Chapter 2: The Cold Shoulder of Justice

Chapter 2: The Cold Shoulder of Justice

The crumpled credit card bill was a talisman of betrayal in Alex’s pocket. He drove not in his clattering Escort, but in a borrowed '85 Monte Carlo from the shop, its V8 engine a low, comforting rumble that did little to soothe the frantic tremor in his hands. He knew where they’d be. Saturday night. The parking lot behind the 24-hour diner, a sprawling sea of asphalt where the local car scene came to life under the sickly orange glow of sodium lamps.

He spotted Rick’s souped-up Honda Civic instantly, its obnoxious muffler punctuating the night. Rick was leaning against the driver’s side door, posturing for a small crowd. Karl stood beside him, a perpetual shadow, nodding along to whatever grand tale Rick was spinning. Seeing them, so casual, so completely untroubled, sent a fresh spike of ice-cold rage through Alex’s veins.

He parked the Monte Carlo a few rows away and walked towards them, the crunch of his boots on loose gravel sounding unnaturally loud. As he approached, the small group parted, sensing the storm cloud that hung over him.

Rick saw him and his face split into a wide, familiar grin. “Alex! My man! Heard you were working. What’s up?”

Alex stopped a foot in front of him, ignoring the greeting. He pulled the statement from his pocket, the paper already soft and worn from being clenched in his fist. He held it up. “This is what’s up, Rick.”

Rick’s eyes flickered to the paper, then back to Alex’s face. His smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the edges. “A bill? Dude, you came all the way out here to show me your mail?”

“My mail, yeah. With almost three thousand dollars of your dream stereo system charged to it,” Alex said, his voice low and shaking with forced restraint. “A Rockford Fosgate amp. JL subs. An Alpine head unit. Sound familiar?”

He watched Rick’s face for a flicker of guilt, a hint of panic. He saw nothing but a carefully constructed mask of nonchalant confusion. Karl, however, shifted his weight, unable to meet Alex’s gaze. He knew.

“Whoa, man,” Rick said, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. “That sucks. But what’s it got to do with me?”

“You were in my room. You were the only one who knew where I kept the card. You were sketching this exact setup on a napkin last week!” Alex’s voice was rising now, drawing stares from nearby cars.

Rick let out a short, sharp laugh, a sound completely devoid of humor. He looked around at the onlookers, then back at Alex, his expression shifting to one of mock concern. “Dude, you’re losing it. Seriously. You think I’d steal from you? From my best friend?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You should be more careful with your stuff, man. Someone could’ve seen where you kept it.”

The gaslighting was so blatant, so audacious, it was like a physical blow. He was twisting it, making it Alex’s fault.

“Don’t do this, Rick,” Alex pleaded, the anger now mixed with a sickening desperation. “Just… make it right. That was everything I had.”

Rick’s face hardened. The performance was over. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I didn’t take your card. And I’m getting tired of you accusing me.” He turned his back, a clear dismissal. “Let’s go, Karl.”

Karl hesitated for a second, a flicker of something—maybe shame—in his eyes before he scurried after Rick.

“We’re not done!” Alex yelled at their retreating backs.

Rick half-turned, pulling a beeper from his belt and glancing at it as if he had more important things to do. “Yeah, I think we are.”

They climbed into the Civic, and a moment later, the obnoxious exhaust note roared to life. They peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Alex standing alone in a cloud of blue smoke, the laughter of strangers echoing in his ears. The friendship wasn't just broken; it felt like it had been a lie from the very beginning.

---

The next forty-eight hours were a blurry hell of institutional indifference. On Monday morning, Alex sat at his kitchen table, the phone pressed hard against his ear, listening to the tinny hold music from the credit card company. After twenty minutes, a woman with a flat, bored voice finally picked up.

He explained the situation, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. He told her about his friends, the unauthorized charges, the specific items.

“Sir,” the woman said, her voice a monotone drone, “I can file a fraud claim for you. We will launch an investigation, which can take up to ninety days.”

“Ninety days?” Alex balked. “The payment is due in two weeks! This will destroy my credit. My dad co-signed for this card!”

“I understand your frustration, sir. However, that is the process.” There was a pause, then the killing blow. “The report also states the card was not reported lost or stolen prior to the purchases being made. Since the card was physically present for the transactions, you may be held liable for the charges if we cannot definitively prove fraud.”

“But I’m telling you it was fraud!”

“We will investigate, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

He hung up, the dial tone buzzing in his ear like an angry insect. The system he thought was there to protect him was a labyrinth of red tape and ninety-day waiting periods, designed to protect the company, not the customer.

Defeated but not yet broken, he drove to the local police station. The building smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. He stood at the high counter, explaining his story for the third time, this time to a paunchy, world-weary sergeant with a mustache that looked like it had given up years ago.

The sergeant, whose nameplate read MILLER, listened with an expression of profound boredom. He tapped his pen on a stack of files as Alex spoke.

“Let me get this straight, son,” Miller said when Alex finished, his tone condescending. “You left your credit card in a coffee mug on your desk. Your ‘best friends’ were in your room, unsupervised. And now you’re surprised there’s a bunch of stereo equipment on your bill?”

“Yes—no! I was surprised because I trusted them!”

Miller sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of a man burdened by the foolishness of the young. “You got any actual proof? A receipt? A witness who saw them with the card?”

“No, that’s why I’m here! So you can investigate!” Alex said, his frustration mounting.

“Look, kid,” the sergeant said, leaning forward on his elbows. “What you have here is a classic ‘he said, he said.’ Without concrete proof, it’s a civil matter, not a criminal one. You can try to sue them in small claims court. My advice?” He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking in protest. “Chalk it up to a life lesson. Sounds like you picked the wrong friends.”

A life lesson. Three thousand dollars, two years of his life, and a shattered dream, all reduced to a "life lesson" by a man who couldn't be bothered to fill out a report.

Alex stood there, speechless. He had come here seeking justice, a shield against the wrong that had been done to him. Instead, he was being patted on the head and sent on his way, dismissed as just another naive kid. He was utterly, completely alone. Abandoned by his friends, stonewalled by the bank, and now dismissed by the law.

He walked out of the police station and into the gray afternoon. The world felt different now. Colder. The rules he thought everyone lived by—honesty, loyalty, justice—were a joke. The system wasn't a safety net; it was a wall, and he was on the wrong side of it.

The cold fury from Friday night returned, but it had changed. It was no longer hot and directionless. It was sharp, clear, and stripped of all illusion. If the system wouldn't save him, if justice was just a word in a textbook, then he would have to find his own. He wasn't a victim anymore. He was a hunter. And he needed a new strategy.