“No,” said Jason.
“I beg your pardon,” said Phil, and his voice seemed to have jumped maybe half an octave. I don’t think he was used to people disagreeing with him, especially twice in one day.
“I said no, he’s not going to jail,” said Jason. “He’s going to walk out of here very soon, and here’s why. If you so much as try to put my client in a holding cell for five minutes, I will immediately inform the media that your suspect in this case is the guy who saved that woman’s life in the park last spring, the guy who found that little girl who was kidnapped several years ago, the guy who stopped that mugging outside the senior citizens complex in Bloomfield last year.”
He took a break and looked at me.
“Am I embarrassing you?” he asked.
“Just a tad,” I said.
Jason smiled and said, “Well, we can’t have that.”
Then he turned back to Waggoner.
“Incidentally, Phil, did I mention that my client’s alibi happens to be a kindergarten teacher? And that, if I have to pass along all this information to the members of the media, I’ll do it standing in front of the City-County Building downtown? You know the place. The mayor’s office is there.”
Once again, everyone was quiet. Then Phil cleared his throat and said, “My office will be investigating and verifying everything that was said here today. Meanwhile, your client is free to go.”
Trying to reassert some semblance of authority, he turned to me and said, “Don’t leave town.”
I ignored that, and Jason and Denny and I started to leave the room. At the doorway, Denny paused and looked back at Phil.
“’Bout that half million,” he said. “Need to add a couple more zeros.”
As we walked down the hall, I turned to Denny and said, “Now that was just mean.”
Chapter 44
When we got outside, Jason shook hands with Denny, told me he’d call to set up our next racquetball match, then climbed into his maroon Camaro and drove away.
“You need a ride back home?” Denny asked me.
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m gonna head over to the school, see if I can find Asaan Witherspoon, get his take on things.”
Denny nodded and said, “I’ve got a few calls to make, and I’ll be in the area for a while. Security’s pretty heavy at the school today. When you finish over there, tell one of the uniforms to let me know. I’ll come get you.”
I thanked him and left to walk the few blocks from Number 5 to Franklin High. When I got there, I saw that Denny hadn’t been kidding about the heavy security. There were cops everywhere, including at least two officers with police dogs. As I walked up the steps to the school’s main entrance, I saw Nate Timmons, one of the young cops who played basketball with Denny and me. He was talking to some other cops, but when he spotted me, he left and walked right over.
“JB,” he said, grabbing my hand in the traditional soul-brother handshake that’s been popular in the ‘hood forever and, thanks to movies, music videos and the NBA on TNT, has now become a staple on every suburban playground in the country as well.
Then Nate leaned in close and said, “If you’re carrying, JB, how ‘bout I hold it for you while you’re in there?”
“Thanks, Nate,” I said, “but Detective Wilcox has that situation covered.” My gun and holster were locked in the glove compartment of Denny’s Navigator.
Then I stepped back a little and asked Nate if he’d seen Asaan.
“Sure,” he said. “He’s been here all morning.”
I thanked him again and headed for the front doors of the school. Once inside, I got a clip-on visitor’s pass from a school security guard and went up to the second floor. If the school was on the same schedule as when I’d taught there, it was the middle of fourth period, but I saw very few students in the rooms I passed, and none at all in the hallways. When I got to 209, my old classroom, the door was open, and I could see there wasn’t a class taking place, so I gave in to temptation and stepped inside.
“May I help you?”
A young woman was sitting at the teacher’s desk in the front of the room. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, with long dark hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head. As she stood and walked towards me, I could see that she was wearing fitted dark green slacks, a white blouse and low-heeled shoes. She was attractive, but not what most people would call beautiful. Still, I got the sense that when she let her hair down and lost the stylish reading glasses she was wearing, and maybe slipped into some higher heels, there was another person in there somewhere.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just taking a trip down memory lane.”
Seeing the puzzled look on her face, I added, “I used to teach in this room.”
She hesitated, then suddenly said, “You must be the detective.”
“Jeremy Barnes,” I said, “but how did you . . .?”
“I’m Trisha Calloway,” she said, as she reached out and shook my hand. “Mrs. Fingerette told me about you.”
“Florence isn’t still teaching, is she?” I asked, glancing in the direction of Room 211 next door.
“Oh, gosh, no. She retired several years ago, but she told me about the guy who taught in this room before I got here, said you were a good teacher and, to use her words, hot stuff, too.”
I blushed a little.
“Florence Fingerette thought I was hot stuff? Are we talking about the same woman here? Gray-haired grandmotherly type?”
“You got it,” said Trisha. “She once told me that if she’d been thirty years
