And as lawyer dude takes his seat facing Quan and rests his elbows on his knees, fully in professional mode now, Quan’s anxiety ratchets up even more.

   “So,” John Mark says all definitively, putting the tips of all his fingers together like in the movies when the white dude in the suit means business.

       Quan almost laughs.

   Almost.

   But then dude says something that rings in Quan’s head like the

              ********claaaaa­aaaaa­ng********

          of his cell door

     shutting him in

    every night.

   “I got a call from the prosecutor’s office this morning,” he continues.

   And then he pauses. (For dramatic effect? Cuz it’s working.)

   He smiles again, then:

   “They’ve offered you a plea bargain.”

May 18

    Dear Justyce,

    Man. I don’t even really know how to start this one. I got a lotta…conflicting emotions happening right now.

    On the one hand, I get my diploma tomorrow. Which I still can’t even really believe.

    On the other, though…well, my “lawyer” popped up yesterday. Came to tell me the state offered a plea deal on my case.

    Needless to say, ya boy was more than a little shocked. I’ve been combing through Georgia legal code for weeks, tryna see if my self-defense thing is feasible, and then boom. Shit’s crazy.

    Long story short, they’re offering to reduce the murder charge to voluntary manslaughter and drop all the others. (“What others?” I can hear your Poindexter ass asking. There were four: possession of a handgun by a minor, possession of a firearm by a felon, pointing or aiming a pistol at another, and discharge of a firearm on property of another.)

    I MIGHT be entitled to go back to juvenile court—though either way, the sentence is up to twenty years—but my attorney thinks they won’t give me more than fifteen, and the possibility of parole won’t be taken off the table.

         I obviously didn’t accept right then and there, but…I dunno, man. This complicates things a bit.

    I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since dude put his crusty-ass hand on my shoulder as he stood to leave and said, “Just think about it.” This is AFTER rambling on and on about how “solid” of a deal it is and how “blown away” he was when he heard it. “You could be outta here before your thirtieth birthday, man!”

    He was so…chipper when he said that shit too. It really rubbed me the wrong way.

    Anyway, I’d be lying if I said the deal isn’t tempting. Hearing dude talk brought a lot of my anxiety—I got officially diagnosed with the “clinical” type, by the way—about going to trial right up to the surface. For some reasons I don’t really get, I’ve been waiting on a trial date for over a year and a half, but hearing that offer made me realize how scared I am to actually be in a courtroom, at a defendant’s table. In front of people who would be just fine with the state lockin’ my ass up, grinding the key to dust, and sprinkling that shit over the ocean.

    It’s crazy to me that I’m even THINKING this, but maybe taking the deal wouldn’t be a bad move. If things go well and I stay on my best behavior, I could be out in a decade or less. Which is WAY better than I was expecting, real talk.

    I dunno.

         Would love to hear what you think. Giving this letter to Doc to give to you since I know you not at school no more. Imma wait to hear back before I make my decision, so maybe try not to take TOO long to respond? (I’m still waiting for a response to the LAST letter I wrote your punk ass!)

          —Q

       Standing beside the Friedman pool table with SJ grinning up at him from the Holy Land–made papasan chair, Jus almost feels like they’re back prepping for a debate tournament.

   Except this time, a young (almost) man’s freedom is on the line.

   He clears his throat.

   “So, first off, thank you all for coming,” he says to the room. Mrs. F—Attorney Friedman in her current capacity—is on the leather couch, fancy pen in hand and lawyerly leather notebook open on-lap; Doc and Liberty Ayers are on barstools; and Jared Christensen is perched on a chair he snagged from who knows where.

   “As you all know, my homeboy Quan has been locked up since late September last year. For a crime that he did not, in fact, commit.”

   “Not to put a damper on your opening statement, Justyce, but how do you know that?” Doc asks.

   “He told me. And I believe him.”

   Doc nods. “Go on. My apologies for interrupting.”

   Justyce smiles. “It’s all good, Doc. I missed you, homie.”

   “Likewise, my man.”

   “So as I was saying, Quan didn’t do the crime, but they’re tryna give him hella time. The state offered to lessen the homicide charge—from murder to voluntary manslaughter in this case—and drop everything else if he pleads guilty. But that still carries a sentence of up to twenty years.”

       “Whew,” from Doc.

   “Normally I wouldn’t be tellin’ y’all my boy’s business, but him having to serve even one year would be a tragic miscarriage of justice. The fact that he’s been locked up for this long is a tragic miscarriage of justice.”

   “In-friggin-deed,” from SJ.

   “Now don’t get me wrong,” Justyce continues. “Despite my own unfortunate history with Officer Tomás Castillo, I do believe what happened to him was terrible, and that true justice should be served in his case. But this is not true justice. Imprisoning the wrong person is not true justice.”

   “PREACH, brutha!” Jared crows.

   “So we gotta do something. Y’all with me?”

   “Hell yeah we are!” from Jared again. Which makes SJ snort.

   “Now, provided I can convince Quan to fire his current legal representative, Attorney Friedman here will take over his case. Which is why I called this conference. So we can all…confer. Anybody wanna jump in?”

Jared: So what exactly are we dealing with here?

    SJ: Of course you’re the first person to speak despite knowing the least. Of course—