by Lis Wiehl
Her phone buzzed again, and Mia realized she had forgotten to check it earlier. It was probably someone wanting to know more about what had happened in the courtroom.
“What exactly am I looking for?” Ignoring her phone, she mentally put on her prosecutor hat. There would be time to talk about what had happened—and what had almost happened—later.
“You’ll know it when you see it,” he said grimly.
Two teenage boys entered the frame, wheeling an empty shopping cart. A third trailed behind them. One of the boys wore a white hoodie. The second wore a football jersey with the number 12 on the back, as well as a name she thought started with a B. The third boy, dressed in a dark hoodie, walked in front of the cart and began waving his arms. Mia watched the dark spot of his mouth opening and closing. If she had to guess, she would have said he was yelling.
The whole thing was a guess. The picture was so blurry and pixilated, she couldn’t really say that all three were boys. Or even kids. The only real clue to their identities was the football jersey. She glanced at Frank, but he was focused on the screen. She just hoped the video wasn’t all the evidence they had.
Now the two boys lifted the front of the cart and balanced it precariously on the metal lip of the railing. The front half jutted out into space. Mia caught her breath as it wobbled back and forth. How far above the ground was the walkway? Two stories? More? And what was below? Because she was sure now, sickeningly sure, that the cart was going to plummet. But what was underneath? A child? A bicyclist? A car whose driver would crash?
But the two boys kept both their hands on it, even as the nose dipped and the handle rose. At one point the boy in the dark hoodie grabbed the side of the cart next to the boy in the football jersey, their bodies blurring as they moved. Mia watched in helpless horror as the cart tipped forward and then suddenly disappeared.
All three boys stood for a moment, empty-handed. Each of their smudgy faces held the round, dark O of an open mouth. And then they ran. The boy in the dark hoodie ran to the left. The boy in the white hoodie and the boy wearing the football jersey ran to the right.
“So what happened when the cart hit the ground?” Mia asked.
Instead of answering, Frank raised his hand to tell her to wait. The screen went black, then images from a second video appeared.
This camera was mounted along the side of a narrow road. For the moment there were no cars, just a half dozen people walking in all directions. On the far side of the road were a sidewalk and two sets of glass doors—the entrance to a store. Two people—one taller than the other—were moving toward the double doors and away from the camera. If anything, this video was even blurrier than the first, the figures nearly outside the camera’s range.
Although she knew what was going to happen, Mia still gasped when the cart suddenly crashed from above into the frame.
CHAPTER 4
The shopping cart barely missed the shorter person while smashing the taller one to the ground. Then the boy in the black hoodie darted into the frame and ran to the injured person, even as the shorter one stood unmoving, seemingly rooted to the sidewalk. More people came, pushing out of the store, stopping their cars in the middle of the road, all of them running to help the person pinned under the cart.
The video ended. Even black and white and blurry, it was still a clear picture of senseless tragedy.
“Who was hit by the cart?” Mia asked.
“Tamsin Merritt. She’s thirty-eight. Her fourteen-year-old son, Luke, wasn’t injured. At least not physically.”
“And Tamsin?” Mia was already using the woman’s first name, just as she would in front of a jury to make them think of her not as a victim, but as their friend. Mia was ready to go to war on this woman’s behalf. Her breath was speeding up again, not from fear, but from anger.
“I’m told she died right there, at least technically. She didn’t have a pulse, and she wasn’t breathing.” A muscle flickered in Frank’s jaw. “A doctor who happened to be in the store gave her CPR. As of a few hours ago, it was still touch and go. But even if she lives, she’s more than likely suffered brain damage.”
Mia shuddered. “How far did the cart fall?”
“That walkway is four stories up, so about fifty feet.”
“And the kids who did it? Do we have them?”
