“I know, you just got the case.” The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Farmington, has anyone from your office talked with Ms. Castro or her family?”

The prosecutor did not answer immediately. Trevor turned his head to see what was causing the delay and saw that the prosecutor was holding his tissue over his nose and mouth and whispering with a woman in the first row of benches behind him.

“Mr. Farmington,” said the judge.

“I’m sorry, your honor. Yes, we have had a message from the family. It came in overnight.”

“And?”

“I’m sorry, it appears to have been missing from my file.” He sneezed again. “Excuse me. But my clerk is telling me that Ms. Castro called and confirmed she had told Mr. Barber he could stay.”

“Well, that seems like pretty important information, Mr. Farmington. Let’s see if I can do your job for you. Is the family here now, on the island?”

Trevor turned toward the back door. Was she going to walk in? What would he do if she walked in?

“They are not, your honor,” said the prosecutor. “But I should also point out that the defendant is charged with resisting arrest. As you know, we take the safety of our law enforcement personnel seriously in Dukes County, and until I am able to speak with the officer and the Whitehouse family I’d like to make sure this man doesn’t get on the ferry and deprive our citizens of justice served.”

“Bail is set at two thousand dollars,” said the judge. He banged his gavel.

The bailiff took Trevor by the arm.

“I’d like a moment to confer with my client, please,” said Amy.

“Not on my time,” said the bailiff. “You know where he’ll be.”

“Call somebody for that bail,” said Amy as he walked away. “I’ll talk to the family.”

Trevor sat alone in the basement of the courthouse for hours, his mind wobbling among the problems in front of him. What was he going to tell the NYPD? Had someone actually seen him in the Mews? Trevor hadn’t even considered the possibility that there were security cameras in the alley. He was in so far over his head. Was he caught on tape? Was there a screenshot of his face beneath that purple cap being emailed to cops all over the city? He thought of that image and then he thought of his parents seeing it. Seeing him in the act. Seeing how badly their boy had fucked up, right there in black and white. They would shoulder the responsibility again; search themselves for ways they’d failed. They’d spend the rest of their lives searching.