Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
My lawyer gets up with a squeak of his chair against the linoleum.
“Wait!” I say, panicking. “You can’t send the lawyer away.”
“I’m your new lawyer,” Mr. Pinstripes says, opening his satchel. “Robert Grant, attorney at law. Sit down, we’re wasting time.”
The other lawyer slips out of the room without so much as a word.
“But…” I snap my jaw closed, because this man is opening up a laptop already, and on its screen I see a photo of the hotel where I spent the weekend.
So I shut up and sit down across from him.
“Checkout time from the hotel is eleven a.m. on Sunday. Do you remember when you two drove away?”
“Uh, not until after eleven thirty at the earliest, because we ate lunch at the hotel restaurant.” I say, still groggy from a night of dozing on a bench. “Who gave you that information?”
He looks up. “Keaton Hayworth. Junior, or the third, whatever. The Hayworth kid. The hotel is pulling security footage from the elevators, too. Your name wasn’t on the reservation, which is a shame, but it isn’t the most important thing. My investigator will find someone behind the desk who remembers you.”
I am speechless for a second. “Who hired you?”
“The Hayworths. Now talk to me about your brother. Does he still reside at this address on Calhoun Street?” He swings the computer screen to face me, and it’s a Google Earth shot of my mom’s house.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I know he took my ID and used it to take whatever is missing.”
“Uh-huh,” the lawyer says, typing like crazy. “Totally plausible. But we don’t have to solve this case for the lazy assholes who arrested you. We’re going to show you weren’t anywhere near Darby on Saturday. They know when the place was robbed, they have the shitty footage to prove it.” He glances at me over his screen. “That still shot they showed you was straight-up bullshit. There is other footage that shows your brother’s face. I’d bet money on it.”
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “How much do you cost?”
“Not relevant to the next sixteen minutes. Hey, put this on.” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out an oxford shirt, still wrapped in plastic. “And these.” He’s got a pair of khaki pants with the tags still on them. “Keaton guessed the sizes. Hurry up. Oh, and…” He also sets a can of deodorant on the table.
I rise and strip off my T-shirt, tossing it right into the garbage can in the corner. I’d strip off my skin, too, if I could. I never want to see this place again, and I don’t need any reminders that I was ever here.
Pulling on the shirt that Keaton bought for me is only slightly more comfortable, however. I can’t believe he had to do this for me.
I feel nothing but shame.
When I’m halfway presentable and Mr. Grant has asked me fifty questions in fifteen minutes, I’m marched by a bailiff to a busy courtroom, where the judge is seated on the dais, several people convened in front of him.
I take a seat on yet another bench.
My fancy lawyer—my new favorite person—is hissing at another man at the side of the room. “This is an ACD,” Grant says. “Looks bad if you lock up a college kid before exams, whose only crime is sharing DNA with a turd you already convicted.”
The other man makes a face.
“The college looks bad if this is on the news,” Grant says, and it sounds like a threat. “And when the college looks bad, your boss gets a call.”
My lawyer is a scary dude. And I don’t even understand the things he’s saying.
“Case 418636!” calls a bailiff in front.
“That’s us,” Grant says, snapping his fingers. I rise and move toward him like a well-trained dog. “I speak for you,” he says under his breath. “Just answer ‘Yes, your honor,’ when the judge confirms your name.”
And so I do.
Two minutes later the district attorney—that’s the guy my lawyer was talking to—says “We’ve reached an agreement of ACD.”
I don’t know what that means, but the judge grunts. He hands a sheet of paper to the DA. “ROR for ACD.” Then he taps his gavel and picks up some other papers on his desk.
“Thank you,” murmurs Grant to the DA. “Wise decision. My client will make himself available to you whenever necessary.” Then Grant takes my elbow in his hand and drags me up the aisle and out the door.
“What just happened?” I ask when we’ve reached the lobby.
“ACD means Adjournment in Contemplation of Dismissal.”
“But what about bail?” I ask as he lets go of my arm.
“No bail. You’re just free to go. I’ll supply them with hard evidence of your alibi. Meanwhile, the DA’s office will try to find the actual burglar and then they’ll dismiss your case for good. So don’t get arrested for anything else, kid. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t trespass. Don’t even run a stop sign.”