my head. But it’s empty—nothing is coming into focus. I dragmy chair closer to the scratched glass, breathe on it, and wipe it with the sleeve of my hoodie and gaze into his eyes.
“Fine.” Daniels doesn’t let up. “You’re guilty. Got it. With that confession?” He points at the folder. “You’re basically toast—so why not? Why not tell me more?” He stands—sits on the table. “Why the hell would you kill a homey and dump him in the river? You got more going on, don’t cha, Junior? What else you dealing? Where’s the rest of the stash? There has to be more, a shitload more.”
Junior looks right at me. I wait for something to kick in . . . what he’s seeing—what he’s thinking about. And his sad, scared eyes—his pupils start dancing around like he’s suddenly focusing on something, reliving something. And in an instant a series of images start bouncing in my head, too, like a pinball machine. Balls. Dozens of lime-green, fuzzy tennis balls whirl around, slam against one another. My brain pulsates with each bounce. I try to keep my hand steady as I pencil them on the paper and then text Daniels:
ME: got it.
The sergeant reacts to the buzz of the phone in his back pocket. He takes it out and reads. “Excuse me one minute, will you? And while I’m gone? Think about everything I said. Think about your future. A cap and gown in June, or the slammer at seventeen.” He exits the room.
Junior stays seated, blinks a few times, his gaze burrowing into me, as if he sees me through the mirror again—focused in tight, a lone tear wells up and then drips down on his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.
I jump as the sergeant charges in the room. “Why did that take you so long?”
“Sorry, jeez. I didn’t know I was under the gun. Bad pun, I know.”
“So? What did you see, draw?”
I tear out the page in my book, stand, hand it to him.
“What’s this?”
“Looks like tennis balls to me.”
He flips it around, checks out the back. “Where’s the face?”
“What face?”
“The face you saw when you studied him?”
“I didn’t see a face. I saw balls. Tennis balls.”
“You were supposed to draw a face—the boss—the OG.”
“I don’t always see faces; you know that. Sorry. Fire me, why don’t you? I draw what’s in their mind.” I shrug, sit back down on the chair. “Don’t blame me; blame Junior. Damn, my head is hurting.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“I don’t know. I have to figure that out for you, too?” I lean my elbows on my knees, lower my head, and rub my temples.
He studies the drawing—bites his bottom lip. “I’ll give it to Cole. See what he can get out of this . . . maybe send the canines in there.”
“Not Cole—he’ll screw it up.”
“Bea, don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I’m not. It’s just that Junior’s scared about something, Sarge. His eyes were, like, crazy scared.”
The sergeant doesn’t respond for a moment. “Well, I need more than this. I’ve got to get more out of him somehow.”
I feel like such a failure. “What happens to him now?”
“We’ll keep him in the holding cell for the time being.”
“The holding cell? Where’s that?”
“In the basement.”
I stand. “Put me in there with him. I can get more out of him, without glass between us, and maybe draw something that’ll help.”
“Don’t be crazy. That’s too dangerous. And you’re a girl. You wouldn’t be allowed in there with him.”
“You said I look like a guy.”
“No way, Bea. No.”
“Come on. . . . I’m sure there are cameras, right? You can watch. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know about this. . . .”
“I do. I can draw the truth out of him. I know I can. Give me another chance. Please?”
We have to play the game again—but this time we switch roles: it’s the sergeant who’s acting tough for an approaching deputyas he shoves me down the fluorescent-lit
“Fine.” Daniels doesn’t let up. “You’re guilty. Got it. With that confession?” He points at the folder. “You’re basically toast—so why not? Why not tell me more?” He stands—sits on the table. “Why the hell would you kill a homey and dump him in the river? You got more going on, don’t cha, Junior? What else you dealing? Where’s the rest of the stash? There has to be more, a shitload more.”
Junior looks right at me. I wait for something to kick in . . . what he’s seeing—what he’s thinking about. And his sad, scared eyes—his pupils start dancing around like he’s suddenly focusing on something, reliving something. And in an instant a series of images start bouncing in my head, too, like a pinball machine. Balls. Dozens of lime-green, fuzzy tennis balls whirl around, slam against one another. My brain pulsates with each bounce. I try to keep my hand steady as I pencil them on the paper and then text Daniels:
ME: got it.
The sergeant reacts to the buzz of the phone in his back pocket. He takes it out and reads. “Excuse me one minute, will you? And while I’m gone? Think about everything I said. Think about your future. A cap and gown in June, or the slammer at seventeen.” He exits the room.
Junior stays seated, blinks a few times, his gaze burrowing into me, as if he sees me through the mirror again—focused in tight, a lone tear wells up and then drips down on his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.
I jump as the sergeant charges in the room. “Why did that take you so long?”
“Sorry, jeez. I didn’t know I was under the gun. Bad pun, I know.”
“So? What did you see, draw?”
I tear out the page in my book, stand, hand it to him.
“What’s this?”
“Looks like tennis balls to me.”
He flips it around, checks out the back. “Where’s the face?”
“What face?”
“The face you saw when you studied him?”
“I didn’t see a face. I saw balls. Tennis balls.”
“You were supposed to draw a face—the boss—the OG.”
“I don’t always see faces; you know that. Sorry. Fire me, why don’t you? I draw what’s in their mind.” I shrug, sit back down on the chair. “Don’t blame me; blame Junior. Damn, my head is hurting.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“I don’t know. I have to figure that out for you, too?” I lean my elbows on my knees, lower my head, and rub my temples.
He studies the drawing—bites his bottom lip. “I’ll give it to Cole. See what he can get out of this . . . maybe send the canines in there.”
“Not Cole—he’ll screw it up.”
“Bea, don’t tell me how to do my job.”
“I’m not. It’s just that Junior’s scared about something, Sarge. His eyes were, like, crazy scared.”
The sergeant doesn’t respond for a moment. “Well, I need more than this. I’ve got to get more out of him somehow.”
I feel like such a failure. “What happens to him now?”
“We’ll keep him in the holding cell for the time being.”
“The holding cell? Where’s that?”
“In the basement.”
I stand. “Put me in there with him. I can get more out of him, without glass between us, and maybe draw something that’ll help.”
“Don’t be crazy. That’s too dangerous. And you’re a girl. You wouldn’t be allowed in there with him.”
“You said I look like a guy.”
“No way, Bea. No.”
“Come on. . . . I’m sure there are cameras, right? You can watch. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know about this. . . .”
“I do. I can draw the truth out of him. I know I can. Give me another chance. Please?”
We have to play the game again—but this time we switch roles: it’s the sergeant who’s acting tough for an approaching deputyas he shoves me down the fluorescent-lit
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