I just stood there waiting for Clemens Bittner to say something, or at least do something. He didn’t move, and I didn’t either, our eyes locked in a kind of duel. I couldn’t see past the dark shadows that circled his eyes to guess which way he might be leaning.

He started rubbing his chin.

“Quit the Mr. Bittner stuff,” he said finally. “This isn’t school.”

The voice was flat, but I took what he said as a good sign.

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. I tried out his name: “Clemens.”

He walked across the room and opened the door. “Three days.”

He signaled that it was time for me to leave.

“Then what?”

“Three days” is all he said.

Back outside, Paul Parish was next to his bike, practically jumping up and down. He said he was just about to do what I’d asked — come bang on the door. “What happened in there?” he asked.

“It’s okay, Paul. It’s okay.”

I wouldn’t tell him anything. I started my jog, and he climbed onto his bike. We headed back to our neighborhoods. I made a promise to fill him in when I could. He wasn’t too happy about it, I could tell, but there wasn’t any of that meanness about him, like before. He was different now. I think he liked the fact he had helped me out. Maybe Daddy was right: Paul liked me, always had, but was figuring out the right way to show it. We ended up at the corner store getting something to drink. We talked a bit about school and some of the teachers who drove us nuts, and then I took off. “See ya around,” I said.

“Yeah, see ya around,” he shouted after me.

I didn’t even tell Ma about going to see Clemens Bittner. I wanted to wait until our visit to the prison on Saturday, when all three of us would be together in the visitors room.

Like I expected, when Saturday came, Daddy asked me about my week.

“Well, I have great news,” I announced, and that’s when I told them about me and the Boston Globe reporter.

“WHAT?” Ma said before I even finished. She was shrieking. “You were taking yourself to this newspaper instead of Nora’s? Stayin’ up all night makin’ calls? Goin’ by yourself to Esmond Street?”

“Ma,” I said.

“I cannot have you runnin’ all over the city,” Ma said. “Esmond Street? C’mon, girl. Just last week a man got shot over there. What are you thinkin’?”

“But, Ma.”

“Don’t ‘But, Ma’ me,” she snapped. “I got it hard as it is. I think you’re at Nora’s helping her out, and you’re not! I can’t have this, Trell. I can’t be worryin’ you’re out somewhere.”

Daddy leaned in. “Shey-Shey,” he whispered. He tilted his head so Ma and I would notice that the commotion at our table had caught the interest of my favorite prison guard in the entire prison system.

Officer White strode up to us. “Everything okay here, Romeo?”

“Romero,” Ma said. “His name is Romero.” Ma was fuming. “How come, every time we’re in here, we got to go through this nonsense?”

The guard smiled. “Ouch. Trouble in paradise, Shey-Shey?”

Before Daddy could say anything, I stood up. “Everything’s fine, Officer White. Just fine.” I wanted to stick my tongue out at him; instead I smiled the biggest fake smile I could. His eyes panned around the table, looking at the three of us. Ma and Daddy looked away instead of making eye contact. But I did. I looked right at the guard and kept smiling until he turned and left us alone.

“Ma,” I pleaded, “this is what Nora said we need, a reporter.”

There was fire in Ma’s eyes.

“Shey-Shey,” Daddy said. He took Ma’s hand in his. “Trell’s right,” he continued. “I’m not happy the way she’s gone about this, but Trell has managed to get to the guy. That’s something. C’mon, baby, let’s talk this through.”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” I said. “But Clemens Bittner wasn’t returning Nora’s calls, and someone had to do something. Because this is our last chance, right, to get help? It’s what we want more than anything — getting Daddy home — and I figured I had the time. Everyone else is so busy. I figured if I could just talk to him and explain our situation . . .”

Ma was hard as a rock. I pleaded, “Ma, I think he’s gonna help, I really do. And I can help him. It’ll be like — like we’re partners.”

“Partners?” Ma said. She huffed.

“Yes,” I said firmly. I was actually beginning to feel annoyed. It wasn’t like I was a little girl anymore. I was fourteen. I knew my way around, took care myself, and, besides that, could run like the wind and outrun most anybody. I’d found Clemens Bittner after no one else had. “Ma, listen to me. It’s summer. I got the time. Working with the reporter, trying to dig up information, it’s a whole lot better than just hanging around Nora’s office. This is our last chance, Ma. Nora said so.”

