“Dad?” Wyatt has appeared next to us, at his father’s elbow. He looks panicked. “Dad, what’s going on?”
Jennings doesn’t hear Wyatt, or ignores him. He waves his hand in a tight circle, index finger out: Wrap it up. “Bring your things, fellas. Follow me.” Greg and Randy slowly scoot their chairs back and begin to rise. Trumble places his hand on Deacon’s shoulder.
“Aw, c’mon, Dippity-do!” Dooney shouts at Deputy Jennings. Whatever noise is still echoing off lunch trays dies instantly. Those who didn’t see the police upon entry certainly register their presence now, stretching and craning for a glimpse.
It’s so quiet I can hear the rattle of pans being washed in the dish room behind the kitchen. The smell of spaghetti wafts up in all directions, but there is no air to breathe. All eyes are here. All ears are pricked up. Nobody moves—even to lift a fork. The entire room seems ready to implode as Deputy Jennings places both hands on the table and leans across to level his gaze at Dooney’s.
“We can do this right here in front of everybody, or we can do it in the office. You have three seconds to choose.” His voice is low and calm. There is power in his words. I see Dooney’s jaw twitch as he grits his teeth in defiance.
A tiny seismic shift.
Deacon moves first, standing slowly.
“Don’t, man,” Dooney warns him.
Deacon shakes his head and runs a hand across his close-cropped fade. He glances down at Trumble—nearly a foot shorter now that Deacon is standing. “Where to?” he asks.
The officer steers Deacon toward the door by the elbow, jerking his head at Greg and Randy, who follow, leaving behind the remains of their lunches.
“Either you’re walking or I’m dragging.” Jennings’s eyes don’t leave Dooney’s for a moment. Dooney stares back without a word, but slowly folds his arms across his chest.
Deputy Jennings walks around the table and jerks Dooney’s chair, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him forward, scattering lunch trays as one hand reaches for the cuffs on his belt.
“John Doone, you are under arrest for the sexual assault of a minor and dissemination of child pornography.” Right arm back. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.” Left arm back. “If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”
Jennings snaps the cuffs.
“My dad’s gonna have your badge,” Dooney growls, eyes blazing.
The deputy pulls Dooney up and pushes him toward the door. “After today? He’s welcome to it.”
Dooney’s walk between the rows of tables seems endless. Principal Hargrove turns on the top step as Jennings wrestles Dooney into the hall. He stops near the salad bar and raises his hands as if to call for silence, only there is no sound. Even the dishwasher has somehow gone quiet. “We’ll have an assembly. Seventh period. Get to class.”
He turns to leave, but I do not see him go. All I see is an ocean in Iowa. A sea of screens. Camera phones—at least one at every table—recording each moment, with a silent, watchful eye that will never forget.
As the principal disappears down the hall, the held breath of five hundred students is released. All of our confusion, dismay, and speculation is instantly boiled down to a single question:
What the hell just happened?
Ben stares at the door where Dooney was just hauled away in handcuffs. His jaw is slack. Rachel, Lindsey, and Christy descend on us. Each shouts three questions at once. Now Will is here, too, pulling on my sleeve, asking what I know, asking what Ben knows. In unison, they all aim their questions at him:
Do you know do you know do you know?
“Do I know what?”
Ben sinks into a chair at the corner of an empty table, stunned. A migration is occurring into the hallway, and beyond. I sit down next to him. My hand finds his shoulder. At my touch, his face snaps toward me, as if he’s forgotten I am here.
“What is going on?” Christy is almost shouting.
“Did they say ‘child pornography’?” Rachel asks, her voice trembling.
“Oh my god, you guys, Phoebe is a wreck.” Lindsey points a couple tables over where Dooney’s girlfriend is sobbing, two seniors, both named Tracy (one spelled “Tracie”), have an arm around her.
“Sexual assault?” Christy is still badgering Ben with questions. “What do they mean? Like rape?”
“What?” Ben holds up both hands, surrendering. “Look, I have no idea what this is about.”
The electronic tone sounds, announcing lunch is at an end. We have five minutes to make it to fifth period. Christy and Lindsey scatter to collect their books. Will raises a tentative hand in farewell. Ben manages to nod at him. “Later, Pistol.”
“You guys coming?” Rachel asks.