by Janae Marks
“What’s going on?” I asked, scanning their faces.
Mom cleared her throat before saying, “I spoke to Professor Thomas today.”
I sat up straighter. “You did? What? How?”
She nodded. “Your grandma convinced me that it was the right thing to do.”
I looked over at Grandma, who smiled at me.
“Oh my goodness,” I said, grinning back at her, my head spinning. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Thank you!”
“Professor Thomas told me what happened when you went to her office. She said that she had your letter from Marcus.” Mom reached into her blazer pocket and held out a folded piece of loose-leaf paper. “Here.”
Marcus’s letter.
“You went to see Professor Thomas?”
Mom nodded. “After our phone call.”
“We both went so we could talk to her together,” Dad said.
I couldn’t believe it. “Does she really remember Marcus?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “She had a lot to say.”
Dad said, “I asked her if I could record our conversation. We want to talk to a lawyer about what she said.”
A lawyer? My heart squeezed. They were going to talk to a lawyer about this?
Dad took his cell phone out, and a moment later, Professor Thomas’s voice filled my bedroom. My heart started to race as I leaned closer to the phone in Dad’s hand.
“Let me start from the beginning,” Professor Thomas said. “Marcus originally reached out to me because he wanted to see a futon I was selling—I’d posted it on Craigslist. He came by my house to take a look.”
Dad’s voice came up on the recording. “You’re sure it was that same day? His crime took place on October 26. It sounds like police believe the victim was killed in the late afternoon.”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure. It was a Friday,” Professor Thomas said. “He came toward the end of the workday. I showed him the futon, and he said he wanted to buy it. Then he noticed some of the baby stuff I had out for sale, which my brother and his wife were getting rid of. Marcus said he was going to be a dad soon, and started asking me questions about the baby stuff. Like what sort of gear he should have.”
“He said he wanted to buy stuff for a baby?” Mom’s voice on the recording asked. She sounded surprised, but in a good way.
“Yes,” Professor Thomas said. “That’s the part that made me remember him. He said he could use some stuff for his ‘Little Tomato,’ which is what he said he called the baby. I thought that was so cute. He was so young, still looked like a kid himself, but he seemed excited to become a dad. I’d never heard of Little Tomato before. My brother called his son Peanut at one point. I asked him where he got the nickname, and he said it was from a song. He ended up turning on his car and playing it for me. It was a sweet song.”
The tune of “Hang On Little Tomato” played in my head as I listened to Professor Thomas tell the story. I could imagine it—them standing in her driveway listening to the song from his car’s speakers. Marcus smiling, thinking of me.
Because he wasn’t committing a crime that afternoon. He was thinking about me. My eyes started to water.
Professor Thomas kept talking. “We talked about babies for a couple of minutes, and then we decided on a price for the futon. He said he’d rent a U-Haul truck the next morning so he could bring it home, but that he’d give me the cash that night so I’d hold the futon for him. He asked me where the nearest ATM was, and I said there was one a few blocks away in downtown Brookline. I remember he ended up walking there. He left his car in front of my house.
“He didn’t come back right away, and I remember wondering if he’d gotten lost. But then he came back holding a coffee cup and a bag of doughnuts. By that point, it was getting dark out. My husband got home, and he and Marcus got into a conversation about sports, because my husband had a Boston Celtics hat on, and I guess Marcus is a big fan. They talked for a while. But then Marcus said he didn’t need the futon after all. I guess while he was gone, he got a call from a friend who said he could have his couch. Marcus left sometime after that.”
Dad stopped the recording there.
I blinked at them. “Do you believe her?” I asked, looking between Mom, Dad, and Grandma. “Do you think she really did see Marcus that afternoon?”
Grandma nodded, and Dad said, “Her story makes sense. Plus, it takes at least thirty minutes to drive back and forth between UMass Boston and Brookline, where Professor Thomas lived. I’m not an expert, but I don’t see how Marcus could’ve driven back and forth, spent all that time in Brookline, and still committed the crime near campus.”
“What do you think?” I asked Mom.
She sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I’m still in shock. I spent so long convincing myself he had to be guilty. It was easier to believe that, to justify him being in prison—away from us.” She teared up again, blinking them away, and cleared her throat. “But he could be innocent, and if he is, I need to know. We have to find out the truth.”
I could barely believe my ears. “What happens now?”
“After we left Harvard, I called a friend of mine who’s a lawyer,” Dad said. “He’s not a criminal lawyer, but he has friends from law school who are. He’s going to speak to a couple of them and see what we can do. He said the Innocence Project of New England is right here in Boston, so we can reach out to them.”
“I know about them!” I said. “Do you think Marcus will be able to get out of prison?”
“We don’t know,” Grandma said. “Finding his alibi witness was only the first step. That’s why we need to find him a good lawyer.”
We. They were really going to help! “I . . . I still can’t believe you talked to Professor Thomas,” I said.
“You did a good job with your investigating,” Dad said, his voice now turning serious. “But that doesn’t excuse your lying and going to Harvard without permission. That was really dangerous.”
“So I’m still grounded?”
“Yes,” Mom said.
