Henry pulls in a few seconds later, lining his Range Rover up next to Logan so they can talk without getting out of the car.
I glance at the clock. Six ten. I was here around six thirty last night and they were already well into their conversation. I grab the camera from the passenger seat and take a few images.
Time crawls as I wait for the other boys to show. Logan and Henry seem relaxed, leaned back in their seats, talking through their open windows. Logan has already thrown one cigarette out of the window and lit a second one. Six minutes go by before a silver BMW pulls in next to Logan’s Tahoe. John Michael. And then a jacked-up red Jeep with the top off shows up. Shep.
The gang’s all here.
Shep pulls off to the side, and they all get out of their vehicles and move into the same tight circle as the night before. The sun is sinking low in the horizon, so I adjust the camera’s setting for the low-light conditions. I zoom in and fire away.
God, I wish I could hear what they’re saying.
I get a good shot of Logan and notice a long thin red mark, almost like a new scar, running down his neck.
What is that from?
And then I’m on John Michael. There are some serious dark circles and bags under his eyes. That boy isn’t getting any rest.
Within minutes, the shoving starts. Shep pushes Henry so hard Henry bounces against the back of John Michael’s car. I zoom out to make sure I get everyone in the image. Henry launches himself at Shep and they end up in a tangled knot. Logan pulls at Henry, and John Michael yanks Shep back until they are separated.
Shep stands rigid, like it’s taking everything in his power to maintain control. But Henry’s body language is different. He’s relaxed as he straightens his shirt and throws Shep a mocking grin.
Henry moves close to Shep, saying something that has Shep diving at him again, but Logan steps in, stopping him. Protecting Henry. With a final shove, Logan and Henry get into their vehicles and peel out of the parking lot, dust and gravel billowing in their wake. John Michael puts a hand on Shep’s shoulder, bends his head close, and says something to him that makes Shep nod. I can almost see the tension leave Shep the more John Michael talks to him. John Michael pulls something out of his pocket. I focus in on it and it’s a joint. He offers it to Shep, but Shep shakes his head. John Michael shrugs and stuffs it back in his pocket. They stand there talking for several minutes until they both head back to their own vehicles. John Michael pulls his car close to Shep’s Jeep, says something else that makes Shep laugh, then drives out of the parking lot. But Shep doesn’t leave. His hands grip the top of the steering wheel, and through my lens I notice there are a few cuts on his knuckles that are almost healed. And if my lip-reading skills are accurate, he lets out a few expletives before dropping his head.
From this angle, I have a clear shot of his profile. I zoom in close and it’s like I’m sitting right next to him in that Jeep. His dark hair falls forward, and my fingers itch to move it out of his eyes so I can get a clear shot of them. The click of the shutter fills my car as I pray that I’m able to capture the absolute despair on his face.
He looks completely dejected. Defeated.
He looks as bad as I feel. From somewhere deep down, the desire to reach a hand out and comfort him is overwhelming. And it seems, through this lens, that I almost could. But then I remember his messages and I want to slap his face instead.
His head starts to turn slowly. I’m fascinated by the movement until he’s looking directly at me. I drop the camera quickly and duck down in my seat.
Did he see me? My heart rate spikes and I can feel the blood pumping in my veins.
I’m not sure how long I stay hunched down in my seat, but when I finally raise my head, Shep’s gone.
TRANSCRIPT OF THE OCTOBER 5 INTERROGATION OF LOGAN MCCULLAR BY DETECTIVE ROSS, WITH BODY LANGUAGE COMMENTARY BY KATE MARINO
DET. ROSS: Last night was a little more than a celebration, wasn’t it? You’ve got a nice little side business going on, don’t you?
LOGAN: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
KATE: Logan sits on the edge of his chair. Shoulders are hunched.
DET. ROSS: How much money did you clear after LSU beat A&M last night?
KATE: His eyes pop up, looking at the detective.
LOGAN: I said I have no idea what you’re talking about.
