad you’re here, Alex says without looking up. We might have just got a break on the Squatter Case.

  What? What? She stammers as she is both bewildered and excited. What are you talking about? What break?

  See this little green Cooper? He says as he points to a car parked on the street about a half block from the front of the house.

  Yeah, She says easily. Cute.

  Now check this out, He continues, as he changes to a screen to show a different house the same perpetrator had robbed. See that right there?

  I see it, She says as sees the same green Cooper just down the street from the house. So, do you think it’s the same car?

  Already confirmed it, He replies. Same car.

  That’s weird, Jen says as she peers at the screen. Do you think there’s a connection?

  These houses are on different sides of the city, Alex points out. It would be a hell of a coincidence if there wasn’t a connection.

  Did you run the car? She asks as she goes to her side of the desk.

  Yeah, He says as he reads a note on his blotter. It’s registered to a Norman Neybach from Foster City. He reported it stolen six weeks ago.

  Well shit, She says with obvious disappointment. That doesn’t help.

  It might, Alex says thoughtfully. We doubled the patrols in all the neighborhoods in the city that are most likely to have expensive art in their homes. If somebody sees this car parked in the area, we just might get ahead of this guy.

  Well, at least it’s something, Jen replies, trying to sound hopeful. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

  Yeah, maybe, Alex replies as he continues to stare at his computer. You get any DNA reports back yet?

  Dead-end so far, She tells him. This guy is careful. He even wears a condom when he does the rape.

  And so far, none of the stolen art has surfaced, Alex adds. So, nothing to go on there. He’s one smart son-of-a-bitch.

  I guess we’ll just have to endeavor to persevere, Jen says dramatically.

  Do what? Alex asks, not understanding the statement.

  Endeavor to persevere. She repeats emphatically. The line Chief Dan George says in the movie Josie Wales. You know, we must endeavor to persevere?

    Greek to me, Alex says with an indifferent shrug.

  Oh my God! Jen exclaims. Didn’t anybody watch movies in the nineties?

  Only you kid, Alex says as he continues to scan his computer feed. The rest of us were holding down jobs.

  I live among curmudgeons, She says wistfully as she looks at the ceiling and then turns on her computer to check the nights’ arrest reports.

Folsom Prison is probably best known for the song Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash. But this prison was far from a concert hall, and there were few distractions to help the inmates forget their troubles. It was a hard place filled with hard men who had little to smile about. Jonathan ‘Jack’ Barker had just finished the seventh year of his eight-year sentence, but this negligible anniversary had nothing to do with the satisfied smile on his face as he entered chow hall that Monday morning.

  As he filled his metal breakfast plate and carried it to the table, he made no attempt to hide the blood that dripped from his knuckles. He found a table which was almost empty and flopped down heavily into the chair, tired from the melee had taken place a few minutes earlier in his cell. For years now the Captain of the guards, known only as Fletcher to the inmates, had been attempting to find a cellmate for Barker who was tough enough to beat him to death or murder him in his sleep. All attempts had failed, but Jack’s extended winning streak did not detour Captain Fletcher from searching out new candidates. At the very least, the violence kept Barker in the infirmary or in isolation for long periods of time, which removed him from the chaos he so enjoyed creating while in Gen Pop.

  Jack had worked with Fletcher during his time as a detective in San Francisco when Donald Fletcher was a uniformed officer in the precinct. Jack did not remember the young officer, but Fletcher had vivid memories of the detective who had frequently slighted and ignored him during the years they served together. These insults were enough for him to make Barker’s stay in Folsom as unpleasant and brutal as he possibly could.

  Jack Barker had not only been a tough cop, he had also been a tough human being, seemingly from birth. He only stood about six feet tall, but his muscular build brought him in at a weight of over two-hundred and thirty pounds. He had spent six years in the Marine Corps where he boxed and won the all-services title two of the three years that he had spent in the ring. He later became a Drill Instructor and a Weapons Expert with five combat deployments on two continents. He had great instincts and dogged determination which helped him climb the ranks of the S.F. P.D. in record time. He had been well on his way to becoming a legendary law enforcement officer when his career abruptly ended.

  Jack did not bother wrapping a napkin around his bleeding hands as he devoured his breakfast. He knew he did not have much time before the mangled body of his latest adversary was discovered and he would be taken once again to the dank 10’ by 6’ enclosure known as the hole. He figured he had only minutes if not seconds before being discovered, so he tried to get as much nourishment into his body as he could. The inmates near to him noticed the blood on Jack’s hands and the angry red scratches which adorned his forehead but paid little attention. They had become accustomed to the drama that he brought to the prison on a more than regular basis. He had no friends here. He was a fallen police officer who was despised, not just for who he was but because in seven long years no one had been able to break him. Though many had tried. This garnered him a certain amount of respect among his peers, but not enough to induce any of them to come to his aid.

  He had almost finished wolfing down the oatmeal, biscuit, and bacon breakfast when Fletcher, accompanied by four baton-wielding guards, entered the crowded auditorium and marched directly to Jack’s table.

  Barker! Fletcher trumpets as he comes to the table. Fork on the table and hands where I can see them!

