To Right the Wrongs

by Sheryl Scarborough

  I sink a little further into my seat. This isn’t getting better.

  “People just sent them to us,” Spam says. “What were we supposed to do?”

  “Turn them over to us!” Sydney and the chief say at the same time.

  “All three of you made an agreement with your parents: no more investigations,” Sydney says.

  We nod.

  “This right here is investigating. And it threatens this whole case,” Detective Sydney says. “You are unskilled at interrogation, which means you could unintentionally manipulate your classmates’ memories of the accident.” Syd holds out her hand. “Which one of you has the videos and statements? Hand them over.”

  Lysa holds up her phone. “I do. But you need to talk to my father before you take this.”

  Detective Sydney gestures strongly to the mirror back of Lysa’s case. “Well, that explains the driver’s allegation of a mirror.”

  Blankenship picks up her phone and presses a button. “Send him in.”

  The door opens again and Mr. Martin, Lysa’s father, strides in.

  Lysa looks ready to crawl under her chair. “Daddy?”

  He scowls. “Alysa Marie. What have I told you about being called to school on your behalf?”

  “Make sure it’s for an award,” she whispers.

  “And am I here to witness you receiving an award?”

  She shakes her head.

  Detective Sydney nods at Lysa. “She admitted there’s evidence on her phone.”

  He holds out his hand in front of Lysa. She lays her phone across his palm.

  He turns to Detective Sydney. “My client is voluntarily handing over her personal property, without admission of guilt, to further the efforts of the department in this case. The password is foreverVans21.” He looks at Lysa for verification. “Correct?”

  She nods.

  The principal takes an envelope out of her drawer and holds it open. Mr. Martin drops her phone into it.

  Lysa sighs.

  He hands the envelope to Detective Sydney. Turning to Lysa, he says, “I’ll see you at home.”

  Blankenship scribbles out passes. “You three can go back to class now.”

  “Wait,” Detective Sydney says. “I just want to make something perfectly and completely clear. You three are minors. Students. You are not detectives. You do not investigate cases … for any reason. Is that clear?”

  Lysa, Spam, and I nod.

  “Now, is there anything else that you know about that skateboarder that you have not shared with us?” she asks.

  “No.” I share a look with both Lysa and Spam.

  “I don’t want the three of you to even think about that boy again,” Detective Sydney says. “Now. Go to class.”

  We grab our passes and flee Blankface’s office.

  “So much for anonymous tips,” Spam grumbles as we hurry down the hall.

  “And FYI, no more FYI,” I say.

  “Roger that,” Spam agrees. Then she slaps a nondescript phone into Lysa’s hand. “Here, you can use my backup phone until you get yours back. I can program your calls and messages to forward to it.”

  “Thanks,” Lysa says. “Now if only you could program the lecture I’m going to get from my mother to go somewhere else too.”

  “How much trouble are you in?” I ask.

  “Well, generally lying to them is a much bigger deal. In situations like this they usually take the position that I have to suffer my own consequences as they are, but they won’t add to them,” she says.

  “So, if we get kicked off the camp counselor job?” I say.

  “I’ll be asking someone if they want fries with that,” Lysa says. “And I’ll just have to live with it.”

  “Oh my god!” I pat my bag. “You guys, I completely forgot. I still have the skateboarder’s fingerprint. What should I do with it?”

  “Destroy it,” Spam says. “They’ll use it to track him down like an escaped convict.”

  “Admitting I lifted the print is going to look pretty bad in light of the lecture we just got from Detective Sydney,” I say. “But they’re making such a big deal out of this, what if it’s really important for them to find him? Shouldn’t we help them?”

  “It’s up to the police to do their own investigative work,” Lysa says. “It’s their job, not ours. My dad says that a lot. They had an opportunity to take that print before they towed the car.”

  “But what should I do with it now?”

  I look from Lysa to Spam. Blank looks from both.

  The bell rings, signaling the transition to our last class of the day. We split off and head in different directions.

  * * *

  As I walk out to the front of the school from last period I can’t miss Journey’s van pulled up at the drive-up area, engine running.

  The door squeals open as I hurry toward it. He reaches out a hand to help me up.

  “Hi.” I pause to give him a peck on the cheek. “Nice surprise after the day I had.”

  He puts the van in gear and starts to drive out of the lot.

  “Are we going somewhere?” I’m hoping for someplace quiet, where we can be alone and just hang out—my nerves are pretty jangled after the meeting with Blankface.

  “I can’t,” Journey says. “I have to go in early to work but I wanted to give you a ride home and tell you some exciting news.”

  “What?”

  “Victor met with my mom and my dad’s attorney today.”

  “That’s great. Is your mom on board with reopening the investigation?”

  “Not yet.” Journey slightly rolls his eyes. “I mean, maybe. She’s worried that reexamining any of the evidence will seal his fate forever. She wants to believe there’s a better chance to get my father off on a legal procedural error, you know, like if Lysa’s dad did something wrong while defending him. But everyone—including Victor—says there’s no guarantee of that because the facts are so weird.”

  “I know Lysa’s dad. If you think she’s an obsessive rule-follower, you should see him.”

