The Juvie Three

  “I know hamsters who could do better.”

  “Knock it off,” orders Arjay.

  It sounds like light banter, but there’s nothing light about the mission that has brought them here. Ms. Vaughn’s message has placed a time bomb inside a structure that has already begun to collapse.

  Mrs. Liebowitz likes them now, but her suspicions over Healy’s absence are growing stronger. Dr. Avery is expecting a call from the group leader that she’s obviously not going to get. This Page Cannot Be Displayed is anxious to sign with their new manager, and the members are demanding a social security number that Arjay refuses to provide. The deputy chief of police of the city of New York has Gecko’s file on his desk—all the information he needs to sink them if he bothers to check a few facts. Add to that DeAndre, who will be coming after Terence sooner or later, with who knows what results.

  Their Wednesday date with Ms. Vaughn may be the worst of their problems, but it’s only hastening the inevitable.

  With total disaster less than a week away, they have no choice but to try for a miracle. That’s what they’re doing in the hospital today.

  The plan is to walk in on John Doe and come completely clean about who they are and who he is. Maybe the combination of the trio together, plus the truth, will trigger the return of the group leader’s memory. And then maybe—an even bigger maybe—he’ll forgive them and cover for them.

  “And if he doesn’t,” Terence concludes, “I hope you’ve been practicing yoga, because it’s time to bend over and kiss our butts good-bye.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” Arjay challenges. “He calls the cops and we get arrested. That’s in the mail for Wednesday anyway.”

  They step out onto the seventh floor and Gecko waves his tag in front of the security door. Down the hall they march, single file, Gecko in the lead. After spending every spare moment in this place, he hasn’t been here since his breakup with Roxanne four days ago. Every lunch tray, every IV pole, every molecule of antiseptic-smelling air reminds him of that last ugly fight. And it hurts.

  The procession comes to a halt in front of room 704. With a collective intake of breath, the trio walks inside. They stare. They goggle. They are strangled and silent.

  The man in the bed, fast asleep, is an elderly Asian.

  Only Terence can access his speech center. “Unless he’s changed a lot…” His voice trails off.

  “Did he die?” Arjay manages.

  “He was totally fine except for his memory!” Gecko insists, his voice rising with panic.

  “Oh, hi, Gecko.” Karen, the nursing assistant, comes in with some fresh towels. “I suppose you’re looking for your John Doe. He transferred out yesterday.”

  “He’s cured?” Gecko whispers.

  She shakes her head sadly. “Physically, he’s healthy, so we can’t keep him in an acute care facility. It’s too bad, really. He has no money or insurance, so in the city system, he goes somewhere they have mental health experts.”

  “Where’s that?” Gecko asks in alarm.

  She hesitates. “The only bed they had open was in the Bronx County Psychiatric Hospital.”

  Terence is horrified. “He’s in the nuthouse?”

  She looks guilt-ridden. “Well, there was nowhere else…he’ll be receiving the best…yes,” she admits finally.

  “How could you let that happen?” Gecko howls.

  Arjay steps in front of him. “Calm down. It isn’t her fault.”

  True. You can’t blame a nursing assistant for a patient transfer. Even the doctors and hospital administrators wouldn’t have the power to overrule the city system. No, responsibility for this lies squarely with the teenagers who could have identified Healy but didn’t, because they were more worried about their own problems.

  Karen hangs her head. “Sorry, Gecko. Everybody knew you’d be upset, but we had no way to get in touch with you. He asked about you a bunch of times. Roxanne told us you dropped out of the volunteers. Is that true?”

  Gecko studies his sneakers. “Sort of. I guess so.”

  “Well, he’s totally okay. He just has to stay there until his memory comes back.” She touches his arm. “I hope that’s really soon. They say it’s not the nicest place.”

  Gecko can barely put one foot in front of the other as they slink to the stairwell for an emergency powwow. A force is pressing down on him, but he can’t tell where gravity ends and despair begins. So much has happened, yet this latest twist is surely the cruelest.

