—They played basketball together. His family lives on our street. They’ve been friends since they were children.

—Did you know that Lalo was on probation?

—I heard he got into some trouble. But my Bobby never did nothing wrong. He’s a good kid. I swear to you.

—Where did Bobby get the gun? the police officer asked.

—That boy with all the freckles. I can’t ever say his name right.

—Arnold Keener. He says Bobby stole the gun from his father’s house when he went to visit him earlier, on the day the alleged crime was committed.

—Impossible. Bobby was home all morning.

Bobby was charged as a juvenile delinquent on two counts: possession of a deadly weapon and assault with a deadly weapon.

—But you can’t take my Bobby away.

Esperanza pleaded with the public defender, but the judge feared that Bobby was one of those kids who had flown under the radar for a while and it had finally caught up with him. It was best for his own good to lock him up in a medium-security detention facility to scare him out of becoming a repeat offender.

That was the last time Esperanza saw the Bobby to whom she’d given birth. After only weeks at Spofford Juvenile Detention, the wall between her and Bobby grew thick.

—I’m just doing my time, he said every time she asked how he was feeling.

—Don’t you need anything, Bobby? Is there anything I can bring you that will make it easier for you here? I mean, I’m so sorry, Bobby. You got to stay strong because your room at home is waiting for you. The counselor told me that if you keep your grades up in here, they will let you out early for good behavior. Gotta keep the mind going, Bobby. That’s all we have, you hear me? Ignorance is expensive.

When she looked at him, he was her little boy; he didn’t even have facial hair. He was thin and muscular from playing basketball with his friends. His hands and feet were disproportionate to the rest of his body, like a puppy. She couldn’t stand seeing him in that stupid jumper, in that room so gray, so cold, so dark. And when Esperanza cried, Bobby did soften up some from the hardness he had to have around the other guys who were locked up for doing something stupid they didn’t admit regretting.

—Mamá, stop crying. I’ll be home soon. It’s not as bad as it looks.

4

Spofford Juvenile Detention Center

1994–1997

Bobby’s days ticktocked to lights on and lights out.

—Got a problem, son?

—What you looking at, motherfucker?

Voices rising, one on top of the other, spinning in his head. The clock in the playpen ticktocked, counting the days that went by. Bobby breathed. Just like the lady wearing the Buddha T-shirt had told him to do. She came once a week and gave a workshop on meditation.

—They might have you locked up in here, but you can set yourself free through enlightenment, she said as she lifted her arms into the air, stretching up into a sun salutation, pushing out her chest with each deep inhale.