Sammy didn’t react, save for his lips parting. He struggled to find words. The blood drained from his face.

Neither of us spoke for a solid twenty minutes. Sammy’s a big, burly guy, and those are the ones who look particularly infantile when they lose their composure. Sammy was moving in that direction. He didn’t know how to react. He’d lost his sister decades ago. He’d hardly known her. Truth was, he probably struggled to retain a mental image of her. And he knew she was dead. Still, she’d never been found, and this news was a catalyst for emotions long suppressed.

I busied myself with my notepad, then paced around the room, anything to give the guy a modicum of space and privacy.

“Why—why now?” Sammy mumbled.

I told him how I’d visited the old neighborhood, how I’d driven past Griffin Perlini’s house on a lark, met Mrs. Perlini, and gotten the tip about the hill behind the grade school.

“We need to get DNA testing done right away to confirm it’s Audrey,” I said. “We need to hire someone on our own and get a court order. The jury needs to know what he did to your sister.”

I looked at Sammy for the first time since I’d given him the news. His eyes were still wet, but his face was set hard. He was long-accustomed to digesting difficult news with a stony front. Prisons, Sammy’s home for much of his adult life, were not places for hand-holding and group hugs. Long ago, Sammy had learned to distill his pain with anger.

“If it’s Audrey,” I told him, “we’ll make sure she has a proper burial, Sam. We’ll bury her next to your mother.”

Sammy covered his face with his hands and nodded. A rush of emotion gripped my throat. It felt like we were kids again, covering each other’s backs. It was that feeling that held me back from what I’d intended to tell Sammy—that I had to bow out as his lawyer, that I wasn’t ready to do this. On many obvious levels it was absolutely the right thing to do, but something deep within me said otherwise, that I was the only one who’d be willing to take whatever steps necessary to help my friend, that it would be obscene for me to turn my back on Sammy now, no matter how ill-equipped I was.

YOU COME UP the ramp in your sweats, your hair still wet from the fresh shower, your soiled football uniform in a bag over your shoulder. You see Pete, beaming, nodding at you with approval. You enjoy it, the way he looks up to you, and today was special—you’ve had your best game so far of your high school career. You don’t know the official stats, but Coach was saying you had over a hundred fifty yards receiving, and the two scores.

Where’s Ma? you ask Pete.

Pete’s smile vanishes. She went to see Mary, he says. It’s getting bad.

You drive Pete to the hospital, where Sammy’s mother, Mary Cutler, has returned. She’s been in and out of the hospital for over a year now, since she was diagnosed with a genetic kidney disease. She’s been in the hospital two weeks now, but apparently things have taken a turn for the worse.

It’s not good, your mother whispers, pressing her body against yours, in the hallway outside Mary’s room. It’s not good.

Out of Mary’s room walks Sammy, ashen, his eyes lifelessly following the floor. Your heart skips a beat. You haven’t seen Sammy in almost a year—God, a year. Sammy was initially sentenced to one year in the youth detention center on the drug charges, but the judge had extended his sentence when Sammy seriously injured another kid in a fight.

He looks so different, you think. His hair is tightly cropped—a requirement—replacing his previously long, red locks. He has lost a significant amount of weight, too. But there is something beyond the physical.

He sees you. His eyes run up and down you, your sweats, your jock look. Then he looks away with disinterest.

It’s just the situation, you tell yourself. His mother is dying. Cut him some slack.

Hey, you say.

Hey. He doesn’t look at you. His tone indicates he isn’t interested in conversation, not with you. He doesn’t seem interested in much of anything.

Different. Sammy was a troublemaker, sure, but not in a malicious sense. He had a tremendous heart, a real spirit. That’s it, you think to yourself. He has lost more than his long hair and fifteen pounds in that detention center.

Your mother and Pete go into Mary’s room. You find Sammy down the hall in a lounge area, sitting alone on a long couch. You stand, silent, for a long moment, waiting for any response. You take a seat next to your old friend. His head rises slightly, the barest of acknowledgments, but he doesn’t speak.

You start and stop many times. Nothing you want to say feels right. It’s never been like this before. There was never any effort.

It’s not just awkwardness you feel. There is an element of danger in Sammy’s carriage, as if he’s poised, ready at any moment to unleash something evil.

Sammy, you say, but nothing follows.

When he turns to look at you, his expression is severe, intense eyes probing you as if he’s never met you before. Different, you realize. Everything is different.

Tonight you will be flown out east, to one of a dozen schools offering you official recruiting visits as they dangle a scholarship before you. It’s become a full-time chore in your junior year, weekly visits from representatives advocating the merits of their respective universities. Heady stuff, no question. You are a celebrity. They write about you weekly in the newspapers. The teachers pretend not to cut you any slack but their reverence is unmistakable. And the girls? It’s like a buffet.

Two weeks from tonight, you will announce that you’ll be staying close to home, accepting a scholarship at State. You will dream of the ultimate—turning pro—ignoring the reverse stereotype about white kids. You will keep your grades up, chase women, but otherwise have a singular focus on the sport of football.

The following week, Mary Cutler will die. Sammy will attend the funeral, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, and then return the next day to his detention center. After the funeral, you will lose track of Sammy. He will become a memory, part of your childhood, a piece of your life you have put behind you.

23

I DROVE BACK to the office, thinking about Sammy and Pete, two people for whom, at one time or another, I had reserved the most exclusive space in my heart. Drive and ambition, in different forms, had separated me from each of them. Shauna had probably been right about my assuming too much responsibility for the fate of others. But the facts were there, with both of them. I couldn’t feel guilty about having athletic ability or for using it to get an education, but I didn’t need to forget about a childhood bond in the process. There was nothing wrong with diving into my job and family, but it didn’t mean I had to ignore Pete’s struggles.

Still, I was left with the reality that I couldn’t change what had happened, only what would happen going forward. I was given a second chance now, with each of them.

I drafted a motion in Pete’s case for Brady discovery—asking the prosecution to turn over all evidence against Pete. Included in that information, I expected, would be the full name of, and contact information for “Mace,” the police snitch who helped the cops snare Pete. The prosecution was obligated to give me that information even without my asking, but I didn’t want to wait around until the next status hearing. I wanted it now. I wanted to see what I could do to nip this thing in the bud.

My intercom buzzed. “Smith on 4407.”

Smith. Again. I didn’t think I’d be hearing from him so soon, if ever. He’d given me explicit instructions on what I was and was not allowed to do on Sammy’s case, and I’d given him explicit instructions to shove his demands up his ass. What had he said?