Todd Strasser - Blood on my hands

“No one’s accusing you of lying, Callie,” says Chief Jenkins. “This is just the way the law works. Testimony needs to be corroborated.”

Bloom continues the thread: “When you went toward the dugout, did you see anyone else around there?”

I try my best to remember, then shake my head. “No.”

“Did you hear anything that might have made you think someone else was there?”

“I don’t think so.”

Bloom and Jenkins glance at each other. The questions go on and on. What did I do when I saw Katherine’s body? Why did I pick up the knife? Why did I run away? Is it true that Katherine and I were supposed to go into peer mediation? Why did I write that article for the school newspaper? Just as Gail predicted, sometimes the questions are reworded and then asked again.

“If you didn’t do it, why did you run away?” Bloom asks for what must be the third time.

“I told you, I was scared. Someone took a picture of me with that knife in my hand. After what happened with my brother, I just assumed they’d think I did it.”

“Okay,” says Chief Jenkins. “Even if that’s true, why continue to hide? Once you’d had a chance to calm down and think about it, why not turn yourself in then?”

I look at Gail, who nods, indicating I should answer. “Because by then I thought I knew who really did kill Katherine. And I believed the only way I could prove I didn’t do it was by proving she did. But I wouldn’t be able to do that if I turned myself in.”

The room goes quiet. Jenkins and Bloom look at each other with grave expressions. Neither speaks. Meanwhile, Gail frowns and asks, “Who do you think killed her?”

I stare at Chief Jenkins, right into his pale hazel eyes, and say, “Your niece, Dakota.”

Gail blinks with astonishment and sits back in her chair. She also looks questioningly at Chief Jenkins. “No, I’m happy to say that’s not true,” he says.

“How do you know?” I ask. “I bet you haven’t even considered that possibility.”

“Whoa!” Gail says, interrupting again, and places her hand on my arm. She gives me a concerned, quizzical look, as if it’s suddenly occurred to her that I may have a few loose screws. She turns to Chief Jenkins. “Sir, I think at this point I need to familiarize myself a little more with this case. Can we continue the questioning tomorrow?”

The two men share another glance. Bloom nods. Chief Jenkins turns to Gail. “Only if you’re okay with us keeping her in custody.”

“You heard they caught her?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I feel awful. I keep thinking that maybe if I hadn’t asked her to help me…”

“But she didn’t let on to you, right?”

“I know. That’s what makes it so hard to believe.”

“Just don’t blame yourself, okay? You didn’t know.”

Thursday 9:35 A.M.

ONCE AGAIN IN handcuffs, I am driven to a juvenile detention facility and taken through a metal detector and several heavily reinforced doors before being placed in a cell by myself away from the rest of the inmates. Meals are brought on a tray by a silent matron, who waits and watches while I eat, and then takes the tray away.

My mother arrives with dark bags under her eyes and her hair hanging limp and unbrushed. She looks even more exhausted and worn out than usual.

In the visiting room, the matron watching us doesn’t stop me from reaching over and taking my mother’s hand, which feels cold and bony. She’s weepy and bewildered and doesn’t understand why the police won’t let me go. All I can do is reassure her. “It’s going to be okay, Mom. I promise. Everything’s going to work out. If they really thought I did it, they would have arrested me, right? They’re just holding on to me to make sure I tell them everything I know.”

After a while, Mom says that she has to go home and take care of Dad, and that she’ll come back tomorrow if I’m still here. I ask her to bring some clean clothes. In the afternoon I am driven back to the police station and taken to the interrogation room, where I am joined by Gail and the two men. Once again they ask me questions about Katherine, about what I did the night she was killed, and about what had happened between us in the weeks leading up to that night.

The questioning lasts several hours, and then the camera is turned off. The men leave and Gail and I are alone.

“How much longer are they going to keep asking the same questions?” I ask.

“Until they decide whether you’re telling the truth,” Gail explains. “Since yesterday, I’ve been able to learn a little more about the case, and I have to tell you honestly, Callie, it’s a very difficult situation. They have a lot of evidence against you.”

I feel my spirits sink. It sounds like she’s paving the way to a plea bargain. Only there’s something I still don’t understand. “Then why do they keep questioning me? Why don’t they just…?”

“Arrest you and charge you with the murder?” It sounds horrible when she says it out loud. “I’m not one hundred percent sure, Callie. Part of the reason, I suspect, is that there were no witnesses. So most of the evidence the police have is circumstantial. The other part may be that you’ve stuck to your story consistently, and no matter how many times they ask, you give them the same answers. And, in a trial, that could be enough to raise reasonable doubt.”

“Then why don’t they let me go?”

“I assume it’s because they’re still trying to build a case,” Gail says. “Under the law they can hold you for up to seventy-two hours. And I think they’re determined to do that, because you’ve demonstrated such a talent for avoiding capture. They’re afraid if they let you go, they may never see you again.”

There’s an irony, I can’t help thinking.

Gail clears her throat in an awkward way, and I sense there’s something else on her mind. “Listen, Callie, there’s something… I need to toss out to you just because… well, because I want to be completely honest with you. Based on the evidence they’ve shown me, I think we should at least consider the possibility that they may still charge and arrest you in Katherine’s murder. It would be foolish for us not to consider the possibility and start preparing for it.”

Why am I not surprised to hear her say this? “Prepare for it how?” I ask, because I know that’s what she expects.

“By considering the option of claiming it was self-defense.”

Huh? It takes a moment for me to grasp what she’s saying. Claiming self-defense means admitting I killed Katherine. It’s saying that she attacked me and I fought back, and in the process she died. “So, it’s like a plea bargain, right?”

“Well…” She hesitates. “Not exactly. You’re not pleading guilty to anything.”

“Except killing her,” I point out.

“In self-defense.”

“But that’s not what happened,” I answer.

It’s difficult to read Gail’s expression. I wonder if lawyers are taught to hide what they’re thinking. She leans forward, her gold hoop earrings swinging gently. “Callie, as a public defender it’s my job to represent you in the best way I know possible. Given the amount of evidence they have-the photo, the fingerprints on the knife-it may be difficult for a jury to believe you had nothing to do with the murder. However, I believe, based on your history with Katherine, specifically what happened in school, that we can make an argument that she attacked you and you defended yourself.”

I’m stunned. She’s saying I can go free… by admitting I killed Katherine. By doing the exact opposite of what I know I should do. It’s crazy. “What about Dakota? What about Griffen Clemment and the threatening texts?”