that’s true.”
Char said, “No, they want you to talk to Mickey.”
“Why? Do they think I can make him behave?” Betsy really was tired.
“No, no, no. Listen to me, please. They don’t think he’s guilty—”
“I’m sure they don’t. Parents always want to believe their children are good and obedient creatures.”
“Betsy, they know better. I’ve told you that Mickey is a very troubled young man. But what if he didn’t do this?”
Betsy couldn’t think of an answer. Her reputation was for clearing the innocent of criminal charges. “Is he out on bail?”
“No, they’re not going to let him out. For one thing, he’s run away from home twice in the past six months, so he’s what they call a flight risk. But even if he weren’t, he’s charged with murder while committing a robbery, which makes it automatically first degree, so if they set bail, it’s going to be an enormous sum, which his parents won’t be able to raise. Betsy, if he gets convicted, they’ll send him to prison for life. Mickey’s parents really, really need help. Could you just please talk to him?”
“How? I mean, is he allowed visitors?”
“His attorney says he’ll take you with him if you will go. Please, Betsy. Maybe if he talks to someone who isn’t his family and not a police investigator or a lawyer, someone who’s coming in as a friend, he’ll say something helpful, instead of mouthing off and denying he was anywhere near The Common that morning.”
“Was he in the park?”
“He says he wasn’t. But they found a pair of shoes his size in a Dumpster behind the food vendors, and Faith says a pair just like them is missing from his closet.”
Betsy sighed. “This doesn’t look good, you know.”
“I know.”
“If I get involved in something like this, I may have to drop out of your class,” she warned, a last-ditch plea.
“Fine,” said Char, and she hugged Betsy hard.
So Betsy didn’t get to go shopping on Thursday, her day off. Which was annoying, since she needed new underwear and there was a sale at Penney’s.
It was a beautiful Minnesota summer morning, the temperature just approaching eighty and not much humidity. She drove with her windows down to the eastern edge of downtown Minneapolis, where the new Juvenile Detention Center on Fifth and Park was. She parked in a lot between the Center and the Metrodome; the Twins were out of town, so the lot was half empty.
The Center was a modern building of large, dark bricks. The main entrance was in the middle of the building, its tuck-in entrance marked with fat concrete pillars.
A short young man, his light brown hair cropped close, stood just outside the dark glass door. He wore a nice lightweight suit, very modern eyeglasses, and an expensive new briefcase. There was an aggressive set to his mouth. He gestured impatiently as Betsy walked up and opened the door more to encourage her to keep moving than to be polite. “Glad you could make it,” he said as he nimbly stepped ahead of her to open a second door into a small, diagonal lobby and again to show her to the window with a tray under it and a man in Dockers and a blue polo shirt behind it.
“I’m attorney Gerald Wannamaker,” he said to the man.
Betsy thought for a moment to give a false name just to wipe that too-confident look off Wannamaker’s face, but only said, “I’m Betsy Devonshire.”
The man behind the glass queried his computer and found they were authorized for a visit. He issued them each a plastic pass on a lanyard and told them to wear it “visibly at all times,” and they obediently hung them around their necks. While they waited for yet another door to be unlocked, Betsy said, “Thank you for arranging for me to come with you to see Mickey.”
“No problem,” he said, managing to indicate in those two words that it had been a problem, which he had solved with his usual skill.
A man in khaki trousers and a green polo shirt came to unlock the door. He led
Char said, “No, they want you to talk to Mickey.”
“Why? Do they think I can make him behave?” Betsy really was tired.
“No, no, no. Listen to me, please. They don’t think he’s guilty—”
“I’m sure they don’t. Parents always want to believe their children are good and obedient creatures.”
“Betsy, they know better. I’ve told you that Mickey is a very troubled young man. But what if he didn’t do this?”
Betsy couldn’t think of an answer. Her reputation was for clearing the innocent of criminal charges. “Is he out on bail?”
“No, they’re not going to let him out. For one thing, he’s run away from home twice in the past six months, so he’s what they call a flight risk. But even if he weren’t, he’s charged with murder while committing a robbery, which makes it automatically first degree, so if they set bail, it’s going to be an enormous sum, which his parents won’t be able to raise. Betsy, if he gets convicted, they’ll send him to prison for life. Mickey’s parents really, really need help. Could you just please talk to him?”
“How? I mean, is he allowed visitors?”
“His attorney says he’ll take you with him if you will go. Please, Betsy. Maybe if he talks to someone who isn’t his family and not a police investigator or a lawyer, someone who’s coming in as a friend, he’ll say something helpful, instead of mouthing off and denying he was anywhere near The Common that morning.”
“Was he in the park?”
“He says he wasn’t. But they found a pair of shoes his size in a Dumpster behind the food vendors, and Faith says a pair just like them is missing from his closet.”
Betsy sighed. “This doesn’t look good, you know.”
“I know.”
“If I get involved in something like this, I may have to drop out of your class,” she warned, a last-ditch plea.
“Fine,” said Char, and she hugged Betsy hard.
So Betsy didn’t get to go shopping on Thursday, her day off. Which was annoying, since she needed new underwear and there was a sale at Penney’s.
It was a beautiful Minnesota summer morning, the temperature just approaching eighty and not much humidity. She drove with her windows down to the eastern edge of downtown Minneapolis, where the new Juvenile Detention Center on Fifth and Park was. She parked in a lot between the Center and the Metrodome; the Twins were out of town, so the lot was half empty.
The Center was a modern building of large, dark bricks. The main entrance was in the middle of the building, its tuck-in entrance marked with fat concrete pillars.
A short young man, his light brown hair cropped close, stood just outside the dark glass door. He wore a nice lightweight suit, very modern eyeglasses, and an expensive new briefcase. There was an aggressive set to his mouth. He gestured impatiently as Betsy walked up and opened the door more to encourage her to keep moving than to be polite. “Glad you could make it,” he said as he nimbly stepped ahead of her to open a second door into a small, diagonal lobby and again to show her to the window with a tray under it and a man in Dockers and a blue polo shirt behind it.
“I’m attorney Gerald Wannamaker,” he said to the man.
Betsy thought for a moment to give a false name just to wipe that too-confident look off Wannamaker’s face, but only said, “I’m Betsy Devonshire.”
The man behind the glass queried his computer and found they were authorized for a visit. He issued them each a plastic pass on a lanyard and told them to wear it “visibly at all times,” and they obediently hung them around their necks. While they waited for yet another door to be unlocked, Betsy said, “Thank you for arranging for me to come with you to see Mickey.”
“No problem,” he said, managing to indicate in those two words that it had been a problem, which he had solved with his usual skill.
A man in khaki trousers and a green polo shirt came to unlock the door. He led
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