It’s never a slam dunk, but a defendant can request a new trial if evidence surfaces that might change the outcome of the original verdict.
—VICTOR FLEMMING
“Erin. Erin.” Someone is shaking me.
I’m majorly annoyed as this rude interruption yanks me out of the fog of a fantastic dream where I’m in a courtroom, on the witness stand, about to deliver the perfect hammer of evidence that will win the case.
In reality I’m in a sleeping bag, on the floor of Spam’s basement. The laptop stands open on my chest and I’m surrounded by wadded up paper and scribbled on Post-it notes. Spam and Lysa are hovering over me.
“Did you stay up all night surfing the net?” Lysa asks, accusation dripping from her words.
I yawn and stretch. “I don’t think it was all night.”
“Lightweight,” Spam says with a giggle.
But I suddenly remember what I was doing and what I found. I sit straight up. Spam catches the laptop as it tumbles off my chest. “Oh man.”
“What?” Lysa asks.
“I have to see Journey. I think I found something that might help his father’s case.”
“What,” Lysa asks.
I hold up my hand. “Wait.” First, I check my phone to see if the links I sent to myself came through. I can’t risk losing what I found last night. Fist pump. They’re there.
Next I send Journey a text asking about his plans for the day.
He texts back that he’s already at the lab with Victor and will be there for most of the day. I ask if I can come over. I have some information for him.
He texts back that Victor says we should all come, there’s plenty of work to be done and only a few days before camp opens. Journey reports Victor is offering pizza as a bribe.
FOR BREAKFAST? I text back.
WHENEVER, he writes.
BRT, I reply.
And the three of us hit the ground running to get ready.
“We’re picking up Lyman on the way,” Spam says.
As we’re heading out the door, I send a text to Rachel letting her know our plans for the day. She writes back that Victor had already mentioned he needed all available hands to get everything ready for the camp.
In less time than it normally takes for me to pick out an outfit, we have Lyman and we’re at our favorite coffee place. Lysa and I handle the drink orders while Spam and Lyman huddle in the corner over the Millie profiles we found.
I keep glancing over at them, trying to read their body language. But there appears to be no emotion involved, just the two of them hunched over the documents and their phones.
When the coffees are ready, they join us and we transition back to the car.
I can’t believe I’m the most curious of the three of us, but I can’t stand waiting. I have to know. “Well?”
“We found her,” Spam says.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Lysa asks.
“Yes.” Lyman laughs. “In the background of one of the Millie photos you can see a portion of a photo on a shelf … and it’s my mom. I’m positive I’ve seen it before.”
“Which one was she?” Lysa asks.
“The one in Washington State,” Lyman says. “She’s not that far.”
“So what are you going to do?” I ask.
Lysa and I are in the back, Lyman is in the front passenger seat. All eyes are on him. Spam’s literally holding her breath and waiting for him to speak before she starts the car.
“I have three days to get everything ready and spend some time with my mom. Then I’ll leave and go to my grandmother’s. I just hope she’s been wishing for family.” His voice wavers, but he pauses to clear his throat. Spam places her hand over his. “I’ll plan to leave Friday. My mom works a long shift on Fridays and is usually so tired when she gets home she doesn’t even check on me until Saturday afternoon. I’ll leave a note telling her what I’ve done and why. That will give her the weekend to disappear.”
“Would you like us to meet with her after you’re gone and tell her how we helped you? So that she’ll know you’re really okay?” Lysa asks.
“No.” Lyman is adamant. “She needs to think that I’m the only one who knows the truth. Otherwise, she’ll really freak out.”
“I get it,” I say.
“Do you want us to take you home now?” Spam asks.
“If it’s okay, I’d like to hang with you guys the rest of this week. I’m really sorry I’m going to miss the actual camp. It sounds like fun.”
* * *
The classroom is abuzz with activity. Coach Wilkins has a bunch of papers spread out on the long counter behind the teacher’s desk. It looks like he’s collating packets for all the campers, including Victor’s.
“Hi, Coach,” I say.
“Hi, Erin,“he replies.
Victor is just heading out. He stops and grabs my head with both of his hands and makes a demonstration of planting a big smooch on my forehead.
“You kids are lifesavers. See those boxes over in the corner? That’s what we picked up last night.” He wiggles his fingers in the direction of the supply room. “Make it disappear. Then you can start putting together kit boxes—think crime scene kit. One for each camper and maybe a couple of extras. I left a list on the desk. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Victor sweeps out the door, blowing kisses to Lysa and Spam on his way. He even gives Lyman’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good to see you again,” he says.
As I watch him go, I can tell he’s distracted. This isn’t Victor’s normal MO. I just hope he really is dealing with all of this like he promised.
Journey and Clay are on the lab side assembling a long white conference table. Together they stand it on its legs. Then Clay begins unpacking leather office-style chairs. He waves.
I wave back a cup of coffee that I brought for Journey, who bounds over to the door.
“Where’s mine?” Clay calls out.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were here or I would have brought you one.”
Lyman grabs a couple of boxes and leads the way into the storage room. Lysa and Spam follow him.
Journey checks his watch. “I ordered the pizza.” He leans against one of the desks. “So, what was going on last night? You sounded really weird and you basically hung up on me.”
