She sucked at the mint. She pulled another from her pocket and passed it to him.

She shot a quick glance at the dusty microphone bolted to the side of the table. After a moment she set his mint on the pad of paper, making sure it rustled. Clark propped her arm casually on the table’s edge. She held her mint’s empty plastic wrapper a few inches from the microphone.

Feeling the eyes of the men in the other room burning against the back of her head, Clark crinkled the plastic wrapper a few times between her fingers and prayed that the sound washed out their speakers. She said softly through the noise, “Then tell me how it really was.”

Jamal didn’t seem to understand. “Don’t I get a lawyer?”

“Do you feel you need a lawyer?” She shot an urgent look at the microphone. Crinkle crinkle.

Please God, she thought, make this boy understand. “Or would you rather talk to me first?”

Jamal’s eyes lit up. To Clark’s relief he covered it fast. He pulled on a scowl, shook his head, said, “D had his own thing going on.”

“You mean on the weekends with KT?” Clark said loudly, hoping to throw the men off the scent.

“I don’t know what the fuck those two were doing.”

She crushed the wrapper, said softly, “Something with drugs?”

“Maybe you should figure out why D hung out with that guy.”

The skeptical tone returned to Clark’s voice. “You’re saying KT wasn’t a good influence?”

“None of those guys were.”

“Which other guys?”

“KT, Garrett, Mitchell, all those fuckers. They weren’t never my friends.”

They sat in silence a moment. Clark strained to hear anything from the little room behind her.

Jamal held her eye. He took a water bottle, unscrewed it clumsily with his free hand and drained it in one long gulp. Bringing the bottle down he crushed it loudly. “On their phones,” he murmured.

Clark cocked her head. “What?”

He squeezed the bottle tighter. “Something on their phones. At halftime.”

Clark heard the sound of a door slamming, the click of shoes in the hall. Shit. It had been worth a shot.

She leaned forward, whispered fast, “What was it, Jamal?”

“I don’t fucking know. I think something bad. Garrett almost killed me when I asked—”

The door to the interview room swung open and a small black man in a baggy blazer and brilliant shoes strode inside, bringing with him a sudden scent of cinnamon. Clark recognized the man (and his cologne) with a mixture of resignation and relief. At least Jamal finally had a lawyer.

“Not another word, son.” Mr. Irons spoke with a voice far deeper than his little frame looked capable of containing. The man ran an eye over the blank pad of paper Mayfield had left on the table, the empty bottle of water. “Did you drink from that?”

Jamal nodded.

County Attorney Boone appeared at last, followed by the sheriff. They both gave Clark a dubious look—she prayed they only thought her incompetent, not complicit—and a moment later Boone and Jamal’s new attorney were embroiled in dense legal talk. She knew she’d never get another unguarded word with Jamal now.