DET. ROSS: A little birdie told me there’s more going on out at River Point than a bunch of spoiled kids drinking and messing around. You can’t run a sports betting operation like that without people getting really interested in what’s going on out there.
LOGAN: I don’t know who your “little birdie” is, but they’re full of shit.
KATE: He picks at his thumbnail, won’t look at the detective.
DET. ROSS: Want to tell me how you got that cut across your neck?
LOGAN: Cut myself shaving.
KATE: His hand goes to the cut on his neck. It’s thin and slashes down from below his left ear to the center of his throat. Does not look like a shaving nick.
DET. ROSS: You’re a regular comedian. Okay, let’s talk about last night. Everybody’s having a good time. Partying, feeling good about winning that football game of yours. Were there any problems inside your group?
KATE: He dips his head to the side. He’s smirking a little.
DET. ROSS: I’m taking your silence as a yes.
LOGAN: You can take it any way you want to.
DET. ROSS: There was a fight. We found evidence of trouble. Broken table, broken glass. And poor Grant’s got some pretty ugly marks on him that have nothing to do with the gunshot wound.
KATE: This silence is awkward.
DET. ROSS: Tell me who was fighting with Grant.
LOGAN: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
KATE: He’s looking at the ground. Hands clenched in his lap.
DET. ROSS: Sure you do. There’s always one guy who rises to the top. The leader. The one who makes the plans, or decides what everyone else will be doing. The one who made the decision not to tell us who was using the Remington.
LOGAN: There’s no leader.
DET. ROSS: I know you’re trying to protect your friends, but you’re only hurting yourself. Who’s calling the shots? Because I know it’s not you.
KATE: His eyes squint. He looks pissed. Insulted.
LOGAN: Man, you don’t even know what you’re talking about.
DET. ROSS: You just follow along and do what you’re told, right? Which one of those boys told you to sit here and play stupid? Because there’s no way you don’t know which one of them fired that Remington this morning and put a hole in Grant Perkins’s chest.
KATE: Logan glares at the officer.
DET. ROSS: You said it wasn’t you, so who was it?
LOGAN: I don’t know.
DET. ROSS: Are you afraid of what will happen if you tell the truth? Maybe your friends know all about that little side business. Maybe if you rat them out, they’ll rat you out. Are you keeping your mouth shut to save your own ass?
KATE: He shifts around in his chair. Rubs his hand across his face. Smirk is gone.
UNKNOWN VOICE: Parents are outside. No more questioning without a lawyer.
DET. ROSS: Logan, you’re eighteen. Is that how it’s going to be? You afraid to talk to me? Just like you’re afraid of your friends?
LOGAN: I want a lawyer.
SEPTEMBER 26, 10:03 P.M.
GRANT: Where do Marshall girls hang out on a Friday night?
KATE: When you’re friends with a future fashion designer, you find yourself in Dallas looking at fabric FOR HOURS. Why?
GRANT: Damn. Was hoping I could run into you.
KATE: I would have liked that. A lot.
The door to Rhino Coffee chimes when I push it open, and several people turn toward the entrance. The delicious aroma of coffee floats through the air; an indie rock station plays in the background.
I’m in my happy place.
&nb
sp; Scanning the room, I see Reagan is already in our usual spot, but I stop at the counter first to place my order. I’m tempted to pull the “I’ll have my usual,” since we’ve been hanging out here every Wednesday night for years, but it would be devastating if the barista looked at me like she had no idea who I am.
“What can I get started for you?” she asks with her usual smile.
“Large chai, please.”
I carry my steaming cup of goodness to the back corner and drop down on the big fluffy couch next to the chair Reagan’s perched in. She’s totally absorbed in her sketchbook and jumps about a foot when I tap her leg.
“Holy crap! You freaking scared me to death,” she says.
I laugh when I notice her brightly patterned outfit. I’ve never known Reagan to wear Spandex before. “Those pants are hot.”
