Shatter Page 22

  Two hours since I last saw Cordero. Has it crossed his mind—how I turned from him on the riverbanks?

  “They won’t let me in,” he says, more anxious than I’ve ever seen him. “Because of the roster—that it’s missing.”

  “I’ve got the roster,” I say as we charge up the steps. I’m mad at Mr. White. He managed to get all the other students in, just not Cordero. “My dad—he was going to bribe Juan Herrera.”

  He stops. “How did you learn this?”

  I turn to face him, even though we’re making ourselves later than ever. “The police are probably going to arrest Dad—but it wasn’t him … I could tell finally. It wasn’t Slate either. He fought Tito because … Slate’s little sister Anna wanted to join your gang but Tito wanted her to rob a gas station with a gun and then … then she didn’t want to join anymore … but … he hurt her.”

  Comprehension lights his eyes. He drops his gaze, voice heavy. “I should have guessed.”

  Neither of us speaks for a moment. No wonder the other Primeros want Tito out.

  I force myself to continue. “Dad said Carrie found out about him bribing someone. She was trying to figure out who was taking the money. Don’t you see? The growers aren’t the only ones with motive. If Carrie found out about the bribery, someone else from the union could have too, and been really mad. Like the union president, Benicio.”

  Mental calculation shows in Cordero’s features. “Someone hired El Payaso to come after me. If Benicio is the killer, how did he know I was searching for the killer?”

  I pause, and then snap my fingers. “Envy and Kimi. They were with Slate that day I texted him about you, remember? They knew I was trying to talk to you about Carrie. If Benicio told them to be on the lookout for anyone close to me trying to dig into Carrie’s murder, they could have called Benicio right then.”

  Cordero goes into action mode. He heads down the stairs toward the Laborer’s Rally. “Where is Benicio?”

  “No, listen.” I pull Cordero back by his arm and let go abruptly, confused and thinking of him tipping my head back to kiss me.

  “What?” he demands, facing me.

  My phone rings, flashing AddyDay’s face at me. Oops, I forgot about her. She must have hung up and called back. But there is no time.

  “Listen,” I tell Cordero, putting the cell to my ear. “AddyDay?”

  “Salem?”

  “Benicio is blaming violence on the growers,” I tell both of them, continuing where I left off. “Maybe even bombs.”

  “Salem, the judge just announced if anyone’s late, he won’t let them in,” AddyDay interrupts.

  “Judge won’t let us in if we’re late,” I relay to Cordero.

  Cordero leans to look at an enormous clock inside the rotunda.

  “AddyDay? Are Envy and Kimi at the mock trial?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  “Envy is the only one I know for sure who is invited to the secret union meeting,” I continue speaking into the phone with Cordero’s full attention as well. “President Benicio has motive, AddyDay. He could have been mad Juan was taking bribes. But the killer could still be a grower. Here’s our plan. AddyDay and Cordero, you two follow the growers after the trial. I’ll follow Envy—she’ll take me right to Benicio. I can … I don’t know … see if he makes a mistake and reveals something. If nothing else, I can stop him from setting off a bomb if that’s really what the killer is threatening.” I can’t let AddyDay go with the growers by herself. She trusts them too much.

  “No,” Cordero tells me. “Not alone.”

  “Slate can come with me.” Provided I can convince him.

  Cordero scowls, but nods. For the first time I wonder if he’s jealous of Slate, thinking the two of us have something between us besides the memory of Carrie. I want to tell him we don’t.

  “I’m in,” AddyDay says.

  “We only have three minutes to get to mock trial,” Cordero tells me.

  I glance at him. “AddyDay, stall the trial.”

  “What? But Salem—”

  “Let’s go,” Cordero says. Determination shows in the corners of his mouth.

  We take the remaining stairs at a run.

  A Middle Eastern man in a blue uniform looks over the roster and waves us through the metal detector. Our steps echo inside the grand rotunda, three stories tall and lined on the far side with a curved balcony opening to the main body of the building.

  We skip the elevator in favor of stairs. The slap of my high-heels reverberates in the stairwell.

