I did it. I called the police, I mean. I was nervous because in my experience police did more wrong than right. But Richie Boyle had come out of the blue and surprised me to no end, so when he ran inside Thumper’s house to find Clemens and shouted, “Call the police,” I did it. I ran to his car and called for help. We needed it.

I heard the sirens first, then saw blue lights crisscrossing the night sky. Within minutes, a whole bunch of noisy, angry police cruisers roared down Castlegate Road and screeched to a stop in front of Thumper’s castle.

I joined Paul on the sidewalk to watch everything. The police came in force, and they did their job. Thumper Parish, in handcuffs, was hauled out of the backyard. He was still woozy from being knocked out, but he wasn’t completely out of it — he glared at me and Paul while police put him into the back of a cruiser. Other police searched the house from top to bottom. They began removing Thumper’s supply of handguns, rifles, ammunition, and even an Uzi machine gun. We learned later that one of the pistols matched the handgun used to kill Ruby Graham. It seemed crazy that Thumper had held on to the murder weapon, but Paul said he actually wasn’t surprised. “He probably figured he was smarter than everybody else — better to hold on to the gun than take the chance of someone finding it if he tossed it.”

Richie Boyle, holding a white cloth to his nose until the bleeding stopped, seemed to be everywhere, like he was directing traffic. He talked to the stream of police officials who kept showing up and also worked the phone. He was apparently attending to us, because when a couple of social workers arrived to be with Paul, Richie came over to make sure Paul was okay with that. Paul was. Even if the police had let him, he said he never wanted to spend another night in Thumper’s house. His life was about to change forever, but Paul didn’t seem to mind.

I spotted Ma rushing down the sidewalk from the direction of where we lived. I ran into her arms. We hugged tight. “Trell, oh, Trell,” she kept saying. She said Richie Boyle had called her at home. I felt my whole body go soft in her arms and realized it was like I’d been holding my breath the whole time. “We found Travis,” I said. Richie Boyle came over, told Ma, “Trell did great work tonight.”

Travis was totally out of it when ambulance workers wheeled him from the house on a stretcher, placed him in the back of a white ambulance van, and left for Boston City Hospital. I was worried most about Clemens. I was on the sidewalk with Ma, her arm around me, when we finally saw him. He appeared at Thumper’s front door, on his feet, which was a relief. He was helped by an ambulance worker, and together they walked gingerly down the front toward another ambulance. Clemens had his right arm tucked close against his chest. I could see bandages where his shirt had been cut away.

“Clemens,” I called.

“Trell!” he yelled. He veered toward us. “I’m okay. It grazed me.”

We hugged awkwardly, me and Ma and Clemens. Clemens looked at me. “You okay, Trell?” I told him I was — scared, but okay. In a rush of words, I told him about running into Richie Boyle in the alley, the biggest surprise ever.

“Knocked my socks off, too,” Clemens said. “I was leaning against the doorjamb bleeding when I see Richie running down the hall.” Clemens said Richie had filled him in while they were inside. “He had us under surveillance. No kidding.” He said Richie had started keeping an eye on us after we were asking about Travis. “He was worried. Said he realized he’d made a ton of bad choices years ago while working for Flanagan. Said he never knew the whole truth about Flanagan and Thumper, but he wasn’t trying to know, either — like that saying, ‘see no evil.’ Said he was focused only on getting convictions, no matter what it took. Especially in Ruby Graham’s case. But his suspicions had been eating away at him for years. It was why he quit — and why he wasn’t supporting Flanagan for mayor. When we came calling, asking questions, he couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted the truth, not just a conviction.”

“About time, you ask me.”

Clemens said, “Just in time.”

The ambulance worker interrupted. “Mr. Bittner, please. We need to go.”

“Okay, okay.” Clemens looked at us quickly — a bright intensity in his eyes. “They’re taking me to Boston City, get my arm looked at. But I won’t be long. Shey, can you get Trell over to the paper, meet me there?”

Ma was flustered. “You mean the newspaper?”

