What We Saw(18)

So, when Deputy Jennings marches down the hall with Principal Hargrove, it isn’t odd that he nods in recognition and says, “Kate,” before rounding the corner to the cafeteria. You “know” him. It’s only odd that he’s here in your school, in the middle of the day, wearing a gun, followed by his partner, an African American man whom, incidentally, you also “know.” Not his name, actually, but his second-grade son, Frank, who attended the soccer camp you and your friends helped run last July to earn money for the new uniforms you’ll be wearing this season.

So, here are all these people that you “know” without really knowing, but you are familiar with them—only not here. Not in this context. Not with their clenched jaws and their gleaming badges and their guns.

The last thing you see as they round the corner under the senior stairwell is Deputy Jennings reach back to tap at the handcuffs tucked into a little holder strapped to his belt. It’s a gesture that seems to reassure him he’s got everything he needs, like he’s mentally ticking the checklist in his head, getting prepared for whatever happens next.

That’s when you feel the hand of the guy you were kissing moments ago sliding into yours, and without a word, you follow the police and the principal into the cafeteria.

“John Doone?”

Dooney looks up when Deputy Jennings says his name and does the exact opposite of what I would do in that same situation.

He smiles.

This is a shit-eating grin. A cold-as-ice, what-you-gonna-do-about-it type of grin. He leans back in his seat and folds his arms, then flips up his chin in acknowledgment.

“Hey, Barry.”

“Gonna need you to come with us, son.”

Mr. Jennings’s partner steps up to the table. I am close enough now to read that his badge says TRUMBLE. “You, too, Deacon. Also, Greg Watts?” He scans the table. Greg glances at Dooney, then Deacon. Neither one of them meets his eyes, but it’s enough for Officer Trumble to ID him. “And Randy Coontz?”

Randy looks like he might throw up when they say his name. He raises his hand slowly. “Here, sir.”

Deputy Jennings takes a step back from the table indicating they should all get up.

“Dad?” Wyatt has appeared next to us, at his father’s elbow. He looks panicked. “Dad, what’s going on?”


Jennings doesn’t hear Wyatt, or ignores him. He waves his hand in a tight circle, index finger out: Wrap it up. “Bring your things, fellas. Follow me.” Greg and Randy slowly scoot their chairs back and begin to rise. Trumble places his hand on Deacon’s shoulder.

“Aw, c’mon, Dippity-do!” Dooney shouts at Deputy Jennings. Whatever noise is still echoing off lunch trays dies instantly. Those who didn’t see the police upon entry certainly register their presence now, stretching and craning for a glimpse.

It’s so quiet I can hear the rattle of pans being washed in the dish room behind the kitchen. The smell of spaghetti wafts up in all directions, but there is no air to breathe. All eyes are here. All ears are pricked up. Nobody moves—even to lift a fork. The entire room seems ready to implode as Deputy Jennings places both hands on the table and leans across to level his gaze at Dooney’s.

“We can do this right here in front of everybody, or we can do it in the office. You have three seconds to choose.” His voice is low and calm. There is power in his words. I see Dooney’s jaw twitch as he grits his teeth in defiance.

A tiny seismic shift.

Deacon moves first, standing slowly.

“Don’t, man,” Dooney warns him.

Deacon shakes his head and runs a hand across his close-cropped fade. He glances down at Trumble—nearly a foot shorter now that Deacon is standing. “Where to?” he asks.

The officer steers Deacon toward the door by the elbow, jerking his head at Greg and Randy, who follow, leaving behind the remains of their lunches.

“Either you’re walking or I’m dragging.” Jennings’s eyes don’t leave Dooney’s for a moment. Dooney stares back without a word, but slowly folds his arms across his chest.

Deputy Jennings walks around the table and jerks Dooney’s chair, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him forward, scattering lunch trays as one hand reaches for the cuffs on his belt.

“John Doone, you are under arrest for the sexual assault of a minor and dissemination of child pornography.” Right arm back. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.” Left arm back. “If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

Jennings snaps the cuffs.

“My dad’s gonna have your badge,” Dooney growls, eyes blazing.

The deputy pulls Dooney up and pushes him toward the door. “After today? He’s welcome to it.”

Dooney’s walk between the rows of tables seems endless. Principal Hargrove turns on the top step as Jennings wrestles Dooney into the hall. He stops near the salad bar and raises his hands as if to call for silence, only there is no sound. Even the dishwasher has somehow gone quiet. “We’ll have an assembly. Seventh period. Get to class.”

He turns to leave, but I do not see him go. All I see is an ocean in Iowa. A sea of screens. Camera phones—at least one at every table—recording each moment, with a silent, watchful eye that will never forget.