  Arjay takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s think this through.”

  “Think it through?” Gecko explodes. “The only person who ever cared about us is in a mental hospital, and it’s all our fault!”

  “Hey,” Terence says sharply. “We don’t have the juice to commit anybody to anything. This just happened. Lousy luck, man, that’s it.”

  “What are you, on drugs?” Gecko demands in a fury. “We could have given ourselves up the night of his accident. We didn’t. We could have identified him the minute he was diagnosed with amnesia. We didn’t. We could have come forward the whole time he was in this hospital. We didn’t.”

  “We couldn’t,” Terence amends. “Not without scoring ourselves a one-way ticket to lockup.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we should be thinking beyond what’s best for us, you self-centered bloodsucker!”

  “We can still come forward,” Arjay points out. “They think Healy has no money or insurance, but he probably does somewhere. They can’t hold him if he’s got a life to return to—even if he can’t remember that life.”

  “And we go back inside,” Terence adds, “with time tacked on for fun and games in NYC. Assault, fleeing custody, falsifying reports—who knows what the cops’ll come up with? Attempted murder, maybe.”

  “You think I’m thrilled about it?” Arjay demands. “At least you guys go to juvie. For me it’s real jail!”

  Gecko nods. “So that’s it, then. We sacrifice ourselves to save Healy. It’s no more than he did for us. Fair trade.”

  “Fair trade, bite me,” Terence snaps. “Not until we’ve tried everything else.”

  “There’s nothing else to try,” Arjay reasons wearily. “We always knew this couldn’t last forever. We go back into the system on Wednesday anyway. We’re just pushing it up a few days.”

  “You’re ignoring the most obvious thing,” Terence insists. “Let’s find this rat hole where they put Healy and bust him out.”

  Gecko stares at him. “It’s a hospital for crazy people! You think you can come and go as you please?”

  “I may not be the bomb at school, or following rules, or being a good citizen, but there’s stuff I know how to do. Like breaking and entering.”

  “That’s not the same as busting out,” Arjay reminds him.

  Terence shrugs. “So I’ll do it backward. Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen? We get caught, and confess then. But if we spring him, we’ve got a shot at convincing him to cover for us.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Gecko accuses. “It’ll never happen in a million years.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Terence agrees. “But there’s a chance. Some chance against no chance—who wouldn’t take those odds?”

  They turn to Arjay to cast the deciding vote. The big boy throws up his arms. “Where’s the Bronx?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Bronx, it turns out, is at the other end of a thirty-minute ride on the Number 4 train. The trio emerges from the subway entrance into the shadow of a hulking gray monstrosity that might be the ugliest building in the city. The Bronx County Psychiatric Hospital is a fourteen-story gray stone cube. The only decorative features are the iron bars on the windows—no designs, no columns, no ornamentation, and not a speck of color anywhere. It looks like exactly what it is—a very large trash receptacle for those New Yorkers considered too crazy to be let loose among the population.

  And Douglas Healy.

  Arjay emits a low whistle. “You know w
hen they say, ‘find a happy place’? Well, this isn’t it.”

  Terence shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

  Getting inside the building is no problem, but once there, security is tight. An armed guard watches over the reception desk. Visitors wait in line to pass through an airport-style metal detector. The patient wards are sequestered behind the same kind of armored door they have at Atchison. A sick feeling of déjà vu takes hold in Gecko’s gut. To be admitted, you have to be buzzed in by a white-coated attendant.

  Getting Healy out of here is not going to be easy.

  “Yes?”

  They jump. The woman at reception is looking them over through the bulletproof glass, her expression steely.

  “What’s up?” Terence greets her conversationally. “A friend of ours just got transferred here. Figured we’d look in on him, make sure he’s doing okay.”

  “His name?” she barks.

  “John Doe,” Gecko supplies quickly. The New York City health system has never heard of Douglas Healy.

  She regards them suspiciously. “Your friend is a John Doe?”

