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was shot in an alley only a few blocks from where we are sitting right now. He says Mr. Braithwaite—the whole rest of the time he talks about him, he calls him mister—came to this country from Trinidad with not much more than a dime in his pocket. He says Mr. Braithwaite worked hard at a lot of different jobs before he was able to buy himself a truck, and that he was well-known on construction sites for his food—especially Caribbean food—and for his sense of humor. I glance at JD. It’s news to us that the guy even had a sense of humor.
    The homicide cop tells us that Mr. Braithwaite coached soccer for a local league. He also volunteered at a breakfast club at one of the elementary schools in theneighborhood, and he spent every Sunday afternoon at a nursing home, playing piano for the old people. Oh yeah, he was also a volunteer dog walker for the humane society. The guy was a real saint. The homicide cop tells us the guy’s funeral was that morning and the church was packed to overflowing with kids, their parents, teachers and old people. Everybody loved Mr. Braithwaite.
    Then the cop tells us that he needs help if the police are going to catch whoever shot Mr. Braithwaite. He says there are a couple of witnesses. I try hard not to show anything on my face and even harder not to look at JD. A
couple
of witnesses? Last I heard, there was only one.
    The cop says that they have reason to believe that whoever did it was a high school student who probably lives in the area. He nods to the vice-principal, who flips a switch. The composite of the suspect appears on a screen over their heads. I relax a little. It still doesn’t look like me. It looks even less like JD.
    The cop tells us that if any of us know anything, anything at all, we should tellthe police. He says maybe we’ve heard something. Or maybe we’ve noticed a friend or an acquaintance is acting differently. He says it’s hard to hide something like killing someone. He says he knows there are people who know something, and all he wants is for those people to come forward. He says it’s the least we could do for a man like Mr. Braithwaite, who spent his life giving so much to the community, who started off from such humble beginnings and who accomplished so much. He thanks us for our time and we are dismissed. JD and I split up. We have different classes—he has math, which I’ve already had. I have geography.
    JD is waiting for me in the hall after class. We head for the main doors. As we pass the office, we see the same homicide cop. He’s talking to the vice-principal. The vice-principal hands him a book. JD and I both see what it is. It’s a yearbook. I start to get a bad feeling. Maybe the cop is going to show the yearbook to his witnesses. Maybe the witnesses will pick me out. Me, not JD.
    I wait until we are far from the school and there is no one around us. Then I say to JD, “What are we going to do?”
    â€œWe’re not going to do anything,” JD says.
    â€œBut you killed that guy,” I say. I think it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “And they have witnesses.”
    â€œYou heard what he said,” JD says. “You saw the sketch. They’re still only looking for one person, Q, which means that their witnesses can’t be any good.”
    â€œMaybe he didn’t tell us everything,” I say. “Cops are like that. They always keep certain information from the public. That way they can trip up the bad guys.” The bad guys—JD and me.
    â€œYou’re driving me crazy, you know that?” JD says. “You keep panicking when I tell you to stay calm. Do you see me panicking? No.
I’m
staying calm, even though none of this would have happened if it wasn’t for you.”
    â€œWhat?” I stare at him. What is he talking about? “I didn’t shoot the guy.”
    â€œYou stole that stuff. Do you know what