I nodded, not even a little bit upset. How could I care about being grounded after finding out that Marcus’s alibi was true? And he might get out of prison?
I stood up, and by the time I took a couple steps to Mom, my eyes were watering for real. “Thank you,” I told her. Then I took one more step closer and tightly wrapped my arms around her middle.
Mom didn’t say anything, but squeezed me back and swayed with me for a couple seconds. Her hug felt so familiar and comforting. I’d missed this. I’d missed her so much. I cried into her blouse.
When we separated, Mom wiped the tears from both my eyes and hers. “If you want to talk some more about Marcus,” she said, “you can let me know. I understand that he’s part of your life now.”
“Really?” I asked. I couldn’t believe my luck.
“Really.”
“My turn,” Grandma said, and she pulled me into a hug.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” I told her. “I don’t hate you. You know that, right?”
“Of course I know that, baby girl,” Grandma said. “You were angry. Don’t worry about it. I’m still proud of you,” she whispered into my ear.
I grinned, feeling proud of me, too.
That night, I couldn’t help it. I wrote an actual letter to Marcus on my stationery. I didn’t know when I’d get to mail it, but I hoped it would be soon.
From the Desk of Zoe Washington
September 8
Dear Marcus,
You won’t believe this. I found Susan Thomas! I’ve been calling her Professor Thomas because she teaches at Harvard. What’s even better is that she remembers you from the afternoon of the crime. Dad’s lawyer friends are going to reach out to the Innocence Project, to see if they will help. I’m really excited and hope this means you’ll get out of prison.
No matter what happens, I want you to know that I’m really glad I’m getting to know you.
Love,
Zoe
PS Send another song for my playlist, okay?
Chapter Thirty-Five
On Saturday, I went to the kitchen to get breakfast and was surprised to see a few of my baking supplies set up on the island. An apron was folded neatly beside them, next to my Ruby Willow cookbook. Dad sat on one stool with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him as he flipped through an article on his tablet. Mom sat next to him with a cup of tea and a magazine. They both looked up when I walked in. I was suddenly worried that they’d decided to totally remove all of my baking supplies from the house as part of my grounding. I glanced at my yellow mixer, wondering if I should lunge for it before it was too late.
“Good morning,” both my parents said at the same time. Neither of them sounded angry, but that didn’t mean they weren’t.
“What’s all this?” I asked, pointing to all my baking stuff.
“We want to bake something,” Mom said. “As a family.”
“But I thought you said I couldn’t bake while I’m grounded.”
“We’re going to make this one exception. And today you get two sous-chefs,” Mom said. “Pick a recipe in here, and Dad will run to the store if we’re missing anything. Then we’ll start after you eat breakfast.”
Smiling, I grabbed the cookbook and started skimming through it, but then I realized that what I really wanted to bake wasn’t within its pages.
I got a small notepad and pen from our junk drawer. I wrote down the ingredients we needed and handed it to Dad.
“Froot Loops?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.
I smiled. “Yup.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding skeptical. “I’ll be right back.”
While he was gone, I ate a bowl of oatmeal with sliced bananas. “You know, I made this playlist with songs Marcus sent me in his letters,” I told Mom. “Plus some others by the same artists. I called it my ‘Little Tomato’ playlist.”
“That’s sweet,” she said. “Can I hear it?”
I grabbed my phone and hooked it up to the speakers, and Jill Scott’s “Golden” came on.
Mom immediately started singing along—sounding even better than when she sang to herself in front of the bathroom mirror.
We danced around the kitchen and sang along with the songs on the playlist while we waited for Dad to come back from the store. By the time he walked into the kitchen with a grocery bag, we were belting along to Boyz II Men and Mariah Carey’s “One Sweet Day,” and he looked at us like we were the silliest people in the world.
I lowered the music and grabbed the cereal box from the grocery bag. The first thing I did was pour some of the cereal into a bowl with milk to soak.
“I came up with a cupcake recipe,” I explained.
“With cereal?” Mom asked.
“Yes. Wait until you try them.”
When the cereal milk was ready, we got to work making the cupcakes. Mom and Dad helped with each of the steps—creaming the butter and sugar together, adding the flour and cereal milk and other ingredients. When the batter was done, I separated it into three bowls and we added the red, blue, and green food coloring. I used an ice cream scoop to drop small amounts of each color batter into each cupcake tin, and then we used toothpicks to swirl the batter around a little.
While the cupcakes baked, we worked on a buttercream frosting and danced some more to the Little Tomato playlist. When the song “Hang On Little Tomato” came on, Dad stopped what he was doing and paid closer attention to it.
“Oh, I like the sound of this one,” he said.
“I knew you would,” I told him.
When the cupcakes were all done and the whole room smelled like sugar, we set them out to cool on the kitchen island. The tie-dye colors came out perfect. We put the white buttercream frosting into a plastic bag and cut the tip. I showed them how to frost the cupcakes, and we each did a few. When they were done, they didn’t look as perfect as Liz’s cupcakes at Ari’s Cakes, but they still looked pretty professional.