  At 3:02, we burst through the doors of the courtroom assigned to Verona High’s mock trial.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I’m prepped for a silent audience and a mock trial already in motion. Instead, hardly a soul spins to see us as the doors fall shut.

  Most of the spectators inside the full-capacity courtroom are straining to see Mr. White and the mock trial students in front of the empty judge’s desk. Slate is there, leaning over what looks like a digital clock with an eighteen-inch display. A California state flag hangs motionless next to the U.S. standard against the dark mahogany paneling of the back wall. The room smells of varnish and lemony-fresh wood cleaners.

  I glance at Cordero—the tension of his lips, his jaw.

  “Why did you touch the official time clock?” Mr. White’s voice carries all the way across the room as he gestures at the digital numbers, which tick forward from a time of three minutes and twenty-five seconds.

  Marissa and Katelyn both fold their arms at Mr. White’s question. They’ve got on pleated skirts and Mary Jane shoes.

  “AddyDay said to start the time,” Marissa insists. “It’s her fault.”

  AddyDay’s near hysterics are perfectly believable as she brings her salmon-colored gloves to her mouth. “I thought it’d be okay to use the timer to practice my witness questions again. What if I go over my time limit? That’s a five-point automatic deduction!”

  In the benches reserved for the prosecution team, Jeremy lounges in a single-breasted gray suit. McCoy has an unknotted bowtie dangling from his collar. Both boys are laughing.

  “How many valley girls does it take to screw up a mock trial?” Jeremy asks.

  “Ten bucks says Mr. White has no idea there’s a timer on his cell phone,” McCoy answers.

  I let myself grin at AddyDay’s quick thinking. Cordero nudges me forward and I hurry down the aisle, the feel of his knuckles against my skin lingering.

  At the judge’s desk, Slate punches a few buttons on the side of the clock. The numbers on the clock’s display blink, replaced by straight zeros.

  “That should reset it,” Slate smooths his hair, black and full in a John F. Kennedy sweep across his forehead. He notices Cordero and drops his hand to his side.

  AddyDay turns to see what Slate is looking at.

  “Finally,” she breathes in relief.

  Mayor Bill Knockwurst chats with half a dozen men I’ve seen at grower’s meetings. One of them waves at his daughter sitting with the defense team. At a table set up for the defense, Kimi silently analyzes the mayhem from under a sweeping Audrey Hepburn–styled hat. Envy sits next to her, soft black braids covered in a plaid handkerchief pinned under her chin.

  “Can everyone please take their seats?” Mr. White asks.

  Cordero sits at the long prosecution table. As his partner, I’m assigned to the chair next to him. AddyDay is on my other side. Behind us is community leader Rick Thornton, carrying his laptop case. Officer Haynes is absent, probably with Dad at the Verona police station while the real killer is here in Sacramento. Possibly in this room.

  Cordero leans into me.

  “You have your witness questions?” He’s right next to me. My hair sways with his breath.

  “Yeah, let me get them.”

  I’m careful not to react to his presence—careful not to move away from him. I’ve drifted the opposite way instead, making him closer than ever.

  Marissa’s shrill voice sounds
from the back of the room.

  “All rise for the Honorable Judge Steele,” she says, performing her assigned role as bailiff.

  I stand with the other spectators. Slate comes around the table from the judge’s desk, the last person to slip into his spot on the bench behind the growers. He throws a tense glance at Cordero and tries to catch my gaze, as if that will relieve his anxiety. I nod to him, visually pleading with him to trust me. If Slate doesn’t follow Envy with me, I’ll have to face off with Benicio alone.

  A tall man sweeps down the aisle, wearing the flowing black robes of a judge. He’s escorted by Marissa and a boy from the defense team, each serving as bailiff.

  Judge Steele settles into a plush chair under the flags. Marissa and the male student-bailiff sit along the right wall.

  “You may be seated,” Marissa calls.

  The room shuffles.

  “I now call this mock trial to order,” Judge Steele announces into a microphone on his desk. His eyebrows are white and bushy.

