Shatter Read online

  “Oh, no, no, no. My God. They’re going to kill us all!” the governor’s avatar yells.

  A third bullet smashes into the President’s head. The scene ends.

  “That’s terrible.” AddyDay’s fingers are over her mouth. “So … that proves the president was killed by one guy, right? One gun?”

  “Well, watch this,” Slate says, starting the next clip.

  The same avatars appear inside the same convertible. The same man with a rifle is in the same window.

  “Notice the second man,” the male voice narrates.

  In this version, a second man emerges from above a waist-high wall across the street, also carrying a rifle.

  Both men aim their weapons and fire.

  “Which sequence of events is correct?” the narrator asks. “The lone shooter or the tandem pair? The debate may well rage forever.”

  The scene freezes on a close up of Mrs. Kennedy. I can’t stop staring at her. All that film footage and she still had to wonder who killed her husband, who else might have been responsible. Who else might have held the answers.

  I turn. My eyes meet Cordero’s and I realize he’s already watching me. He lifts his chin in a cautious greeting. I get a vision of reacting to him the way I would if I didn’t suspect him. I would smile at him. Or blush and look away, more likely. I hurry back to my desk. He’s right behind me, taking a seat.

  I lean forward, consumed by hatred for him. Maybe I’m wrong about him and he didn’t harm Carrie. But maybe I’m right and he did.

  What will I say to him to make him tell me what he knows?

  “Okay,” Slate continues once the class is settled. “Let’s talk about the trial itself. The teams will assign students to be witnesses, say a scientific expert. Like Jeremy here.” He gestures at the front row.

  “Oops.” Jeremy Novo takes headphones out of his ears, accidentally ripping the wire free from his phone.

  A woman’s electronic voice fills the classroom. “… in store for the peach strike …”

  Jeremy cusses and fiddles with his phone.

  “You listen to news clips?” Mr. White asks.

  “… with growers and migrant laborers rocked by murder,” the voice continues. “The victim is Juan Herrera. Despite evidence of gang involvement, police are not ruling out suspects who may have targeted Juan for his union affiliation. He was apparently beaten to death during a fist fight—”

  Jeremy’s phone goes silent.

  Murder by fist—a crime of passion. And somehow Officer Haynes suspects Dad, the least passionate person alive. Granted, the suspect I’m fixated on hasn’t shown much emotion either. Slate was the one frowning at Cordero, not the other way around.

  At least Dad’s name stayed out of the newspapers, except as the owner of the orchard. I was relieved. I’d seen him surfing news sites this morning, so I know he was worried too.

  The bell rings to leave. I whirl to follow Cordero, but his tall frame—no hat today—is already halfway to the door.

  Upset, I hurry out the door. Cordero is nowhere to be seen.

  So much for courage.

  At lunch, I buy a Coke and savor its coolness. In the center of the outdoor quad, Verona High’s flag languishes on a pole, the only vertical relief to flat landscape that extends for hundreds of miles. I’m smack in the middle of the fertile Central Valley, the seedbed of one-third of the nation’s fruits and vegetables.

  Old-time Verona lives, eats, and breathes orchards. If peach growers succumb to wage-hike demands, the growers of plums, oranges, and cherries will be next.

  Under the eaves of the administration building, two Hispanic guys wearing blue slowly scan their surroundings. Do any of them know about the symbol on Carrie’s car? None of them sport the upside-down V as body art. Still, they might know something.

  I gather my courage, repeating Mr. White’s words about not giving up. I walk to the guys. The soda can in my hand shakes. The guys lift their chins. I stop in front of the younger one, a guy in a white t-shirt and jeans so big they need five layers of boxers to hold them up.

  “Do you know—” I realize my mistake and lose all my confidence. “I mean, did you know Carrie Jefferson?”

  My interrogation skills are awful. I sound like a pushy gossip columnist. I haven’t introduced the reason for my questions or given anyone a reason to want to answer.

  My face flushes at their silence and lazy scrutiny.

  “Carrie,” I say louder.