  Sweat beads on Gecko’s brow. “I’m a volunteer at Yorkville Medical. I got to know him in the head trauma unit down there.” He shows her his Gecko Smith ID badge.

  From a drawer she produces a sheaf of printed forms and slides them through an opening in the glass divider. “Fill these out.”

  Gecko accepts the stack, frowning at its thickness. “And then we go in?”

  Wordlessly, she points to a sign: ALL VISITS MUST BE APPROVED IN ADVANCE.

  Arjay speaks up. “Uh—how far in advance?”

  “The applications go up to Albany at the end of the day. Then, if you pass the background check—figure about a week.”

  The mood out on the sidewalk is panic to the third power.

  “We don’t have a week!” Gecko babbles. “The dragon lady is coming in four days!”

  Arjay is also shaken. “We’d never pass the background check anyway. There’s no way we’re going to get in there. It’s just not possible.”

  The words have barely passed his lips when the automatic doors slide open and a petite blonde steps out.

  Gecko’s eyes bulge. “Rox?”

  He can almost feel the cold blast as her recognition turns to icy anger, her open, friendly features freezing into a countenance of disdain. “You,” she barely whispers.

  Gecko doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t deserve defending. Besides, he’s missed her these past few days. Roxanne’s rage is still better than no Roxanne at all.

  “You never even gave me your phone number,” she mutters resentfully. “How stupid am I?”

  He reaches for her. “You’re not stupid—”

  She pushes him away. “Oh, I’m a genius. Straight A’s in a top school, and I’m still dumb enough to think you like me when you don’t even want me to call. What, you’re afraid your real girlfriend might pick up the phone?”

  “It wasn’t like that—”

  Her voice rises in tone and volume. “Selfish jerk, I had no way to tell you about John Doe!”

  “It’s okay—”

  “It’s not okay!” she storms. “Look what they’ve done to him! It’s so—so sad to see him in there!”

  “Hold on.” Terence puts two and two together. “She’s your girlfriend? Dog, I’m impressed! I always figured a little dweeb like you, no offense—”

  Gecko introduces them. “Roxanne, meet Terence and Arjay.”

  “Wait a minute!” Arjay cuts to the chase. “You saw John Doe? How did you get in? They told us it takes a week to get approved.”

  “My dad has contacts in the police department. He might be able to get you guys in too. I’ll call him.” She takes out her cell phone.

  “It’s not a good idea,” Gecko says quickly.

  “You’re John’s closest friend. He needs to see you.”

  “No!” he exclaims more forcefully than he intended.

  “Why not?”

  “Because your dad can’t know you’re talking to me! Listen—Delancey came to my school. He said he’d make big trouble for me if I didn’t break up with you.”

  She’s mystified. “Why would he do that?”

  “Don’t you get it? Your dad sent him. He doesn’t think I’m good enough for you! And he’s right!”

  Her face flushes red, and she dials the cell phone, punching angrily at the keypad.

  Gecko snatches it away from her. “He can’t find out I told you! That was another part of the deal. You’re not supposed to know he’s behind it!”

  She glares at him. “Thanks for standing up for me. I’m glad I mean so much to you.”

  “Come on—a millionaire and a police chief?” Gecko defends himself. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “It’s a free country,” she says resentfully. “What did they offer you? Money? How’s the pay for dumping someone who really, really likes you? How much am I worth?”

  Gecko turns to Arjay and Terence, who nod. The secrecy has gone on for so long that it feels like part of the fabric of reality. But it’s time for the truth.

  He regards her intently. “Promise you’ll listen to the whole story before calling the cops.”

  She’s genuinely alarmed now. “You’re scaring me, Gecko. What’s going on?”

  He takes a deep breath. “John Doe isn’t really a John Doe. His name is Douglas Healy, and he’s the only thing standing between the three of us and jail.”

  Her eyes widen in amazement as Gecko recounts the story: three young inmates; a second chance, thanks to Healy; then a terrible accident on the fire escape.

