LUKE
I’m in the back of a cop car, and I can’t breathe.
Keaton just watched the cops handcuff me. My entire fraternity just watched them push me into the car. There’s a fucking cage between me and the guy in the front seat. I don’t even know where they’re taking me.
All I know is I have never been afraid like I am right now.
My breath is coming too fast, in rapid puffs. But I still can’t get enough air. Like I’m drowning back here. “Can you… open the window?” I gasp. “I can’t breathe.”
“You’re breathing just fine,” says the cop in the passenger seat.
“No I…” Alarm races through me. “I feel dizzy.”
“You’re just hyperventilating,” says the driver. “Breathe through your nose.”
Hyperventilating? I thought that was a joke for TV sitcoms. I clamp my lips together and breathe through my nose. But it feels horrible. Like I’m suffocating. And my arms are trapped behind me, awkward and useless.
What the hell is happening?
Forty minutes later, my breathing is back to normal. But everything else is still chaos. The police take my wallet out of my pocket and use my ID to enter me into their systems. “What’s the charge?” I ask.
“Burglary.”
“What? Of what?”
“Where’s your school ID?” one of the cops asks.
“On a lanyard… In my room?” I guess. “It’s not a law that I have to carry it.” My bravado is thin. “I didn’t steal anything. Why am I here?”
They don’t answer. And then I’m walked through the humiliating procedure of being fingerprinted. At least the handcuffs are off.
They take a mug shot. I stand in front of that thing that shows your height. And I turn to the side when they ask me to.
I want to die the whole time.
“Why am I even here?” I keep asking. But nobody will explain. My mind whirls through the possibilities. There aren’t many.
This has to do with Joe. I’m sure of it, even if I can’t guess how.
Finally someone shows me into an interview room. It’s barely larger than a closet.
“Now will you tell me why I’m here?” I ask.
“You’re going to do the telling, and I’m going to do the asking,” the cop says. He has a salt-and-pepper flat top and no neck.
“Okay, ask me questions,” I grunt. Maybe I’ll learn something.
“Which campus buildings does your student ID open?”
His first query startles me and tells me nothing. “Well, lots of them. The gym. The library. Classroom buildings. Just like anyone’s ID.” My mind races. What could he be getting at?
“And where is your ID right now?”
“It’s… I have no idea. Probably on my desk? I haven’t needed it since Friday.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone is disbelieving. “Do you have a Red Sox cap?”
“Sure. Like half the people in New England.”
“What color?”
“Uh, black with a red logo on the front. I don’t wear it often, though. Only on a really bad hair day.”
“Was yesterday a really bad hair day?”
“Not at all.”
He opens a folder and pulls out a single sheet of paper. It’s a poorly rendered photo of a guy holding something in front of his body. You can’t even see his face, but he’s wearing a Sox cap that looks a lot like mine.
“Who is this?”
“That’s you, wise guy. This shot is from yesterday. They have security cameras in the computer lab. Sorry if you didn’t notice that before.”
I blink at the picture. It might be my brother? This picture sucks. “I was nowhere near here yesterday,” I say, unwilling to guess at why they think this is me.
“Yeah? Your ID logged into the system three times. Once in the Vanderbilt Library and twice in the business school.”
“Oh Jesus.” Now I understand. “Look, my brother broke into my room on Friday. I thought he only took cash. He obviously has my ID. I’d bet money on it.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. Joe Bailey. I only have one brother.” I’m rambling now, but my brain is busy piecing it all together. He took my ID, and he used it to wander around campus looking for computers. He went to the library first, but that space was too public.
The business school would have been quieter on the weekend.
“You say he broke in to your room? At the frat house?”
“Yeah, he picked the lock on my bedroom door. I thought he only cleaned out my cash. I didn’t notice the ID. Or the hat. Actually, I think he has the same hat.”
The cop scowls. “You were stolen from, and you didn’t report it?”
My heart sinks. “It was just some cash. And he thinks he has a right to my stuff. I was relieved he didn’t pick off anything that belonged to someone else. And what would even be the point of reporting him? My mother takes cash off me every chance she gets.” I hate everything I’m saying. It sounds awful. Who would believe me if I come from a family like that?
“But this is you,” the cop says, sliding the photo toward me.
“No it isn’t.” I jab a finger at the photo. “And I didn’t take whatever he’s holding. It was the computer lab, you say?”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
“Oh, please.” His tone is infuriating. “I’m not taking the blame for this. Joe isn’t the sharpest guy. If you pick him up he’ll still have whatever he took. He’s the reason I don’t live at home anymore.”
“You’re throwing your own brother under the bus for this?”
“Yes!” Although it sounds awful. Like we’re all a bunch of crooks. “Yes,” I say anyway. “Because he clearly intended to do the same to me.”
The cop scratches his head. “So, someone steals your cash and your ID. And you don’t worry about why, huh? Oops!” He throws up his hands. “Seems kind of convenient, that’s all.”
“No! I didn’t realize the ID was even gone. I was headed out of town.”
“Where?”
“Um…” Fuck. What the hell can I even say to that?
“You’re the smart brother, right? The college student? You tell your brother that you’re headed out of town. You also tell him where to find your ID.”
“No! It’s not like that.”
“Where’d you go out of town, anyway?”
“I…” I am so fucked.
“Did you go with anyone else? Did you stay in a hotel? Did you use a credit card, or your EZPass?”
If only I had used a credit card. But of course Keaton paid for everything. And there’s no way I can drag Keaton Hayworth III into this.
It turns out I’m not the smart brother at all.
“I need a lawyer,” I say slowly. I should have said that right away.
“Are you sure? That just looks guilty. If you were out of town, that’s easy to prove, right? We can sort this out like men.”
“Like men.” I sigh. Yeah, I’m never telling him how I spent my weekend. “No, I need a lawyer to untangle this bullshit theory of yours.”
“You got someone to call?”
And that’s the big question in my life, right? I don’t know any lawyers or how to find one in a hurry. Calling home is out of the question. Mom is no help and Joe wants me to go to jail for him.
Keaton, though. He’d know exactly who to call. But I won’t drag him into this.
“How do you get a public defender?” I ask the cop.
“Be prepared to wait,” he says. “I’ll let ’em know.”
He heaves himself out of his chair and stomps out of the room.
I hear the lock click into place as he leaves me behind.