I glance at the storage room. Everyone else is in there. I hate lying to Journey. But what choice do I have?
“Nothing,” I say. “You know how it is with Lysa and Spam. Sometimes they get on each other’s nerves and I’m in the middle. It’s all okay now, though.”
“Really?” he asks. “Because Lysa said hi, but Spam’s avoiding me. And Lyman’s here again? When did that become a thing?” Journey edges toward the storage room. To keep him away from the door, I move in the opposite direction. I don’t want him overhearing any risky conversations they might have.
“He and Spam are in that space.” I make fluttery romantic eyes, but Journey only looks more confused. “Victor doesn’t seem to mind.” I grab Journey’s shirt and lead him toward the center of the room. “Anyway, I have something to show you.”
He glances into the lab. Clay’s now lying on the floor, tightening the screws on wheels on the chairs. “I should be in there helping Clay,” he says.
Clay waves. “No worries. I’ve got this.”
I tap some keys on my phone. “So, last night I stayed up surfing the net because I’m still working on the ballistics stuff for the camp.”
“I thought you were tired,” Journey says.
I’m a terrible liar. “I was when you called, but then I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, I came across something you need to see.”
“What’s that?” Journey asks.
“Remember how your father claimed he didn’t have any shells for the shotgun?”
“Yeah,” Journey says.
“Well, I hope you won’t get mad, but I looked up the transcripts from his trial. There’s not much listed in as evidence.”
“I know,” Journey says.
“But they found a bunch of shell casings that had been fired from his gun.”
Journey looks sad. “Yeah. That’s one of the things that kinda stuck with me. Either my father is straight-up lying or someone else was shooting his gun.”
“Exactly. So, look at this.” I open my phone to an online article. “I’ll send it to you, but basically forensics investigators have discovered something new. The heat produced by firing a bullet can actually etch the fingerprint of the person who loaded that bullet onto the brass casing of the shell, preserving it forever.”
“Wow.” Journey takes my phone and scans the article. “That’s like—whoa!”
“It might be a long shot, but if you believe your father is telling the truth, show this to Victor. There’s a machine called CERA which extracts prints from the cylindrical shape of a bullet casing and process it so it can be run through AFIS.”
“Victor probably knows about this, right?” he says.
“Probably, but he’s been so scattered lately, a reminder couldn’t hurt,” I say.
Journey shakes his head. “No kidding. Getting this camp up and running has been insane.”
I wrap my arms around his waist. “Anyway, I hope you’re not mad.”
Journey kisses me on the forehead. “I’m not mad at all. This could be an excellent find. And you can read up on stuff all you want. Just don’t …
“I know … cause any problems.”
Coach Wilkins finishes his packets and wanders over to join us. “Wow. Fingerprints etched into the brass. That forensic stuff is wild, isn’t it? I remember this one story where they found a frozen Viking in a glacier and not only managed to get his DNA, but they figured out he had been murdered. A Viking! Can you imagine that?”
Clay comes out of the lab. “My favorite one is the guy who killed a whole family and then ordered a pizza, but got caught because he didn’t eat the crust.”
The coach brightens. “I know. Totally stupid.”
I exchange side-eye with Journey. This is stuff we like to talk about too. It’s just a little weird to see adults as enthusiastic about it as we are.
“Yeah, your uncle is really bringing it to our little city. Criminals better beware.” The coach checks his watch. “I’m going to take off. Tell Vic I left the registration packets for his campers on the counter over there. I know he’s busy and I figured as long as I was doing mine I could do his, too.”
“That was nice. I’ll tell him. Bye.” I wait until the coach leaves and the door completely closes before I turn to Journey and Clay. “It’s not just my imagination. There’s something weird about that guy, right?”
“What do you mean?” Clay asks.
“Well, at the camp sign-ups he was like brutally competitive with Victor, and now he’s acting like Victor’s best friend.”
“He just thinks your uncle is cool, that’s all. And, frankly, I think he’s pretty cool as well.” Clay goes over to the steel mesh door and gestures to Journey. “I’m ready to work on the desk and I could use your help.”
“I’ll be right there.” Journey turns back to me. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done, but I have to get back to work.”
“Me too.” I nod toward the storage room.
Journey glances back at Clay, who holds up his thumb. “Oh, that’s right. Duh. You can’t get in there without me.”
Journey goes to open the door for Clay, and I slip into the storage room.
Lysa and Spam are handing items to Lyman for him to stack on the shelves. Lyman’s shelves are a thing of beauty. Everything is precisely lined up and arranged in a way that will be easy to find and use.
“Lyman,” I say, “how are we ever going to keep these shelves straight without you?”
“Maybe Victor should hire Lyman as a counselor for next year,” Journey says.
I had no idea he walked into the storage room behind me.
Lysa, Spam, and I all share the same freaked-out, harried expressions.
Even Lyman seems a little bit frozen in time.
No one dares to speak.
“What’d I say?” Journey asks.
I shake it off. “Nothing. We’re just really impressed with Lyman’s mad organizational skills. Right?”
Lysa and Spam are all over each other agreeing with my statement.
Journey frowns. “That’s pretty much what I was saying too. Anyway, pizza’s here.”
We all rush for the door to try to leave this awkward situation as far behind as possible.