  Jack let the fork fall from his grip and drop noisily onto the metal plate as he placed his hands beneath the table, out of sight.

  We just came from your cell Barker, Fletcher seethes as he glares down at Jack. Do you know what we found?

  I can’t imagine, Jack answers pompously.

  Fletcher slams his baton forcefully onto the tabletop, causing the plate to jump and spill what was left onto Jack’s lap.

  We found your cellmate on the floor beaten half to death! Fletcher shouts loud enough to ensure that everyone in the room could hear him.

  Damn! Jack says as he shakes his head. I lose more cellmates that way.

  So, I guess you had nothing to do with the assault on the man you share your cell with? Fletcher shouts. Is that what you’re telling me, Barker?

  I had less to do with it than you did, Captain, Jack says snidely as he finally looks up at Fletcher. You knew what would happen to him, and you know why.

  Fletcher stands up straight and fondles his baton anxiously as he scowls down at Jack. He knew what had happened in the cell, and he also knew what was about to happen. He had beaten or had other men beat Jack so many times over the past seven years that he had lost count. He had not encountered an inmate like Jack Barker in his ten years as a correctional officer. Jack’s tenacious arrogance which seemed to border on insanity challenged him as much as it fed his craving for violence and revenge. He needed to display his dominance over this man who once thought himself to be his superior.

  Show me your hands, Fletcher demands at last.

  Jack grins sardonically and raises his bleeding hands from beneath the table with both of his middle fingers raised in a defiant provocation to his jailer. Fletcher immediately brings his baton down across Jack’s neck, knocking him onto the floor where the other guards beat him with their clubs and kick him until he is unconscious.

  Pick him up. Fletcher orders as he sees that Jack can no longer feel the punishing blows his men delivered. Take him to the hole. If he doesn’t wake up in twenty-four hours, have the Doc check to make sure he ain’t dead.

  Two of the guards take Jack’s body by the arms and drag him away as Fletcher orders the other two men to take Jack’s newest cellmate to the infirmary. He then scans the room forbiddingly and is slightly amazed to see that the inmates in the room have continued to eat their breakfast with complete apathy toward what had just happened.

  Jeremy did walk to school that morning even though, deep in his heart, he detested the institution. Not that he disliked the idea of a proper education, he was just antagonistic to the way public schools were run. In his opinion, only about twenty percent of the time he spent at the establishment had anything to do with education. The rest was all about survival, socialization, and the self-importance of shallow intellectuals.

  He had no trouble with surviving. Jeremy Hamilton had undeniably proven that he could take care of himself, even at a young age. But he had also proven to be antisocial. He didn’t genuinely dislike people but, more to the point, they disliked him. Mostly because his unfiltered seriousness and propensity to brood made them nervous. It had been just twenty days after his fourth birthday that his father had left him never to return, and on that day, Jeremey had transformed into a dispassionate realist. He did not even remember his father, but he had vivid memories of the void that his father’s absence had created in his life. With his mother being preoccupied with her career and no other family to speak of since his stepfather split, he was left to fend for himself. There was no one to mentor him through the growing experiences he encountered as an adolescent boy. And as time went on, he preferred and even took pride in his compulsory independence as he developed an unyielding appraisal for what was right and what was wrong in life.

  As he approached the front of the high school, he found comfort in the clanging sound of the bell telling the students of Westmoor High to head for their first-period class. He was glad that he would not have to find a private place somewhere on the campus to wait for classes to begin as when his mother dropped him off. He was almost cheerful as he walked into Mr. Schoenberg’s algebra 101 homeroom and took a seat.

  His first two classes were uneventful, and he was feeling quite at ease as he walked to the rear of the school during the first break to sit within the solitude of the Acacia Trees where other students rarely gathered. It was incidental that on this morning one of the few students he had shared even a casual conversation with was there. And that was only because they sat at the same Science Lab table during fifth period. Her name was Gwen Sherwood, and Jeremy had found her refreshingly agreeable despite her obvious beauty and social standing at the school.

  On this day Gwen was sitting alone on one of the small benches among the plush trees, and she was crying. When he saw that she was upset, he halted abruptly and stood very still, looking upon her from the shadows of the building. It bothered him that something had made her this upset. But at the same time, a muted warning bell sounded within his psyche, cautioning him that if he engaged her, he would be drawn into whatever the problem was. Not that he didn’t feel empathy for her, he certainly did, but he had always been inept in dealing with the emotions of the fairer sex. Mostly because of his propensity to look at problems with an uncomplicated point of view.

  Unfortunately for Jeremy, she looked up at that moment and saw him watching her. And though she quickly looked down to try to hide her despair, he felt the fact that she had seen him now made him obligated to step forward and offer comfort.

  Hi Gwen, He says sheepishly as he as he approaches her. Are you OK?

  No, She answers with a tremble in her voice. But it’s not your problem.

  I know, He says somberly. But it’s still a problem, and I’d like to help, if I can.

  You can’t, She says curtly as her crying becomes even more irrepressible. This can’t be fixed.

  Against his better judgement, he takes a seat on the bench next to her, being careful not to crowd her or touch her inadvertently.