Clemens nodded. “Yep, the Globe.”

Ma said, “But it’s so late.”

“I know,” Clemens said, “but we got a story to finish, and I need Trell.”

We holed up in Jack Morin’s office, Clemens seated at the editor’s desk, typing away on the computer, me standing by, either looking over Clemens’s shoulder or grabbing some of our notes and documents spread out on the table. Clemens was slowed by the bullet wound, and he even had an arm sling. But he’d removed it and managed to peck away on the keyboard using both hands.

Luckily, since he’d done that first draft, the story was already pretty much organized and in shape. The main thing was writing up and inserting all the new information Jack Morin had wanted about Travis Golson and Travis’s false testimony, plus the new drama at Thumper’s castle with his arrest.

I peered at the computer screen as Clemens typed. “Don’t forget when Thumper was bragging, ‘Flanagan’s mine.’” My head was full of things Thumper had said, quotes I’d memorized the way a reporter does, to use later in a story. “Or this quote, when Thumper said, ‘Anybody tries to move on me, Flanagan is there for me. Why? Because Frank Flanagan — Mr. Law and Order — needs me.’”

“Slow down, Trell,” Clemens said.

I couldn’t. I wanted to be sure the story spelled out in detail how wrong Frank Flanagan had been in every way possible — for being in cahoots with Thumper Parish and for framing Daddy for Ruby’s murder. It was unbelievably sickening, and I felt anger like I’d never felt. People needed to know. “Don’t forget the line when Thumper’s thumpin’ his chest: ‘I play chess; everyone else is playin’ checkers.’” I slammed the desk. “Except now it’s checkmate.”

We were on deadline for the Sunday edition, the Globe’s biggest circulation day. Jack Morin paced the hall outside his office, not wanting to put any more pressure on Clemens but wanting him to hurry up so he could edit the story and oversee its layout. Ma and Rose made sure Clemens and I had plenty to eat, carrying a tray of sandwiches and drinks from the cafeteria.

With less than ten minutes to spare, Clemens hit the Send button. In Helen Mulvoy’s office, Helen and Jack Morin gave the story a quick edit. I could see Jack Morin through the glass wall smiling as he read. He punched the sky.

“You nailed it,” he shouted to us through the glass.

Within minutes the Sunday edition was rolling off the huge printing presses downstairs. The story was splashed across the front page, under a screaming headline, “DOUBT CAST OVER RUBY GRAHAM VERDICT.” The story recapped Ruby’s killing in 1988, Romero Taylor’s conviction a year later, and then said, “But a Globe investigation has found a prosecution marred by corruption that included suppressing key evidence and intimidating witnesses into testifying falsely.” It was all there — Monique’s brain cancer, Tracey and Boo’s new alibi information, and what Clemens termed “the unholy alliance between the prosecutor and a drug lord,” meaning Frank Flanagan and Thumper Parish. In summarizing our findings, the story said, “The Globe’s investigation demonstrates that Romero Taylor, who has protested his innocence from the day of his arrest, was not the killer.”

It felt unreal. I stared at the front page after Jack Morin had flattened it onto the conference table in his office — and almost stopped breathing when I saw the beginning of the article, where the name of the reporter goes:

“By Clemens Bittner, Globe Staff, and Van Trell Taylor, Globe Correspondent.”

Things happened really fast after that. The story was a huge smash, the talk of the town all day Sunday on radio and TV. On Monday morning the FBI and federal prosecutors announced that Frank Flanagan and the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office were under investigation. Reporters descended on Flanagan’s campaign headquarters on Tremont Street only to find it empty and locked up. During live TV newscasts from the sidewalk out front, reporters said that, according to a campaign spokesman, Flanagan was dropping out of the mayor’s race. He also dropped out of sight. No reporter could find Frank Flanagan anywhere for comment.

First thing Tuesday morning, Ma and I found ourselves racing downtown to meet Nora and attend an emergency hearing Superior Court Judge Nancy Ball convened to examine the new information revealed in the Globe’s investigation. The courtroom was packed with reporters and spectators, and a line of people wanting to get inside snaked down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the front lobby. It was a real circus.

