Free Cutwork by Monica Ferris

couldn’t it?”
    Mickey seemed in earnest, but Wannamaker sighed and consulted one of the reports. “Now, they found a pair of shoes in a trash container behind the food vendors.”
    Mickey threw his head up in an angry gesture. “So what? Everyone wears shoes, don’t they?”
    “Yes, but these shoes seem to match a pair you own, and your own shoes have gone mysteriously missing.”
    “Someone took them,” mumbled Mickey. He was staring hard at his thumbs.
    “Why would someone steal a ratty old pair of shoes?”
    “’Cause they were really good Nikes? Anyway, maybe they didn’t steal them, maybe I loaned them to someone.”
    Wannamaker didn’t even bother to ask for the name of a possible borrower. “Do you ever wear those shoes without socks?”
    Mickey thought a few moments, trying to think what Wannamaker was getting at so he could choose the least damaging reply. “Hardly ever,” he guessed.
    “So there may be little traces of skin inside them. They are looking for little traces of skin in the shoes they took out of the Dumpster. Skin has DNA, and they are testing scrapings from the inside of those shoes, to see if your DNA is in them. They are also doing a DNA test on the blood that was on the outside of those shoes. They already know the blood type is Mr. McFey’s, not yours. If they find your DNA inside the shoes and Mr. McFey’s DNA on the outside, that will put those shoes on your feet at the scene of the crime.”
    Mickey threw his arms up and Betsy leaned backwards and sideways, sure he was going to reach for Wannamaker. But he was only giving himself room to fill his lungs and yell, “I thought you were on my side!”
    Wannamaker, unafraid, barked, “Shut up!” Mickey dropped his arms. “I am on your side,” continued Wannamaker. “I’m only stating the facts. Let me ask you this: When the DNA test results come back, will they help you or the prosecution?”
    “I wasn’t there,” Mickey grumbled doggedly. “I wasn’t in the park, I was supposed to but I changed my mind, and I didn’t go.” He said it as if saying it often enough would make it so.
    “You’re a fool to stick with that story.”
    Mickey sat back with an unhappy sigh. “What else can I do?”
    “We should talk about your options. There are at least two eyewitnesses who saw you running up Lake Street wearing socks but no shoes.”
    “They’re lying, they hate me, everyone hates me. They saw someone else, someone who looks like me.” This was said with no conviction at all. He rubbed one eye sleepily. “All right, you’re supposed to be my lawyer. What do you think I should do?”
    “I think you should consider a plea bargain.”
    Faint hope dawned. “Yeah, I did that once before. I didn’t have to say I did it, even. Can we do that again? Last time I got probation. Can we get that same kind of bargain?”
    “Not a chance. But maybe we can do the kind that has you home in eight or ten years.”
    Mickey came out of his chair as if lifted by a rope. “Ten years?!” He pirouetted on one foot, arms spread. “What kind of a lawyer are you? Ten freakin’ years! I don’t think so! I didn’t kill him! Ten years, when I didn’t freakin’ kill him!”
    “Sit down,” Wannamaker said quietly.
    But Mickey’s face suddenly twisted with hatred. “You’re just like everyone else, you aren’t here to help me! I tell you I wasn’t there, I didn’t kill him, but you don’t believe me. You don’t want to help me, you want me to go to prison!”
    “I said, sit down.” Wannamaker spoke no louder than before, but something in his voice was not going to permit argument.
    The boy sat. “I’m done talking to you, you’re no help to me. Why don’t you just freakin’ leave? And don’t come back.”
    “Fine, I’ll do that. And I’ll tell your parents you don’t want me to represent you anymore.” Betsy thought this an obvious ploy, but Wannamaker underlined it by beginning to sort the papers he’d laid out