I end the call, thanking Rich for the update and wishing him luck in dealing with Beverly. She has taken Blake as her little lost cub and will go full mama bear on Rich if he tries to pressure Blake into anything. I might have to make sure I’m around when he pays them a visit.
“You should have called me,” Jackson says. “CPS are up to their eyeballs. Kids often fall through the cracks, especially at seventeen. They’ll probably throw him into a group home and drag their heels until he ages out. He could always go down the route of emancipation. Considering his brother's current location and the fact he has been living in a shelter to avoid abuse will play in his favor. Why don’t I give Jordan’s parents a call and talk them through all the options?”
I honestly hadn’t even thought of any of this,. which was my bad. Jackson could have had the whole thing done and dusted by now.
“Thanks, man. I really appreciate that. Blake is a great kid. The Bells want to take him back to LA with them. Help him get into college. He deserves a good life.”
Jackson nods and pushes the legal pad toward me with the details of the plea deal. “Let me know if there is anything you need me to do for you and Jordan. I'll give him a call and see if he will link me up with his parents. One less thing for you to worry about.” With a salute, he heads out.
CHAPTER 29
Jordan
I have always been a believer in the power of therapy, I’ve witnessed first hand how it helped my bestie. Pete was reluctant at first—maybe not reluctant, but in denial that he needed therapy after he was drugged at Jacks, the same bar I was shot at. Maybe I need to find another waterhole? That is a thought for another day. When Pete finally relented and went to therapy, he came out a changed person. He now has the ability to recognise his triggers and boundaries and the coping mechanisms to combat them. Pete's husband Gavin went for decades without seeking help for his trauma and now the big grumpy bear is having open and difficult discussions without needing to turn to alcohol.
I’m not one for medications if I can help it. The doctor gave me antidepressant pills after the shooting to help me regulate my emotions and fears, and I made sure that they were a temporary thing. I didn’t want to rely on them for the rest of my life. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just not for me. I threw myself head first into therapy instead. It’s now been eight weeks since the incident and six weeks since I had a panic attack in the middle of the street.
My therapist, Bryan, started off having zoom calls with me in my apartment. He encouraged going outside—small distances at first. Just making it out of my apartment to the parking lot alone was a massive achievement. We worked our way up to meeting at the park. We walked and talked; lots of people around us on their daily jog. I froze up a few times, but Bryan talked me through it and I realised I could do this. It was okay to be afraid, but I shouldn’t be allowing fear to rule my life.
That also applied to my relationship in a lot of ways. My fear of commitment is likely stemming from something in my past. That is still a topic of discussion in our sessions. One day I will get to the bottom of the reason I kept Eric at arm’s length for so long. For now, though, we are very much together. All in love and shit.
I returned to work a few days ago, my shoulder healed and my physical therapy completed. I have a full range of movement, and the only time I ever feel a twinge from it is when the air conditioning has been cranked up too high in the office. Although I fully expect to feel some phantom pain from it today.
This morning is Jace Kemsley's sentencing hearing, and after much thought and discussion I decided to give a victim impact statement. Blake has also decided to speak about his experiences with Jace. I understand how hard this must be for him. Jace is his brother, after all, but it turns out that we never really got even half of Blake's story. The abuse he was suffering at his brother's hand for years deserves to see the light. This guy should have to face the consequences. In other words, we want the judge to throw the fucking book at him.
Not that this is going to be easy for anybody. Standing up in a room with your abuser—or attempted murderer in my case—and airing out everything that has happened to you because of one man is no mean feat. Blake is being so brave. He’s written down everything he wants to say to his brother. Nobody has read it. Not even my parents, who fought the system to get Blake emancipated and then moved him out to LA with them.
I’m sitting at the back of the courtroom. Eric to one side and Blake at the other. My mom and dad are here along with all of the guys from Savage Ink and a few people from the shelter. The level of support from all of these people has been nothing short of incredible. Even the fact they all showed up here today, knowing how difficult this is going to be. I agreed to go first to give Blake a little more time to gather himself.
Having gone through law school, I am no stranger to public speaking, but still my palms are sweating and my heart is pounding hard when I watch them escort Jace into the courtroom and sit him at the defendant’s desk. He keeps his back to us, likely he has been told to do so. Rich Lough, the DA, told us this morning when we arrived at the court building that Jace had waived his right to speak for himself today.
I squeeze Blake’s hand as the judge starts to explain how the proceedings are going to go. They will first hear the impact statements, then go over the charges before the judge hands down his ruling. I don’t fear Jace Kemsley anymore, but the thought of standing up there and telling everything to a courtroom full of people: the attorneys, the press, and a bunch of random court-surfing strangers, has me feeling sick to the core. Nausea is roiling in my stomach, threatening to have me running for the bathroom.
“Mr Bell, are you ready?” the judge asks, and I nod slowly as I get to my feet, hating that my legs are shaking right now. Moving up to the podium and the microphone that has been set up for us, I quickly clear my throat before unfolding my notes. I didn’t want to read from a script. I wanted this all to come from my soul, but with my nerves fraying, I'm glad I brought some backup.
“My name is Jordan Bell. Jace Kemsley shot me in cold blood outside a bar on my birthday. Thankfully Mr Kemsley is a terrible shot, allowing me to stand here today and witness justice being served first hand.
“I am here today to tell you how my life has been affected since the shooting, and why I believe that Mr Kemsley needs to be locked in prison for a very long time so that he cannot do this to the next person who stands up to him for being the bully that he is.
“You see, the reason that Mr Kemsley shot me was because my boyfriend and I stopped him and three of his friends from beating up a teenage boy in the alleyway at the side of my apartment building. The teenage boy turned out to be Mr Kemsley's younger brother. By bringing this boy into my home and getting him the help he desperately needed, Mr Kemsley believed my life should be forfeited, and he was the judge, jury and the executioner.
“He thought that my life should end because I stopped him and his friends beating up a defenseless child. That is what speaks volumes for the character of this man. Mr Kemsley should not have the privilege to walk around free with a mindset like that.
“I know that I will never be free from the trap that night triggered in my head. I used to walk around the city streets with my head held high, but now it is on a swivel. Even though I know that my attacker is in jail, my mind will not let me rest. If I cannot have freedom, then Mr Kemsley certainly does not deserve it. Thank you, Your Honor.”
My heart is pounding so hard it's roaring in my ears as I sit back down and immediately press in against Eric's side. The whole time I was up there, I kept looking at Jace’s back. He didn’t turn around of course, I didn’t expect him to, but he sat with his posture relaxed. Not a care in the world. It made me want to scream at him in rage.
“Mr Kemsley, are you ready?” the judge asks.
I turn to look at Blake, who is white as a sheet, and I offer him a small smile.
“You got this, kid,” Eric whispers to him, patting his back as he passes us to take his place behind the podium.
I watch Blake’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. He looks so young and scared. I want to run up there and hold his hand, but I think he needs to face his brother like this in order to findhisfreedom.
“My name is Blake Kemsley and the defendant in this case is my brother. I wish I could say that I was here to plead for leniency or tell a fond story of my childhood with my brother in the hopes to appeal to your softer side. That is not what I am here for today.
“I was thirteen years old when my junkie mother overdosed on heroin in our one-bedroom apartment. My dad was long gone, likely suffering the same fate. Not that I could really call either of these people ‘parents’, because they cared more about their next fix than they did their kids. I grew up with hunger being the factory setting and school something I could only dream of. I slept on the floor in our apartment and mostly just watched whatever was on TV.