Right off, Nora, dressed in a summer suit and all fired up, urged the judge to throw out Daddy’s conviction, citing the “toxic and corrupt conspiracy” that was exposed in the newspaper story “between the district attorney and a Roxbury crime boss,” along with the “corrupt basis by which Mr. Frank Flanagan and his cohorts framed one Romero Taylor for the tragic slaying of young Ruby Graham.”

Judge Ball listened intently but then cut Nora off, saying she would not base a ruling on a newspaper article alone. She wanted verification under oath. That’s when the large wooden side door swung open, and all eyes turned to see Lola Catron enter the courtroom. She was escorted to the witness stand, where she was sworn in and promised to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

The judge had ordered officials to produce Miss Lola and the others to give testimony at the special session. I knew what Miss Lola was going to say, having heard it all before, but was still glued to my seat listening to her tell the whole world about her daughter’s brain cancer and the pressure police put on her to lie. It was like watching our story come to life on a big stage. She was followed by Tracey Dailey and Boo, who spelled out the alibi. Even Juanda Tillery appeared, which was a surprise. Juanda was never mentioned in our story because of her demand that she not be, but on the witness stand, she told the judge that after reading the article in the newspaper, she’d had second thoughts. “I decided coming forward was the right thing to do.” I also think she’d been watching the TV coverage and wanted a piece of the spotlight. She walked into court preening for the cameras, her hair and nails freshly done. She looked great. Nora, Clemens, and I sneaked looks and traded smiles while listening to her testify about how police had intimidated her to lie.

Travis Golson’s testimony pulled on the heartstrings, as he described being young and homeless until Thumper Parish took him in. “Lying didn’t seem like a big deal,” he said. “I got food, money, a home, and when Mr. Flanagan nol-prossed my cases, I got a free pass in court, too.” I nodded and half smiled when Travis tried using the Latin term for when a criminal case is dismissed. Travis went on to describe living at Thumper’s and working for him, never really questioning any of it, even as Thumper “acted like I was his property.” Travis figured he was in debt. But this summer he began to feel different, “first after hearing about that girl and the reporter snooping around,” and then seeing me at Water Country. “Made me think about things,” he told the judge. “Realize this girl’s grown up with her daddy in prison, and I had somethin’ big to do with that.” It was like he awoke from a bad dream, but then Thumper got in his face, came down harder than ever on him. “I was torn,” he said. “Seemed I owed Thumper, but I also felt rotten.”

It was then Travis got choked up. “I’m sorry I lied,” he said.

The hardest thing was watching Richie Boyle. He squirmed on the witness stand and looked so uncomfortable up there in front of everybody. Clemens said Richie knew he was a target of the new investigation but, unlike Flanagan, he didn’t want to hide. He wanted to get out front, show he was cooperating and coming clean. He was in trouble and knew it, Clemens said, but had made peace with the idea that he was going to have to pay a price for the mistakes he made.

“He really is a good cop,” Clemens whispered to me.

Under oath, Richie said he’d looked the other way when it came to Flanagan and Thumper, something he now regretted. “I never knew Thumper Parish had procured Travis Golson for us to testify falsely,” he said. “I shoulda known, but I didn’t.” He admitted to berating other witnesses in the Ruby Graham case, driven to hold someone accountable for killing the girl on the blue mailbox.

The judge interrupted. “Even if the person was the wrong person?”

Richie lowered his head. “It was wrong,” he said. “In hindsight, a lot was wrong.”

Judge Nancy Ball took it all in, occasionally jotting notes. When Richie was done and had left the courtroom, she turned to Thumper Parish, handcuffed and slumped in a chair at one of the tables up front. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and wore a glum expression on his face. His lawyer sat with him.

“I’ve heard a lot this morning,” the judge said, “and the thought keeps crossing my mind you could tell us more. I don’t imagine you will.”

