At South High, Charlie parked the car in a visitor’s spot. As he walked with Mia down the main hall of the school to the office, he heard conversations in English, Russian, Korean, Spanish, Vietnamese, and a few languages he didn’t recognize.
Mia looked like what she was, a nicely dressed mom. Even though his rumpled black overcoat hid the holster on his hip, Charlie stood out. Half the kids regarded him warily, and a few people pointed and whispered. Did they know why he was here? The names of the kids who had been taken into custody couldn’t be released by the media, but gossip didn’t need TV to spread.
The school’s office was a hive of activity, with phones ringing, students signing in and out, and teachers checking mail slots. They finally managed to catch the attention of one of the ladies answering phones behind the counter, who then directed them to the office of the vice principal, Peggy Alderson.
A middle-aged woman rose from her seat behind the desk. She wore a navy-blue suit, and her shoulder-length hair was blond slowly going gray.
Charlie introduced them, and the other woman held out her hand.
“Call me Peggy.” Her hands were small, and as if to make up for them, her grip was strong enough that he had to hide his wince. It was one thing that Wade’s handshake had caused him to flinch, but a petite older woman’s? Maybe he needed to start hitting the gym again.
“Please, sit down,” she said.
Aside from the chair behind her desk, there was only one free chair. Two more chairs, a small round table, the tops of two bookcases, and Peggy’s desk were all covered with stacks and stacks of paper: loose, bound, rubber-banded, teetering. So much for the paperless office. She scooped up a pile from one of the chairs, turned in a circle looking for a place to put it, and finally set the stack on the floor before returning to her desk.
Charlie took the chair she had just cleared. The window behind her desk overlooked a city bus stop, but what caught his eye was the round hole in the middle of the pane. It was about an inch across and cracks radiated out from it. Made by a .45, if he was any judge.
“I appreciate your being willing to give up your office so we can interview these students’ teachers.” Mia opened a notebook. “Why don’t you tell us a little about the school and whatever you know about the boys before we talk to the first teacher?”
“We have our challenges here.” Peggy steepled her fingers and then pulled them apart to lift her hands, palms up. “Around ninety percent of our kids qualify for free or reduced lunch. We have lots of immigrants, or kids who are seventh-generation poverty. A lot of single-parent households. It’s particularly hard for the boys. Many of them have no male role models. I’m always trying to hire male teachers, but forget it. Especially male teachers of color.”
Charlie glanced over at Mia as they both nodded. They heard the subtext. These boys might have done something terrible, but Charlie and Mia needed to look at the whole picture.
“Other Seattle schools have parents who work at Microsoft or Boeing.” Peggy’s mouth twisted. “They can fund-raise to fill in the gaps from what they get from the city. Here we’re nothing but gaps, and the kids are lucky if they have one parent with a job, even if it’s just pushing a broom at night. There’s a lot of social poverty too. Homes where the TV is on all the time but there’s not a single book. Where the parents are in and out of jail and the kids are cared for by a succession of aunties and really tired grandmothers. Where lots of people you look up to sell drugs or their bodies or at least plasma. Where there’s no expectation you’ll finish high school, let alone go to college.”
Yeah, yeah. Charlie got it. These kids were poor, they had no role models, they deserved a break. He cut to the chase. “How well do you know these boys? Jackson Buckle and Dylan Dunford?”
“Jackson’s fairly bright, at least I suspect he is, despite his grades. Bright enough that he doesn’t always get caught. Dylan is a little more”—Peggy hesitated—“borderline. He’s struggling. He may be a candidate for a more intensive program.”
“What does that mean?” Mia asked.
“Dylan may have a learning disability that’s been previously undiagnosed. Washington mandates that all children with a disability have an IEP—individualized education program—so they have the opportunity to learn the EALRs—essential academic learning requirements—which enable them to meet the GLEs—grade-level expectations—for reading, writing, and science, as well as the PEs—performance expectations—for math.”
Charlie snorted. And he thought he worked in a bureaucracy. The endless acronyms made his head hurt. “What does all that even mean?”
“In a nutshell, special education. Perhaps if he were in a smaller classroom, maybe with an aide, Dylan might flourish.”
“Are Jackson and Dylan friends?” Mia asked.
“That could be too strong a word. But I have seen them together. That’s about all I can tell you. Those two and Manny.”
