Jeremy shrugged. “Black guy from Harlem.”
“He gave it to you?”
“Sold it to me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dunno.”
“You’re dealing with the guy, you don’t know his name?”
“Calls himself the Main Man. It’s not his name though.”
“No shit. So he sold you the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“For how much?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you need a gun?”
No answer.
“Damn it, these are the questions that count. Why’d you need a gun?”
“He said I might need it.”
“Your connection?”
“Yeah.”
“It was his idea?”
“Partly.”
“What do you mean, partly?”
“Well, I mentioned I might want to have one.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I dunno.”
“And he thought you might need one?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would he think that?”
“I dunno.”
Steve looked at him a moment. “I do. You want to be a big man, you’re trying to impress the guy, act tough. You tell him you need a gun.”
Jeremy said nothing.
“Anyway, he got you one.”
“Yeah.”
“This drug dealer-the Main Man-how old is he?”
“I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen.”
Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” He took a breath. “So tell me about the gun.”
“What about it?”
“You ever fire it?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You ever fire the fucking gun?”
“Hey man, easy. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, you’re up for murder. You may not understand these questions, but you don’t have to. You’re a stupid kid who don’t know shit. I’m the lawyer who’s gotta get you out of here. You want me to do that job, then do me a favor. Stop thinking. Don’t think at all. You know why? You’re not good at it. It just gets in the way. So stop trying to figure out why I’m asking the questions, and just answer the fucking things.”
Jeremy’s face reddened. “Hey, fuck you.”
Steve smiled. “Son of a bitch, I got a rise out of you. Good. Now, while I have your full attention-did you ever fire the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“When I got it.”
“When was that?”
“I dunno. A month ago.”
“Why’d you fire the gun?”
“I wanted to.”
Steve raised his hand. “Hey, kid, I don’t care how much crack you do, you can’t be that dumb. Why’d you fire the gun is a question asking for an explanation. What’d you fire it at, did you fire it at a person? If so, did you hit him, kill him? Where and when did this happen? Shit, Jeremy, just for fun, try to answer my questions like a human being. Now tell me about firing the gun.”
“I was just practicing.”
“Where?”
“Junkyard.”
“Where?”
“Queens.”
“When?”
“Right after I got it.”
“Why’d you do it?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Just to test it out.”
“How many times you fire it?”
“Once.”
“Why only once?”
“It was cold. It stung my hand.”
“Were you wearing gloves?”
“Yeah. And it was awkward with the gloves.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“What?”
“That you were wearing gloves. If you didn’t fire it again, there won’t be powder marks on your hands.”
“Oh.”
“So did you fire it again?”
“No.”
“That was the only time?”
“Yeah. What’s this about powder marks on my hands?”
“When you fire a gun, it leaves powder traces on your hand. A paraffin test can show that you fired one.”
Jeremy looked interested. “So if there’s no powder traces on my hands, it’ll prove I didn’t do it?”
“No, they’ll say you were wearing gloves.”
“Oh.”
“But it’s better than if there was, you got it?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s still bad. If it turns out it was your gun killed your uncle — and I’ll bet it was-you’re in deep shit. It was your gun, you kept it in your locker, your uncle winds up dead, you were seen with your uncle, the gun is found in your locker. Add that up and tell me how it looks to you.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“So you say. No one’s gonna take your word for that. We have to deal with the facts. Now if it was your gun did it, who could have done it but you?”
“How the hell should I know?”