But Thumper stood up, pushing aside his lawyer’s effort to keep him still. “I got something,” he grunted. He tried to spread his arms, like wings, to make the big, sweeping gesture that, coming from his tall and muscular frame, was so scary on the street. But in court, the handcuffs restricted him, and he looked smaller. He struggled against the restraints. “I don’t belong here,” he said angrily.

“Me and Flanagan, we had a deal,” he said, his voice rising. Thumper began a rant, saying Frank Flanagan had “promised so long as I kept him appraised what was going down, he would watch my back, let me do my thing.”

To me and everybody else who was listening, it sure was some kind of crazy argument he was making — claiming he could do whatever he wanted, commit any crime whatsoever, as long as he was snitching for Frank Flanagan.

“So you see, you can’t arrest me,” he said.

“No?” the judge said. “You’re beyond the reach of the law?”

“It’s how it is,” Thumper insisted.

Heads began shaking, and murmurs spread through the audience.

“No,” the judge said flatly. “No. Police and prosecutors do rely at times on criminal informants to assist them in an investigation, but no one in law enforcement — not District Attorney Frank Flanagan or anyone — has the authority to make a secret deal promising complete immunity.”

Thumper couldn’t do much with his hands, so he kicked the chair and anything else within reach. He shouted, “It was the deal. MY deal!” Court officers moved in quickly to remove him. Even after he was taken out through a side door, the shouting persisted briefly, then faded. Thumper was finished.

Following the disruption, it took the judge a few minutes to restore order, and as I sat there looking around, I realized that just about everyone Clemens and I had crossed paths with during the long summer had appeared in court — from Lola Catron to Travis Golson to Richie and, of course, Thumper Parish.

Except for one person. The one who mattered most. The one stuck in prison, where he didn’t belong. Where he’d been my whole life. I felt a pit in my stomach. I repeated in my mind what I always used to say at the end of our prison visits. Daddy, when you comin’ home?

That was when the judge surprised me and everybody else.

Using the gavel to restore quiet, she began her summation. I assumed she was going to explain that in the days and maybe weeks to come, she would consider the testimony she’d heard during the special hearing. That’s what Nora had said was the most likely scenario for a legal hearing like this — the judge would take testimony, adjourn, take time to evaluate the evidence and then, finally, issue a ruling. It could take weeks, maybe even months, Nora said.

But as the judge kept talking, it dawned on me she was not waiting months, weeks, days, or even hours. Something was happening — now.

“Justice was not done in this case,” she declared. “Of that, I am certain.”

The judge paused to let the words sink in, and then continued. “The judicial system failed. The evidence has been cumulative and unambiguous. It failed Ruby Graham’s family and Mr. Romero Taylor. Both, in their respective ways, have paid a huge price — and I am deeply sorry for that.

“Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do today regarding Ruby Graham’s actual killer — that reckoning will have to wait until another day.”

The judge surveyed the courtroom, her brow furrowed.

“But there is something I can do about the man who was wrongfully convicted fourteen years ago for the heinous murder of young Ruby.”

The words were coming fast now. Nothing about an adjournment or anything like that. Instead, the judge spoke with a force and pace that was dizzying.

“In the interests of justice,” she proclaimed, “and exercising the powers granted to me under the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I hereby order that the first-degree murder conviction of Romero Taylor be vacated.”

The ruling exploded in my head: I hereby order that the first-degree murder conviction of Romero Taylor be vacated.

The courtroom erupted. Reporters scrambled out the exits to break the news. Ma and I turned to look at each other, our mouths gaping wide open.

Judge Nancy Ball wasn’t finished. Pounding the gavel, she continued, “I further order that Mr. Taylor be released from the state penitentiary at Walpole by the close of business today — the 20th of August.”

She looked down from the bench to her clerk and instructed, “I want confirmation of that.” Then she turned back to address the courtroom.

“Not another day,” she said.

I yelled. Many others did, too. I felt goose bumps all over.

Daddy was coming home.