She stretches her legs out. “These are my new yoga clothes. Just finished a candlelight meditation class at Breathe Yoga. You didn’t think I’d wear all black like everyone else, did you?”
“No. God forbid you not stick out.” Taking a peek at her pad, I revel in her artistic genius. At first glance, it looks like the dress she designed is two pieces, a cropped top and a flared short skirt, but it’s an illusion. An intricate lace design covers the neck and shoulders, and it’s somehow fun and sexy at the same time.
“Oh my God, Reagan. You have to make this and wear it to Winter Formal.”
Her face scrunches up; she’s definitely her toughest critic. “You think?”
“Absolutely. Josh won’t know what hit him.”
Reagan rolls her eyes. “He probably won’t even ask me.”
I shove her arm. “Whatever. He totally will. And his eyes will pop out of his head when he sees you in this.”
“Whose eyes are popping out?” Alexis asks as she and Mignon drop down in a pair of chairs across from us.
“Josh’s when he sees her in the dress she’s designing for Winter Formal,” I answer.
Mignon laughs. “That means Josh would have to actually get up the courage to ask Reagan out first.”
Reagan slumps back in her chair. “See? Seriously, that boy is killing me.”
“What’s the holdup? I mean, every chance he gets, he’s by your side,” Alexis says.
“He’s scared she’s going to shoot him down,” I say. “I’ve been watching him and he’s terrified.”
Mignon laughs and Alexis says, “You friend-zoned him too long.”
Reagan rolls her eyes. “Well, we were friends first. I don’t know what else I can do to let him know I’m into him. Maybe I’ll just have to ask him out.”
“Show me the dress,” Mignon says.
Reagan holds up her sketchbook and they both gush over her drawing, but my eyes are drawn back to the counter.
Or rather, to who is at the counter. There are two girls placing their order, and one of them is the girl who walked off the field with Grant after the Battle of the Paddle game. The girl his arm was around. The girl that should have been me.
“Who are you staring at?” Reagan asks.
Mignon and Alexis turn around to look, then Mignon jumps up and runs to the counter.
“Does she know them?” I ask, hoping to keep the horror I’m feeling out of my voice.
“Looks like it,” Alexis says.
Before I can form another sentence, she’s dragging them back to our area. Oh God, they’re going to sit with us.
“Everyone, this is Rebecca Meyers and her friend Lindsey. Rebecca and I played travel soccer together when we were younger,” Mignon says, and then points to each of us, introducing us by name.
Both girls say hi and sit on the couch next to me. Lindsey, the girl who was with Grant, is only inches away and I’m finding it hard to breathe.
Rebecca leans forward, looking at Reagan’s sketchbook that’s sitting on the coffee table. “This is hot!” She looks up and asks, “Did one of y’all draw this?”
Reagan gives a small little wave. “I did. It’s a design I’m working on.”
Lindsey takes a peek at the drawing. “Do you just design or do you make them, too?”
“She’s an all-around badass,” Mignon says. “From idea to finished product.”
Rebecca sits back. “That’s pretty cool. Do you sell any of your clothes?”
Reagan shakes her head. “I wish. That would be a thousand times better than working at the courthouse.”
“Please,” Alexis says. “I would take your job over watching the Bradford triplets after school every day. Those parents are lucky their little monsters are still alive by six o’clock.”
Mignon pats her leg. “Think of it as a good form of birth control.”
We all laugh and the tension of sitting next to Lindsey lessens a little.
“You work at the courthouse?” Rebecca asks Reagan. “That sounds cool.”
“The part I work in sucks. All I do is file all day. Kate’s got a little more action where she is. She works for the prosecutor that got the River Point case.”
I cringe and Lindsey chokes on her coffee. Reagan has no idea Grant was hanging out with Lindsey at the game the night before he was shot. Lindsey’s face gets red, either from swallowing her coffee the wrong way or from the talk of Grant’s case. She turns slightly away from me, refusing to look my way.
“Oh, God,” Rebecca says, leaning forward so she can see me on the other side of Lindsey. “Can you tell us what’s going on? That’s all anyone at St. Bart’s can talk about right now.”