“So far, the only name we have is Manny Flores. That’s the boy who tried to stop the other two.” Frank pressed his fingers against his temples. “He became hysterical watching the doctor trying to revive her. They ended up having to call an ambulance for him too, and he had to be sedated. He’s in Willow Grove, that mental hospital for kids, and right now they’re saying he’s not in any condition to answer questions. We’re hoping to take the other two into custody soon. We’re hearing they’re around the same age as Manny—fifteen.”
“At least that one kid was wearing a shirt with his name on the back,” Mia observed. “That should help us find the other two.”
“What?” Frank shot her a puzzled look.
“That football jersey with the number twelve. It looked like his name started with a B.”
“Brady?” A near-smile flitted across Frank’s face. “Haven’t you heard of Tom Brady?”
Mia shook her head. Had she?
“Of the New England Patriots?” Frank rolled his eyes. “Remind me never to give you a case that revolves around football. There’re people wearing that exact same jersey all over the country. I’m afraid it’s not much of a clue.”
“So where do I come in?” For a second Mia lost her focus on the case and flashed back to what had just happened in the courtroom, her terror when she felt something sharp press on her throat. Pushing the thought away, she leaned against Frank’s cherrywood credenza to steady herself, taking care not to knock over any of the framed photos of his two kids. It was rumored that these photos were about as close as Frank ever came to actually seeing them. You had to make certain sacrifices if you wanted to be district attorney. And even more if you wanted to be reelected.
“I need you to decide whether they should be charged as adults or juveniles. And if it’s as adults, I want you to prosecute them.”
In the state of Washington, youths sixteen or older and charged with certain violent felonies were automatically transferred to adult court. But even younger kids could still be charged as adults.
“Fifteen’s awfully young,” Mia said, trying to buy herself time. If she took on this case, how much time would she have at home with her own kids?
“We’re not talking about little angels,” Frank said impatiently. “You saw what they did. It’s a miracle the son wasn’t injured too. And there’s still the chance Tamsin might die.”
Making it a second-degree homicide. Part of Mia wanted to throw the book at these two kids who had acted with reckless indifference. At the same time she knew how easily kids were influenced, how little they thought things through.
At the beginning of the school year, her son had fallen in with a new group of friends. Gabe had taken part in a flash mob that robbed a convenience store. He hadn’t taken anything—claimed he hadn’t even known what was going to happen—but still, Mia was uncomfortably aware of how a single poor decision could have horrifying consequences.
Gabe, the two boys, Manny, even Tamsin’s son, Luke—they had all been babies once. How did a baby grow up to be a kid who would set into action a plan that could kill a stranger? For that matter, how did a baby grow up to be Bernard Young? Was there anything you could do to stop it from happening? Juvenile courts were aimed at rehabilitation, but was the direction of these two kids’ lives already set? Should they be written off, the energy refocused on protecting those around them?
“I want you to work with Charlie Carlson,” Frank continued. “You two make a good team.”
Charlie. She wasn’t sure how she felt about working with him again. “But, Frank, I don’t—”
“Mia,” he snapped. “This is my top priority. I need the best people on it. That mea
ns you and Charlie. And I need your decision as soon as possible, before the election. I do not need to hear any more from my opponent about this office being soft on crime. Whatever you decide, we need to be able to defend it.”
Unlike Frank, his opponent, Dominic Raines, did not look like a district attorney. He was not much taller than Mia and had the pallor of a man who spent all his time indoors. But he had also run a shrewd campaign, using cherry-picked examples to accuse Frank of coddling criminals. According to Raines, far too many were being granted sweetheart plea bargains.
The general public, brought up on prime time courtroom dramas, did not realize that ninety-five percent of felony convictions were the result of plea bargains. Only a handful went to trial. The justice system simply couldn’t handle the caseload otherwise.
Raines had been focusing on the cases that sounded the worst, without mentioning any nitty-gritty realities. In some cases there had been a lack of evidence, and a plea bargain had been preferable to a defendant likely getting off scot-free. But on the face of it, probation for a third-degree rape case or nine months in prison for arson did not sound like enough.