“Last step,” I said, grabbing the Froot Loops box. I scooped some of the cereal out and sprinkled a few pieces on top of each cupcake.
“Ta da!” I said.
“They look so pretty,” Mom said. She picked one up and put it on a white plate, then moved it to a sunny spot on the counter. She grabbed her phone to snap a picture. “Seriously, look how pretty this looks. I’m sending this to Ari.”
I swelled with pride.
“But how do they taste?” Dad asked.
We each grabbed a cupcake. As soon as I finished my first bite, I knew I’d nailed the recipe. It tasted just like the Froot Loops, but not too sweet, and the buttercream frosting was creamy and delicious.
“You know, I wasn’t sure about cereal in cupcakes, but you really know what you’re doing,” Dad said. “This is amazing.”
Mom still had cupcake in her mouth, so she nodded and smiled.
I beamed.
Dad’s cell phone rang, and he stared at the screen. “It’s Jason. I should take this.” Jason was Dad’s lawyer friend who was able to get us a meeting with the Innocence Project for the following week. I didn’t know what would come of it, but I thought about the stories from The Wrongfully Convicted book and tried to stay hopeful.
While Dad was gone, Mom and I started to clean up.
“Can I ask you something? Well, two somethings?” I licked icing off a spoon and put it in the dishwasher.
“Of course,” Mom said.
“Do you think you can forgive Marcus now?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “If Marcus really is innocent, I hope you will forgive me for keeping him from you all these years. I hope you understand why I did it, that I was only trying to protect you. I still am, the best way I know how.”
I leaned over and wrapped my arms around Mom’s waist, and we gave each other a big squeeze. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”
Mom exhaled and then twisted around to grab a paper towel from the kitchen counter. After dabbing her eyes with it, she said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen with Marcus, with these lawyers, but your dad, Grandma, and I are here for you no matter what, okay? We love you.”
“I love you, too,” I said, and Mom kissed my forehead.
“What was the other something you wanted to ask?”
“Oh. One second.” I ran to my room to grab my letter to Marcus. When I got back to the kitchen, I showed her the envelope.
She stared at it for a second, and I tried to read her face.
“I was hoping you’d let me mail it,” I said. “You can read it first, if you want.”
She didn’t take the envelope from me, to read it or rip it into pieces. Instead, she went into the junk drawer and grabbed a stamp. “Why don’t we go mail it right now? I can walk to the mailbox with you.”
My eyes lit up. “Okay.”
Mom put Butternut on a leash and we all headed outside. We walked down the street toward the mailbox, Mom’s arm linked through mine the whole way.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was a little scary to visit a prison. First, we went through security, and then a uniformed guard led us down an empty hallway to the visiting room. Our shoes tapped against the linoleum floor, and the fluorescent lights above us were so bright. It felt like we were being led to our own prison cells. I grabbed Mom’s hand. On the other side of her were Dad and Grandma. I breathed in and out. They would keep me safe.
The visiting room was pretty plain. It had tables and chairs and a couple of vending machines in the corner. A few visitors were already at tables, sitting across from inmates—men in orange jumpsuits. One woman clutched an inmate’s hands from across the table and laughed with him about something. He looked really happy to see her, too.
In a few minutes, that would be me, seeing Marcus in person for the first time ever. I couldn’t smile yet, though. I was too shaky with nerves.
We found seats at an empty table, and Grandma took a few coins out
of her bag. “I know you’re sad you couldn’t bring your cupcakes today, but why don’t you get Marcus something from the vending machine?”
I was still bummed that I couldn’t bring the cupcakes. I really wanted Marcus to be able to taste some of my baking. But hopefully he’d get to try my desserts soon, outside of prison. The Innocence Project lawyers were working with him on that. Dad told me they were feeling optimistic.
At least I could show Marcus pictures I’d printed out of them in the window display at Ari’s Cakes. Mom had given Ariana one of my cereal cupcakes to try, and she loved them so much, she made it the special flavor for the month of October. She even put my name on the sign as the featured baker. I didn’t care anymore that I didn’t get to audition for Kids Bake Challenge! How many kids got to say their cupcake recipe was for sale in a real bakery? Not even Ruby Willow had done that. Forget about becoming a pastry chef when I grew up. I already was one.
I took the change from Grandma and went to the vending machine. I stared at the snack options and wondered what kind Marcus liked best. Peanut butter cups? Sour cream and onion chips? Did he like sweet or savory? Or maybe he was like me, and liked them both at the same time. I finally decided on peanut M&M’s. I put the quarters in and the bag plopped out at the bottom of the machine.
When I turned back around, I stopped breathing and almost dropped the candy. Marcus had come into the room, and he was standing in front of our table, looking right at me. I recognized him right away. His face was the same as in my photo of him, except older, of course, and his cheeks were fuller. He looked freshly shaven. Even wearing his prison clothes, he was handsome.
Marcus smiled really big, and it lit up his whole face. Soon his eyes filled up with tears. He motioned me over, and somehow my legs carried me toward him. He was tall—a couple of inches taller than Dad.
“My Little Tomato. My Zoe,” he said as he stood in front of me and took me in. “I can’t believe you’re here. Finally.”
