“You said it yourself—Manning’s all alone. He has no family. You told me,” I swallowed, “you said his sister died. So who’s there with him?”
She took a glass from the cupboard, set it on the counter, and looked back at me. “Nobody, I guess. But he . . .”
“What?” I asked. “Why are you acting so flippant about this? What has he ever done to you besides be nice? You said he was a gentleman.”
“He was.”
“So? That’s not good enough for you?”
“He’s innocent,” she said, staring at the empty glass. “Why does it matter if we go? They’re just going to release him.”
I didn’t have time for this. I had to make a choice. Nothing would happen to Manning; he hadn’t done anything. I had to believe that. But if there was even the slightest chance he might turn and look for me . . . if he needed me to speak up, and I wasn’t there . . .
“Fine.” I turned to leave the kitchen. “But I’m taking your car.”
“What?” She followed me upstairs. “You don’t even know how to drive.”
“I know enough,” I said on my way into my room.
“You’re such a brat,” she said through the door.
I ignored her and changed into the nicest sweater and slacks I owned. I found a pair of pumps in my mom’s closet. They were a size too big, but I put them in my purse. By the time I’d brushed out my hair and attempted a little makeup, Tiffany was downstairs waiting by the front door.
“You’ll come?” I asked.
“He’s going to need a ride back anyway. Like I’d ever let you drive my car,” she said, opening the front door.
She acted annoyed, but I knew my sister well enough to recognize the look in her eyes. She was just as nervous as I was.
26
Manning
Forty minutes before my arraignment, a brown-haired man in his early forties entered the courthouse interview room and slapped a briefcase on the table between us. “Manning Sutter?”
“That’s me.”
I stood to shake his hand, but he stopped me. “No time for formalities. I’m Dexter Grimes, your public defender.” He pulled out a handful of manila file folders, put on his glasses, and rifled through them. “Richards, Rosenblatt, Stephenson,” he muttered, reading them off. “Here we are—Sutter.” He opened my file and frowned. “No, this is wrong.” Fanning them out on the table, he picked one labeled Sweeney and swapped the contents of our files. “There we go. Sweeney was in Sutter, and Sutter was in Sweeney. It happens.”
I’d had my personal effects taken, been fingerprinted, photographed and stood in a line-up, then held in a cell—all within seventy-two hours. All as an innocent man. I’d been told I’d meet my lawyer before my arraignment. This was the one I’d been assigned. Upon closer inspection, I decided he was mid-thirties with deep lines around his eyes. He looked as if he’d been through the grinder. There was a mayonnaise stain on his lapel, or at least I hoped that’s what it was.
I stared at him until he cleared his throat. “We’re a little overloaded,” he said.
“No shit.”
“But don’t worry.” His glasses slid down his nose. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”
In my experience, having done something a lot didn’t necessarily mean you were good at it. But he was all I had, and at least when he talked to me, he looked me in the eye. I placed my forearms on the table. “I’m innocent.”
“Of course.” He sat back in his seat, looking over my slim paperwork. “Do you know how arraignments work?”
“Not really.”
“It’s going to be fast. The judge’ll read the charges, you’ll plead ‘not guilty,’ and they’ll set bail. You have anyone to post your bail?”
I had nobody, period. Even if my mom had the money, I’d rather sit in jail than crawl back to her. My aunt and Henry, the officer who’d looked out for me as a teen, had done enough for me in one lifetime. “No.”
“We can go to a bondsman. Depending on the amount, they’ll front you the money and take a percentage.”
The money I’d saved over the years was a small sum by most standards, but it was all I had. I’d worked hard for it. “I’m not paying anyone anything for a crime I didn’t commit.”
“Okay.” He made a couple notes. “So Friday night, you were pulled over.”
“No. My truck stalled, so I pulled it over. The cop stopped to check on me.”
“Says here he suspected you were drinking.”
“No. I walked in a straight line for him and then we had a nice, friendly chat.”
Grimes looked up. “Did he administer a Breathalyzer test on you?”
“I wasn’t drinking.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then that’s irrelevant. It’s your word against his.”
The officer and I had hit it off; there was no reason for him not to believe me. I opened my mouth to explain.
Grimes checked his watch. “Your charge is attempted robbery. A felony.”
“It doesn’t much matter what it is, because I didn’t do it.”