To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  —LYSA MARTIN

  “Everything’s set up,” Spam says. “There are two laptops and four iPads, all charged. Whiteboard, markers, printer.”

  Lysa is laying out the food on the table. “Egg rolls and dim sum. Yum.”

  “I also have these to show you.” Spam dips into her pocket and spills out a handful of plastic discs slightly larger than a quarter. The design on the disc is a primitive black volcano with a red sky pierced by a plume of gray smoke.

  “Volcanoes?” I ask.

  “School pride, baby,” Spam says. “It’s technically our mascot, right?”

  True. Our football team is known as the Crater South Volcanoes.

  “And you did this because…?” I ask.

  She digs into her other pocket and pulls out two friendship-type bracelets with volcano discs attached to woven string.

  “These are prototypes for you guys to test.”

  As Spam helps Lysa into hers I notice that Spam’s already wearing one.

  “They do something?” I ask.

  “Ahhh,” Spam says. “You want magic?” She keys some numbers into her phone. “Once I program them, they’ll light up white when any of the three of us are near each other.”

  As she talks, she programs each of our discs on her phone.

  First mine and Spam’s light up white … then Lysa’s. They look so cool. The white light makes the gray plume of smoke glow.

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s so cute.”

  “The secret part?” Spam says. “The little hole on the volcano lights up red and vibrates if Blankenship is near.”

  Lysa claps her hands excitedly. “It’s a bell for the cat. Have you told Brianna yet? She’ll buy one for sure.”

  We put our fists together so Spam can snap a close-up photo of the three glowing volcano bracelets. “Yes on Brianna. I also Snapped my partial list and already have twenty orders. This pic will easily get us twenty more.”

  “How much did they cost to make and what are you selling them for?” I ask.

  “They don’t cost much,” Spam says. “My dad buys the electronics in bulk, and I printed the volcano discs on my 3D printer. I wrote the app to program them. Anyway, I priced them at twenty dollars.”

  “There’s barely three weeks of school left. Will anyone buy this for just three weeks of tracking Blankenship?” I ask.

  Spam grins. “Dude. Have you met me? I have maximized the power of my device. Each disc can be made to track up to eight people. It comes programed to track Blankenship. But someone’s nosy mom could be added. Have a bratty little brother? You can track him, too. All you need is the beacon part they wear or carry, a volcano bracelet, and a smartphone. This is basically a bell for any number of cats you want, up to eight.”

  “Spam, it’s genius. What do you need us to do? What are we going to call it?” I ask.

  “I’ll need you guys to help me build, assemble, and code them. Plus, spread the word.”

  “Bella,” Lysa says. “I think we should call it the Bella.”

  “The Bella side hustle. It’s perfect,” I say. “Next order of business.”

  I ladle some Chinese food onto my plate and choose a fork from the bag. Lysa and Spam do the same, though Lysa also unwraps a pair of chopsticks.

  Spam takes a bite of egg roll, then dusts her hands off. “Skateboarder. We’ve received six videos, twenty statements, and nine stills.”

  “Have you looked at them yet?”

  “No, but we should,” Spam says. She brings out an iPad and begins streaming the videos.

  The first three videos are similar. Blurry and quick, only about twenty-three seconds. They show the skateboarder in motion, dodging the car, at the last minute. The other videos are shot from angles farther away but they prove what we said. The skateboarder was up on the sidewalk with us the whole time, not crossing the driveway like Arletta Stone claimed. Unfortunately, none of the videos has a clear shot of the skateboarder’s face.

  “I can’t tell who he is from these,” I say. “Anybody?”

  “I don’t know him.” Spam goes to the whiteboard and begins a list labeled DESCRIPTION.

  Lysa shrugs while demonstrating perfect chopstick form at grasping a dumpling, dipping it in sauce, and popping it into her mouth.

  “Your skill with those is why I hate you,” I say.

  Lysa smirks. “It’s not the only reason, either.” She giggles.

  “I put him at about five-nine. Shoulder-length, curly brown hair. Caucasian. The video is too quick to see his eyes. What else?” Spam asks.

