The real world cares about evidence, and the evidence is in your locker.” “Then show me the footage.” The room went still. “What?”
Mercer said. “Security cameras,” Elijah said. “There's a camera at the end of every hallway in this building. If someone, me or anyone else, opened my locker and put something inside it, there's footage.
Show me the footage.” Mercer glanced at Hayes. Hayes adjusted his glasses. “The cameras in that wing have been down for maintenance since last week.
It flagged a system issue. There's no footage from that corridor.” “Since last week?” Elijah repeated.
“That's correct.” “The cameras went down, and 3 days later, a laptop shows up in my locker on the morning of the scholarship ceremony.” “Coincidences happen,” Hayes said. “Not like that.”
Mercer grabbed the back of Elijah's chair and jerked it forward. The legs scraped against the floor with a sound that made Voss wince. Elijah's chest hit the edge of the desk. Mercer leaned over him from behind, mouth close to his ear.
“Last chance. Sign the paper. Walk out. Go home.
Or I call county intake and you spend the weekend in a jumpsuit. Your choice.” Elijah's ribs ached where they'd hit the desk. His wrists burned under the cuffs.
His heart was slamming so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. “No.” Mercer pulled back. He looked at Hayes.
Hayes looked at the door. “Fine,” Mercer said. “Voss, call the county. We're transporting.”
Voss didn't move. Her hand was on the clipboard, but her pen wasn't writing. She was looking at Elijah, at his pressed shirt, his borrowed tie, the blazer that his mother had probably saved for months to buy. “Voss.”
“Copy,” she said. But she didn't reach for her radio. Not yet.
Outside the office, the hallway had changed. It was no longer empty. Parents had left the auditorium. Students had flooded the corridors.
Diane Carter was standing 15 ft from the office door, blocked by a school security guard who was clearly uncomfortable with his assignment. She was not yelling. She was not crying. She was standing perfectly still, arms at her sides, staring at the closed door like she could see through it.
Mr. Russell Ames, AP history, room 212, 12 years at Westbrook, pushed through the crowd and walked straight to the office door. He knocked. Hayes opened it 2 inches. Russ, not now.
Gerald, that boy hasn't done anything and every person in this building knows it. His record is Russ, not now. You're going to let them interrogate a student without his parents, without counsel? Is that the school you want to run?
Hayes leaned closer, dropped his voice. I want to run a school that gets the safe schools grant. That means we handle problems. We don't publicize them.
He's not a problem. He's a student. Go back to your classroom, Russ. That's not a request.
Hayes closed the door. Ames stood in the hallway for 3 seconds. Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled to a number he had never used, a number listed on the district emergency contact sheet that every teacher received at the beginning of the year and no teacher ever called, and pressed the dial. It rang twice.
Office of Superintendent Whitfield. This is Russell Ames, AP history, Westbrook High. I need to speak with Dr. Whitfield. It's urgent.
Dr. Whitfield is in a meeting. Can I Tell her it's about the scholarship ceremony. Tell her they're are trying to make the recipient confess to something he didn't do. Tell her they've got him in handcuffs.
Tell her now. Silence. Then, hold, please.
Inside the office, the clock on the wall read 9:22 a.m. Mercer was pacing, short, controlled loops behind the desk. He'd given up on the pen. Now he was working on a different angle. You know what happens in juvie, Elijah?
His voice was conversational, almost friendly. You're a smart kid, probably smarter than most of the adults in this building. But being smart doesn't help you in the country. Smart makes it worse, actually.
The other kids can smell it. They'll test you on the first night. “Stop,” Elijah said. “I'm trying to help you.”
“You're trying to scare me into signing.” “I'm trying to keep you out of a facility where being scared is the best case scenario.” Hayes was watching from his chair now. He'd retreated behind the desk, back in the power position, hands folded, expression arranged into something between concern and calculation.