  “That’s pretty much what Victor said too.”

  “Is she going to let Victor try?” If Journey’s mom was really opposed to going forward with the investigation, Victor might stop—unless some actual new evidence appeared.

  “She didn’t say yes—but she didn’t say no, either,” Journey explains. “She wants my dad to give his opinion. So we’re going to the prison to talk to him tomorrow.”

  My mouth drops open, but for a long moment no sound comes out.

  “You’re going to meet your father?”

  “Yes. Can you believe it? My family is getting this chance because of you. I can’t wait to tell my dad the whole story of how this came to be and that my amazing girlfriend is the one who’s responsible for it.”

  “I’m honored. Really. And I’ll be thinking about you the whole time.”

  Journey drives toward my house. “So how was your day?”

  “Mmmm.” Not sure I want to get into the whole ugly mess about Blankenship, the chief, and Detective Sydney over the skateboarder issue. I suspect Journey’s reaction would be that he tried to warn us. “My day was … just a day. But it’s so much better now. I’m really happy for you and excited.”

  “Thank you. How about if I plan a special date for us tomorrow night?” Journey says.

  “An actual … real, like going out kind of date?”

  “Yes. An actual real going out kind of date.” He chuckles at my inarticulate response. “I’ll come up with something special. Just the two of us … we can celebrate.”

  I can’t explain the ambush of a sudden nervous flutter. I’m completely comfortable around Journey, and him asking me on a date is a good thing. But my uncontrollable flares of emotion seem to be telling another story altogether. And I don’t understand it.

  16

  My father says it’s up to the police to do their own investigative work. It’s their job. Not ours.

  —LYSA MARTIN
>
  Because Journey is meeting his father today, I catch a ride to school with Spam. She just texted to say she’s on her way. So I grab my stuff and head down to wait.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I pause by the credenza where Victor has been piling up his mail and paperwork. The FedEx envelope is still propped up against the wall where he placed it. I tip it forward with one finger to see if it has been opened—it’s still completely sealed. Go figure.

  Spam beeps that she’s in the driveway. I race out to the car and hop in.

  Spam backs out and steers us toward school. “How did last night go?” she asks.

  I shrug. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Rachel and Victor grilled me a little bit. All they really wanted to know was how are we connected to the skateboarder, and I told them the truth. They didn’t seem to care that we were gathering statements, but they both clearly draw the line at lying to the authorities … Detective Sydney, the chief, or Blankface. Obviously, I didn’t tell them about the fingerprint.”

  “What about the camp counselor job?” she asks.

  “I was afraid to ask. Victor did say it would behoove us to make peace with Blankenship, though. She calls the shots at the school.”

  “Oh my god! How creepy is she?” Spam says. “She enjoyed busting us way too much.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “Did you hear from Lysa?”

  “No, did you?”

  I shake my head. “Knowing how strict her parents are, she’ll probably get the worst of this.”

  “Did anyone say why they’re all up on the skateboarder?” Spam asks.

  I shake my head. “It seems weird, unless they’re just suspicious because he’s not coming forward.”

  “But if he didn’t do anything they should back off,” she says.

  “Maybe there have been crimes committed by a rogue guy on a skateboard,” I say. “Maybe you dodged a bullet with this one, Spam.”

  “No way,” Spam says. “I looked into those eyes, twice. He’s got the heart of a puppy dog.”

  I can’t remember the last boy who captured this much of Spam’s attention. It’s probably the mystery angle that has her hooked. “You only say that because he called you shortcake.”

  She grins.

  * * *

  All day I think about how it’s going with Journey and his father. I’ve imagined meeting my father many times. I’ve dreamed of what the first thing I would say to him would be and what I would look at first. I’ve even dared to ponder the horror and desperation of finding out my father was in prison.

  But I’ve never envisioned going to a prison to meet my father for the very first time. Poor Journey.

  As the day drifts into the evening and I hear nothing from Journey I stay completely off all my devices, leaving a wide-open channel for him to call or text or something.

  His thundering silence causes me to worry even more. And when he completely misses our date, I’m silently pacing my attic and freaking out.

  Miss P always encouraged me to be myself, so before I go to sleep, I lay back on the pillow, open Snapchat, and hold my phone up over my head. I take a picture of my bright hair spilling over the soft blue pillowcase, then I send it to Journey with a message: MY HAIR MISSES YOU.

  I’m hoping he’ll remember these words from the early days of our relationship when my dorky moves were more obvious. When he doesn’t answer, I turn out the light and drift off to sleep.

  By morning, Journey still hasn’t answered my calls or texts and my worry is out of control. What if Jameson won’t let them revisit the case?… What if he got mad and lost it, admitting he really killed that kid after all? And he was glad he did?

  My mind races with possibilities, and they’re all bad.

  “Earth to Erin?” Rachel brings her coffee to the table and takes a seat across from me. I guess she was talking and I wasn’t responding. Now she’s sighing and giving me pinched looks. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  “I’m fine, honest. I’m just worried about Journey.”