  She’s horrified. “And you kept your mouth shut while he got sent here?”

  “It wasn’t supposed to go this far!” Gecko pleads. “Radnor kept saying his memory would come back!”

  “And it might have—if you just told the guy who he is! Instead you let him go on thinking—God, who knows what he could be thinking?”

  “We had no choice,” Arjay puts in gently. “What if we exposed ourselves and he still didn’t remember?”

  “Then you’d have the satisfaction of doing the right thing for the man who helped you,” she says sharply.

  “But would it have been the right thing?” Arjay argues. “Healy wanted us out of jail. He basically devoted his whole life to setting up the halfway house. If we get arrested, we’ll be undoing everything he worked for.”

  “Oh, that’s rich!” She turns to Gecko. “Where’d you find this guy? He’ll make a great lawyer someday.”

  “Step off,” Terence says protectively. “We’re trying to do the stand-up thing here.”

  Roxanne is suspicious. “What stand-up thing?”

  “We’re not here to visit,” Gecko tells her. “We’re looking for a way to bust Healy out.” He explains about the Wednesday meeting with Ms. Vaughn that has set them on a collision course with disaster. “Our only hope is to get him home and try to jump-start his memory ourselves.”

  “And if you’re caught?” she demands.

  “We confess everything,” Arjay promises. “Either way, Healy ends up okay.”

  “For him, it’s only a few extra days,” Gecko adds. “For us, it could be all the difference in the world. A chance to stay out of jail. A life versus no life.”

  “I’ll help,” she says suddenly.

  “Rox—no!” Gecko exclaims. “We can’t ask that! We’re already in trouble—you’re squeaky clean!”

  “That’s why you need me,” she argues. “I can get inside! I’ll ask my dad to get my volunteer work switched here. I can be your eyes—I’ll give you the layout, so you can find a way in.”

  Gecko is blown away. “You’d do that for us?”

  “I’d do it for you. I can’t believe what my father put you through. And we both owe it to your friend Mr. Healy.”

  Terence shoots Gecko an approving nod. “She’s got it going on, dog. Maybe I should give this girlfriend gig a second look.”

  C
HAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As an amnesia patient at Yorkville Medical Center, John Doe was convinced that things could not possibly be worse.

  He was wrong.

  Purgatory. There’s no nicer word to describe Bronx County Psychiatric Hospital. For any sane person to be committed to an asylum is the ultimate form of torture.

  “You haven’t been committed,” Dr. Peterson explains patiently. “This is just where the system, in its infinite wisdom, has put you until your memory comes back.”

  Until your memory comes back. He’s heard those words before. There’s only one problem. It isn’t happening.

  “So I’m free to walk out of here anytime I please?”

  The doctor favors him with a sympathetic smile. “It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid. You haven’t been committed here by the state, but this is a secure facility. And that security doesn’t distinguish between you and anybody else.”

  “My tickets!” comes a bellow behind them.

  An obese man with shoulder-length gray hair is shaking a younger patient by the shoulders. Instantly, two white-coated attendants grab the attacker and pull him away.

  “But he’s got my tickets!”

  “Time for your meds, Hugo,” grunts one of the attendants, restraining the much bigger man.

  “Sorry you had to see that,” Peterson apologizes, as the white coats drag Hugo off to the nurses’ station.

  “See it?” Healy says bitterly. “You can set your watch by it. He’s fine till the Zoloft wears off. Sometime around Judge Judy he starts freaking out because he can’t find his floor seats for the Black Sabbath show they have every night!”

  “Perhaps he’s gained weight,” the doctor muses, “so his regular dose is no longer sufficient—”

  “The point is, I don’t belong here,” Healy interrupts impatiently. “This place is for real mental illness. I’m just a guy who got hit on the head. I don’t even have a concussion anymore.”

  “It’s only temporary,” Peterson says gently. “As soon as your memory returns—”

  “What if it never returns?”

  “There’s no reason to believe that will be the case,” the doctor soothes. “It’s extremely rare.”