Fall from Grace (17 page)

Ms. Dixon leaned forward. “Complete immunity, and an ACD.”

“That depends on what your client has to share.”

“But if he cooperates and agrees to allocute in chambers?”

The ADA nodded. “That would work.”

“Hold on,” Sawyer said. “What are you talking about?”

Ms. Dixon turned in her chair. “A plea agreement. You testify against this Sherman girl—tell everything
you know and admit your part in any crimes she may have committed—and the judge will give you an ACD. An adjournment in contemplation of dismissal.”

“Basically it's a free pass. You stay out of trouble for six months, all the charges against you will be dropped.”

Sawyer's father cleared his throat. “But what about the things he says in court? Can't they recharge him for those, uh, crimes?”

“No, he'd have immunity,” the ADA said, then looked at Sawyer. “Nothing you say in court can be used against you. An adjournment in contemplation of dismissal is not a form of probation, it's not even considered a conviction. The six-month period passes and you stay out of trouble—and I mean
any
trouble—and it'll be like you were never arrested. The records will be sealed, no one will ever have to know.”

More sobs behind him, but different this time, almost happy.

“What would happen to Grace if I don't testify against her?”

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then Ms. Dixon shifted in her chair, the ADA slumped back, and he could feel his parents' stare burning into the back of his head.

“We have a surefire case against her without you saying a single word. We have the videos and the physical evidence at the scene, plus what we found in her room. Plans, photographs, maps, lists of supplies, internet searches—everything neatly laid out. It's almost as if she knew she'd get caught. Even planned it that way.”

Impossible.

Getting caught wasn't part of her plan.

“However, your testimony will enable us to show a pattern of behavior that has less to do with her than it does with the adult family members in her life.” He sighed, and for a moment looked less like a district attorney and more like a father. “Listen. My goal is not to see Miss Sherman locked away forever. She's had a rough start in life and maybe she deserves a second chance. But for that to happen she needs to be held accountable for what's she's done. Now, I could push for more, but when she's found guilty—and she
will
be found guilty—I'll request a three-year sentence. She'll serve about half that. Maybe less. Then a few years of probation. What you should be asking,” he said, looking straight at Sawyer, no trace of a smile on his face, “is what would happen to you. You don't take the deal, right now, you'll be charged and you will go to jail.”

Throat dry, palms sweating, Sawyer drew in a shallow, choppy breath.

“This is it, Sawyer. Decision time.”

I need you to steal something for me.

“You can either take the plea deal, testify against Grace Sherman, and get back your life—”

My word's all I got. And some diet cream soda.

“—or you can start planning to do jail time.”

There's a word for people who make a lot of plans.

“Now, I don't understand your relationship with this girl—”

An umbrella relationship.

“—and I don't know what either of you got out of it—”

You gotta stick close together if you want it to work
.

“—and I'm sure you'll feel guilty speaking against her—”

Disposable and one-sided, based on fulfilling short-term, self-centered needs.

“—but you have to start thinking for yourself.”

Now, you ready for this?

“It's all up to you now, Sawyer. You testify against her or you go to jail. What's it gonna be?”

SAWYER WAITED AT
the door to be buzzed in.

He looked up at the security camera so the guard could see his face, see his uniform, and when he heard the buzz and the electric
click
of the lock, he pulled the door open and stepped inside. As usual, the hallway was empty, but he knew that there was a camera somewhere.

There always was.

Now, was there somebody on the other side of the camera? He had seen enough things going on in the hallways that went unpunished to make him wonder. Not that it would make a difference for him. They had made it clear where he stood when he started there, and he knew they were hoping they could spot one little infraction
so they could nail him for it. There were days when he thought,
The hell with it, just do something and get it over with
, but this wasn't one of them.

There was a common area at the end of the hallway where a soundless closed-circuit TV played twenty-four hours a day, listing irrelevant schedule updates, week-old weather reports, inaccurate cafeteria menus, and other information nobody needed. There was furniture in the common area—padded benches and a row of chairs that looked like they came from an old bus station—but he'd never seen anybody sitting there. On the wall, next to a notice about this being a nonsmoking facility, screw holes showed where the pay phone used to hang, back when they had pay phones in the building.

Another hallway branched off from the common area. He knocked at the first door and listened. Overhead, the fluorescent light hummed. Inside the room someone was typing.

“What?”

“It's me,” he said.

“Well don't stand there, come in.”

He tried to turn the doorknob. “It's locked.”

From inside he heard the pissed-off sigh and swearing he expected, a chair scraping against a tile floor, bare feet stomping across the room, and the deadbolt clicking back. Then the door swung open and Zoë stared at him.