Ma gave Daddy a look, and their eyes talked a language I couldn’t follow, but then Daddy turned to me. “Listen, Trell,” he began. “Definitely it’s good news, havin’ a reporter to maybe look into my case. But you cannot be keeping anything from Ma. Or Nora. They gotta know what you’re doing. You hear me?”

“I do, Daddy.”

Ma and Daddy traded looks again. Grudgingly, Ma gave him a nod.

“You gotta be careful, Trell,” Daddy continued. “You gotta tell Ma and Nora everything.”

“I will, Daddy.”

“You gotta be safe,” he said. “Her killer — Ruby’s killer — he’s still out there.”

“We’re going to get you out of prison, Daddy.”

Clemens had said he needed three days, but he took only two. On Sunday morning, I was eating breakfast when I heard a tap-tap at the kitchen window. Ma jumped up from the table and knocked over her coffee.

I looked at the window. “Clemens?” I mumbled, cereal packed in my mouth. “Ma, it’s Clemens.”

Clemens was looking at us. He flicked his hand in a kind of quick wave and then hustled to the back door. I got up, unbolted the two locks, and let him into our kitchen. Ma had gone to the sink to put her empty cup in it. Her arms were stiffened against the counter, as if she was bracing herself. I could tell she was trying to keep her cool.

“Ma, this is Clemens Bittner, the reporter.”

I stared at Clemens. He sure looked changed. For one thing, he’d shaved. The other thing was his hair. It wasn’t any shorter, but he’d pulled it back into a ponytail, so at least it wasn’t the mangy curtain I’d seen when he was sleeping in his Volvo. He was wearing blue jeans and a concert T-shirt from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.

“Ma?” I said.

She turned and looked at Clemens. “You can’t do that. Not in this neighborhood. I freaked out for a second, and I don’t like bein’ freaked.”

Clemens cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said. “I tried the doorbell.”

“Broken,” Ma said. “The doorbell is broken. I know it, landlord knows it, and still it stays broken. So be it. But you find the doorbell’s broken, that means you try pounding on the front door. You don’t come around back and tap on my window.”

“Got it,” Clemens said.

“Not in this neighborhood,” Ma repeated. She gave Clemens a glare. “You should know better if you live on Esmond Street.”

Clemens said the right thing. “I get it,” he said. “Can’t have that, Mrs. Taylor.”

Ma made eye contact with Clemens. “That’s the truth.”

“I’m thinking it’s good I came, then. So we could meet. In person.”

Ma stuck her hand out. Clemens began to extend his. He was thinking Ma wanted to shake hands, but she waved him off.

“ID,” she said. Her body was still stiff. “Show me your ID.”

Clemens fumbled with his wallet until he found a plastic Boston Globe identification card. He handed it to Ma. She studied the photo, then looked at him. “Ponytail’s definitely an improvement.” She handed the card back.

Ma’s arms relaxed, as did her voice. “Listen, Mr. Bittner —”

“Clemens,” he interrupted. “Clemens.”

“Okay,” Ma said. “Clemens. I have not been happy with the way Trell got this going, but I can’t argue with the results. If you’re here to help, we need it.”

“I’m here, ready to take a go at it, if that’s what you mean,” Clemens said.

“You said you needed three days,” I said. “It’s only two.”

“Yeah, well, it went faster than I thought. I read the clips —”

“Clips?”

“The stories,” Clemens said. “Lesson one in my reporting class: first thing you do on something like this is to read everything that’s ever been written about it. So I had Lisa — she’s the librarian at the Glo be — I had Lisa pull the clips about Ruby’s killing and your father’s trial. That’s what I’ve been doing — reading the clips.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I was also thinking we should meet with your lawyer — Nora?”

“Nora Walsh,” Ma said.

Clemens continued. “Okay, Nora Walsh. Meet with her so I can check out her files.”

Clemens seemed so different, like focused. I have to say I was semi-shocked.

“But before that,” he said, “there’s somebody I want Trell and me to see.”