“Flores?” Charlie shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. “They’re all friends?”
“They’re part of the same loose group of boys.” Peggy held her hand up and tilted it back and forth. “As I said, neither the best nor the worst.”
Charlie thought about the three boys’ records. “Have you ever had to discipline them here at school?”
“Dylan stole a teacher’s purse last year. We found it in his locker, but everything was still there. He said he had no idea how it got there. I had my suspicions.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Which means?” Charlie prompted.
“Things have gone missing around Jackson too, but somehow they never turn up in his possession. At least not that we can find.”
“So you think Jackson took the purse and hid it in Dylan’s locker?”
“I didn’t say that,” Peggy said. “It’s just that it seemed out of character for Dylan—and it was Jackson’s teacher.”
“How about Manny?” Mia asked.
“I suspended Manny three days last month for throwing a trash can at another kid. He said he was being picked on.” She shrugged. “He may well have been right.”
The first teacher they talked to, Stacy Michaels, wore skinny jeans, a hoodie, and red Nikes. She didn’t look much older than the students.
“This is my second year with Teach for America,” she said with a sigh. “I came in here all starry-eyed, thinking I was going to save the world. Frankly, I was an idiot. I can’t even save myself, let alone these kids.”
Charlie nodded. A verbal response seemed unnecessary. The floodgates were already open.
“They’re not the least bit grateful. They talk back. They’re disrespectful. Don’t they think I know what they’re doing, texting under their desks? Nobody just smiles down at an empty lap. And you don’t even want to know what they get up to in the bathrooms. They run wild. The only thing this job is doing is helping me pay off my student loans. I don’t dare turn my back on them. I lock my purse in my desk, and even then I don’t bring any credit cards to work anymore. Last year one of the kids managed to slip my Nordstrom card out of my wallet and charge $630 worth of stuff before I’d even sat down to dinner that night.”
“Okay.” Mia drew the word out. “What can you tell me about Dylan and Jackson?”
“Don’t forget Manny. None of those kids are angels. All three of them skip school. Dylan stole another teacher’s purse last year, and I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen Jackson out on that sidewalk”—she pointed—“smoking a cigarette. Sometimes he’ll be flashing something around, like a CD, and you just know he stole it. And there’re times the way he looks at me just makes me shiver. His eyes are so cold. Even Manny, the one they’re calling a hero? I know for a fact that he assaulted another child this year.”
“Do you think either Dylan or Jackson is capable of understanding that his actions have consequences?” Mia said.
“To be honest,” Stacy said darkly, “I wouldn’t put anything past either of them. And I think they know exactly what they’re doing.”
Gloria MacDonald looked like she was in her late forties, but Charlie had to recalibrate her age when she said she had been teaching for thirty-nine years. She had coffee-colored skin and wore her black hair in a bob. The bangs set off her large, deep-set eyes.
“What can you tell me about Jackson and Dylan?” Mia asked. “I understand you’re teaching both of them.”
“Honey, I’ve taught everybody.” Gloria flapped one hand. “I even taught Jackson’s mom. And it’s not because I’ve been in this school for a long time, although I have. It’s because the two are only fifteen years apart.” She raised one eyebrow and gave her head a little shake. “If Jackson applied himself, he could graduate high school. Even college. But I’m afraid he’s not applying himself to the right things.”
“What about Dylan?”
She shook her head. “That boy’s got nine brothers and sisters, and there’s not enough love, food, or space in that family for half that number.”
Charlie exchanged a look with Mia. He couldn’t imagine raising one child, let alone ten of them. With that many siblings, Dylan must basically be raising himself.
“He’s not a bad kid. I had him to my house for dinner a few weeks ago. I think he came back for fourths.” Gloria smiled at the memory. “He played with my little grandchildren. Now would I have done that if I thought he was a danger to others?” She leaned forward, her face fierce. “Look, his IQ tests out at eighty-five. Couple that with the fact that he’s a juvenile and you’ve got no case. I’ve been around the block more times than I care to count, but I really can’t see him doing this. Deliberately dropping a shopping cart on that poor lady? I find it hard to believe.”
“We have him on video,” Mia said.
“I heard that. But Dylan’s suggestible.”
“Are you saying you think it was Jackson’s idea?”
She pursed her lips. “All I’m saying is whenever something bad happens, I always check to see where Jackson is.”