  “He’s wearing a plaid Pendleton and plaid cargo shorts.” Lysa points at the screen. “Which may be leaning a little hard on the plaid pedal.”

  “Shut up. I think it’s just the right amount of awesome,” Spam says.

  Of course Spam would love an unconventional dresser.

  “What about age?” I ask. “Anyone have a guess?”

  “I’d say he’s in our range—fifteen to seventeen,” Lysa says.

  “I agree,” Spam says.

  “Some of the witness statements are hilarious.” Lysa reads. “But I love this one: About an hour after school, this radi-cool dude came through pro on a Klein special–Dream deck. He passed the cute crime girls, who he definitely caught on video because his GoPro was lit. All of a sudden, a crazy woman in a dark green Subaru Outback charged across two lanes, veered into the drop-off area, and slammed into the flagpole. She nearly wiped out the boarder and the crime girls, which would have been a straight-up trag. The gnarly part came when the flagpole smashed onto the car.” Lysa looks up and grins. “Hey, we’re cute.”

  “And us getting killed would have been a straight-up trag,” Spam says. “Not a tragedy, but a trag.”

  “Klein special–Dream deck. That must be the skateboard,” I say. “Write that on the board. Could anyone ID his shoes?” I’m obsessed with shoe prints after that’s what helped crack the case of who killed my mom and Miss P.

  “No. The videos didn’t really show his shoes. Let’s check the stills.” Spam taps a few things on the iPad and swipes through the photos. “Hm. That’s weird.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Spam turns the iPad to show us. “Here’s a pic of him coming in, probably. It’s a nice action photo.” She squints at the screen. “I don’t see a time stamp, but look who’s standing right there.”

  “Coach Wilkins?” I squint at the photo.

  “Yep,” Lysa confirms.

  “You guys know the rules. No skateboarding on campus. That guy is zooming right behind him and the coach isn’t paying any attention,” Spam says.

  “Weird. He’s staring at the street like he’s waiting for someone,” I say. “Put the coach’s name on the board.”

  “Okay. Anything else on the skateboarder?” Spam says. “Any ID?”

  I shake my head. “Your skateboarder is a true man of mystery. Not much else we can do for now.”

  “Let’s do the murder board now,” Lysa says. “I need to go soon. I have a couple of finals I’m a little worried about. I need some study time. Here’s the photo I took.” Lysa lays her phone on the table in front of us.

  Spam excitedly swivels the whiteboard to the blank other side. She bounces on her toes. “I’m crazy excited to do this.” She touches the supplies. “I have markers, magnets, superthin red tape to make the connecting lines. This is going to be awesome.”

  I study the photo on Lysa’s phone. “Journey told me about all this stuff, like the dates across the top are the number of times his parents called the police. And the photo of his parents, that was taken when they first moved here. Don’t they look happy?”

  Spam draws a couple of stick figures on the board with hearts around their heads, then sketches ten lines across the top. “We can put in the dates later.”

  “Below that are three columns of photos. Looks like: suspects, witnesses, and testimonies. In that order. Evidence is the last column on the far right. Just make little boxes for right
now. We can fill it in with photos later.”

  “Okay.” Spam re-creates the murder board with various boxes and lines.

  “It’s weird.” I scrutinize the photo. “The driver at the accident and Coach Wilkins both appear on the skateboarder incident and Victor’s murder board.”

  I look up to see if they think this is weird or not.

  “Could just be a coincidence,” Lysa says.

  “Yeah, Victor says crime scene investigators never accept a coincidence as an explanation because a smart murderer anticipates being linked to the scene of a crime so they will find a way to explain away that connection,” I say. “And Journey says this is exactly the kind of thing that Victor’s looking for. Someone who seemed innocent at the time but who also had a grudge against his family.”

  “That won’t be easy to find after all this time,” Lysa says.

  “We didn’t think it would be easy to find the person who killed my mother either,” I say. “And look how that turned out.”

