Best Friend's Ex Box Set

"Yeah, because they need someone who isn't scared of them to put them in their place. Too many teachers are simply intimidated. These guys are big, strong and overly aggressive."

After another 10 minutes of driving, we reached the Brownell house. As Ben had said, it was a lot more upmarket than the Stevens’ residence. Indeed, it was downright fancy; almost a mansion. A gleaming new top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz sat in the driveway, and the house itself looked immaculate.

We parked at the bottom of the driveway and walked up to the large, expansive porch that wrapped around the huge house. I rang the doorbell, and within a few seconds, a woman came to the door. She appeared to be in her late 40s, but that was a guesstimate considering she also looked to have had more than her share of plastic surgeries to maintain her youthful look...including enhancement to certain areas of her anatomy.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she said coldly, looking at us as if we were a couple of dirty, homeless bums begging for change.

"Mrs. Brownell, perhaps you remember me," Ben suggested.

"I don't think someone like you and someone like me move in quite the same social circles," she said snootily. "So, I can't think where I'd possibly know you from."

Ben drew a slow breath, doing his best not to lose his temper, and I couldn't blame him.

"I'm the assistant principal at JFK High," he said.

"Oh."

Her attitude remained aloof and cold.

"We're here to talk about your son," I said, interjecting. "My name is Everett James, and I'm the new principal."

"A high school principal?" she sneered the question as she gave me the once over. "You look like you're young enough to get out of such a financially unrewarding field. I suggest you do so before it's too late. Otherwise, you’re going to end up like your friend here – nearing retirement age, wearing a cheap, ugly suit, and scraping pennies together at the end of every month, and swirling around the dregs of the swamp with the rest of the lower middle class. "

Wow. When Ben told me these people were worse than Mr. Stevens, I kind of thought he might be exaggerating a bit. Seems this was something I had to see to believe.

"Well, Mrs. Brownell, that's kind of beside the point," I said, doing my best to be calm and civil in the way I spoke. I could see Ben quietly seething with anger, so I decided it was best that I do the talking.

"So, what is the point, Mr. James? Why are you wasting my time? Evidently, you don't know the adage, 'time is money', do you?"

"We're 'wasting your time' because your son was involved in a shooting this morning."

"My Leon? Involved in a shooting? Is he hurt?" she exhibited the first sign of compassion I'd seen.

"He was involved, Mrs. Brownell; he wasn't the victim."

"You must be mistaken. My boy isn't some inner-city thug. He may have had his growing pains, but he would never stoop to that level. I'm quite sure that you have the wrong person."

"No, I'm quite sure we have the right person," Ben said through gritted teeth. "Your precious boy was positively identified by the victim of the shooting."

"Leon didn't shoot anyone," I added quickly, before Ben got too worked up. "He was, however, buying drugs from the shooter."

"I would prefer it if you referred to the substances my son uses as 'performance enhancers.' He takes his bodybuilding very seriously, and these substances are not illegal in many other—"

"We're not talking about steroids," Ben interrupted angrily. "Leon was buying Rocket. It's a street drug, simple as that. Kids use it to get high – not to grow their damn muscles unnaturally large."

"But Leon simply wouldn't do that," she insisted.

It was clear this was a waste of time. Short of showing this woman the video footage of her son actually buying the drugs, I didn't think there was any way we could convince her of her son's guilt. I decided to cut straight to the chase.

"Listen, Mrs. Brownell, whether you care to accept it or not, Leon was involved in the shooting that happened earlier today. We need to know if he's here, and if he's not, we need to know if you know of his current whereabouts."

"He isn't here. He left this morning with some of his friends, and we haven't heard from him since."

"Is there a cell phone number that we could use to get hold of him on? We just want to make sure he's okay and see if he can help up find the shooter." I decided to try appealing to her motherly instincts since, no matter how snobby she was, she was genuinely concerned for her son.

"Well, I can give you his personal number, I suppose you could try that."

She gave me her son's number, which I saved on my phone.