  The primal fear I had in the downtown streets of Sacramento—fear of bodily harm, of pain and death—has dipped. I’m surrounded by the likely killers. No matter the specific location they’ve chosen for their target, they won’t set off an explosion anywhere they could personally get hurt. My sense of security feels hollow and unfair. The protesters outside don’t have such reassurances.

  “Conspiracy, you have been called to a criminal trial,” the judge continues, speaking as if a suspect, Conspiracy, were actually present. “You are accused of misdirecting the people of the United States in the matter of the 1963 assassination of John F. Kennedy. How do you plead?”

  Kimi stands. “On behalf of Conspiracy, the defense pleads not guilty, your honor.”

  Judge Steele nods. “Prosecution, are you ready to present your evidence?”

  “Yes, your honor.” Jeremy walks to a podium, which faces the judge.

  The male bailiff touches a button on top of the official time clock and it starts ticking. Each of the teams will have equal amounts of time to prove their case.

  “Your honor, on November 22, 1963, Lee Oswald assassinated the President of the United States.” Jeremy’s voice reverberates from the speaker system.

  “Oswald woke up that morning, wrapped one of his two rifles in a long brown paper bag, took a bus to Dallas, and shot John F. Kennedy from the sixth story of a building. All this he did alone. Without the support or money of any person or organization, powerful or otherwise. And why did he do it? Because he wanted to be someone. Someone history would remember.”

  Jeremy may be a jerk, but he’s our best public speaker.

  While he speaks, I write a note to Slate.

  Cordero shifts beside me. I think he wants my attention. He doesn’t. We both look away. Blushing, I press my elbow to my side to keep it farther from the crease of his sleeve and finish my message.

  The day she died, Carrie wanted to go to the police with what she knew about Juan’s murder. I think I know part of the story. After the trial ends, will you help me?

  I finger the note, wondering how to get it to him.

  Jeremy finishes the opening statement and goes to his seat. A redhead from the defense takes the podium. Her rebuttal speech is well written, but has nothing on Jeremy’s. When she sits, I lean toward AddyDay.

  “Good luck,” I whisper.

  She nods. Her notes crinkle as she heads for the podium.

  “The prosecution would like to call Marina Prusakova Oswald to the stand,” she says into the microphone.

  Katelyn rises from the bench behind me and goes to the witness stand.

  “Marina, you met and married Lee Oswald while in your home country of Russia, correct?” AddyDay asks.

  “Yes, I did.” Katelyn is a perfect Marina—pretty, easily confused, and embarrassed.

  “On September 27 of 1963, your husband Oswald took a trip by bus from Houston to Mexico, didn’t he?”

  I’m proud. AddyDay has only taken twenty seconds to start setting up the timetable leading to the assassination.

  Katelyn shrugs. “That’s what he said.”

  AddyDay approaches the bench. “Your honor, I’d like to submit witness affidavits from two of Oswald’s fellow bus passengers as Evidence Numbers One and Two. They verify that on September 27, Oswald began a week-long journey to Mexico—”

  A burst of noise interrupts her, like distant explosions. I whirl to face the door and then realize the noise is coming from a floor below me. Slate stands in alarm. Cordero doesn’t react with any motion at all. Neither do McCoy and Jeremy.

  “Pop rockets?” McCoy says, offended. “I try to sneak a Coke past security and they catch me.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Jeremy agrees.

  Slate catches my eye, and I rise to give him my note. Mayor Bill Knockwurst notices me and takes the paper.

  “Here, let me help,” he says, handing the paper to Slate.

  I jerk my hand away from the mayor. Then I remember I don’t have to hate him. But who do I have to hate?

  The judge slaps his gavel.

  “I’ll read it later,” Slate says, tucking the note into his pocket with a glance at the judge.

  Disappointed, I face the judge, ignoring Cordero’s sideways look.

  “We will not bring the disruption of the Laborer’s March into my courtroom,” the judge announces. “Bailiff, go downstairs and get a report from security. Prosecution, continue.”

  “I’ve finished, your honor,” AddyDay says while Marissa makes her way to the aisle to head downstairs as bailiff.

  “Next attorney?” Judge Steele’s white eyebrows are high as he stares at me.

