But it isn’t.
The guard knocks, then enters, gesturing for us to go.
“Is Tate okay?” I demand, following Ellingham down the windowless hallway. The guard matches me, step for step, as if I’m about the break free and run. “Will he be there?”
“You’ll be processed together.” He’s already checking his phone, done with me. “Don’t speak to him, or anyone, until you’re out of there. Just your name and plea.”
I nod again. I used to give the lawyer messages to pass along, words of love, little in-jokes, but he never brought any word back from Tate, so I quit even trying. I was so used to texting back and forth with him every hour I was awake, I still hear phantom rings; a low buzz that makes me leap up, searching around the cell for the phone. But of course, there are none in there, even if Tate were free to call. He’s been locked up, like me, somewhere on the other side of this sprawling compound. The longest we’ve been apart in five months.
It’s the longest I’ve been apart from Elise, too, but I can’t think about that.
• • •
They transport me in the back of an unmarked van, with another two guards sitting on each side as if I’m still planning an escape. I want to laugh and tell them I can’t even make it through cross-country trials in phys ed, let alone flee police custody. Besides, where would I go? The island is less than seventy square miles: nothing but beaches and high-rise hotels and cacti growing wild in the dusty swathes of land not overtaken by fast-food outlets and Caribbean beach bars. Paradise, all the tourism websites called it. Ellingham is traveling separately in his rented luxury sedan. The driver up front in the van plays a local Aruba radio station, the DJ babbling in Dutch between American pop and rap hits. I remember that first night on the island. Elise and Melanie and Chelsea and me, dancing together in the club. We took photos on our cell phones, uploading them to all our profiles right away with the title “Best Spring Break Ever.” We tagged and commented and reposted, just to make sure everybody back home would see it and know what a fabulous time we were all having. Know that they weren’t invited.
I wonder how long it’ll take the tabloids to find the photos. Or maybe they already have, and they’re printed on some front page somewhere.
A cautionary tale.
• • •
“Tate!”
I know what the lawyer said, but I can’t help it—he’s already sitting at the defendant’s table when the guard leads me in, his head bowed and staring at the floor. “Tate!” I all but sprint down the aisle toward him.
“Miss!” The guard yanks me to a stop, “No running. Don’t make me get the leg shackles.”
I stop. “No, please, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
He glares at me for a moment, then loosens his grip on my arm and shoves me toward one of the empty chairs.
I sink into it, my eyes still on Tate. He doesn’t look up, just sits there, head bowed beside me. “Hey,” I can’t resist whispering. “Are you okay?”
The lawyer hushes me, but I don’t care. “Tate?” I whisper again. “Look at me.”
He does, and the defeated expression on his face moves me more than the blunt metal on my wrists, or the bruise on my ribs from where an unseen passerby shoved me on my first night in jail. His blue eyes are glazed; red from crying, and everything about him seems hunched and broken down.
Tate, the golden one; future president, king of Hillcrest Prep. Tate, who was always so confident, safe in his world of privilege and success, who could charm even our principal’s cranky secretary into smiling submission. Tate, my boyfriend, my love, looking like a lost boy: scared and alone, his right leg trembling uncontrollably.
“What did they do to you?” I gasp, my own sleepless nights forgotten. His eyes just slide away from me, back to the floor.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and turn to see my father. He reaches out, as if to touch me, but that’s against the rules, and when the lawyer quickly clears his throat, my dad’s hands drop to his lap. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he tells me in a voice that almost makes me believe he’s right. But his face is pale, and there are dark shadows smudged under his eyes. He forces a smile, placing one hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. This’ll all be straightened out.”
“Mr. Chevalier.” Ellingham’s tone is a warning. Dad pulls his hand away.
“Of course. I’m sorry.” He smiles at me again: forced and so upbeat, I have to match it with my own.
“Thanks, Dad,” I murmur back as he takes his seat again.
Tate’s parents are sitting in the row behind us too: poker-faced and immaculate in tailored suits and carefully styled hair. There are others with them, their heads bent in whispered consultation, brandishing briefcases and notepads and frowns of careful concern. More lawyers, local advisors, assistants, maybe. Mr. Dempsey runs a hedge fund back home, and Mrs. Dempsey runs the Boston social scene; whenever I saw either of them, it was always with some secretary or junior associate scurrying along behind. Now, the numbers make me calm, just a little. I’m not alone in this. They’ll make sure this is okay.
“Rise for the Honorable Judge von Koppel.”
Ellingham stands in place between us, and we line up to watch the judge walk in. The room isn’t a chambers or courthouse, just a regular conference room in a squat, whitewashed building, with tables and folding chairs set out, like the kind you find in hotels for business conventions. Our table is on one side, with our parents and their entourage behind, and the police investigators sit at another table across the aisle. In front, the judge takes a seat behind her table and stares through her wire-rimmed glasses at the papers already waiting for her. She’s in her forties maybe, a cool blonde in a navy suit.
“State your names and plea for the record,” she tells us. Her Dutch accent is lilting, almost sing song. Tate and I do it in turn. Tate Dempsey. Anna Chevalier. Not guilty. Not guilty.
The judge scribbles something. “You are seeking bail for the defendants?”
Ellingham leaps up. “Yes, Your Honor. Given that both are minors, and have been held on only circumstantial evidence—”
“Objection!” There’s a cry from the other table. Ellingham doesn’t pause.
“We ask that the courts release them into the custody of their parents as they await trial.”
The judge looks curiously at both me and Tate in turn. I stare back, unblinking, trying to show her I have nothing to hide. She looks away, toward the prosecution.