Shatter Read online

  The room explodes in comments.

  “How do you know?” I’m furious, as if he’s talking about Carrie, saying she wasn’t murdered.

  “Good thing he cleared that up,” Jeremy says to McCoy.

  AddyDay wants to know the source he’s citing.

  “A mob does not hire killers, not from the outside,” Cordero explains. He doesn’t raise his voice. His facial tattoo, height, and calm stare silence the room. “They have their own killers. The mob kills with mob people. Same for the Cubans.”

  A student named Philip speaks up. “You’re talking about power structure.” Excited, he turns to his friends. “He’s right. If you have your own power—your own assassins—why hire someone from the outside? We can use that in our closing statement. It makes the whole idea of a conspiracy look dumb.”

  Cordero nods. “Conspiracy requires more money. More time. The risk of getting caught is higher.”

  “But conspiracies do happen sometimes,” I say. “Especially when the money involved was big time. Havana, Cuba was the resort capital of the world back then. The Cubans—the mob—they hated Kennedy for not taking down the communist leader who shut down their casinos.”

  It’s the most coherent thing I’ve said to my teammates since school started. Many are nodding, maybe jazzed at signs of life from the prosecution team.

  “Whose side are you on anyway?” Marissa asks me from the couch. “You’re going to make the defense team win.”

  “We can’t just assume there was no plot,” I say. “Kennedy was one of the most popular presidents ever. Maybe all the regular mob assassins refused the assignment.”

  “Mob members don’t say no,” Slate says in quiet calm next to me. “It’s the mob’s teachings. You serve the family and what the family needs, not yourself.”

  “Well … maybe that works sometimes,” I say.

  Slate frowns. “No. All the time. You do whatever the family needs.”

  Cordero’s hostility toward Slate cools enough for him to nod. “He’s right.”

  “You do what the family needs even if it makes you a murderer?” I ask, ready to hate Cordero regardless of his answer. Instead of responding, he tightens his jaw in a sudden frown, looking away.

  Slate takes the opening. “Are you a murderer if you know that it’s for your family?”

  “Slate!” I cry. He can’t mean what he’s saying. He means other people, bad people—that’s who murders for their family.

  AddyDay cuts in from a kneeling position next to the couch. “Soldiers kill for their families.”

  “Mobsters are hardly soldiers,” I tell her.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they think of themselves that way,” she answers.

  With a wave of his hand, Cordero dismisses us all. “None of you understand the mob.”

  Cheeks flushed, Slate stands and steps toward Cordero. “I don’t understand mobs, but I understand family. I understand loyalty. So did Carrie.”

  Cordero stands. “You understand nothing!”

  I glance between them, fearful of more fighting, thoughts spinning. Cordero doesn’t shrug off murder like it’s no big deal, that’s for sure. He’s certainly more conflicted than Slate about the idea of the mob making an assignment that has to be fulfilled no matter what.

  A loud female voice shouts into the room. “Snack time!”

  “Mother,” Jeremy complains.

  Across the room, a brunette woman with a wide smile steps into the living room, carrying a tray of cheese slices and crackers.

  “I thought you all might like some,” she says.

  The company of boys at the desk head for the tray. Cordero won’t step away from Slate for anything but the TA retreats, obviously coaching himself on the foolishness of making trouble. As they separate, each turns toward me. They realize their common goal and frown at each other. Again, Slate moves aside. Cordero smirks and steps in front of me to talk to me, like it’s his place to do so. He is my partner, after all.

  In confusion, my gaze finds his. His expression is dark and tense and alert to my scrutiny.

  Could it be possible? Could Cordero have a moral code that’s as important to him as anything I follow myself?

  He speaks calmly to me. “Write out your arguments about the JFK case. We’ll find a way to counter them one by one.”