“I want you to consider everything carefully, Mia,” Frank said. His brilliant blue eyes bored into her. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
Her phone buzzed again, and she finally peeked at the screen. The caller ID read Seattle Security. Seattle Security had put the new alarm system in her home when she went back to work. Just one of a million decisions she had made on the fly. But why would they be calling her now?
A fresh burst of adrenaline pumped through her veins. “Excuse me, Frank. I have to take this.” She pressed the button to accept the call. “This is Mia Quinn.”
A bored man’s voice said, “This is Seattle Security calling for Mia Quinn.”
Hadn’t he heard her? “This is Mia,” she repeated, not bothering to hide her impatience.
“We’re just calling to notify you that there’s been an alert at your home, and no one is answering the phone there.”
“Of course not. Nobody’s home.” Although maybe they were by now. She thought of her phone buzzing when she was in the courtroom. It could have been Gabe.
“We’ve also notified the police department.”
She stiffened. “Don’t you have someone who goes out to the house and checks?” Why hadn’t she read the contract? And she was an attorney.
“No, ma’am. We monitor, we check with the homeowner, and we notify the police department.”
Mia had a realistic view of how long it might take the police to respond. More than ninety-five percent of automated alarms were false, so responding to them was a cop’s lowest priority.
And maybe that made sense. But not when her kids were due home—Mia checked her watch—now. Maybe were already home.
She looked up at Frank. “I have to go. Now.”
CHAPTER 5
Coach Harper clapped his hands. “Okay, to finish off this afternoon we’re doing some fifty-yard sprints.”
Everyone groaned, including Gabe. All he wanted to do was chug a Gatorade and hit the shower. Coach had drilled them hard all afternoon. And now, with the end of practice so tantalizingly in sight, he wanted them to do timed wind sprints.
Gabe gritted his teeth and gutted out the first one. On the faces of the other guys, he saw frustration, pain, and sheer determination.
After the third sprint Marc, one of the linemen, was struggling to come back. Someone yelled from the sidelines for him to hurry up. Gabe was catching his breath, his hands on his knees, so he didn’t see who it was. But it didn’t seem fair. Marc wasn’t a slacker. Before he could think about it too much, Gabe ran back onto the field and started running next to Marc, clapping his hands and cheering him on.
They started their next sprint, and again Gabe was one of the first to finish. And Marc was struggling again, his face red and his chest heaving. But this time five of the team came back to help him finish. The last ten yards, Gabe and Eldon half carried, half dragged Marc to make sure he crossed the line.
When they were all done, Coach had them gather around. He favored them with one of his rare smiles. “I like what I saw out there today. Not only did you strengthen your endurance and your will, you also started thinking about how to be a team. Being a team is all about working together, not tearing each other down. When you get a touchdown, it’s not just about the running back who has the ball or the quarterback who throws it or the receiver. It’s all of you together working as a unit.”
As they headed back to the locker room, Coach clapped Gabe on the shoulder. “Good job, Quinn,” he said quietly. “What you did today—that’s part of being a leader.”
By the time Gabe left practice, the weather had changed. The wind was lashing the trees. The rain came in gusts that threatened to tear off his baseball cap. As he walked to his sister’s preschool, his legs felt like lead. It had taken everything he had to go back on that field when he himself was finished. Still, it had felt good pushing his body further than he thought it could go. And even better to hear Coach praise him.
Coach Harper did not give compliments lightly. Gabe had worked hard all fall, and it was beginning to pay off. He was getting put in more often, and he was now able to go all out without getting completely winded.
He signed Brooke out and they began the trek home. His stomach growled. He was hungry enough that he could almost forget the ache in his legs, forget the weather. Would his mom be home in time to make dinner, or was he going to be on his own again, reduced to making a blue box of mac and cheese? He sent her a text but got no answer.
