Kick by Walter Dean Myers

ten A.M. .”
    â€œTwo double cappuccinos and two bags of Krispy Kremes?”
    â€œThe sixteenth, ten-fifteen.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œHas he lawyered up?”
    â€œHis family has hired a lawyer, but they aren’t that well off,” I said. “Just some very scared people who want to keep their kid out of jail.”
    â€œThat’s the way the ball bounces, Brownie,” she said.
    â€œThat’s the way,” I answered.
    McNamara was still playing it close to the vest. His asking about probation for Kevin sounded as if he might not want to get the kid into too much trouble, but just enough for his insurance claim to go through. For McNamara, the idea of giving probation was just a slap on the wrist. For someone as young as Kevin, it could be a life-changing sentence. It would mean that he had pled guilty to a crime and might wreck his options with a college. The chances of the case getting to adult court were slim, but there was always the possibility. I needed to get busy.
    The precinct caseload was pretty light— mostly burglaries around the new housing development and a break-in at one of the warehouses owned by the mayor, hence Captain Bramwell’s interest. Paul and I were supposed to interview the warehouse manager that afternoon.
    â€œYou want to do it by phone?” Paul asked.
    â€œBramwell wants us to go down and make a showing, so it gets back to the mayor,” I said.
    â€œSo let’s do it,” Paul answered.
    â€œI want to get this kid’s thing settled,” I said. “You mind doing the interview alone?”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œI’m thinking of going over to that agency that Kevin mentioned—what was it?—Danville or something?”
    â€œGreenville Services,” Paul said. “I’ll go with you. Let’s pick up the kid in case they don’t speak English.”
    â€œGood idea.”
    â€œHey, Jerry, Kevin’s growing on ya, isn’t he?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYeah, he is,” Paul said, pushing his glasses up, “You never took me along just to translate Spanish for you.”
    â€œYou don’t speak Spanish,” I said.
    â€œGood point.”
    I knew that taking Kevin along could be a mistake. The kid was too eager to be useful, and we sure didn’t need to involve him in a police investigation. On the other hand, I wanted to talk to the people at the agency informally, and Kevin did speak Spanish. I had Kevin’s cell on speed dial and called him. It was just about the time when school was letting out, and I hoped he had his phone on.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œCan you meet me in front of the school in fifteen minutes?” I asked.
    â€œI have practice today,” he said.
    â€œYou got trouble, too,” I said. “They’re setting a hearing date for your case. You tell me what’s most important—your practice or keeping you out of jail?”
    â€œI’ll be in front of the school,” he said.
    The department has a bunch of kids working in their garage who love to soup up the undercover vehicles, and Paul and I took one of the cars that practically jump from a standing start to sixty miles an hour but look like they need to be pushed to get them out of a supermarket parking lot. We picked Kevin up in front of the school, and he was immediately impressed with all the gadgets under the dashboard.
    â€œWhere are we going?” he asked.
    â€œTo the agency you told me about,” I said. “You’re going along unofficially as our interpreter if we need one.”
    â€œWhy are we going there?”
    â€œConnecting the dots,” I said. “Whenever I get a case with a lot of loose ends—and this case has as many loose ends as I’ve ever seen—I like to start connecting dots. What I’m hoping for is to get some kind of picture that makes sense. You understand what I mean?”
    â€œMy dad