Not another day, the judge had said. Today.

The 20th of August.

That’s when it broke from the jumble of emotions — the date. I’d lost track of time during the past few days. But now it sank in, and I snapped to.

It was on this day, fourteen years ago, a girl on a blue mailbox was shot dead. The same day a rare disease killed a five-year-old boy named Peter Bittner.

In that moment I turned to Clemens. I saw a tiny tear forming on the cheek facing me. He saw me and smiled back. He wiped the tear, raised his hands, and like everyone else in the room, started whooping it up, cheering for justice.

Soon as we got untangled from the mash of people in the hall, Nora talked her way into one of the clerk’s offices to call Daddy at the prison. She came out after and said Daddy went numb when she told him the news, kept saying, “Nora, is this real? Is this real?” She instructed Daddy to hurry and pack his things, give away what he didn’t want. “The judge wants you out before nightfall.”

Ma and I rushed home. I felt spazzed. There seemed so much to do to get ready. We began straightening up the apartment, but kept bumping into each other. Ma got on the phone, calling the ladies from church along with the other mothers who were family after all those years riding together to the prison. Everyone promised to bring something. I went into my room and changed into shorts and a green sleeveless top. I was fixing the birthday photos that ringed the mirror on my bureau when I caught my reflection. It stopped me cold. The eyes. The jawline. The mouth. I looked older. It was like in the two months since school got out, I’d grown. My eyes went around the photos of me and Daddy. No more, I thought. No more prison pictures. We were free to take the next one anywhere we wanted to.

Daddy was coming home.

Paul Parish arrived, wanting to help, and Ma got him busy right away pushing furniture against the walls to make room and setting up folding chairs from the basement. It was good to see him. When Paul and I had a chance to talk after everything that went down at Thumper’s castle, I told him I would help him apply to the Weld School. Saying that made me realize that I was going to go back there. Part of it was that people from the school kept calling all day Monday, after the big article in the Globe. Ma took most of the calls, with the school people wanting to congratulate me and make sure we knew how much they wanted me to return. The only time I got on the phone was when my adviser called, and when he asked if there was anything he could do, an idea popped into my head. “I want to work on the Weld News. Maybe be an editor?”

“Done,” he said.

The other big thing happening for Paul was Clemens. Paul never knew his own dad, and his ma — Thumper’s sister — was long gone, maybe in New York City, or maybe Detroit. No one knew. But Clemens was talking to the social workers about being part of Paul’s life — as some kind of big brother or guardian. It hadn’t been sorted out completely, but something was definitely in the works.

Word spread fast, and our apartment soon filled up. The crowd spilled onto the front porch. Everyone was laughing and happy, talking up the homecoming. We weren’t used to something this big and good happening to people in our neighborhood. I took up a position by the front door, and was standing watch when we first heard the horn. Everyone looked to the left and saw Vinnie’s Van turn sharply onto the street. Big Vinnie kept honking the horn and flashing his lights as the van came down Hutchings Street and screeched to a stop right out front.

My heart pounded. When the judge surprised everybody by ordering Daddy’s release, we got freaked realizing we had no way to get him home. We didn’t have a car. Nora didn’t have one. Clemens wasn’t allowed to drive because of his arm. Ma thought of Vinnie. When she called him in a panic, he cut her off.

“On my way,” he said, making a show that he’d do the trip free of charge.

The door flew open and Daddy came down the steps. People cheered. Daddy was stunned, and shielded his eyes as if glaring into a bright sun. He wore baggy khaki pants and a Red Sox T-shirt that Vinnie had thought to bring along for him. I’d never seen Daddy dressed in anything other than a prison jumpsuit.

The moment his feet touched ground, Ma and I flew into his arms. I didn’t know people could hug as hard as we did. “Daddy,” I kept singing. “Daddy.” He chanted quietly, “Shey-Shey, Trell. Shey-Shey, Trell.” We hugged some more.

Then Daddy got swept away into the crowd. People wanted to greet him, be close, touch him. Clemens was off duty, hanging next to Nora, but other reporters had arrived. They circled and began firing questions at Daddy nonstop.

