“Is that where Dad is, combing his hair?”
They both smiled a little, because they both knew that her father loved nothing more than to see himself on television.
Ben said, “He told you to hang tight. When I called him. That’s what Rusty said—‘Tell that girl to hang tight.’”
Which meant that Rusty wasn’t going to ride to her rescue. That he assumed his tough daughter could handle herself in a room full of Keystone Kops while he rushed to Kelly Wilson’s house and got her parents to sign his fee agreement.
When people talked about how much they hated lawyers, it was Rusty who came to mind.
Ben said, “I can have one of the squad cars take you to your office.”
“I’m not getting in a car with any of those assholes.”
Ben ran his fingers through his hair. He needed a trim. His shirt was wrinkled. His suit was missing a button. She wanted to think he was falling apart without her, but the truth was that he was always disheveled and Charlie was more likely to tease him about looking like a hipster hobo than to take out a needle and thread.
She said, “Kelly Wilson was in their custody. She wasn’t resisting. The moment they cuffed her, they were responsible for her safety.”
“Greg’s daughter goes to that school.”
“So does Kelly.” Charlie leaned closer. “We’re not living in Abu Ghraib, okay? Kelly Wilson has a constitutional right to due process under the law. It’s up to a judge and jury to decide, not a bunch of vigilante cops with hard-ons to beat down a teenage girl.”
“I get it. We all get it.” Ben thought she was grandstanding for the great Oz behind the mirror. “‘A just society is a lawful society. You can’t be a good guy if you act like a bad guy.’”
He was quoting Rusty.
She said, “They were going to beat the shit out of her. Or worse.”
“So you volunteered yourself instead?”
Charlie felt a burning sensation in her hands. Without thinking, she was scratching at the dried blood, rolling it into tiny balls. Her fingernails were ten black crescents.
She looked up at her husband. “You said you took nine witness statements?”
Ben gave a single, reluctant nod. He knew why she was asking the question.
Eight cops. Mrs. Pinkman wasn’t there when Charlie’s nose was broken, which meant that the ninth statement had come from Huck, which meant that Ben had already talked to him.
She asked, “Do you know?” That was the only thing that mattered between them right now, whether or not Ben knew why she had been at the school this morning. Because if Ben knew, then everyone else knew, which meant that Charlie had yet again found another uniquely cruel way to humiliate her husband.
“Ben?” she asked.
He ran his fingers through his hair. He smoothed down his tie. He had so many tells that they could never play cards together, not even Go Fish.
“Babe, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”
There was a quick knock before the door opened. Charlie held out hope that it was her father, but an older black woman wearing a navy pantsuit and white blouse walked into the room. Her short black hair was tuffeted with white. She had a large, banged-up-looking purse on her arm that was almost as big as the one that Charlie carried to work. A laminated ID hung on a lanyard around her neck, but Charlie couldn’t read it.
The woman said, “I’m special agent in charge Delia Wofford with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. You’re Charlotte Quinn?” She reached out to shake Charlie’s hand, but changed her mind when she saw the dried blood. “Have you been photographed?”
Charlie nodded.
“For godsakes.” She opened her purse and pulled out a packet of Wet Wipes. “Use as many as you need. I can get more.”
Jonah was back with another chair. Delia pointed to the head of the table, indicating that’s where she wanted to sit. She asked Jonah, “Are you the jerk who wouldn’t let this woman clean herself up?”
Jonah didn’t know what to do with the question. He had probably never had to answer to any woman besides his mother, and that had been a long time ago.
“Close the door behind you.” Delia waved Jonah off as she sat down. “Ms. Quinn, we’ll get through this as quickly as possible. Do you mind if I record this?”
Charlie shook her head. “Knock yourself out.”
She tapped some buttons on her phone to activate the recorder, then unpacked her bag, tossing notepads and books and papers onto the table.
The concussion made it impossible for Charlie to read anything in front of her, so she opened up the pack of Wet Wipes and got to work. She scrubbed between her fingers first, dislodging specks of black that floated like ashes from a roaring fire. The blood had seared itself into the pores. Her hands looked like an old woman’s. She was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. She wanted to go home. She wanted a hot bath. She wanted to think about what had happened today, to examine all the pieces, then gather them up, put them in a box and place it high on a shelf so that she never had to deal with it again.
“Ms. Quinn?” Delia Wofford was offering her a bottle of water.
Charlie almost snatched it out of the woman’s hand. She hadn’t realized she was thirsty until that moment. Half of the water was gone before the logical part of her brain reminded her that it wasn’t a good idea to drink so quickly on a sour stomach.
“Sorry.” Charlie put her hand to her mouth to cover the noxious belch.
The agent had obviously endured worse. “Ready?”
“You’re recording this?”
“Yes.”
Charlie peeled another wipe out of the packet. “First, I want some information about Kelly Wilson.”
Delia Wofford had enough years under her belt to not look as annoyed as she must have felt. “She’s been examined by a doctor. She’s under constant surveillance.”
That’s not what Charlie had meant, and the agent knew it. “There are nine factors you have to consider before ascertaining whether or not a juvenile’s statement is—”
“Ms. Quinn,” Delia interrupted. “Let’s stop worrying about Kelly Wilson and start worrying about you. I’m sure you don’t want to spend a second longer here than you absolutely have to.”
Charlie would’ve rolled her eyes if not for the fear of making herself dizzy. “She’s sixteen. She’s not old enough to—”
“Eighteen.”
Charlie stopped cleaning her hands. She stared at Ben, not Delia Wofford, because they had both agreed very early on in their marriage that a lie by omission was still a lie.
Ben stared back. His expression told her nothing.
Delia said, “According to her birth certificate, Kelly Wilson turned eighteen two days ago.”
“You’ve—” Charlie had to look away from Ben because their broken marriage took a back seat to a death warrant. “You’ve seen her birth certificate?”