  I nod. “Okay, I … but I … actually I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I’m not staying.” He turns and walks toward the front door.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When the mock trial practice ends, Slate is in no hurry to go. We review notes for ten minutes. Jeremy and McCoy start up Xbox games. After AddyDay and her friends take off, Slate leads me into the warm evening. Streetlights are on, but they don’t compete with the glimmer of a summer sunset.

  Slate glances at me when we reach the sidewalk. “Cordero giving you any trouble as your partner?”

  “Well … not really.” I don’t say how I feel tricked for even considering Cordero might have a moral code. He grabbed a handgun and shot at his enemies. That’s probably his moral code.

  After failing to talk to him, I didn’t even attempt to ask Jeremy or McCoy about Carrie. I can’t ruin my chances by demanding answers in a room full of people. Slate and I are alone, though. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.

  I swallow and try to look casual. “Did you know Cordero hung out once with McCoy at Mission Plaza? Was that the night you fought him?”

  Slate stops with me next to the driver’s side of the car I drove, Dad’s Prius. “You need to leave this alone, yeah?”

  “Listen, I—”

  “What’s Cordero going to do if he finds out you’re asking questions about him?”

  “At least tell me—”

  “Listen.” He shakes his head. “McCoy wasn’t there when I fought. Not that I know of. It was another night McCoy got into it with Cordero. I wasn’t there. Carrie was. She called me for a ride home and I was already in the car with Anna, my sister—she …”

  He stops talking right in the middle of his sentence. His expression turns off. It goes from anxious to emotionally dead.

  I wonder if he’s afraid of emotion. Well, that’s one thing we’d have in common, besides Carrie.

  I wait, not sure what to ask even if he would answer.

  “Anyway,” he continues with a careful voice. “The night McCoy was there, Carrie seemed … she might have been frightened. I don’t know. Just tired maybe—she wasn’t her usual self.”

  “Don’t you think Cordero knows what might have happened to Carrie? She hired him after all. He obviously would never tell police, but what if—”

  “I don’t get involved with people like him. Not even to find out about Carrie.”

  “I would just talk to him.”

  “Being safe doesn’t mean I didn’t care about her.”

  “I …” His words about my sister slash deep. He thinks I’m accusing him of not caring about her. I feel terrible.

  I slump forward. “Sometimes I wonder … if I could just find out what he knew …”

  “You want to know what happened to her, yeah? I know. I understand. But she’d want you to be careful, yeah?”

  I nod. He’s right. Of course he’s right.

  His phone rings. The screen is angled so both of us are able to see the picture of his sister flashing on the screen. Anna’s features are much darker than his. Her smile looks sad. Carrie talked about Anna sometimes, about how she was so shy and pretty, but troubled. Something about a guy.

  Slate’s expression stiffens.

  “Hello?” he answers.

  When his sister responds, his shoulders relax. “Okay, I’ll be right there,” he tells her, waving good-bye to me.

  I drive home, taking country roads that are unlit this far from town. I think of Carrie, how crazy she was about Slate and his whole family. Slate’s mom was polite, but reserved and very religious—she wears the Muslim shawl while she works as a maid. I think for some reason o
f Cordero’s mom. She sobbed over her daughter’s gunshot wound, but didn’t help her really.

  At the thought, my mental image slides dramatically away from Slate—who has told me all he probably knows—and swings to Cordero—who likely has more information about Carrie’s union plans than anyone else. I’m running out of people to question. I have to be smart, take my time, and create a good opportunity.

  I have to get Cordero to open up to me somehow.

  ...

  On Monday, we start our reports on potential conspirators. McCoy and Jeremy show everyone up, coming to class with dark sunglasses, shooting the bleachers with double finger guns, and telling us, “It’s the mob, people. That’s who was gutsy enough to kill an American president.” They deliver a thorough lecture on primary mobster figures of the 1960s.

  “So if you want to learn about the mob, do as the mob does,” McCoy says as they finish, tossing small plastic packages to the bleachers. One falls near my sandal, and I pick it up. There’s something fuzzy and black inside.

