Top Secret
: Chapter 33

LUKE

I’m shown into a holding cell with five other guys. There are benches along the walls, but no other furniture. Nobody even looks up at me as I enter, and that’s just fine. I sink down on a bench and try not to think. Because every thought I have is a horrible one.

Even if I somehow manage to walk out of here tomorrow with the charges dismissed, will Darby College keep me? Can they revoke my scholarship for having a brother who steals?

And then there’s the frat. There’s some line about lawfulness in the members’ handbook somewhere. If you’re convicted of a crime, I think they can toss you out.

I cannot get convicted. Of anything. Even if I got a fine instead of jail time, it would ruin my life. I’m thirteen months from getting a degree. If I get a criminal record instead? Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Shit jobs for the rest of my life.

At some point my name is called again. I’m shown into another interview room, where a public defender in a too-tight suit asks me all the relevant questions.

“I know my brother did this,” I tell him as loudly as I can. “Did they investigate him? I can give you the address.”

He scribbles it on maybe the twentieth page of his legal pad, under the pile of other cases that are already there.

“I will argue for bail to be set at your arraignment,” he says.

“How does that work?

“If they set it for five thousand dollars, you’d pay seven hundred and fifty to a bail bondsman, who posts the rest.”

Seven hundred and fifty dollars. I don’t have that money. My family sure as hell won’t, either. Holy shit. I’m trapped in here, unless I ask Heather or the guys at Jill’s to get me out.

Keaton would pay it, of course. But I’d rather owe everyone else on the planet than ask him.

My lawyer gets ready to leave only a few minutes later. It’s obvious to me that his one goal is getting me out on bail tomorrow. “We’ll work on the case when we get a trial date,” he says. “Are you open to a plea deal?”

“No!” Jesus. “I didn’t do it. And I have an alibi. Can you call the hotel and ask them if there are security cameras?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clicking his pen again. “When we get a court date. Sure.”

I have never felt as hopeless as I do right now.

They take me back to the holding cell, where I sink down on a bench and put my head in my hands. I would do anything to rewind this weekend to a point where I might have done something differently. Like call the cops on Joe after he broke into my room.

If only.

“Bailey! Bailey. Bailey?”

I jerk awake, bouncing my head off the concrete wall. “Right here,” I gasp.

“Your lawyer is here to prepare for your arraignment.”

I stand up, and my back complains. I spent the night hunched over, trying to sleep without having a place to lie down. My mouth feels disgusting, and my T-shirt probably smells like this hellhole.

This is how I have to face a judge?

Numb, I follow the uniformed officer back toward the little interview room. We’ve just reached the doorway when I hear my name again, from further down the hall.

“Luke Bailey? Where can I find Luke Bailey?”

“Right here,” I say, confused, as the man with the salt-and-pepper beard in the impeccable pinstripe suit barrels towards me. He’s carrying a satchel with brass clasps.

“Good, good. How much time do we have?” he asks the bailiff.

“About twenty minutes.”

The man pushes past us into the little room and his satchel lands on the table with a thump. “You’re dismissed,” he tells my public defender. “Leave the case file.”

My lawyer gets up with a squeak of his chair against the linoleum.

“Wait!” I say, panicking. “You can’t send the lawyer away.”

“I’m your new lawyer,” Mr. Pinstripes says, opening his satchel. “Robert Grant, attorney at law. Sit down, we’re wasting time.”

The other lawyer slips out of the room without so much as a word.

“But…” I snap my jaw closed, because this man is opening up a laptop already, and on its screen I see a photo of the hotel where I spent the weekend.

So I shut up and sit down across from him.

“Checkout time from the hotel is eleven a.m. on Sunday. Do you remember when you two drove away?”

“Uh, not until after eleven thirty at the earliest, because we ate lunch at the hotel restaurant.” I say, still groggy from a night of dozing on a bench. “Who gave you that information?”

He looks up. “Keaton Hayworth. Junior, or the third, whatever. The Hayworth kid. The hotel is pulling security footage from the elevators, too. Your name wasn’t on the reservation, which is a shame, but it isn’t the most important thing. My investigator will find someone behind the desk who remembers you.”

I am speechless for a second. “Who hired you?”

“The Hayworths. Now talk to me about your brother. Does he still reside at this address on Calhoun Street?” He swings the computer screen to face me, and it’s a Google Earth shot of my mom’s house.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I know he took my ID and used it to take whatever is missing.”

“Uh-huh,” the lawyer says, typing like crazy. “Totally plausible. But we don’t have to solve this case for the lazy assholes who arrested you. We’re going to show you weren’t anywhere near Darby on Saturday. They know when the place was robbed, they have the shitty footage to prove it.” He glances at me over his screen. “That still shot they showed you was straight-up bullshit. There is other footage that shows your brother’s face. I’d bet money on it.”

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “How much do you cost?”

“Not relevant to the next sixteen minutes. Hey, put this on.” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out an oxford shirt, still wrapped in plastic. “And these.” He’s got a pair of khaki pants with the tags still on them. “Keaton guessed the sizes. Hurry up. Oh, and…” He also sets a can of deodorant on the table.

I rise and strip off my T-shirt, tossing it right into the garbage can in the corner. I’d strip off my skin, too, if I could. I never want to see this place again, and I don’t need any reminders that I was ever here.

Pulling on the shirt that Keaton bought for me is only slightly more comfortable, however. I can’t believe he had to do this for me.

I feel nothing but shame.

When I’m halfway presentable and Mr. Grant has asked me fifty questions in fifteen minutes, I’m marched by a bailiff to a busy courtroom, where the judge is seated on the dais, several people convened in front of him.

I take a seat on yet another bench.

My fancy lawyer—my new favorite person—is hissing at another man at the side of the room. “This is an ACD,” Grant says. “Looks bad if you lock up a college kid before exams, whose only crime is sharing DNA with a turd you already convicted.”

The other man makes a face.

“The college looks bad if this is on the news,” Grant says, and it sounds like a threat. “And when the college looks bad, your boss gets a call.”

My lawyer is a scary dude. And I don’t even understand the things he’s saying.

“Case 418636!” calls a bailiff in front.

“That’s us,” Grant says, snapping his fingers. I rise and move toward him like a well-trained dog. “I speak for you,” he says under his breath. “Just answer ‘Yes, your honor,’ when the judge confirms your name.”

And so I do.

Two minutes later the district attorney—that’s the guy my lawyer was talking to—says “We’ve reached an agreement of ACD.”

I don’t know what that means, but the judge grunts. He hands a sheet of paper to the DA. “ROR for ACD.” Then he taps his gavel and picks up some other papers on his desk.

“Thank you,” murmurs Grant to the DA. “Wise decision. My client will make himself available to you whenever necessary.” Then Grant takes my elbow in his hand and drags me up the aisle and out the door.

“What just happened?” I ask when we’ve reached the lobby.

“ACD means Adjournment in Contemplation of Dismissal.”

“But what about bail?” I ask as he lets go of my arm.

“No bail. You’re just free to go. I’ll supply them with hard evidence of your alibi. Meanwhile, the DA’s office will try to find the actual burglar and then they’ll dismiss your case for good. So don’t get arrested for anything else, kid. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t trespass. Don’t even run a stop sign.”

“Okay?” My head is spinning.

“And if they come by to interview you about your brother, call me right as you sit down with them. You do not have to go near the police station. But you do need to be as helpful as possible. Call me for anything.”

“I will.”

“Now let’s get your personal effects so you can go home.”

And so we do.

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