  I stand. I stutter as I call Silvia Odio for questioning. Kimi takes her place at the witness stand, smiling as if my nerves are a gift-wrapped box of chocolates.

  “Will you—will you please tell the court how you met Lee Oswald?” I say, my voice weak.

  “I’m Cuban.” Kimi tosses silky black hair behind her shoulder. “My father died, killed in a communist jail. In Dallas, I was visited by two Cuban men and an American they called Oswald.”

  She continues, claiming that Oswald and two other men wanted to assassinate President Kennedy.

  “And this meeting took place in your apartment in Dallas?” I ask. “And then you moved. Your lease on the apartment came up September 30. In fact, you told the FBI that the three men came on Friday, September 27, right?”

  The room behind me is silent, watching her. Everyone in the courtroom knows she’ll have to depart from her original testimony. AddyDay just submitted two witness affidavits putting Oswald on a bus traveling from Houston to Mexico City on September 27. There’s no way he could have been in Dallas on the same day.

  Kimi nods curtly. “Yes.”

  “But you—” I call in a ringing voice.

  I cut myself off, feeling my face turn red. Why is she agreeing with me? I glance behind me. People whisper. Cordero stares hard at Kimi, intrigued. He leans into AddyDay to tell her something. She nods and slides him a notebook and pencil.

  I turn back to Kimi, still not believing her answer. “You met on September 27?”

  Her mouth twitches. I can’t read the expression. Victory? The judge leans forward.

  “That’s what I told the FBI, yes,” she answers.

  From the aisle, AddyDay slips me a sheet of paper with two words on it. On purpose.

  I turn to look at Cordero’s dark eyes. He can read people. Kimi is tricking me. She’s trying to make her case seem impossible to believe so that she can hide something and reveal it later—something so big and so surprising that when she uses it at the end of the trial, we won’t have time to debate it.

  I turn back to Kimi and ask two more times if she moved on September 30. The judge glares at me above folded arms.

  “Prosecution, you are on thin ground. Ms. Odio’s contract ended on September 30.” The judge repeats the phrasing Kimi has said over and over. The contract ended. “You will
continue with another line of question—”

  I interrupt the judge and turn to Kimi. “Wait, are you saying you didn’t actually move when your contract ended?”

  Kimi’s smile disappears. I glance back at Cordero, who nods, his expression confident. The judge’s white eyebrows practically come off his face in his displeasure.

  “Prosecution, do not ever interrupt me.” He turns to Kimi. “Answer her question. Did you move when your contract ended?”

  She straightens in the witness seat. “I wanted to move on a weekend. The way I remember it is that I moved out on a Saturday, October 5.”

  Our entire prosecution rests on the fact that conspiracy has to be untrue because Oswald couldn’t have met with Silvia Odio. But what if our team’s version of the timing really is off? What if Silvia Odio didn’t change apartments until after Oswald’s visit to Mexico ended? Oswald would have had plenty of time to visit her and plot an assassination. A conspiracy could have existed after all.

  The idea rocks me. If I’m off on the timing of Oswald’s actions, what if I’m wrong on something infinitely more important?

  What if I’m wrong about the timing regarding Juan’s death?

  “Attorney, your time is up,” the judge announces. “We will now take a five minute break.”

  He slams his gavel.

  The teams rise. I hurry to Cordero, mentally reviewing everything I know about Juan’s murder. I checked everything, questioned everyone. Hurriedly, I get out my phone and pull up the timeline of Carrie’s death, which I emailed to myself. I can’t be off on the timing. In between the benches, Mayor Knockwurst shakes hands with Officer Haynes.

  I do a double take at seeing the officer. If he’s here, where’s Dad?

  I get out my phone, but there are no notifications. Could he be released from questioning? Or is this terrible news and he’s been arrested?

  “Salem, that was amazing,” AddyDay says, taking my arm.

  “Great job,” Slate tells me on his way to the defense team’s table. He’ll talk strategy with them now that their first plan failed. I think I could be proud of myself if I weren’t so worried about Dad. When is Slate going to read his note?