  “Exactly,” Spam says. “Fourteen years later that creeper was still hanging around, practically watching your every move.”

  “We need to come up with the profile of someone who would have benefited from Jameson going to prison.” Lysa doodles cat faces on the edge of her notebook.

  “Journey says everyone thought his mother would sell the cannery once his father was sentenced, but she couldn’t bear to let it go,” I say.

  “So, we start by looking at people who wanted the cannery,” Lysa says. “Like we know Arletta Stone wanted it. Anyone else we can think of?”

  While Lysa and Spam try to one-up each other with various facts they’ve picked up about Jameson Michaels’s case and the urban legends surrounding the cannery, I drift off into some learning of my own.

  I start by scanning the articles that came up after I searched his name. But right off I’m forced to admit the facts of this case don’t exactly line up in his favor. Why would someone with a toddler rig up a gun to a motion sensor? Any gun, even a paintball gun. Also, why would someone store their dangerous shotgun under the seat of their truck? Even if they believed the gun wasn’t loaded, why would they keep it there? Isn’t that asking for trouble? Aren’t guns supposed to be locked up?

  The deeper I read only makes it worse. Mr. Michaels claimed he never bought shells for the shotgun and yet the police found at least half a dozen spent shells just lying around on the property.

  I go over to the whiteboard and sketch in my notes. Under evidence I write: shotgun, spent shotgun shells. No paintball gun. And finally, someone’s lying!

  I exchange disheartened looks with the girls. We’re used to making progress that feels hopeful. This is anything but hopeful.

  “We’ve done as much as we can do tonight,” Spam says.

  “Will the whiteboard be safe here?” I ask.

  Spam opens a door to a storage closet tucked under the stairs. “Yep. I can roll it right in here,” she says. “No one ever goes in here but me.”

  13

  There is legal innocence and factual innocence. Legal innocence means a person could actually still be guilty, but found not guilty due to a technicality.

  —PRINCIPAL BLANKENSHIP

  As Spam and Lysa cross the cafeteria toward me I get a text from Journey saying he has to run an errand for Victor at lunch.

  “It’s just us today,” I say as they take their seats across from me. “Journey’s running an errand for Victor.”

  “Working through lunch,” Spam says. “This must be the butt monkey part of his job.”

  “We shouldn’t make fun of him,” I say. “It’s a big deal to be Victor’s intern.”

  “And snitch,” Spam adds.

  “Come on, I wouldn’t let Journey talk about you guys like that.”

  “How are things going with you and Journey?” Lysa asks. “Will this new connection with Victor change anything?”

  I sigh. “Well, it’s only been a couple of days.” The truth is I do feel like things are changing. Journey’s graduating, going to college. He has this new job with Victor. Victor could be my dad. But I’m not ready to talk about any of this yet. Not even with Spam and Lysa. “I think everything’s okay.”

  Lysa takes the top off her salad and pours on some dressing. Spam has two cookies and a hard-boiled egg. I brought leftover meatloaf.

  “The skateboarder case is getting weird,” Lysa says. “He still hasn’t come forward and now someone has put up a one-thousand-dollar reward for anyone who can identify him.”

  “Who would do that?” I ask.

  “The driver?” Spam says.

  Lysa shakes her head. “It’s some organization. But the mystery is why isn’t he coming forward?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know they’re looking for him.” I say.

  “He’d have to be living under a rock,” Lysa says.

  “Does anyone have any photos of him yet?” I ask.

  “Not yet.” Spam grins. “I think we have them all.”

  There’s a buzz against my wrist. The spot inside the volcano on my Bella glows red. I slide my hand off the table.

  Spam ditches her phone into her sleeve and we all sit up a little straighter.

  A few seconds later, Blankface strolls up. She pauses, eyeing each of us in turn with a sinister, stoic glee.

  “Hello, Ms. Blankenship,” Spam says, offering her most adorable, friendly puppy smile.

