Free Thrust by Tom Piccirilli

word to anybody, but the papers were quoting him on page three.
    When they got around to charging him with criminally negligent homicide and the court case got under way, there were folks who rallied on the sidewalk.   Somebody tried hiding the records showing he had three times the legal alcohol content.   Local benefits were held for him.   Death threats were made.   Somebody hanged his neighbor's cat from a lamppost because they thought the calico belonged to Chase.  
    Everyone took a side. One city paper called him "a heroic victim of misfortune, who attempted to stop a kidnapping in progress only to find himself at the mercy of an overzealous legal system."  
    Another labeled Chase "a mentally challenged drunkard who caused the early death of an innocent, frightened child after a loaded joyride."
    The Greenwich Downturn Weekly , an underground rag run out of a condemned building in Alphabet City, noted him as "a brave citizen who intentionally swerved into the path of known criminal Joe Singleton in an effort to save the life of a petrified little girl."   At least one police officer attested to this.  
    Magazine publishers who'd rejected his work dozens of times turned up on newscasts praising his genius.   The literati gathered in Washington Park and read his poetry to middling crowds, even while members of M.A.D.D. and other protesters hissed their hatred.   
    An attorney named Ellis stepped up to defend Chase pro bono.  
    That's when Chase figured he was truly screwed, when a lawyer walked in and didn't even care about the cash.   It meant there would be plenty of theatrics, careers on the line, all the elements of an off-Broadway play.
    Chase met him at his office on the upper east side.   Chase had hardly ever been to the east side and got lost twice, unfamiliar with the subway lines.   When he finally walked in, twenty minutes late, Ellis' secretary stared at him like she might take him out in the alley and use a set of brass knuckles on him.   She had about forty pounds on him, and her reach was at least three inches more than his.   She could've taken him easy.  
    He didn't think he could melt her heart by launching into one of Shakespeare's sonnets.
    In the office, Ellis gestured towards the opposite seat.   About forty years old with razor-wire moussed black hair and an overlapped front tooth, Ellis spoke slowly and concisely as if talking to a moron.   Chase appreciated that.  
    The lawyer didn't offer his hand or any other social amenities.   His face lacked all expression, except for a glint of melancholy deep in the center of his assertive eyes.   Chase thought maybe he was Botoxing , freezing out his wrinkles.   The man wore silk ties and used a Windsor knot.   Old school.
    "First thing you do," Ellis said, "is voluntarily admit yourself to Garden Falls State Psychiatric Facility out on Long Island for a full ten week stay.   You go through their detox program, dry up, and get on proper medication to help stabilize your personal disorders."
    "Okay."
    Ellis glanced up at him, gave him the ice age gaze.   "Don't bother to agree with me, Grayson.   You'll do as I say."
    Chase didn't know whether to say okay to that or not.   He decided to let it slide.   He'd known guys like Ellis before.   They asked for nothing and demanded only obedience.
    You could respect a relationship like that.   Everything was out in the open, no tangles or snarls along the way.   It's what Chase needed at the moment.   He had the cold sweats and shuddered in his chair from time to time, keeping his clenched fists hugged tightly to his stomach.   His entire body was sore and he had his legs wrapped tightly with bandages.   Nothing broken but everything sprained.   His neck was so stiff that the slightest turn of his chin made him want to bellow.  
    On top of that, the dry heaves hit him without warning.   While he shuddered in bed coughing up his empty guts, his father would come stand beside