“Stereotypes come from somewhere.” Wenderhole leaned back, his shoulders folding into his body. “Geographically, I haven’t strayed too far from home. I was born about a half mile south of here. When I was a teen, the Los Angeles United School District had optional busing. The lottery put me at North Valley with Darnell Arlington and Leroy Josephson. We were a trio in misery—misplaced, mismanaged, and mistreated. After Darnell was relocated, Leroy and I didn’t last too long. We both dropped out in tenth grade, but neither of us told our mothers because we knew a good deal when we saw one. Working in that white area, it was a whole lot easier to sell shit. We were the only show in town for a while.”

“You sold drugs. So who was the supplier?”

“Darnell handled almost everything. Once he got caught—and moved away—Leroy and me were shipped back to the ’hood. Then Leroy was gunned down, and I was shot and paralyzed. I probably would have kept going if a bullet hadn’t stopped me. I probably would have ended up like Leroy.”

“How long did it take for you to make the transformation?”

“You mean from gangsta to solid citizen?” He thought a moment. “I’ve been doing this for seven years. Psychologically, it’s taken me longer to adjust, and that’s because I see myself in so many of the kids here.”

Marge took out her notepad. “You said you were misplaced, mistreated, and…”

“Mismanaged.”

“Yeah, mismanaged. No one tried to help you?”

“No one.”

“What about Bennett Little? He seemed to have an outstretched hand.”

Wenderhole stared at her. “Dr. Ben’s project was Darnell, not me. I suppose I was hopeless in his eyes. Or…maybe he did try to help, but I didn’t hear him—really hear him. His words were white noise.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I was pissed off and on drugs. I didn’t listen to my nana, my mother, my minister, my coach. I certainly wasn’t gonna listen to no pissy-ass white boy.” He smiled. “What a stupid jerk I was. Even with missing almost all of school, I scored almost 1100 on the SAT. If I’d been born a different color in a different area, I would have been a lawyer or a psychologist.”

“There’s still time,” Marge said.

Wenderhole was taken aback. “Yes, you’re right about that. I’m still making excuses. Patterns die hard.”

“So you didn’t have much to do with Dr. Ben?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with anyone in North Valley. I only stepped inside a classroom when it rained because it was too wet and cold to hang. You know how often it rains in L.A., so you now know how often I was physically in school.”

“What do you remember about Dr. Ben’s death?”