  The pair keeps their emotionless stares trained on me. Like territorial bulls, all the more menacing in their patience. They’ll never tell me about Carrie. Because I’m not like Carrie, and I won’t ever be able to be like Carrie. I don’t have the confidence to fight the people who harm others. How could I have thought I could be like Carrie?

  I hurry away in the wake of their low insults, said to my back in their native Spanish.

  The heat of shame radiates from my skin into the swelter of the day.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FIVE AND A HALF YEARS PRIOR

  The first time I saw violence, I was in fifth grade.

  “Ew!” I was gripping the side of a dumpster, giggling. I had a brown paper sack in my other hand.

  “Is that mine?” Carrie’s worried twelve-year-old voice sounded like an audio recording found under the definition of “precocious.” She was the one who convinced me to go dumpster diving.

  Shuffling, she tried to get better footing on the pile of garbage. “Dad’s going to kill me if I don’t find my retainer.”

  “Must’a been a parent who packed this lunch. It’s full of wadishes!” My r wasn’t low enough in my throat to sound right. “Radishes,” I whispered to myself. I didn’t like anyone to hear me practicing, not even Carrie.

  “There are so many aluminum cans in here,” Carrie said, offended. She collected them into a corner. “Why doesn’t our school recycle?”

  The dumpster rocked as something hit it from outside, sending the stacked cans crashing. A stream of Spanish was followed by moans of unmistakable pain.

  I froze, afraid and uncertain.

  “Stop! Hey, you out there! Stop!” Carrie gripped the dumpster wall, moving toward the voices. She was going to face the trouble and stop it, not hide from it.

  Seeing her, I knew what to do. I copied her actions.

  Only I was a lot faster.

  Using a metal hook as a foothold, I slung myself up and over the side of the dumpster. The lunch bag I’d had in my hand tumbled down to the pavement. I landed and looked up.

  They were big. Big as adults. Junior high students with facial hair. They breathed heavy, kicking and punching. The chubby victim pitched this way and that on the ground, an over-sized, dark teddy bear.

  One of the attackers heard me land, a tall guy with a split lip and a thin, brown face. He rushed at me, yelling words I couldn’t understand. Teddy-bear boy was crying out in pain from his fetal position. Carrie screamed above us.

  I stooped to grab the lunch bag I’d dropped and threw it into the fray.

  “Run!” I shouted to Teddy-bear boy. I forgot to enunciate. “Whun!” My call sounded pathetic and immature.

  “Careful!” Carrie screamed, watching from above.

  I scurried backward, trapped between the dumpster and the chain link fence. Instead of coming after me, the tall guy yelled a sharp, foreign command. The aggressors retreated from their victim. Teddy-bear boy uncurled, his eyes jumpy. He flashed a grand frown, like an unhappy clown—a desperate joke.

  The attackers laughed. They offered to help him up. Mouth open, I watched Teddy-bear boy sprint with them toward the junior high down the street. I climbed back up to Carrie and calmed her as she cried. Eventually, she told me what a gang initiation was, and then I understood.

  Teddy-bear boy. Wide cheeks, eyes without pride. He’d been in on the whole thing. He hadn’t just known the attack would happen. He’d requested it.

  PRESENT DAY

  “Gang initiations often i
nvolve brutal beatings,” reads a link on the side of the Verona Bulletin’s website. The main section of the website remains empty as my phone slowly downloads an article called Murder on the Peach-Strike Express.

  Classes just ended, bringing the second day of school to a close. I’m sweating with a group of students next to the administration building, waiting for Mr. White to announce the mock trial teams.

  As I wait, a chill rolls over the sweat on my skin. I want to know what happened to Carrie. How far would I go to know? Would I endure a brutal beating?

  Mr. White arrives with quick strides. “I’ve assigned the teams. Leaders will be in charge of the video camera I will give each side, along with recordings from previous mock trials—analyze those videos carefully!”

  The article I requested downloads. I hold my hand over the screen, blocking the glare.

