Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to the East End police department.

I walk up to the desk sergeant as if I have every right to be there. “You brought in a kid named Edison Jefferson?” I ask. “What’s the charge?”

“Who are you?”

“The family lawyer.”

Who was fired hours ago, I think silently. The officer narrows his eyes. “Kid didn’t say anything about a lawyer.”

“He’s seventeen,” I point out. “He’s probably too terrified to remember his own name. Look, let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, okay?”

“We got him on security cameras at the hospital, spray-painting the walls.”

Edison? Vandalizing? “You sure you have the right kid? He’s an honor student. College-bound.”

“Security guards ID’d him. And we tagged him driving a car with out-of-date plates registered to Ruth Jefferson. To his front door.”

Oh. Crap.

“He was painting swastikas, and wrote ‘Die Nigger.’?”

“What?” I say, stunned.

That means it’s not just vandalism. It’s a hate crime. But it doesn’t make any sense. I open my purse, look at how much cash I have. “Okay, listen. Can you get him a special arraignment? I’ll pay for the magistrate to come, so he can get out of here tonight.”

I am taken back to the holding cell, where Edison is sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, his knees hunched up to his chin. Tears lattice his cheeks. The minute he sees me he stands up and walks toward the bars. “What were you thinking?” I demand.

He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I wanted to help my mama.”

“What about getting your ass thrown in jail helps your mother right now?”

“I wanted to get Turk Bauer in trouble. If it wasn’t for him, none of this ever would have happened. And after today, everyone was blaming her, and they should have been blaming him…” He looks up at me, his eyes red. “She’s the victim here. How come nobody sees that?”

“I will help you,” I tell him. “But what you and I talk about is privileged information, which means you shouldn’t tell your mother anything about it.” What I’m thinking, though, is that Ruth will find out soon enough. Probably when she reads the front page of the damn paper. It’s just too good: SON OF KILLER NURSE ARRESTED FOR HATE CRIME. “And for the love of God, don’t say a word in front of the magistrate.”

Fifteen minutes later, the magistrate comes to the holding cell. Special arraignments are like magic tricks; all sorts of rules can be bent when you are willing to pay extra. There’s an officer acting as prosecutor, and me, and Edison, and the judge-for-hire. Edison’s charge is read, and his Miranda rights. “What’s going on here?” the magistrate asks.

I jump in. “Your Honor, this is a very unique circumstance, an isolated incident. Edison is a varsity athlete and an honor student who’s never been in trouble before; his mother is on trial right now for negligent homicide, and he’s frustrated. Emotions are running very high right now, and this was a hugely misguided attempt to support his mother.”

The magistrate looks at Edison. “Is that true, young man?”

Edison looks at me, unsure if he should answer. I nod. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly.

“Edison Jefferson,” the magistrate says, “you have been charged with a racially motived hate crime. This is a felony, and you’ll be arraigned in court on Monday. You will not have to answer any questions, and you have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. I see that you have Ms. McQuarrie here on your behalf, and the case will be referred to the public defender’s office formally in superior court. You cannot leave the state of Connecticut, and I have the obligation to advise you that if you are arrested for any other offense while this case is pending, you can be held at the state prison.” He stares down Edison. “Stay out of trouble, boy.”

The whole thing takes an hour. We are both wide awake when we get into my car so that I can drive Edison home. The glow of the rearview mirror brackets my eyes as I steal glances at him in the passenger seat. He’s holding one of Violet’s toys—a little fairy with pink wings. It is impossibly tiny in his large hands. “What the fuck, Edison?” I say quietly. “People like Turk Bauer are horrible. Why are you stooping to that level?”

“Why are you?” he asks, turning toward me. “You’re pretending that what they do doesn’t even matter. I sat through that whole trial; it barely even came up.”

“What barely came up?”

“Racism,” he says.

I suck in my breath. “It may never have been explicitly discussed during the trial, but Turk Bauer was on full display—a museum-quality exhibit.”

He looks at me, one eyebrow cocked. “You really think Turk Bauer is the only person in that courtroom who’s a racist?”