“Who?” I said.

“The lead homicide detective.”

Before Clemens could say the name, I did. “Mr. Richard Boyle.”

“Impressive,” Clemens said.

As I’d done with everyone who’d had anything to do with Daddy’s case, I’d memorized the name.

“I think we should see him,” Clemens said.

“How come?” I asked.

“Because I know him,” Clemens answered.

He looked at me and asked, “You free this morning?”

I looked over at Ma. “Yeaaah,” I said, my voice rising. I was psyched. “Definitely.”

Clemens said, “Richie’s retired from the force, so we’ll go to his place. He lives in Dorchester.”

Ma asked, “How is it you know this man, this detective?”

“From stories I did,” Clemens answered.

Clemens paused, and then he looked at us. He wore a serious expression. “I have to say that as I was reading the clips and saw Richie Boyle had worked this case — that he was one of the officers who actually arrested your father — well, it leaves me skeptical about your claims.”

“What do you mean?” Ma said.

“I mean Richie Boyle helped me out on a lot of stories I wrote for the newspaper,” Clemens said. “And it’s my experience, he’s one helluva cop.”

“You mean you don’t believe us?” I said.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Clemens said. “I’m saying I know him, I’m saying he’s a good cop, and I’m saying even if it’s been a bunch of years since I’ve seen him, that retired Sergeant Detective Richie Boyle is a good place to start.”

We left my apartment for Richie Boyle’s place and were taking a route across Humboldt Ave. when it hit me to first show Clemens something about the actual crime scene.

We walked in silence. Clemens kept looking my way. I guess he could tell I was troubled by what he’d said about his cop buddy. Finally, he said, “What I was saying about Richie Boyle is that I have a track record with him. He’s been helpful to me, as a source — someone giving me information from police files or pointing me to where I could uncover things.”

I looked straight ahead, acting like I wasn’t listening.

“Like the Tony Rosario case,” he said.

That caught my attention. I slowed down. “He helped you with that?”

“He did,” Clemens said. “He gave me records that were not supposed to be public. Like a full transcript of the interrogation of Tony Rosario, the one lasting twenty-one hours, where Rosario flipped out and, because of his heroin addiction, was in no shape whatsoever to make the confession the district attorney later used to convict him at his trial. Richie Boyle stuck his neck out; he gave me that file.”

I frowned.

Clemens continued. “This is how it works, Trell. When a reporter develops a source like Richie Boyle, what the reporter is looking for is reliability. In other words, whether what the source says turns out to be legit. You follow me?”

I nodded.

“And, over time, I found Richie’s information to be legit. He proved to be reliable. To a reporter, that’s like having gold — in this case, a source inside the police who will leak you materials you need to write your stories. Plus, because he gave me stuff for a story showing Tony Rosario was innocent, I came to think Richie Boyle cares about doing the right thing. He actually cares about justice.”

“Justice?” This wasn’t helping me — putting Richie Boyle and justice in the same sentence. I frowned.

“Trell, listen. I’m trying to explain I have a history with Richie Boyle, okay? But at the same time, what’s also important for you to know is this: a reporter goes where the story goes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Keeps an open mind,” Clemens said. “It’s basic training, and it’s a big deal — a reporter keeping an open mind while reporting each and every story.”

I stopped at the blue mailbox. “Well, okay then, let’s see.”

Clemens had been so busy talking that he hadn’t noticed where we were, and it took him a few seconds to realize that we were standing at the corner of Humboldt Ave. where Ruby Graham was shot.

I said, “I’m going to explain something that should get you wondering about police and justic e — if you have an open mind.”

Clemens stood silently and watched as I began performing a reenactment of the shooting. I put the people in position — Ruby Graham on the blue mailbox, her legs swinging; her friends hanging around, including the boys from the Humboldt Raiders; everyone relaxed and socializing, trying to cool down in the summer heat. I had everything from that night in my head, from reading Nora’s documents. I’d memorized it all. It played and replayed like a movie. As I moved around, I narrated the action, kind of like a basketball game where an announcer does play-by-play.