Lindsey ducks her head and crosses her arms in front of her. She’s as uncomfortable talking about him as I am.
I shrug and answer, “Not really. We’re just working through everything right now. There’s not a lot to go on.”
Lindsey chews on her lip and drags in a deep, long breath before letting it out in a rush. Rebecca looks at her, sending her some sort of silent message, and Lindsey shakes her head slowly back and forth.
I seem to be the only one who notices how weird they’re acting.
“It’s so sad. His friends must feel terrible,” Alexis says. “I can’t imagine if I accidentally hurt one of y’all.”
“I know, right?” Rebecca says. “They were all so close. It’s got to be tearing them apart.”
Lindsey pops up from the couch. “I’ll be right back. I need to go to the restroom.” And then she darts into the side hall.
“Is she okay?” Mignon asks.
Rebecca tilts her head to the side and shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, she’s fine. We were good friends with all of them. It’s been hard on our entire school.”
They were good friends. What if I totally got it wrong when I saw them together? What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?
What if I missed my last opportunity to be with Grant over unfounded jealousy?
Even though I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I already do, I was wrong.
• • •
I’m still feeling down almost a day later. And stupid. I’m feeling sad and stupid. We’re in the break room, eating a quick lunch before our shifts officially start, when Camille pops her head in. By the expression on her face, I can tell she’s got some good gossip.
Reagan kicks out the seat across from us with her foot and says, “Sit. And spill it.”
“You two owe me info,” Camille says, plopping down in the chair. “I’m not sharing until I hear something good from y’all.”
Reagan and I share a look.
“Fine,” Reagan says. “Grant’s dad showed up at Morrison’s office yesterday afternoon. He’s hired his own investigative team. Thinks we’re a bunch of morons and doesn’t trust any of us. He was asking for a copy of everything, plus he wants his guys to examine the evidence.”
I’m sure my mouth is hanging open. “Really?” I ask, then nudge her in the side. “And I’m just now hearing this.”
She shrugs. “I would have told you, but you’ve been sneaking out of here before me every night this week. Want to
tell me where you’ve been going?” Reagan gives me a pointed look.
Touché.
Camille waves her hands in front of us, drawing our focus back to her. “So what did Morrison say?”
“She doesn’t know what to say. We’ve never had a case like this, ever, so we’re all making it up as we go. She’s told him to give her a few days and she’ll figure it out.”
This case really should have been sent to the attorney general. The reason we could get the grand jury scheduled so quickly is because there’s little else going on here. I don’t blame Mr. Perkins for bringing in experts from the outside.
“Now it’s your turn, Camille. And yours better be good,” I say.
Camille sits up a little straighter in the chair. “The River Point dads met with Gaines this morning. All four of them. And then when they were leaving the office, that group of protesters showed up…you know the ones who’ve been picketing in front of the building down the street?”
Reagan and I nod. We have to pass them every day when we leave the courthouse.
“Well, they must have spotted Mr. Forres when he came in, because they were waiting for him when he came out.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s his construction company that’s doing the work on that building. And they’re blaming him for charging the city millions more than he should have and they’re blaming Gaines for not doing anything about it.”
“So what happened?” Reagan asks.
“Mr. Forres all but ran out of here and Gaines ducked back in his office. Morrison had to boot the protesters out of here.”
Even though Gaines is the DA, Morrison is really the one who runs this place. She’s the backbone of this entire operation and runs her domain with an iron fist.
I can’t help the sigh of disgust that escapes. “That’s just like Gaines—let this city go bankrupt before holding one of his friends accountable.”
Reagan shifts uncomfortably. “Well, we don’t really know the whole story.”
Reagan is in the tricky position of being related to Gaines through marriage. She sees what happens up here, but she’s loyal to her family, so she never outright criticizes him. I usually keep my mouth shut about him around her, but he’s gotten so bad I can’t help it.
This is Our Story Page 7
