First Offense, page 1
ALSO BY MARTI GREEN
The Innocent Prisoners Project Series
Unintended Consequences
Presumption of Guilt
The Price of Justice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Marti Green
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503934702
ISBN-10: 1503934705
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Dedicated to Rachel, Joshua, Jacob, Sienna, and Noah. You light up my life.
and
To my aunt, Edith Beiles, who always made me feel special.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER
1
Jessica Bishop sat slumped on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She’d been unable to stop the flow of tears ever since the two soldiers, in their freshly starched uniforms, had left her home. Lt. Col. Alex Bishop was missing in action, the soldiers had told her. She couldn’t wrap her head around it. She’d begged her husband to retire last year, when he’d reached twenty years in the army, but he’d insisted on waiting two more years so he could collect his maximum pension. “Don’t worry,” he’d reassured her. “We’re just doing training of the Afghan army now. We’re not going out on active patrols anymore. I’ll be safe.” Each week he’d Skype her from his dust-filled base in Laghman Province, surrounded by mountains. He was training his Afghan counterparts on the use of heavy-duty, long-range weaponry.
“It’s going well,” he’d told her on the last call, before mentioning that he and another officer were heading by helicopter to a different outpost in a few days. “I’ll be home before you know it,” he’d promised. Only now he might never come home.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, then dried her hand on her pants leg. I’m an army wife. I’ve always known it was possible. I should be stronger. But there was a wide gulf between possibility and reality. She called out his name with a low moan, then buried her face in her hands. How could she tell the boys? Especially Frankie. Bobby was most like his father. Stubborn like him. He looked like him; he’d joined the military like him. Maybe that’s why they always seemed at odds with each other.
But Frankie? He idolized his father. When Alex was deployed, Frankie seemed lost without him. Especially now, when they were living off-base for the first time in years, in a new city with a new school and new challenges. How could she tell him that his father might not come home this time? How could she go on if he didn’t come home?
The only person she knew in her new city was her mother. That’s why they’d moved to Key Vista, Florida—so she could be closer to her. She was getting older, more forgetful. She’d fallen in her apartment two months ago and broken her hip. That’s when Jessica made the decision to move. But she couldn’t turn to her mother for comfort. It would be too distressing to her. Instead, Jessica picked up the phone and dialed her brother-in-law—Alex’s half brother.
“Help Innocent Prisoners Project, Bruce Kantor’s office,” his assistant said when she answered the phone.
“Is he in? It’s Jessica Bishop.”
“I’ll put you through.”
In another instant, Bruce was on the line. “Jessica, is everything all right?”
She’d expected he’d be surprised at her call. She’d never phoned him at the office. They’d talk occasionally but always when he was at home. She tried to answer him but couldn’t speak. Instead, she began sobbing.
“Jessica, what is it?”
Finally she brought herself under control. “Alex is MIA.”
“Oh, God!” There was silence on the other end of the phone for a minute, and then Bruce said, “Tell me exactly what they said.”
“He was in a helicopter, and it crashed. Maybe from a missile. They’re not certain yet. They found the wreckage, along with the pilot’s body. But Alex and another soldier are missing.”
“So—that’s good. It means he’s probably alive.”
“They don’t know. He could have been badly injured, wandered off, and died someplace where they haven’t found him.” Jessica began crying again.
“I’ll fly down there tonight.”
“No, you don’t need to. I just needed someone to talk to.”
“I want to come. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not. Frankie’s here.”
There was silence again. “Does he know?”
“Not yet.”
Bruce sighed. “This will be especially hard for him.”
“I know. But he’ll just have to get stronger. We’re an army family. It’s what we do.”
CHAPTER
2
Frankie Bishop had been angry ever since learning a week ago that his father was MIA. Angry at his mother for having moved him to Florida, angry at his brother for leaving them last month to join the Marines, but mostly angry at his father. And he knew that was wrong. He knew his father was brave and strong and loved him. But still he felt angry, and he couldn’t say why.
The new school was part of it. He was tired of being the outsider, tired of always being the new kid. Four moves in the seven years since he was old enough to start kindergarten. “It’s part of the job of being a soldier’s son,” his mom always said. Well, he didn’t choose the army; his dad did. But he was the one who always got the brunt of it. The name-calling, the cold shoulder, the pitying stares of his teachers, even when he wasn’t one of just a few black kids in the school, but especially when, like now, he was. Months later, they’d come around. They always came around when they saw how good he was at sports. Even though he was small for a seventh grader, he could run faster and hit a baseball farther than all but a few high school kids.