“Then, from back there” — I pointed to a concealed side of the power company’s redbrick substation — “from back there came the shooter. POP. POP. POP. Everyone screams; kids run in all directions; Ruby drops off the mailbox, shot dead in the head.”

I realized I was breathing heavily and had worked up a sweat. I also noticed three boys, each dressed the same — baggy blues and gray hoodies, sleeves cut off at the shoulder on account of it being summer. They were walking in tandem, moving to a similar beat as if they were listening to the same music video in their heads. They slowed as they got closer to our corner. Three pairs of eyes, each deep in a hoodie cave, fixed on Clemens as if he were an alien from another planet.

I planted my feet and glared at them. “What you starin’ at?”

“Law dog,” the one in the middle snarled.

“Him?” I said, pointing at Clemens. “Gimme a break. He’s no cop.”

Clemens unfolded his arms and began to step forward. That’s when I noticed the boy on the right more closely. I could see inside the hoodie and recognized the face.

“Paul?” I said. “That you in there?”

“Hey, Trell,” Paul answered.

Neither one of us gave any sign we’d just seen each other a few days ago.

I looked around, surprised that boys from Thumper Parish’s Castlegate turf were crossing Humboldt’s turf. “What you boys doin’ here?”

“Shortcut,” Paul said. “From Dudley. Lazy, I guess.”

“I guess so,” I said. “Or maybe looking for trouble.”

That got the three boys turning their heads, only to find that no one was around. Even so, they suddenly began acting nervous.

Paul moved first. “Which is why we got to keep goin’,” he said, nudging the others. “Let’s get.”

The other two boys put their eyes back on Clemens but began to follow behind Paul. They made sure not to go too fast, like they were in no hurry.

We watched as they left. Then Paul stopped and turned. “Hey, Trell,” he yelled, “I was just thinkin’. Bunch of us are going to Water Country next week. Vinnie’s takin’ us up in the van. You wanna come?”

“Vinnie’s Van?” I said. “How you swing that?”

“My uncle, he’s payin’ for it.”

“Thumper?”

“He does stuff like that once in a while,” Paul said.

“No, thanks,” I said. I didn’t want anything to do with Thumper Parish.

When the boys were gone, Clemens asked, “What was that all about?”

“You mean why they suddenly got jumpy?”

“Right.”

“This is Humboldt — we’re on Humboldt Ave. They’re from Castlegate. The two don’t mix — an oil and water thing. Or worse. They were takin’ a chance cutting across Humboldt on their way home.” I turned to look at Clemens. “But, actually, them doing that is perfect. It fits what I want to show you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I know.” I turned and pointed down Humboldt Ave. “See the corner store over there?”

Clemens looked. “Yep.” He read aloud the storefront sign. “Humboldt Superette.”

“See above the sign, the second floor? The tiny apartment up there, a one-bedroom apartment, is where Daddy and Ma lived back then.”

“Summer of ’88?” Clemens said.

“Right. I was just three months old, and my parents lived there.”

“Okay,” Clemens said.

“So this is what I want you to be thinking about. The police — your police — have always said the shooting I just reenacted was gang war business. That the Castlegate Boys were looking to settle a drug beef with the Humboldt Raiders. Fighting over turf, who can sell drugs and where. And they said Daddy was a gunman for Castlegate — an enforcer — and that he came out firing from behind the building and shot poor Ruby Graham instead of his targets, the Humboldt Raiders.”

“Yep,” Clemens said. “That’s how the case went down at trial.”

“Except my daddy lived right over there. He lived on Humboldt Ave.”

Clemens’s head turned full circle — from me to the Humboldt Superette to the power company substation to the blue mailbox.

I said, “Makes no sense, street-wise. No sense at all.”

I could see Clemens putting it together. “If Romero Taylor was a shooter for the Castlegate Boys, then what’s he doing living on Humboldt Ave.?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” I said.

Clemens continued. “No way a member of Castlegate could live safely on this street. It’d be a death wish. The Humboldt Raiders would never allow it. I see what you’re saying. It makes no sense.”

“Exactly.” I looked Clemens in the eye. “So here’s the thing: How come your big shot detective buddy Richie Boyle never put that together?”

Clemens looked at me and pulled on his ponytail. “Good question.”