  Murder on the Peach-Strike Express

  Elena Thornton

  Verona, CA

  Yesterday afternoon farm workers found the body of missing union official Juan Herrera, buried in a peach orchard two miles outside Verona’s city limits.

  While I read, Mr. White continues his announcements.

  “The partnership who scored second best in the homework assignment will lead the defense team. And it’s …” He pauses dramatically. “… Envy Chiquoi and Kimi Tam!”

  A few students clap while Mr. White reads off the names assigned to their team. He has to hurry so people can get to their sports practices and buses.

  I block out the noise and keep reading.

  “A labor strike is going to bring tension and crime,” says union official Rick Thornton.

  Thornton points to a fifteen percent rise in theft since the strike began. Coincidentally, the official’s own house has suffered three attempted burglaries in the same time period.

  I reread Rick Thornton’s name. Carrie knew and liked Rick. I wonder if the house break-in means he’s a victim of the same strike-violence that Carrie may have been a victim of.

  “Everyone else, you’re on the prosecution team,” Mr. White says. “With leaders Salem Jefferson and Cordero Vasquez!”

  I hear my name but it means nothing until AddyDay crashes into me, arms wide. “Oh, I’m so glad I’m on your team!”

  A team leader—me? Carrie was the leader, not me.

  Across the outdoor quad, I notice movement from the two guys I spoke to at lunch, who dress like gang members. Their faces are down, their arrogance gone. My gaze doesn’t follow theirs but seeks whatever they fear. Something behind me. A person exiting the administration building in a waft of cool, stale air. A tall presence.

  I turn and stare at an upside-down V tattoo shimmering in the sunlight, black and fierce. Like fuel waiting for ignition.

  “Salem,” Cordero says. His expression is calm and almost inviting. He seems confident and controlled, like someone I might trust despite his gang attire. The way he knows how to play his cards gives me more reason to suspect him of being involved with Carrie. Carrie would’ve hired someone smart.

  “Gosh, um, Cordero!” AddyDay says, letting go of my arm. She smiles at him, hoping to get noticed.

  Instead, Cordero holds my gaze, like something about me has caught his interest—in a good way or a bad way, I don’t know. His facial hair is crisp and thin along the line of his jaw. Another trail of black outlines his dark mouth. I feel my face get hot, burning to verify he’s connected somehow to Carrie.

  “Did you know my sister?” I ask.

  Cordero’s smile disappears. His eyes flash with emotion. I get hot all over. He did know her. He knew her and I don’t know what to do now. I have no practice in pressing someone for information.

  He regains his cool. “Who didn’t know Carrie?”

  Slate calls to me from behind. He must have just arrived. “Salem, sorry I’m late. Great paper on Oswald’s USSR ties. Mr. White let me read it.”

  Turning from Cordero to Slate is like falling from fire into ice.

  Meanwhile, Mr. White hurries toward Cordero and me with wide strides, waving a manila envelope. “Salem. Cordero. Here are your team’s phone numbers and addresses.”

  As the teacher arrives, Slate notices I’m not alone. His eyes lock on Cordero and his good mood vanishes.

  Cordero greets Slate with a twitch of a smile. “Did you also like the paper I wrote?”

  I throw strategy to the wind and step into Cordero’s personal space. “You’re in the gang that tagged Carrie’s car, aren’t you?”

  Not one muscle of his face moves and yet it darkens under the harsh shadow of his cap, like the sunlight is frightened of him. I’m out of breath under his gaze.

  No one makes a move until Cordero pulls the envelope out of Mr. White’s hands, still facing me with an intense expression. “I’ll make the trial assignments. You learn how to question someone.” He strides toward the parking lot.

  Slate turns to me with cold blue eyes. “Are you friends with him?”

  “I don’t even know him,” I answer. “What’s your problem with him? Does it have anything to do with Carrie?”

  With a reddened face, Slate presses his hand to my back so that my shirt clings to my skin and glances at Mr. White. “Give us a minute?”

  Other students whisper while Slate walks me to a bench several yards away.

  I don’t sit. “I know Carrie told you stuff about what she was up to. Did she tell you she hired a gang member?”