Brooke was dawdling, even though a second earlier she had been complaining that she had to go to the bathroom. “Come on.” He tugged at her hand, but she pulled away and sloshed through a puddle that came midway up her yellow rain boots.
As they started down their street, he heard a high-pitched whine. It sounded like some kind of alarm.
The closer they got to the house, the louder it got. It was definitely their security alarm. Gabe’s heart started beating faster. They stood at the edge of the yard.
“Come on, Gabe!” Now it was Brooke tugging at his hand. “I have to go potty!”
“We can’t go in, Brooke. That’s the alarm.”
“Is there a burglar?”
He didn’t answer. The house was dark. All the doors and windows appeared to be closed and undamaged. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
What had his mom said to do if the alarm went off? Gabe tried to remember. All he could remember was that if you set it off accidentally, you were supposed to punch in the code—the dates of his and Brooke’s birthdays—and hit the “clear” button. They had only gotten the alarm a few months ago, when his mom went back to work and there was no one home during the day.
Taking out his phone again, he called his mom. It felt weird to be holding the phone up to his ear. Mostly he and his friends just texted. The only people he regularly talked to on the phone were his grandparents.
His mom’s phone rang three times and went to voice mail.
“Mom, um, hi, it’s me. The alarm’s going off and I don’t know what to do. Um, call me back.”
He looked at the neighbors’ houses. Those were dark too.
“Gabe—I really have to go!” Brooke was squirming. “Now!” The wind gusted so hard that it caught the hood of her yellow raincoat and blew it back. So hard that the windows in their old house rattled.
It seemed really lame to call 911. He imagined the cops showing up, sirens screaming, and then rolling their eyes when it turned out to be nothing.
Then he thought of Charlie Carlson, the detective who sometimes worked with his mom. Maybe Charlie could tell him what to do.
Gabe had to look up Charlie’s name in his contacts. Again he got voice mail.
“Hey, um, Mr. Carlson”—he’d told Gabe to call him Charlie, but for some reason that didn’t seem right tonight—“I’m at my house and I can’t get hol
d of my mom. The house alarm’s going off and I’m not sure what to do. I think it’s been going off for a while. So if you get this message in the next twenty minutes or so, could you call me back?”
Brooke yanked on his hand even harder. “Come on, Gabe! I really have to pee!”
What if he had just set the alarm wrong? Or what if it was just the wind rattling the door? He started towing Brooke along, and she stopped complaining for a second. But when she realized they weren’t going in, but rather walking around the perimeter of the yard, she started fussing again.
“Just hold on a sec,” he told her. “I need to make sure it’s safe.” He looked at every window, even the ones on the second floor. None of them were broken. The front and side doors were closed tight.
After they had made a complete circle, they were outside the side door at the end of the driveway. Still holding Brooke’s hand, Gabe went up on the porch. He tried the handle, ready to run, but the door was locked. He shook the handle and felt how the door moved in its frame. Stupid wind! That must have been what set off the alarm. Still, he crouched down until his face was on the same level as Brooke’s.
“Brooke, I have to make sure it’s safe before you can go inside. I want you to stay right here and not move. Can you do that?” He hated to leave her alone, but he didn’t know what else to do.
She nodded. “But hurry, okay? I can’t hold it for very long.”
“I will. But if you see anyone you don’t know, do not talk to them and do not let them get close to you. Run away and hide if you have to. Do you understand?”
She swiveled her head from side to side, her eyes wide. At least she was momentarily distracted from her obsession with the potty. “Is there a bad person?”
“Probably not. It’s just to be safe.”
Gabe wished it wasn’t all on him. Then he remembered how he had helped Marc. Remembered how Coach had complimented him.
He put his key in the lock. The door swung open into blackness. Just inside the door, the lights on the control panel were blinking rapidly, some red and some green. He had never really paid attention to them before and didn’t know what they meant. He took one step inside and punched in the code.