He didn’t want to wait months, though. Last night, he’d found something, rooting around in his brother’s drawer while his mother was downstairs watching TV. Frankie had been looking for loose change but found something much better.
“Hurry up, Frankie, you’re going to be late,” his mother called up to him.
“In a minute.” He stashed the prize from the night before in his pants pocket, then flew down the stairs. Before he even entered the kitchen, he could smell his favorite breakfast waiting for him—chocolate-chip waffles and a glass of milk. He glanced at his mother and saw her red-rimmed, puffy eyes. Every night this week, as he lay in his bed, he’d heard her crying in her room next door.
“Come on, now,” she said. “The bus will be here in ten minutes.”
Frankie poured syrup over the waffles and wolfed them down, then drank the milk. His mother wiped the milk mustache off his face, then brushed back the wisps of hair that had fallen on his forehead. He’d inherited his mother’s golden-brown curls—a white person’s hair, not his father’s tightly coarse, dark-brown hair. He grabbed his backpack, kissed her good-bye, and ran out to the bus stop. At least they were living someplace warm now, he thought, as the sun beat down on him. For the first time, it wasn’t army housing. So now, not only was he the new kid in school, but he was in a place where people weren’t used to military kids. At least the house was nice, he thought. Nicer than army housing. And he liked the palm trees, especially the way the leafy fronds swooped around in the wind.
The bus came, and he took a seat in the back. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Parkwood Middle School. He moved with the sea of students inside the building, ignored by all of them, and made his way to Miss Mather’s classroom. He liked this teacher. She was young and pretty and, like him, had mocha-colored skin.
“Settle down, everyone,” she said after five minutes had passed and kids were still twisting in their seats, talking to their friends—all except Frankie, who’d yet to find anyone to even say hi to in the hall in his first three weeks. Slowly the room quieted, and all eyes turned to the front. They began with the Pledge of Allegiance, and
“Frankie, are you with us today?” Miss Mather asked.
Only then did he realize that he’d been called on for an answer. The students around him giggled, and one boy muttered, “Dope.” Frankie wasn’t stupid—he was smart, very smart, his teachers had told his mother—but today his mind was on the prize in his pocket. He blushed and looked up at the board where an equation waited for its solution. Quickly he calculated the answer and then gave it to his teacher.
“Very good. Now tell the class how you solved it.”
Frankie halfheartedly explained. It was easy for him, yet it was that very ease that kept him an outsider in the class. He forced himself to pay attention for the rest of the morning, just waiting for the lunch recess to finally arrive. When it did, he headed to the cafeteria. Instead of sitting alone at a table in the corner, as he usually did, he approached the group of boys he’d already identified as the cool kids in his class. They were the ones who pronounced whether a newcomer was okay or a pariah. He slid into a seat next to Tony Cuen, the leader of the group.
“Hey, what are you doing here, dweeb?”
“I got something,” Frankie said, ignoring the insult. “Thought you guys might be interested.”
“You don’t have anything we’d want.” Tony laughed, then turned away from him.
Frankie glanced around the room, careful to make sure no teacher was watching, then pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. Inside were two rolled-up joints. “You smoke one of these before?”
Tony shot a look at what Frankie had in his hand. “Sure, lots of times.”
Frankie didn’t know whether that was true or not. He’d never smoked weed himself. Thought it was stupid. But he could always pretend to inhale. “Want to smoke it after school?”
Tony looked at his friends sitting around the table, and Frankie caught him winking at them. “Sure,” Tony said. “We’ll meet you over in Windham Park when school lets out.”
Frankie didn’t know what the wink meant. He figured he’d find out when he got to the park.
An hour later, Frankie sat in the principal’s office, tapping his foot nervously as drops of sweat trickled down his sides. He’d never been in trouble before, not in any school he’d attended, and felt ashamed to be sitting before this woman whose mouth had been turned down in a frown ever since he’d walked into her office. He shuddered to think what his mother would say when she found out.
“I realize you’re new to this school, Frankie,” Mrs. Whitman said, “but we’re no different from any school nowadays. We have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to drugs. I’m afraid I’m going to have to notify the police.”
Now the tears he’d struggled to hold back ever since nice Miss Mather had frowned at him and sent him to the principal flowed freely down his cheeks.