“I
thought
I gave you a key.”

“You did,” he said, stepping into the room as she turned and went back to her desk. “But you also told me not to walk in without knocking.”

“So knock, then use the key. It's not that hard to figure out.” She shuffled some papers and tilted the screen of her laptop. “Great. Now I forgot what I was going to write. Thanks a lot.”

Sawyer sat down on the edge of the single bed.

Kearney Hall was the oldest dorm at Wembly, with the smallest rooms on campus, but every room was a single, and if you went to Wembly and you were a female and didn't want a roommate—or if you had a roommate, several different roommates in less than a month, and you couldn't
stand
living with any of them and the administration was tired of dealing with you and your constant complaints—it was where you lived.

Unless you still lived at home with your parents, in the same room you'd been in since you were five.

Zoë's room was trashed, but he had stopped joking about it back in October, and by March he no longer noticed. The window was open and the blinds were down. They rattled with every late spring breeze.

Sawyer watched her type for a few minutes, then leaned over to check the time on the screen. “You going to be ready to go soon?”

“Do I
look
like I'm ready?”

She didn't. She was wearing pink sweatpants with
KKG
in white letters on her ass, and the oversized Odenbach beer T-shirt she slept in. Her hair was pulled back and held up with a clip. She hadn't showered, which wasn't a problem, but she wasn't wearing her uniform, either, and he didn't see it among the piles of clothes on the floor.

“I take it you're not going,” he said.

“I have to finish this
stupid
paper for sociology. It was due Friday.”

“What's it on?”

“Teenage alcoholism,” she said, typing as she spoke. “Or eating disorders. I have to see where it ends up going.”

“What about the game?”

“Just go without me. It's not like I'm any good.”

It was true, she wasn't, but it was her sorority's team
and she was the one that insisted they sign up to play in the coed volleyball intramural league because it was going to be
so
much fun, even though it meant giving up his Sunday shift at Mike's Ice Cream and all the tips he would have made. It was supposed to be a social league, something free to do on campus, but no one had explained that to the other teams, each one of them with at least six varsity players on their rosters. Zoë's team had been out of the running since the third week, the last week any of it was fun.

“I should have picked a different major,” Zoë said, Googling “beer” and “bulimia.” “You haven't had to do a paper all year.”

He had—several of them—but not for his major. Accounting was more about numbers, especially for those in the Insurance Actuary program. Eyes closed, he flopped back on the bed, pulling a pillow under his head. The team would have to lose without him.

“Drunkorexia?”

“It's ten o'clock on a Sunday morning,” he said. “I haven't had anything to drink in hours.”

“No, it's this disorder thing,” Zoe said, reading the search results. “Huh, it's
real
. Excellent. Now I know what my paper's on.”

“You found it on the internet?”

“Yeah, where else am I supposed to look?”

“It may not be real.”

“There's like a hundred thousand websites about it. It's got to be. Here, check it out, a whole story on it. Just got posted on TMZ.”

“Is that some sociology site?”

“Sort of. It's celebrity gossip and stuff.” Her voice trailed off and he listened as she clicked and scrolled, and when she screamed, he jumped.

“Oh my god. It's
her
.”

The way she said it—voice curling up, the word growing out—he didn't have to ask.

He knew who it was.

And he knew he had to look.

A headline, a small story, and that mug shot.

Bits of half-forgotten conversations echoed in his head while he read, and bigger things, things he knew now that he wished he had known then, things about plans and dreams and Grace, falling into place, six weeks of his life replaying in an instant.

Zoë clicked on the mug shot until it filled the screen, the ice-blue eyes larger than life.

“Oh my god, can you
believe
that bitch?
Look
at her. I'd like to slap that smile off her face. Ugh, and that stupid hat. Why'd they let her leave that on? It looks ridiculous. And now the bitch is getting a show. I wonder who she had to screw to get
that
, the little slut. The show's going to suck anyway. Who's going to wanna watch
her
? At least they didn't mention
your
name. Thank god. They can't, right? That would be
awful
. People would think you were like
her
. And what would that say about me? Ugh, she makes me sick. What did you ever see in her, anyway? I know, I said I would never go there, but come on, look at her, she's freaky Westie ghetto trash. What were you thinking? You could have thrown your whole life away because of her. Did you ever think about
that
? Huh? Ever wonder where you'd be right now, what your life would be like if you had stayed with her? Well, do you?”

“All the time,” Sawyer said, looking deep into the eyes on the screen, his vision blurring from the light.