THE DEPRESSION HIT WORKING PEOPLE, LIKE MR. CHILL, HARDEST OF ALL." Chill's lawyer, I suppose, says. "His crime was appalling, yes, but it was motivated not by greed, but by desperation. Given the fourteen years served, as well as his extraordinary level of cooperation with one of the office's most important investigations, we strongly endorse his petition for early release."
"Mr. Chill?" the judge says. Chill stands up. Bruce's face is straight, his eyes narrowed, like they have been the whole time we've been here, at him. Like he's trying to blow up Chill's head with his mind or make lasers come from his eyes. But he's no superhero. He isn't the guy you root for in comics.
Chill's blonde hair is slicked back. He stands, and now I can see his beige coat completely. There is a scar in his cheek that I catch myself wishing I could have caused it.
"Your Honor..." Chill looks nervous. "Not a day goes by that I don't wish I could take back what I did. Sure, I was desperate, like a lot of people back then, but that don't change what I did."
Sure don't, you donkey, I think to myself. This person, standing in front of me, is the cause for my corrupted and miserable childhood. And heshould be killed for it. He lowers down into his seat. Bruce's stare stay the same, and he is breathing heavily.
"I am told there are two members of the Wayne family here today. Have they got anything to say on this matter?" The judge looks like he deals with this crap every day of his life. I feel bad for him for a second. It must suck.
Chill stands back up. I look at Bruce, who's stare is still narrowed on Chill, and whisper a question as to what we are going to say. He stands up without answering me. I wince-whatever my deep brother is ready to shoot out of his mouth is going to scar Chill. He stands there for a second. I glance at Rachel, Bruce's childhood friend and assistant DA, who's face looks as worried as mine. Bruce just stands there, the tension building.
Then he turns and walks out. I get up and follow him.
"What was that all about?" I ask. His short black hair is messed up, covering his forehead. The hairs are almost hiding the sweat pouring from his forehead. One of his hands is pushed inside his coat arm. He is breathing fast and heavy.
"If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Bruce pants.
"Why are you so sweaty?" I ask, but my question is interrupted by Chill and his news-crew-paparazzi asking questions and snapping tons of pictures. Bruce smooths his hair and starts toward the crowd. I watch and see his odd specimen at work. Then he lowers his hand from his coat sleeve. I see it. I see the gun poking out from his arm. My breaths are sped up to a million miles a minute. No, Bruce, you idiot! As he slowly walks up to the crowd, a news reporter or something comes up.
"Hey Joe!" she says. "Falcone says hi."
Bam. The gun has been fired. It goes straight into his back. Bruce's face widens as the chaos rises. Rachel finds us in all the mess. I am stuck to the spot, my feet refusing to move, glued with shock. Bruce turns to meet my terrified gaze with his, and I stare at his jacket sleeve with disbelief.
"Come on, Bruce, we don't need to see this." Rachel whispers hastily. I want to go, I don't need to see this horror either. My eyes are squinted shut, trying to block out the horrible memory of gun shots in my mind, my parents falling to the ground, Chill falling to the ground. I pray that my feet will move soon.
Rather than agreeing to leave the site of his murderous crime, Bruce says, "I do."
I get my feet working again and grab Bruce's assassin of an arm.
"No, you don't," I say through my teeth. We get into Rachel's car and Bruce doesn't say a word.