Page 31 of Goodbye Days

“If you need a minute.”

“Um. Because Mars always answered texts the quickest. Even if he was driving. I was being impatient. I wasn’t thinking.” A tear splats on the green carpet of the conference room and slowly expands. My mom rubs the nape of my neck.

“Okay,” Mr. Krantz says softly, and leans back in his chair. He sets down his pen, pulls off his glasses, and chews on one of the earpieces for a moment, apparently deep in thought, allowing me to pull myself together. Or at least try.

“It’s obvious he didn’t intend to hurt anyone,” my mom says. “This is ridiculous.”

“Well,” Mr. Krantz says, still chewing on his glasses. “Yes and no.” He rises, walks to a bookshelf, and pulls down a green volume. He puts his glasses on and leafs through it quickly. He sits.

“Folks, I won’t sugarcoat. Under Tennessee law, there’s an offense called criminally negligent homicide. Used to be called involuntary manslaughter. Criminally negligent homicide happens when someone takes ‘a substantial and unjustifiable risk’ and ‘the failure to perceive it constitutes a gross deviation from the standard of care that an ordinary person would exercise under all the circumstances as viewed from the person’s standpoint.’ ”

I don’t fully comprehend what he’s saying, but I understand what “unjustifiable risk” and “gross deviation” mean. A purple spasm twists my stomach.

“Can you translate?” my dad asks, rubbing his forehead. “I’m a damned college English professor and you lost me.”

Mr. Krantz whips off his glasses again. “Means if you got a pretty good idea that you’re doing something that could get someone killed, and you go ahead and do it, you’re on the hook even though in your heart you never intended to kill anyone. This is sort of the hot new thing in prosecution. Up in Massachusetts, they tried to pin manslaughter on a girl who encouraged her friend by text message to commit suicide. Similar idea here.”

My insides are trying to crawl down my leg. An almost aggressive silence hangs in the room like a plume of nerve gas.

“So it’s not ridiculous. And the state’s best bet to prove it will be to wrangle Carver into saying exactly what he told me. But he doesn’t ever need to do that, because the Fifth Amendment protects against self-incrimination.” Mr. Krantz eyes me with a hopeful glimmer. “You haven’t told anyone what you told me, have you?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly.”

Mr. Krantz raises an eyebrow.

“After Blake’s funeral, a reporter tried to talk to me. Said Judge Edwards referred him to me.”

“And you told him…”

“That I didn’t really know what happened. That I was texting with Mars the afternoon of the accident.”

Mr. Krantz chews on the end of his glasses and chuckles ruefully. “Edwards. That crafty son of a bitch. He knew he might get you to voluntarily incriminate yourself, and because a reporter isn’t law enforcement, it would come into evidence at trial. Anybody else?”

“No.”

“You got a girlfriend?”

“Uh…no. I mean. No. I have a friend who’s a girl. She’s just a friend, though.”

“Don’t tell her anything.”

“Okay.”

“What are the chances the DA won’t file charges at all?” my dad asks.

Mr. Krantz blows out, his cheeks puffing. “That Judge Edwards can be a scary character.”

“We noticed,” my mom says.

“There’s some delicate stuff going on here politically. The DA, Karen Walker, is up for reelection next year. She needs Davidson County’s black vote to win. Edwards holds tremendous sway with that voting bloc. Plus Walker’s people are in front of Edwards day in and day out. So politically, this issue is two for the price of one. She makes it into Edwards’s good graces, and with it comes the black vote and she can grandstand about the perils of teen texting. Maybe even garner national attention. Sets herself up for a senate or gubernatorial race someday. She’s a winner the minute she indicts, even if she tries Carver and loses. And there’s an old saying that a good DA can indict a ham sandwich.”

“That is some bullshit,” my dad says in a low, trembling voice. I’ve never heard him use that tone before. It makes me afraid, hearing him afraid.

“Yup,” Mr. Krantz says.

“What do we do now?” my mom asks.

Mr. Krantz leans forward with his elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him. “We wait. See what the DA does. Meanwhile, Carver, you do not talk to anyone about this without me present, understood? The cops ask you your favorite color? I don’t want you answering until I’m sitting next to you.”