Chapter 2
My father drove without turning on the radio.
The county road ran past low buildings and bare trees, and every few minutes his phone lit up in the cup holder. He didn't touch it. The screen went dark, then bright again. Each time, I watched the reflection move across his face.
He had taken off his jacket. Without it, he looked smaller.
“What did the message say?” I asked again.
He kept his eyes on the road. “It said people were asking questions.”
“About the video?”
“Yes.”
“Who posted it?”
“I don't know.”
The answer came too fast.
We stopped at a diner because my father said I needed to eat. He chose a booth near the back, where the window looked out at the parking lot. I wasn't hungry, but he ordered pancakes for me anyway and coffee for himself.
A television above the counter played with the sound off. A news anchor moved her mouth beside a strip of text. The words were too small to read.
My father placed his phone facedown.
“Tell me exactly what happened after I left the room,” he said.
I told him. I told him about the second request, the phone, the clerk, the voices. I told him what I heard about the comments. When I mentioned the strip of tape, he stopped moving.
“You picked something up?”
“It came off the phone case.”
“You shouldn't have.”
“I know.”
He leaned back. His eyes went to the front windows, then to the kitchen door.
“Do you still have it?”
I pulled the strip from my sleeve and laid it beside the sugar dispenser.
He didn't touch it.
“What is it?”
“I don't know.”
He picked up a paper napkin and used it to slide the strip closer. The blue mark looked different under the diner lights. It wasn't a letter. It was part of a printed logo, cut through by a crease.
“Keep it in the napkin,” he said. “Don't throw it away.”
That frightened me more than if he had told me it was important.
The waitress brought the pancakes. She set down a fork, looked at me, and then looked at my father.
“Are you the boy from the video?”
My father stood so quickly the table shook.
“We're not discussing that.”
The waitress raised both hands. “I didn't mean—”
“We're leaving.”
He put money beside the coffee, wrapped the tape in the napkin, and took my hand. Outside, wind moved across the parking lot and pushed a receipt against my shoe.
“Why did she know me?” I asked.
“Because somebody wanted her to.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
He stopped beside the car and crouched until we were eye to eye.
“Listen to me. People may say they know what happened. They may show you a video. They may tell you what you meant. You only say what you saw and heard.”
“I saw you leave.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“Why did they take you out?”
“I don't know yet.”
That answer sounded honest. It didn't make me feel better.
At home, my father locked the door before taking off his shoes. He checked the front window, then the back one. Our place was quiet except for the refrigerator clicking on.
He opened his laptop at the kitchen table. The video loaded before he could search for it. A caption covered the bottom of the screen. My face filled the frame. The courtroom behind me had been cropped away, leaving only the witness area and the gallery's blurred faces.
The clip ended with my plea.
Under it, thousands of people had left comments.
Some called me brave. Some called me a liar. Some said my father deserved whatever happened. Others asked where they could send money.
My father shut the laptop.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are they angry?”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “Because anger is easier to spread than facts.”
A knock sounded at the door.
We both froze.
The knock came again, softer this time.
My father moved in front of me. “Who is it?”
“A clerk,” a woman's voice answered. “I work at the courthouse. I need to speak with your son.”
My father didn't open the door.
“Do you have identification?”
There was a pause. Paper slid beneath the door.
My father picked it up. He read it once, then again. The color left his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
He gave me the paper.
It was a notice for another hearing. My name appeared near the bottom, typed beneath the words witness assistance. The date was tomorrow.
“That wasn't mentioned today,” I said.
“No.”
The woman outside spoke again. “Your son wasn't supposed to be recorded. Not like that.”
My father looked at the door.
“Who was?”
“Everyone who stood near the witness area.”
“Why are you telling us?”
“Because the official copy says he volunteered.”
I looked at the paper. The word volunteered sat there in neat black letters.
“I didn't,” I said.
“I know,” the woman answered.
My father reached for the notice, but I held it against my chest.
The woman lowered her voice. “There is a second page. It was removed from the file before the clerk's office closed.”
“Where is it?” my father asked.
“Not with me.”
“Then why come here?”
“Because someone is looking for the original recording.”
Her footsteps moved away.
My father opened the door too late. The hallway was empty.
May you like
On the floor sat a folded sheet of paper. Inside was a handwritten address and a sentence without a signature:
Don't let them make you repeat it.