  “What is this?” AddyDay asks. She’s sitting next to her friends. Her Band-Aids are gone, replaced by a thin line of scabbing under her neck, like a knife wound.

  “Fake mustaches,” McCoy answers in a cheerful voice. “Gold necklaces are also standard mob-wear.”

  While students laugh, Cordero nods in approval. He doesn’t direct the groups often, but when he does, it’s with a confident voice. I glance at him twice. He catches me both times. I want him to instigate a conversation, but don’t dare communicate that.

  When AddyDay and her friends are up, they try to wear their mustaches as they report on Cuban suspects, but lose them as soon as they start talking. I hate speaking in public, so I speed through my information about Kennedy’s Russian enemies. Cordero presents after me. His information is dead on, detailing the likelihood of the bullet that killed Kennedy entering from his forehead or from the back of his skull. I wonder if he used the school’s computer. I can’t imagine anyone in the 147 Benjamin Road house owning one.

  As he speaks, I check the time on my phone and move to the exit when one minute of class remains. As usual, he’s the first to the door after the bell rings. I stand in front of it, the way he did.

  “We should … meet,” I tell him. I stay calm and direct, the manner he usually adopts. “Outside of school. To study.”

  He glances at the other students beginning to head toward us. “We already did. At the mock trial practice at Jeremy’s.”

  “But … I didn’t even talk to you.”

  He shrugs and leaves.

  I’m mad at myself for not following him to demand answers but grateful at the same time. I can’t mess this up. I need to give him a reason to want to talk to me.

  After cross-country practice I’m supposed to meet Dad at Mountain Mike’s Pizza, where he’s having a meeting with the Peach Growers Association. I arrive on foot, fifteen minutes early. I drop my backpack on a strip of grass near the restaurant and sit. Devouring three protein bars, I take out the prosecution team’s video camera to watch scenes from last year’s mock trial.

  The screen blinks, and the first image I see is Slate sneaking a private smile at someone offscreen.

  “You ready?” he whispers from the speakers.

  A girl giggles in the background. Carrie. I’d know her laugh anywhere. Carrie, full and strong.

  I max the volume.

  “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” she says.

  The camera angle changes. Carrie is on screen, her brown hair falling in curls. She’s got her right arm raised.

  “So help me God,” Slate prompts her from off screen.

  Carrie shoots him a look. “Let us not trifle with things that are sacred.”

  He stifles his laughter poorly. “Please state your name for court records.”

  “I am August Spies, born in 1855,” she answers. “A union activist accused of conspiracy in the bombing known as the Haymarket Affair. I am for the union! Workers of the world, unite!” Carrie stands so that her head is no longer on the screen. A fabric belt sways at her waist.

  The scene ends in a blue screen that lists recording options by date. For a moment, I’m back in time, when unions, explosions, and murder raged. Strikes aren’t supposed to be like that anymore. But they are. The corpse found in our peach orchard proves it.

  The list of videos goes through early May until the final one, on May 22, which was when last year’s mock trial was held. The schedule for the mock trial changes dramatically every year.

  May 22 was two days before Juan was buried in our orchard.

  I grab the remote and navigate down to that recording, labeled 1:07 p.m.

  The scene shows last year’s mock trial teammates seated inside Mr. White’s classroom. Carrie bursts onto the screen without noticing the camera is recording. Slate meets her, reaching behind her neck to fasten a necklace studded with clear-jeweled droplets.

  “Do you like it?” Carrie asks.

  “No, I bought you something I didn’t like,” he teases.

  The scene pitches as the camera operator squeals. “Slate got you a present?”

  Carrie laughs. “I made him give it to me now. I don’t want to wait until we go out tonight.”

  Slate smiles. “It’s for her birthday.”

  The screen goes blue.