“My heart was pounding waiting for Vinnie to come — oh, yeah,” he said. “I was nervous. Real nervous. But not anymore. I’m happy now, glad to be home.”

The current pulled him toward the porch stairs. People had begun feasting on the barbecue chicken and hot dogs from Simco’s the church ladies had supplied. Daddy stopped at the spread and looked it over.

“Any sweet cereal?” he asked. “Corn flakes is all there is where I been.”

That got people laughing.

“I’m telling ya, I may want sweet cereal for supper.”

“I’m on it!” shouted one of Ma’s friends.

I stood back, just watching Daddy and soaking it all in. Clemens and Nora stood nearby, and I noticed Clemens’s arm was around Nora. It looked good resting on her shoulder, and when Clemens caught me looking, he shrugged. Made me feel good inside.

One of the TV reporters squeezed her way near Daddy, a cameraman at her side. “Mr. Taylor, now that you’re free, what do you want to do first?”

“Wow,” Daddy said, his eyes wide. “My mind’s running so fast.” He scratched his head. “I know I wanna work. I’m ready to work, start my life over.”

He smiled, added, “Maybe go shopping, too. I could use some sneakers.”

I shouted, “I can help with that!”

Daddy looked at me. “I’m counting on that.”

He was still looking at me. He turned calm. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, making a T with his hands to signal a time-out. He left the reporters, took my elbow, and steered me away from the pack of people toward the front door.

“Gonna get a little fresh air with my girl,” he said. “We’ll be back.”

Daddy and I walked together down Hutchings, leaving the party sounds behind. We took a left and headed toward Franklin Park. We didn’t say anything at first, then Daddy said, “You done a lot, you and Clemens. I’m thankful, and proud. Very proud. You’ve come a long way. We’ve come a long way.”

Daddy took a huge, huge breath of free air and looked around.

“Neighborhood’s changed a lot,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it. Something as simple as a walk with my daddy was something I’d never done. I couldn’t describe the feeling. It was like a dream. Or a fairy-tale wish come true. Or a science fiction story, where some person is brought back from the other side. Or all of those things combined. Except this was real. I felt funny, happy, strange all at once. I tingled all over.

“Where we going?” I asked. It was twilight, and the last light of day flickered through the tops of the park’s trees up ahead.

Daddy kept walking. “In Vinnie’s Van, I saw something. Just up ahead.”

We turned the next corner onto Seaver Street and I saw what Daddy meant.

The tot lot — on Seaver along the side of Franklin Park.

The Ruby Graham Tot Lot.

I stopped in my tracks.

Daddy said, “C’mon.”

I didn’t budge.

He looked at me, puzzled.

He crossed to the gate and read the plaque out loud: “‘In Memory of Ruby Graham.’” Daddy looked around at the swings, slides, and climbing equipment in their candy colors. “Looks like fun, Trell, having this in the neighborhood.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Nice way to remember her,” he said.

I still didn’t say a word.

“Trell?”

Finally, I said, “I never felt I could. Play here, I mean. Like I didn’t belong.”

“Oh,” is all Daddy said. He nodded a few times, then reached for the gate and opened it. “Girl never should have been hurt.”

“Too many people been hurt,” I said.

There was a moment of silence. Then Daddy took off into the lot and jogged over to the swings. “Get over here,” he yelled. “Let your daddy have the pleasure of pushing you in the swing.”

That got a smile out of me.

“It’s a toddler swing, Daddy! I’m too big.”

“Naww,” he said. “C’mon.”

He came and got me, pushed and tickled me toward the swing set. The seat turned out to be bigger than it looked, and so I went along. I squeezed into it and Daddy began to push me, and once he did, I couldn’t help but laugh, and so did Daddy. We laughed together. I felt the cool air rushing past me as he pushed me higher and higher, above the tops of the bushes into the blue sky, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt I didn’t have a care in the world.

Daddy was home.