  Blankface responds by swiveling her customary alien blankface in Spam’s direction. “It’s Miss.” She’s cradling her ever-present notebook, which still has the same fat purple highlighter clipped to the top of the binder. She slips it off and lays it on the table in front of Spam.

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” she says, “this belongs to you.”

  We sit in stunned silence, collectively holding our breath and waiting for Blankface to drop the hammer on Spam. I’m convinced she’s figured out what Spam is up to and now we’re all going to be pressed to explain our way out of it.

  But Spam is way ahead of us and much smoother than I thought possible. She picks up the highlighter and hugs it to her chest. “Thank you. It was my favorite.”

  “Hmpf. Well, it’s dry.” Even Blankenship’s comments are devoid of emotion.

  “Miss Blankenship, I have something for you, too.” Spam pulls out a laminated bookmark with a volcano logo at the top and Go ’Canoes down the center. “It’s a bookmark. I made it on my 3D printer.”

  Blankenship takes the bookmark and inspects it like it’s a bug under a microscope. “Go canoes?” she says. “Like little boats?”

  “It’s go kay-noes, like Volcanoes,” Spam says. “The school mascot.”

  Blankenship continues to inspect the offering, first one side and then the other. She tests its flexibility by bending it a little. She even runs it under her nose, giving it a sniff. Finally, she tucks it in between the pages of her ever-present notebook.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Now, please give me the name of that skateboarder involved in the accident on Monday. Because I’m new I didn’t recognize him. But I’m sure you did. Right?”

  She’s being somewhat casual and offhand, but there’s a definite whiff of danger. Sort of like when a cobra raises its head to eye level.

  Spam and I shake our heads.

  “He’s not a student here,” Lysa says, trying to be helpful.

  Blankenship’s gaze snaps onto her. “You know that because…?”

  “Ohh. You’re right. I guess I don’t actually know that,” Lysa says. “Because…” She fails at having a reason and tries to blow it off. “Yeah, I don’t know why I even said that.”

  Blankenship leans in over our table. “I don’t know why you said it either.”

  Lysa clamps her mouth shut and sinks a little lower in her chair.

  Blankenship pauses and looks each one of us straight in the eyes. “But if you suddenly decide that he does go here and you know his name, you’ll come tell me. Right?”

  Sh
e turns her gaze on each of us and waits until we nod.

  “I was reading something today that you might find interesting.” Her tone is suspiciously conversational. “Did you know there are such things as legal innocence and factual innocence? Legal innocence means a person could actually be guilty, but found not guilty due to a technicality.”

  I don’t know where she’s going with this and apparently neither do Lysa or Spam. We shake our heads.

  “I didn’t know that either, and I found it interesting,” she says. After a moment of silence, she turns and stalks off.

  Once she’s gone we all breathe again.

  “Oh my gosh.” Lysa shudders. “Usually, I’m the one who can stretch the truth, but that woman totally unnerves me. And, Spam, you can’t lie for anything. But you handled her like a boss.”

  “Because I wasn’t lying,” Spam says. “I really did make these bookmarks on my printer and Volcanos really are our school mascot.”

  “That’s your secret? You can lie if you’re not lying?” I ask.

  “Something like that,” Spam says.

  I check out my wrist. The red dot is still there. I glance at Spam.

  “No worries,” she says. “I just have to reprogram it to track the bookmark.”

  “But what if she ditches the bookmark?” I ask.

  Spam opens a pocket on her backpack. “Then I have the school pride pin … the Volcano carabiner key ring … a bendy straw, she might not go for that, but I have one … oh, and I have a hair clip, too. Though I think her hair is actually painted on her head.”

  “Wow,” Lysa and I say at the same time.

  The lunch bell rings, and we dutifully gather up our stuff, dump our trash, and head off to our next class.

  14

  Crime hasn’t changed that much over the years. But the popularity of crime shows on TV has changed both the attitudes of the public and the way we handle investigations.

  —VICTOR FLEMMING

  After school, we’re at a table out in front, not far from the flagpole area. The wrecked car and broken flagpole are gone, but several strips of crime scene tape are still visible flapping in the breeze.