“You okay?”

   More of the room comes into focus, and despite all the damn eyes on him right now, the thing Quan is most aware of is his “high-risk/violent” orange jumpsuit compared to the other clothes around him. The normal clothes (though Jus in a suit is a little outta the ordinary).

   Man, what he wouldn’t give to wear normal clothes again. Jeans. Cotton shirts that aren’t rough and scratchy. Jordans instead of the standard-issue Jesus-style flip-flops.

   In the image on the screen, Quan can see the upper third of a white hoodie that he knows has the Champion logo printed on the front in red and blue. A little ironic considering where he’s sitting, but still: it was his favorite hoodie.

       And he misses it.

   So damn bad.

   “I’m good, Ms. Adrienne,” he says to Attorney Friedman, who is kneeling beside him in her nice suit. “Just caught me off guard, is all.”

   Her hand moves from Quan’s arm to her own forehead. “I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I should’ve warned you—”

   “It’s cool, it’s cool,” Quan says. He glances at Justyce, who nods as his brown thumb appears just above the lip of the table. “I’m good. For real.” Pretty much to the room. “We can keep going.”

   Attorney Friedman bobs her head once and rises to her high-heel-clad feet to click her way back to the front of the room.

   “Thank you all for being here,” she says, popping right back into lawyer mode. “As both Justyce—who has seen it—and Quan here are aware, the footage you’re about to watch was captured the night of Quan’s arrest almost two years ago. An intern at my law office was kind enough to condense the nineteen-plus hours’ worth of tape into the twelve or so minutes you’re about to see.”

   She presses Play, and Quan watches, rapt, as a dude that both is and isn’t him morphs, over the course of three visits to the small room where he was questioned, from a young man with resolve to a little boy who just wants to be left alone. Round one, he sat tall, his shoulders pulled back, but by the time they shoved him into the chair for round three, Quan was done: he immediately slumped down and put his forehead on the table.

       Quan knows the whole thing’s been “condensed,” as Attorney Friedman said, but it still blows him away how quickly they were able to break him down. Especially considering how long he’s been up in here—and how long he could be in actual prison if this case goes forward and he’s convicted.

   Just as quickly as the video starts, it’s over.

   Twelve minutes of footage.

   Anywhere between a decade and life locked away.

   So why is Justyce grinning like somebody just slid him a platter with all his wildest dreams on it?

   “I was right, dawg!” Jus says, his suited persona slipping. “Based on that story you told me, I had a hunch—”

   “What are you talkin’ about, man?” Cuz Quan’s getting mad now. (Though seeing Justyce’s face morph makes Quan wish he could take it back.)

   “Were you not watching the tape? Your Miranda rights were clearly violated, Quan.”

   Now Quan’s the one whose face is morphing. “Huh?”

   “LaQuan, every time you stepped into that room, you invoked your right to remain silent,” Attorney Friedman says. “Literally. And the questioning officers bulldozed right through that. Considering how much time elapsed between the first and final questioning, I also suspect coercion—”

       “Coercion?”

   “Were you given food?”

   “No.”

   “Water?”

   “No.”

   “Allowed to sleep?”

   “No.”

   “Permitted to use the restroom?”

   “No…”

   She smiles. Which seems inappropriate, but Quan gets it. “Coercion,” he says.

   She nods. Just once. “Correct.”

   Justyce jumps back in: “But even without the coercion, your confession would be inadmissible—”

   “Should be inadmissible,” Attorney Friedman says. “I’ve filed a motion to suppress it.”

   “Considering the look on the DA’s face when he called us in to get the tapes, though?” Justyce winks at Quan.

   “Justyce,” Attorney Friedman says with a warning edge, but she’s also fighting a smile.

   Quan looks around the room, trying to take it all in. “So what…does this mean? Exactly?”

   “Well, sounds to me,” Doc chimes in, his voice cutting through Quan’s confusion like a sword through butter, “like one step closer to freedom, Mr. Banks.”

July 23

    Dear Quan,

    Look, don’t tell anybody (hopefully they don’t open this letter before giving it to you), but a document from the state lab was delivered to Mrs. F’s—Attorney Friedman’s, my bad—office this morning that I think you might find real interesting. I’ve included a photocopy. She’s probably gonna be mad at me when she realizes I opened mail while she was out, but when I saw that the return address on the envelope was the DA’s office, I couldn’t resist.

    Anyway.

    As the document shows, you were right: the ballistics don’t match. Two bullets were pulled from Castillo’s body, and neither matches the caliber of the pistol found with your prints on it.

    I believed you, obviously, but this proof should help to advance our case. I’m sure you’ve been at least a little nervous since entering that not-guilty plea, so I thought maybe this would offer you some comfort.

    Attorney Friedman’s been hounding the judge to set a trial date. I think you made a good call, going with the bench trial—not having to select a jury should make things go faster. At this point, the state has no concrete evidence and zero eyewitnesses, so unless the prosecution has a trick or two up its sleeve that we don’t know about, there’s no way they have enough to convict you. We expect to hear back on that motion re: the confession any day now, and once the court rules to suppress it—deciding not to would be a flagrant miscarriage of justice—the state will have nothing to go on.

         Hopefully you’ll be outta there soon.

    Keep your head up, all right, dawg? We’re almost there.

    My girl says “Hi!” by the way. She’s sitting right here and wants me to tell you she can’t wait to meet you.