  She drains her cup and walks it over to the sink, then comes back to give me a hug. “You’re too young to take all of this onto your shoulders. Let the adults worry about this stuff. It will all work out. I promise. I’m just going in to take care of some paperwork. I’ll be home to make dinner.”

  “Okay, Rachel. See you later.”

  I’m still sitting at the kitchen table when Victor comes down.

  “I can give you a ride to school,” he offers.

  I blink. Has he not noticed I’m wearing pajamas?

  “Victor, it’s Saturday.”

  He pauses to think. “I guess you’re right. I’m so busy I’ve lost complete track of the days. Anyway, I am going in to meet with the contractor. I also have the camp themes written out. If you want to come in with me and hang out for a bit, you and your friends can work on the schedule.”

  I take a very long pause.

  “I thought we had to earn back the trust to be your counselors,” I say.

  Victor leans back against the counter. “Yeah, Chuck mentioned that he felt the lying required a pretty stiff punishment.” Victor crosses his arms over his chest. “And listen, I don’t necessarily disagree with him. Let’s say you can come back on probationary status. But one more step out of line and you’re done.”

  “Sold.” I leap up and head to my room. “Ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Within ten minutes, I’m dressed and we’re in the car and headed to school. I’ve texted both Lysa and Spam to see if they want to meet me there and work on the camp schedule. Spam texted back that she’ll be on her way soon. I haven’t heard from Lysa.

  “Shouldn’t we be shopping for some transportation to replace your scooter?” Victor asks once we’re in the car.

  I shrug. “It’s not that big of a deal. I always seem to have a ride when I need one.”

  “But Journey will be heading off to college soon, so you can’t really rely on him for too much longer.”

  “Have you heard from him … or his mom?” I’m hopeful for news that he’s okay.

  “No,” Victor says. “Have you?”

  I shake my head.

  Victor gives me a sympathetic look. “This is a little like you wanting to know the identity of your father. Even though knowing won’t change much about your life, you feel like a part of you is missing because there’s this big thing about you that you don’t know. I’m guessing Journey has some similar feelings.”

  I nod. “Yeah. I can understand that.”

  “Just be patient with him,” Victor says. “He’ll come around.”

  “I will.”

  I don’t know what Journey is feeling, but I do know that everyone is different when it comes to understanding and accepting who you’re connected to. It’s even possible that my situation of not knowing who my father is could be the easiest of all.

  17

  You can’t appeal a case just because you think the jury got it wrong. You have to find a mistake that was made, and then prove it.

  —MR. MARTIN

  We arrive at the classroom/lab. Victor unlocks the door and holds it open for me. I marvel at the changes he’s made in just a week. The center wall now has a giant window cut into it. A heavy metal frame has been installed in the doorway between the rooms. And the alcove on the classroom side is now an enclosed storage room, thanks to the addition of a wall and a door.

  Victor heads into the lab area. Instead of following him, I take a seat at the teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom. From here I have an almost unobstructed view of the murder board. When Victor isn’t looking I shoot a couple of photos with my phone. Not investigating … just researching.

  “Knock, knock?” Coach Wilkins sticks his head in the door. “Oh, hi, Erin.”

  “Hi, Coach.”

  “I thought I saw Victor’s car in the parking lot?” he says.

  “He’s in there.” I point toward the lab area.

  Coach Wi
lkins heads over there. He and Victor greet each other cordially.

  I’m not really listening to their conversation, but every now and then a few words drift my way. It sounds like the coach is worried that more students will want to sign up for Victor’s camp than his.

  After a few minutes, Victor walks the coach back through the classroom. They’re still talking. “I don’t think that what we have planned will mesh very well with a sports camp,” Victor explains. “What we’re doing is more science experiments, classroom stuff. But let’s put a pin in it and revisit after sign-ups, okay?”

  Coach nods. “Sounds great, Vic. I like that idea.”

  The door opens again and a woman peeks in. Coach Wilkins is not happy to see her. “Letty, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been waiting out front for you for ten minutes,” she says. “Finally I checked with the office and they said you might be down here.”

  It’s her voice, more than anything else, that causes me to raise my head and study her. Holy crap!

  She steps inside and pauses to take in the room. “Wow. This is really nice.”

  My eyes are bugging out of my head because Letty is Arletta Stone, the driver of the car that almost hit us and the skateboarder. I wonder if Victor knows that. He glances over at me and I quickly look down to keep from revealing my flush of interest.

  The coach gestures. “Victor, this is my cousin, Arletta Stone. Letty, this is Victor Flemming. He’s our new science teacher but he used to work for the FBI.”

  Letty offers Victor her hand. “I know. I’ve read your books. Big fan.”

  Victor shakes hands with Letty. “Thank you.”

  She peers around him. “Is that the spiffy new crime lab over there? The one they wrote about in the newspaper? I can’t wait to get a look at it. I watch the shows, I read the books. I’m a huge fan.” She edges toward the lab area. “Are you really reopening a bunch of cold cases?”

  The coach steps sideways, blocking her. “Not now, Letty. They’re busy. I’ll give you a tour another time.”

  “Yes. You’ll have to come back for a tour,” Victor says. “Once it’s all put together.”