  He’s caught off guard. “You knew she hired Cordero?”

  I lean forward. “She hired Cordero?”

  It was Cordero who Carrie hired. That’s why he reacted to her name. That’s why he knows who I am and why he’s arguing with Slate. I flush with success, finally learning something.

  Then I think about what I’ve learned. I’ve learned Carrie really did hire a gang member—no question.

  But how could she have done that? How? Carrie knew involving gangs would lead to violence.

  FIVE AND A HALF YEARS PRIOR

  After the gang guys finished beating up Teddy-bear boy, I went back to the dumpster and found Carrie’s retainer. She thanked me three times.

  “No pwoblem,” I answered, still standing on garbage.

  “I’ve seen that guy before, the one they were hitting. I think he’s a year older than me.” Carrie was still wiping away tears and calming down. “Salem, I’m proud of you. You stood up to those guys down there! Someday you’re going to figure out who you are.” Her words didn’t sound ridiculous, even coming from a twelve-year-old. Carrie had been born confident.

  She smiled at me. “I know you think you do everything wrong. But you’re strong. You’re going to help me like I help you sometimes. You … you just have this power.”

  “Well, I’m fastah than you.” I was blushing. I had no idea what she meant.

  “See? You don’t even know.” She turned and tried to find a foothold on the dumpster. “I wish I could be like you.”

  PRESENT DAY

  “Look, are you okay?” Slate says gently, reminding me that I’m at school.

  I keep picturing Carrie crying at the violence of the gang initiation. How could she hire a gang member? And why did she ever think she wanted to be like me?

  “Salem?” Slate feels sorry for me.

  Concerned, he nudges my elbow, and I sit. Heat from the plastic bench radiates through my cut-offs.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, taking a spot next to me.

  I fist my hands. “I think someone hurt Carrie. I think that’s how she died.” I tell him about the symbol on Carrie’s car showing up on Juan Herrera’s shoe and how the police might call in a forensic expert to reexamine the house explosion.

  Slate shakes his head, rejecting my words as strongly as Dad had. “Carrie died because a pipe was leaking.”

  “But what if she was targeted by the gang she hired? What if she couldn’t pay them, or knew too much about them?”

  “Salem—”

  “You should have told so
meone what she was doing, hiring Cordero,” I say over the sound of my mental scream. I should have told someone how frightened she was.

  I expect Slate to be furious that I’ve blamed him. Instead, I look up to cool eyes haunted by grief and isolation, looking like my own image in a mirror—my own grief and isolation, just the same. He understands what it’s like living without her—the guilt, the pain, all of it.

  Slate looks away from me.

  “I did tell the police,” he says in a thick voice. “But not until after she died.”

  “How could she?” I whisper.

  “Don’t hate her, Salem. She wanted so badly for that strike to go through, but she was very conflicted. She didn’t tell you because she wanted to be a good example for you.”

  I press my lips together.

  Slate takes a ragged breath. “I found out when we went out for dinner a few days after her birthday to celebrate. Remember that? We went to a restaurant at Mission Plaza and … well, Carrie talked to two guys—Cordero and someone named Tito …” Slate hesitates, as if the memory is troubling. “Tito’s crazy … rough … not a good guy. He … hit me. We fought. Anyway, I avoid him now.”

  Mission Plaza is a strip mall a mile from Verona High. Lots of graffiti gets painted over down there. It’s a hangout spot for local teens and gang members too.

  I frown. “Do you think Cordero could have turned against Carrie for some reason? Carrie said there were gang members working for growers. Maybe it was Cordero—or another Primero. He could have … I don’t know … betrayed her to the growers if they had more money than she did or something. That could have led to her being murdered.”

  “I don’t think a gang blew up your house. I know Carrie made some mistakes, but there’s no way she was murdered.”

  “Maybe the growers wanted it to look like an accident. You know how much they don’t like her for making the strike popular.”

  Slate frowns. “It’s true she was worried about the strike. She cared so much … she was going to fix the whole world. Someone just couldn’t have wanted to …”