“Of course, we’ll call your mother as well,” Mrs. Whitman continued. She shook her head and said, almost in wonderment, “I’d heard such good things about you from your teachers. You’re the last one I expected to be fooling around with drugs.”
Frankie sat on the chair, numb, all feeling in his arms and legs gone. All he could think about was how he’d been tricked by those boys, the ones he’d wanted to become friends with.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Frankie shook his head.
“Well, you’ll have to talk to the police.”
He wouldn’t talk to the police, of that he was certain. He definitely wouldn’t tell them where he found the marijuana. If he did, the Marines might kick Bobby out of the service before he even finished basic training, and Frankie wouldn’t risk that happening to his brother. Bobby had talked of nothing else his senior year of high school. It had been his dream to serve his country as a Marine, and he’d finally left three weeks ago for basic training. No, Frankie wouldn’t talk. No matter what it meant for him.
“Jessica Bishop’s on line one,” Bruce Kantor’s assistant said on his intercom.
Bruce quickly pressed the key for line one. “Any news?”
“Not about Alex. Frankie’s been arrested.”
That was the last thing Bruce ever thought he’d hear. “For what?”
“He brought marijuana to school.”
“Frankie? He’s smoking pot?”
“He insists he found it in the street. And Bruce, I’d know if he was using. I saw it enough with Bobby.”
“Okay. Where’s he now?”
“They sent him to a detention center.”
“You need a lawyer. He’ll get him out.”
“Can you represent him?”
Bruce thought about it. It would be easy to hop on a plane to Florida. Arrange for Frankie’s release. Return when a hearing was held. But he truly believed the old warning that a lawyer who represented himself had a fool for a client, and he thought that applied to representing family members as well. He was too close to them to be objective, and that’s what a lawyer had to be. If something went wrong, he’d always blame himself, and they’d always blame him.
“You don’t want me. You need someone who’s in juvenile court all the time. I’ll check around and call you back with an attorney’s name.”
“Thank you, Bruce.”
“It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” As Bruce said that, he knew it would be impossible for her. Still, Frankie was a good kid with an unblemished record. A good lawyer would get Frankie off with a stern warning. He was certain of that.
CHAPTER
3
TWO MONTHS LATER
Dani Trumball sat on the edge of the bathtub and stared at the blue-and-white stick in her hand. It’s not possible. It can’t be. She’d been sitting in the same position for five minutes, her eyes fixed on the digital readout, unable to move. “Pregnant—3+ weeks,” it said. It must be wrong. I’m in early menopause, that’s all. Even as she thought this, she knew she was kidding herself. Morning nausea didn’t accompany menopause. She shook her head. Jonah was almost fourteen. She and Doug were long finished with sleepless nights and dirty diapers.
Once, she’d wanted a big family. Growing up an only child, she’d longed for brothers and sisters. But when Jonah was diagnosed with Williams syndrome, a disorder that caused cognitive difficulties, she and Doug decided they needed to focus all their attention on him. Oh, Lord, what’s Doug going to think? And Jonah? And HIPP—how much can I cut back before it just makes more sense to step away entirely? Questions without answers swirled through her mind, rooting her to the bathtub edge. Doug had already left for work, Jonah for school. She was alone in the house, alone with her worries.
Finally she forced herself up and finished readying herself for work. She drove into HIPP’s East Village office, a luxury she could indulge in from her suburban house in Bronxville only because she left home after the morning rush hour and left work before the evening one. She worked from home during the evenings to make up for time not spent in the office.
She pulled into the parking garage forty minutes later, then stopped at the corner deli for the best coffee in Manhattan—even if it now had to be decaf—and a jelly doughnut, her craving for something sweet overpowering her vow to reduce her sugar intake. Once she stepped off the elevator and entered HIPP’s offices, Bruce Kantor ambushed her before she even got to her own office. She took one look at his sunken eyes and knew immediately something was wrong.
“Can you come in my office?” he said, his voice low.
“Of course.” Dani stepped inside, placed her coffee cup and doughnut on his desk, and removed her coat. “What’s going on?”
“I got a call from my sister-in-law last night. My nephew was sent to a juvenile prison two months ago. In Florida—it’s where they live. Every Saturday she visits him, but she went this past Saturday, and he wasn’t there.”
“Where was he?”
“That’s just it. No one would tell her. She’s called every day since then and gotten the runaround each time. Since my half brother’s still MIA, she’s all alone. She’s frantic.”
“I would be, too. What can I do to help?”
