The name rings a bell and I’m reminded of the little flippy kid on the cheerleading squad. I haltingly offer, “I think I’ve seen Micha around.”
“He’s hard to miss, my boy.” She opens a folder, beginning, “So your hearing is scheduled at seven. Your dad sent these clothes,” she nods to the bag. “Nothing fancy. Don’t want to ham it up too much, but you can at least look clean.” She shuffles through the papers. “I have the arresting officer’s statement, the security guard, the Halls’. All I need you to do is stand there and look as innocent as possible. Think you can handle that, Reynolds?”
I stare blankly at her in response. I don’t look innocent. I look like I just got into a massive parking-lot fistfight.
She seems to sense the vibe I’m putting out. “Well, do your best and let me do all the talking. If things don’t work out the way we planned, then you’ll need to enter a plea. Not guilty, naturally. That’s the only point in which you’ll be expected to speak. It’s very important that you remain quiet.”
She goes on about where to stand and where to look. There’ll be a camera—the magistrate won’t be physically present—and I’ll have to sign some papers.
“Any questions?” she asks.
This isn’t my first hearing. The only thing I really need to know is whether or not Vandy is okay. But asking that would invite its own series of questions, and I’m not going to answer them. “No,” I reply.
Things go fast after that. The lawyer leaves so I can change into the pair of jeans, shirt, and hooded sweater my dad sent. Shedding the grungy suit is like peeling away a layer of skin. I shove it all into the bag and it just sits there, all crumpled up, looking like crime scene evidence. If I manage to actually get out of here, I might just burn the fucking thing.
The room the hearing is in is cold and eerily quiet. Every breath, every shuffle of paper, every pen click is amplified harshly. I don’t know where my dad found this lady, but she sends me the occasional glance, a warm smile softening the concern in her eyes.
I want to tell her not to worry. I know what’s going to h
appen here. I know so acutely that I pretty much space out when the magistrate appears on the screen and the lawyer starts talking. Possession with intent. I brace for the breaking and entering charge, but it never comes. Doesn’t matter. Breaking and entering is a misdemeanor. Possession with intent is going to bulldoze right over any hopes I might have had for a normal life here.
I don’t really tune in until I hear her say, “…the statement from the minor and her parents regarding the ownership of this medication and the special circumstances regarding his possession of it, we’ve requested a dismissal from the state, which the district attorney has generously suggested, and with prejudice...”
“Wait,” I say, head snapping up. “No, it wasn’t—”
The lawyer instantly covers the microphone, eyes shooting daggers at me. “You need to be silent, Reynolds!” She looks beyond pissed as she whispers, “Silent!”
My heart hammers in my chest and I know.
I know Vandy’s trying to take the fall.
Before I can think of a plan to save it—to save her, her future—the magistrate is dismissing the case. The screen goes blue and I stare at it in numb, stupefied horror.
The lawyer touches my arm. “There’s going to be some paperwork, it might take a few.”
I look at her hand, throat constricting. “What’s going to happen to Vandy?”
She gives me a strange look. “You don’t need to worry about her. You need to worry about yourself. You just dodged a serious bullet, young man.”
But I hadn’t. Vandy had taken it for me.
I’m so exhausted by the time they dump my bag of personal effects in my arms that I can’t even muster any excitement about leaving. The door opens with a harsh buzz and I shuffle through to the sally port. My dad’s waiting there for me, hands stuffed in his pockets, propped against the windowed counter. He looks a lot less pissed than he sounded on the phone yesterday. A lot less confused, too.
“Got everything?” he asks, like I’m being picked up from camp instead of lockup.
I hold out the bag containing my wallet and car keys. My picking kit is toast, probably gathering dust somewhere in a seizure locker. “Yeah.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “You look like shit, son.”
I grimly assure him, “The outside matches the inside.”
He gives me a small shake. “Let’s not keep her waiting, huh?”
I figure he’s talking about the lawyer, who’d sat with me over the paperwork. God only knows what her billable rate is. I don’t know how my dad isn’t foaming at the mouth about it, but he’s not. If anything, he looks… settled.
But when we exit the sally port, crossing into a long corridor and entering the lobby of the main entrance, the lawyer isn’t there.
Vandy is.