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“Mr. Powell, this is Sam McRae. I’m an attorney representing Tina Jackson, one of your students. I understand you’re her guidance counselor.”
“I am. What can I do for you, Ms. McRae?”
“Well, for starters, you can call me Sam. Tina’s run into a bit of legal trouble. I’m hoping to get some background information about her academics, her home life, and her disciplinary record, among other things. I want to confirm a few things she told me.” And, maybe, find out what she didn’t.
“All right, Sam. I’ll need to run by admin to pick up the disciplinary records, but that’s not a problem. Call me Frank, by the way. I assume you have a signed release from one of her parents?”
“Yes, I do.” Shanae had signed the release the last time she was in my office. The only time. Before she was bludgeoned to death. “Would it be convenient for us to meet sometime today, Frank?”
“I have some meetings this morning, but my afternoon’s open, if you want to drop by.” His deejay voice made the invitation sound like an ad for a tire sale.
“I’ll be there around 1:30 or so.”
* * * * *
I stopped home for a quick sandwich before heading to the school in Suitland, an inside-the-Beltway D.C. suburb that had seen better days—long before my time. Near the District line, P.G. County is mostly black, mostly poor, and mostly avoided by those who don’t fit that mold. The housing ran to old brick structures squeezed onto tiny lots with scrubby lawns and mid-rise apartment buildings—brick boxes whose windows provided joyless views of cracked macadam lots filled with hoopties of every description, from beat-up compacts to classic pimpmobiles.
I parked in the school lot. My purple ’67 Mustang, out of place with my peers’ gleaming Beemers and Porsches, blended well with the staff’s economy cars. Feeling a rush of solidarity with hard-working civil servants, I sauntered into the building.
A security guard escorted me to the main office, where I signed in and got a visitor’s pass. We wove through throngs of uniformed students. Loud voices and laughter echoed off the metal lockers.
At once, I felt conspicuous—a strange white woman in a suit, the lone white face in the crowd. I flashed back to my childhood in Bed-Stuy. At six years old on my first day at school, I was the only white kid in my class. It provided an excellent training ground for years of not fitting in.
I shook off the deja vu, keeping my head high and moving with purpose and confidence, like I belonged there. The way I’d learned in Brooklyn.
The guidance department was a short walk down the hall. I entered a small waiting area, where two kids sat: one engrossed in a comic book, the other, staring into space, possibly slipping into a coma.
The door bearing Powell’s name was ajar. I rapped twice.
“Come in,” the smooth jazz voice said. I did as instructed. A chair squealed and a slim man with milk chocolate skin, warm brown eyes and a toothy smile rose to greet me. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Sam McRae?”
“Good guess.”
“It wasn’t hard. What can I do for you, Sam?”
He motioned for me to sit. I showed him my client’s release form—my former client, that is. The dead one. A quick wall survey revealed diplomas, a social worker’s certificate, and personal photos, including a few of the school’s sports teams.
“Let’s start with Tina Jackson’s disciplinary problems,” I said.
Powell sighed, leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Tina was always a bit withdrawn. Kept to herself when she first came here. Like a lot of kids with issues at home.”
I nodded and made a mental note to pursue that point further.
“Last year, the problems started. Lateness, talking back to teachers. Her grades slipped a little. What kind of legal trouble is she in?”
“Delinquency proceeding over a purse snatching. She accidentally knocked down the victim and injured her.”
Powell shook his head. “I’m more than a little concerned about Tina. She’s started hanging with a rough crowd.” He picked up a file a
nd flipped through it. “She was involved in a fight on school grounds. She’s never been in that kind of trouble before.”
“She hasn’t been in any other fights?”
“According to the file, no. Not in the two years she’s been coming here.”
I nodded. This squared with what Tina had told me. So far, so good. “What happened? How did this fight start?”
