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that sounded like he was worried
sick
.
    The police station looked like every one I’ve ever seen. There were community notices on the walls and long counters around the perimeter for filling out forms. There was a bank of folding chairs in the middle and one in a corner, and another all the way at the back of the room; a desk was manned by two uniformed officers, a big clock on the wall behind their heads.
    In front of the desk were two staggered lines of drunks and thieves, and also parents and loved ones making inquiries.
    As I stood in the entrance taking all this in, a man approached from the edge of my vision. He was chubby, bald, and wearing jeans, a gray plaid sports jacket, anda scowl. That was when I recognized him. It was Gram Hilda’s senior attorney, Monsieur Delavergne.
    He shook hands with Jacob, nodded hello in the direction of Hugo and me, and then walked us to the cluster of folding chairs in the corner of the room.
    Jacob asked him, “Where do things stand?”
    Delavergne spoke mainly in English but stopped every now and then to look for the correct word.
    “Put simply, Harry went to a party, what I would call an out-of-control bacchanal with no adults on the premises. The girl who invited him to the party, Lulu Ferrara, overdosed and died in a bathroom.”
    Jacob expressed his shock, then asked, “Did Harry give drugs to this girl?”
    “He says not,” said Delavergne, “and there are no witnesses to the contrary, but the two of them came to the party together, and that makes Harry a person of interest—at the least.”
    I shouted,
“Harry went with someone to a party? That’s what he did? That’s IT?”
    Ignoring me, Delavergne went on. “Mademoiselle Ferrara’s father is deputy foreign attaché to the Italian Consulate. Obviously, Monsieur Ferrara is pulling out—how do you say?—the ‘big guns.’ ”
    Jacob said, “Big guns be damned. What are the chargesagainst my nephew? If he’s not charged, they have to release him, isn’t that true in this country?”
    Delavergne said, “At present he is being held as a—”
    Even as Delavergne said
“Témoin important,”
I said, “Material witness.”
    I knew the drill. Where I come from, material witnesses can be held for forty-eight hours, enough time to break down a hardened street thug into a sobbing baby. Harry was no hardened anything. With enough skill, a cagey cop could get him to confess to something he didn’t do.
    I was sweating and chilled at the same time.
    I was about to start shouting again when Delavergne turned his head toward the intake desk. He said to Jacob, “One moment. I’m being called.”
    Delavergne went over to the desk sergeant, who took him through a side door. The door closed behind them, and a few minutes later, the sergeant returned to the desk alone.
    We waited.
    Hugo was crying softly. “This isn’t right. Harry didn’t kill
anyone
.”
    I grabbed my brother and held him tight.
    I said, “Jacob, do you trust Monsieur Delavergne?”
    “He’s a good lawyer. In fact, he’s very good.”
    Of course I noticed that Jacob hadn’t answered my question.

Jacob, Hugo, and I hunkered down
in plastic chairs in the police station’s lobby for three endless hours.
    My uncle and I took turns pacing. Sometimes we spoke to each other in screaming whispers, then went dead quiet so we didn’t wake Hugo, who was sleeping on the floor at our feet.
    Finally, as sunlight pierced the front windows, Monsieur Delavergne came through the metal door with his arm around Harry’s shoulders.
    I jumped to my feet, stepping on Hugo’s hand.
    “Owwwwww!”
    “Sorry, Hugo.”
    I looked at Harry coming across the room with Delavergne. Harry was free—right? He looked terrible—both weak and pale, like he’d spent the night running on a treadmill. I’m sure the all-night interrogation must have felt exactly like that. But all that mattered now was that we had him back.
    Hugo called out to Harry and started running to him.