Trevor spent that night in the cell, but instead of being released, in the morning he was escorted into a van and to the courthouse down the road. In a little room in the basement he met with Amy Monroe, a lawyer appointed to represent him in the arraignment. She had sweat stains on her blouse and carried a Citgo travel mug so big it probably held an entire pot of coffee.

“How do you want to plead?” she asked.

“Hasn’t anyone talked to Claudia?”

“Who?”

“Claudia Castro?”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

“It’s her house. I was in her house but she told me I could be there. We’re friends. Can someone call her?”

“You were arrested at the Whitehouse property.”

Trevor stared at her. “She lives there. I mean, I think…”

“Oh right,” said Amy, flipping pages in the file with his name on it. “Her mom is a Whitehouse. Claudia Castro. So, not guilty? You’re friends with her? She said you could stay?”

“Yes.”

“What about the resisting charge?”

“I wasn’t resisting.”

“Not guilty?”

“Can you call her? She should know I’m here.”

“What’s her number?”

Did anyone know anyone’s number? “It’s in my phone.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Do you know anyone on the island?”

“Besides Claudia?”

“Besides Claudia.”

“No.”

“Can someone post bail if you get it?”

“I don’t know. How much?”

“Probably two to five thousand.”

He was going to crush his parents. “Maybe.”

Amy left, and about thirty minutes later a guard came in.

“Trevor Barber, you’re up.” The guard was carrying handcuffs. He was going to be walked into a courtroom in handcuffs. Where the fuck was Claudia?

The guard walked him up a stairwell and through a door in the back of the courtroom. Amy Monroe was at the defense table, tapping away at her phone. When she looked up, she stood.

“Your honor,” she said. “I respectfully ask that the bailiff uncuff my client. It’s completely unnecessary and frankly, prejudicial.”

Trevor stopped. Should he keep walking?

“Keep moving,” said the bailiff, motioning to the seat next to Amy.

“Everyone sit down,” said the judge. He was entirely bald, with a long, thin face and wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Mr. Farmington? Did you request this defendant be handcuffed?”

“I did not, your honor,” said the man at the prosecuting table. Trevor could only see his profile. His stomach strained against his belt, and something—a tissue, maybe—poked out of his pants pocket.

“Bailiff please uncuff the defendant,” said the judge. “Mr. Farmington, please state the case against this defendant.”