We can talk about it, He says prudently. I don’t know if I can help but I can listen. Sometimes it helps just to talk to somebody.

  Gwen looks up at him and her eyes briskly scour his face as if she was trying to discern the motive behind his unexpected kindness. After a moment she seems to recognize the sincerity of his concern and her eyes soften as her demeanor mollifies and, although he is male, she decides to trust him.

  He raped me, She says in a tortured whimper.

  What? He responds uneasily, shocked by her unexpectant revelation. What are you talking about? Who raped you?

Her eyes grow wide and a look of dread covers her face as if she suddenly realized the weight of the accusation she had just voiced. She is shivering, and Jeremy cannot help but take her hands in his as he clumsily attempts to comfort her.

  Gwen, He says urgently. Who did this? Was it here at the school? Was it a teacher?

  No, She says haltingly as she leans closer to him. It was… it was last night… at the party after the game. I had some beer and then I drank some vodka with Kim, and I got really drunk. I think I passed out.

  Somebody raped you while you were drunk? He says indignantly as he feels his anger rise.

  I woke up, She continues timorously. I think… I think I was awake but… I couldn’t move. I felt him on top of me and I felt him… in me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. And he just kept on... He just kept on…

  Did you see who it was? He asks pensively.

  She suddenly pulls her hands away from his and looks away fearfully.

  You don’t have to tell me who it was, Jeremy insists. But you need to tell somebody. You can’t keep this to yourself, Gwen. You have to tell.

  It was Rick, She says, still not looking at him. Rick Hanvey. I saw him. He was on top of me.

  She begins to sob uncontrollably, and he ventures to put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. This time her body goes limp as she surrenders to his consoling touch and lets her body sink against his. She turns her face into his sturdy shoulder and softly weeps as he strokes her hair and wonders where he might find Rick Hanvey.

  Jeremy attempted to talk Gwen into going home for the rest of the day, but she refused. So, as the warning bell rang to notify students that classes would resume in five minutes, he left her at the bench and walked resolutely down the hallway in search of Rick Hanvey. As he turned into the hall that led to the locker room near the gym, he spotted Rick opening his locker to retrieve the books he needed for his next class. The hall was almost empty, so Jeremy quickened his stride to something near a trot so he could get to his target without interference. Rick was two years older than he was and was well muscled and athletic, but Jeremy was an experienced fighter and was not apprehensive about confronting a slightly larger upperclassman.

  Hanvey! Jeremy shouts as he comes closer to the older boy. I’m looking for you!

  Rick turns around quickly and is incensed to see a lowly freshman strutting toward him after having the nerve to call him out in a public place. Immediately, he decides to punish the young punk and set a tone for any other heroic boys who might feel brave enough to step to him.

  Unfortunately for you, you found me! Rick growls as he sets his feet and prepares to meet the unexpected assault.

  Jeremy marches unflinchingly toward him and is ready for the predictable righthand Rick launches at him once he is within striking distance. He stealthily ducks under the haymaker and throws a stiff uppercut that catches Rick on the point of the chin and causes him to spin around and fall against the bank of lockers to keep from going to the floor. Jeremy immediately notices that Rick’s hand is halfway in the open locker as he holds on to the frame to steady himself. Without a second thought, Jeremy slams the open door with all his strength onto Rick’s fingers, trapping his hand between the metal door and the solid frame. Rick cries out in pain and tries to pull his hand free, but the effort is useless, his fingers are firmly wedged inside the door.

  Gwen told me what you did, Jeremy seethes as he slams a right hand into Ricks jaw, causing his knees to buckle. He would have fallen to the floor if his hand had not been so solidly trapped.

  I’m not letting you get away with it, Jeremy says as he throws another huge right hand into the helpless boy’s face. Gwen is my friend.

  He hears the footsteps running toward him but discounts what he knows is about to happen as he prepares to deliver another punch. But he is tackled from behind before he can deliver the blow and finds himself on the floor looking up at Mr. Schnell, the football coach. The coach is large and strong enough to hold him down until other students and teachers arrive to ensure that he is totally subdued. Coach Schnell then pulls Jeremy to his feet and hands him over to Vice Principle Allen, who hauls him to the office to face the consequences of his actions.

Jen grew tired of sifting through the huge list of recent arrest reports and decided to search the dark web for art being offered that matched the list of stolen treasures attributed to the Squatter. But she was interrupted suddenly by a call from the school telling her that Jeremy had been involved in an altercation. She was a little worried, and a little pissed off as she gathered her coat and purse and rushed to the high school. Being a protective single mother and having arbitrarily turned a blind eye to her son’s burgeoning masculinity, she could only fret over how badly he may be injured as she charged into the Vice Principles’ office. To her surprise and relief, she found her son sitting at a long table opposite Mr. Hague, the school principal and Jeremy’s student councilor Ofelia Patton. There was no evidence of injuries except for a thin band of gauze haphazardly wrapped across the knuckles of his right hand.

  Without greeting or acknowledgment to the school officials, she rushed to Jeremy and took his face in her hands as she studied his head from side to side as she searched for further trauma.

  Are you OK?