  I remember that night. I was home alone flipping channels while Carrie and Slate went to dinner to celebrate, even though her actual birthday had been a few days before. It’s the night Slate talked about, the one where he fought Tito. I didn’t realize how close it was to Juan’s death.

  I turn the camera off and put it in my backpack.

  All this time, I’ve been chasing after anyone who might have information about Carrie’s death and I never thought to wonder what anyone was doing around the date of Juan’s death—what I was doing, even. Like the very next night—the night after Slate and Carrie’s birthday celebration, the night before Juan died. I remember every detail.

  I play through what I did during those days of spring like I’m watching one of the recordings.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THREE MONTHS PRIOR

  It was the day after Slate and Carrie’s dinner date, so it must have been May 23. There was blood. I called Carrie five times and I couldn’t move because of the blood and she still didn’t answer.

  I held the door of Verona High’s equipment closet shut from the inside, wanting to die of embarrassment. Trying to locate Carrie, I called my family’s home phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Where’s Carrie? I need Carrie.”

  “What is it?”

  “She’s not out with Slate, is she? They just went out yesterday.”

  “Salem Jefferson.”

  “Dad, just make her pick up her phone. I have to talk to her,” I whined.

  “But you’ll have to settle for me.”

  “Just … never mind.”

  I hung up. I listened for footsteps from outside. Nothing. I wondered if I could leave the closet and run for the bathrooms. One of my teammates might see me.

  My cell rang.

  “Carrie?” My voice was breathless.

  “You skipped your hurdles meeting?” Dad answered.

  “You called my coach?”

  “He said people are looking for you—”

  “Dad! Why did you call him?”

  “—and the track practice is over—”

  “I need Carrie!”

  Dad always downplayed my anxiety. “—and no one knows where you are, including me, I might add, and I’m just curious enough to be mildly nervous. I think I’ve actually released adrenaline into my bloodstream.”

  “I can’t believe you called someone.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve released adrenaline into my bloodstream. I’m a better parent than I imagined. I’m about to leave so why don’t you tell me
where you are?”

  “Wait, you’re coming? Don’t come.”

  “Thanks for your confidence.”

  “Dad, I need Carrie!” My voice choked up so I couldn’t say more.

  “Are you crying?”

  I didn’t answer. I was crying.

  “Salem, has it ever occurred to you that Carrie won’t be at your beck and call forever? She’s going to move on. Celebrate wedding anniversaries and baby’s birthdays—with Slate in all likelihood. She knows this. She’s trying to prep you. Why can’t you see it? Salem?”

  My tears stop flowing. I didn’t want Carrie to move on.

  “Where are you? Are you hurt?” Dad’s worry was as fierce as his frustration.

  “I need … a tampon. Or a pad.” I cringed, my voice muffled by the equipment in the track closet. I’d been inside it ever since I felt the blood running down my legs.

  “What? That’s great,” Dad said.

  “What?” I wanted to cry again.

  “I was starting to get worried. I thought you were running too much. How old are you again? Fifteen and a half? That’s on the edge of the normal range, right?”

  I was so surprised I couldn’t speak.

  “You and your theatrics,” he said.

  Later, when I finished changing, I found him waiting for me outside the locker room with two ice cream cones he’d bought on his way to get me. I refused to be happy and instead demanded we go directly to the car.

  “Please do not walk on the grass,” I read from a sign as Dad cut across a patch of lawn.

  “I’m in a hurry,” Dad said, hurrying like he had an appointment.

  The sprinklers came on. Dad tripped on his way to the sidewalk and smashed ice cream into his face.

  Maybe Dad was trying to convince me to change my attitude. Maybe the weather was too good for frustration. He laughed. I started to relax.

  “Guess that’s what I get for walking on the grass.” He wiped soft-serve from his mouth. “Ugh. It’s like getting kissed by a snowman.”

  His phone rang. He wiped his hand on the outside of his pants and looked at the screen.

  “It’s Carrie,” he said, putting the phone to his ear to say hello.