“I’m the same way,” Passman said.

“So, you live around here?”

“We’re over near Regency Mall.”

“Who’s we?” Meaney’s eyes got smaller and darker.

“Me and my boyfriend.” Passman lied out of self-defense.

“I had one once,” Meaney reminisced. “Then I was in lockup one day. I forget what for. And there was another girl in there with me.” Meaney nodded and lay on her back, hands behind her head, body spilling everywhere.

Passman was beginning to panic. She was going to kill the bondsman Lucky Loving if he didn’t hurry up. She didn’t want to encourage Meaney, not in the least, but she had to know the rest of the story. She needed to get as much information as she could. Forewarned is forearmed, her mother always used to say.

“What happened?” Passman asked after a long, intense silence.

“The things we did. Ha!” Meaney grinned, enjoying the memory. “Let me tell you something, honey. There ain’t a thing a man’s got that you can’t find under your own hood, if you know what I mean.”

34

THE OLIVER HILL Courts Building was modern and full of light and Ayokunle Odeleye mahogany carvings. Brazil had never seen a court building that looked less like one, and it made him feel a little more optimistic when he walked in, Weed’s case file under his arm. It was five minutes before nine, and unlike other juvenile systems, this one had an exact time schedule docket.

If the arraignment was at nine, it would begin at nine, and that’s exactly what time it was when the intercom announced, “Weed Gardener, report to courtroom number two, please.”

Judge Maggie Davis was already on the bench, formidable and distinguished in her black robe. She was young to be a judge, and when the General Assembly had appointed her, she had charged in and made changes. Although she protected the confidentiality of juveniles who committed lesser crimes, she did not coddle or shield violent offenders.

“Good morning, Officer Brazil,” Judge Davis said as Brazil seated himself on the first row and the clerk handed the judge Weed’s file.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” said Brazil.

A deputy escorted Weed in from the back and positioned him in front of the judge, where he seemed even smaller in his ill-fitting blue jumpsuit and detention-issue black Spalding hightops. But Weed held his head up. He didn’t seem dejected or ashamed and in fact seemed to be looking forward to the arraignment, unlike Commonwealth’s Attorney Jay Michael or Sue Cheddar, the public defender on his heels, or Mrs. Gardener, who was at the door explaining to a deputy who she was.

“. . . yes, yes, my son,” Brazil heard Mrs. Gardener say.

“Mrs. Gardener?” Judge Davis inquired.

“Yes,” Mrs. Gardener whispered.

Weed’s mother had put on a crisp blue dress and matching shoes, but her face belied her neat facade. Her eyes were puffy and exhausted, as if she had been crying all night. Her hands shook. She had burst into tears and called herself a failure as a mother when Brazil had finally gotten her on the phone to tell her about Weed. She had told Brazil that she’d quit feeling or facing anything after Twister died.