He looked up. “You can’t go away for driving around with a minor. If you were with her and she corroborates that, then you couldn’t have been at the house. Basically, she’s your alibi.”
If she were called to the stand to tell the court what’d really happened that night, she’d be traumatized. But I’d be fucked. I hadn’t forgotten what Mr. Kaplan had said at dinner about his “friends in the legal system.” If the burglary charges were dropped, no doubt he’d bring his own against me. He’d find a way. Maybe even statutory rape, and I’d serve a decade before I put Lake through that. I opened my mouth to tell Grimes as far as the courts were concerned, I had no alibi.
“But,” he said, frowning, “since the cop didn’t see Lake, he’d either assume you were lying or that she’d hidden. So even if the jury believed her story, they’d draw their own conclusions as to why she’d hide from a cop.”
“You’re agreeing with me?” I asked. “We can keep her out of this?”
“I think that’s best,” he said hesitantly. “I’m concerned her testimony could actually hurt us.” Dexter picked up my file, straightening it on the table. “We’ll have to find another way.”
27
Lake
The clock on the dashboard changed. 12:53 P.M.
Tiffany had been the perfect person to get us here—driving over the speed limit was her default. But we hadn’t left the house early enough, and traffic had slowed us down. I had only seven minutes to find Dexter Grimes and tell him what I knew. I wasn’t sure if it’d help or hurt, but at this point Manning’s lawyer was the only person who’d be able to help me.
Tiffany pulled into a parking spot, and I jumped out of the car.
“Slow down,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I don’t know where to go.”
“Neither do I.” I slammed the door shut and hurried across the courthouse’s parking lot. It was smaller than I expected. During the drive, I’d built it up in my mind as some large, scary place.
“Lake!” Tiffany caught up with me at the entrance since we had to go through security. “Don’t ditch me,” she said. “Dad’ll kill me if I come home without you.”
Maybe she was making a joke. I couldn’t tell. My stomach hurt, and my mom’s pumps kept slipping off, already rubbing against my heels. “It’s almost one.”
We went through the metal detector and retrieved our purses from the conveyor belt. “Maybe they’ll be running behind,” she said.
“Maybe they won’t.”
In the lobby, the line to talk to someone was too long. A large calendar on the wall displayed a list of names, so I went there instead.
Tiffany stood next to me, scanning it. “There he is,” she said, pointing. “Sutter, M. Courtroom eight.”
I turned to her. “But where would his lawyer be?”
“I have no idea.”
I bit my bottom lip, looking around us. Men and women in suits hurried down the hall in both directions. The clock above reception ticked down . . . four minutes to go.
I took off for courtroom eight, our only shot, the click of my slippery heels echoing off the walls. A week ago, I’d been on a horse, hugging Manning’s middle while the sun warmed us, inhaling the scent of pine trees-and-Manning with every breath. He’d helped me conquer my fear, but he’d also taught me something about myself. As I checked the numbers over each courtroom, I realized what he’d said was true. The sick feeling in my gut told me this was my Ferris wheel, my Betsy Junior. It was as bad as boarding an airplane. I had no control over Manning and me, and I never really had. Whatever choices I’d made that night, they’d led us here, but that wasn’t me being in control. That was my selfishness. I’d pushed and pushed, trying to get him to see me differently. To want me. To love me. This was my fault. I had to show up for Manning, no matter what happened; it was the only thing I could control in this moment.
Tiffany and I arrived at the same time, pulling open the door to courtroom eight together, all brown wooden pews and worn carpeting inside.
Manning stood before a judge in an orange jumpsuit, his back to us, a head taller than anyone in the room. The judge, elevated above the rest of us, looked down at Manning and spoke words I barely registered. “ . . . count of attempted robbery in the first degree . . . felony . . . do you understand the nature of the charges?”
The brown-haired, suit-wearing man next to Manning looked over his shoulder at me. Dexter? I mouthed to him, but he just glanced at the ground and turned forward again.
Manning nodded once. “I do.”
The judge shuffled some papers. “Are you entering this plea freely and of your own will?”