From the Desk of Zoe Washington(27)

I nodded, remembering how I’d read that some people even thought Marcus and Lucy were dating before she died.

“Your mom wanted to believe he was innocent, but when the prosecution brought a witness into court who said he’d seen Marcus leaving Lucy’s place around the time of the murder, she started having doubts. I did too, to be honest, but Marcus insisted that it wasn’t him. Eyewitnesses get it wrong all the time.”

Grandma continued. “Plus, the crime happened after your mom found out she was pregnant with you.” She poked my nose, like she used to do when I was a little kid, and I smiled for a second.

“She was so mad at Marcus,” Grandma said. “For spending time with that girl in the first place. For getting arrested and leaving her alone, when she was already scared about having a baby so young. The whole mess broke her heart. Then he was convicted, and I think she decided it was easier to believe he did it, let him go, and move on.”

When Grandma explained it like that, I felt some sympathy for Mom. It must’ve been really hard for her.

“Do you think Marcus could get out of prison, if we found his witness?” I asked Grandma.

“I don’t know.” She put her hand on top of mine. “I’m telling you all of this because you deserve to hear the truth. But I don’t want you to get wrapped up in it. You’re only a kid. Even if Marcus is innocent, the chances of him getting out are slim. Who knows where this woman is? And getting a new lawyer would be expensive, too.”

But I wasn’t only a kid. And just because it wasn’t easy didn’t mean it couldn’t get done. Dad had always told me that when I had a hard time on a school project. And he was always right. Sometimes that homework wasn’t easy at all, but I always got it done. Most of the time, I got a better grade on it than I expected.

“If Marcus really didn’t do it,” I said, my voice solemn, “then it means somebody else did. That person should be in prison, not Marcus.”

Grandma put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “You’re right. This isn’t only about Marcus. It’s also about justice for Lucy. That poor girl’s family deserves to see her actual murderer behind bars.”

“Do you think there’s any chance Marcus can get out of prison, and they’ll find the real murderer?”

“There’s always hope,” Grandma said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s enough to make change. I’ve followed Marcus’s case, and he tried to appeal the verdict a few months later, but his appeal was denied. At this point, if Marcus is innocent, he needs more than hope to get out of prison anytime soon—he needs a miracle.”

A miracle.

I had a lot of work ahead of me.





Chapter Eighteen


I spent the next couple of days looking up more facts about wrongful convictions, and found out that the Innocence Project had an office in Boston. Their website said you could send a letter to request assistance. I thought about writing to them, but decided to wait until after I’d tracked down Marcus’s alibi witness.

On Sunday night after dinner, I browsed the internet some more. One article said that thousands of innocent people were convicted of crimes each year. I couldn’t believe the number was that high.

Another article said Black people were more likely to be wrongfully convicted of murder. If this was known, then why wasn’t more being done to fix it? Probably because not enough people cared, like Grandma said. A lump formed in my throat.

But then I read that the year before, a record number of innocent people were freed from prison. So, there was hope.

I closed my laptop as soon as I heard a knock on my bedroom door. Dad peeked inside my room. “Get your shoes on and meet me at the car in five minutes.”

I groaned. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Too bad,” Dad said, all serious. But then he smiled. “But you’re going to want to.”

He shut my door again, and I stared at my closed laptop for a few moments. It was already eight o’clock at night, so whatever it was probably wouldn’t take long. I left my room, slipped into my flip-flops next to the front door, and went outside.

Our car was running in the driveway, with Dad in the driver’s seat and Mom next to him. I got into the back seat and put my seat belt on, crossing my arms on top of it.

Dad started driving while I stared out the window, zoning out to his favorite jazz station on the radio. The sun was setting, and it was as if someone had taken a brush with pink paint and made a streak across the sky, which was pale blue but getting darker by the minute. I guessed where we were going by the route we were taking. Five minutes later, Dad drove into Davis Square. He found a metered spot, and once he parked, we all got out of the car.

We automatically started walking toward the center of Davis, straight to J.P. Licks. Home of the best ice cream in Boston.

We walked inside the small shop and got in line. I stared at all of the flavors on the chalkboard menu, and decided on peanut butter cookies ’n’ cream in a waffle cone. Dad ordered a cup with one scoop of coffee ice cream and one scoop of maple walnut. Mom got a cone with a scoop of coconut almond chip.

We didn’t say anything as Dad paid for our ice creams, or while he grabbed way too many napkins, like every other time we’d gone there. Mom picked up a spoon even though she had a cone. Then we went outside and found an empty bench in the square.