From the Desk of Zoe Washington: Chapters 11–22

I started on the raspberry preserves, rinsing off the berries and dropping them into a small pot on the stove with some water.

I have an alibi and there was even a witness, but I'm in here because my lawyer couldn’t prove that I didn’t do it.

“Did you use a recipe?” I asked.
Vincent scoffed. “The only recipes I use are in here.” He pointed to his head, which was covered with a blue bandanna.

She’d definitely give me a positive evaluation at the end of this internship if I gave her a new flavor recipe—and I could use it for my Kids Bake Challenge! audition.

I was searching for more ingredients and cupcake inspiration pictures on my computer when Grandma knocked on my bedroom door and peeked inside.

“That’s upstairs.” She turned to a laminated map of the library on the desk in front of her. “The true crime section is to the right. The criminal law section is behind it.”

The only other picture I’d seen of Marcus was him smiling at the basketball game. But in this one, Marcus looked mean—like a murderer would look. His jaw was tight, his eyes stony, as if he didn’t feel bad at all.

An autopsy determined that the cause of Hernandez’s death was blunt force trauma to her head, according to the prosecutor’s office.

The coroner estimated that her death occurred sometime between 3:00 and 5:00 p.m. on October 26.

It said Marcus pleaded “not guilty.” There was a picture of Marcus standing next to his lawyer, Anthony Miller.

I made my way to the circulation desk, where I found Grandma holding a couple of mystery novels.

“He got paid either way, so I’m not sure it mattered. He seemed completely biased against Marcus. He wanted him to plead guilty, and take a deal, but Marcus refused.”

The other player provoked Marcus—got him mad enough to fight.

“People look at someone like Marcus—a tall, strong, dark-skinned boy—and they make assumptions about him. Even if it isn’t right. The jury, the judge, the public, even his own lawyer—they all assumed Marcus must be guilty because he’s Black. It’s all part of systemic racism.”

“People look at someone like Marcus—a tall, strong, dark-skinned boy—and they make assumptions about him. Even if it isn’t right. The jury, the judge, the public, even his own lawyer—they all assumed Marcus must be guilty because he’s Black. It’s all part of systemic racism.”

“Your mom wanted to believe he was innocent, but when the prosecution brought a witness into court who said he’d seen Marcus leaving Lucy’s place around the time of the murder, she started having doubts. I did too, to be honest, but Marcus insisted that it wasn’t him. Eyewitnesses get it wrong all the time.”

“If Marcus really didn’t do it,” I said, my voice solemn, “then it means somebody else did. That person should be in prison, not Marcus.”

I’ve followed Marcus’s case, and he tried to appeal the verdict a few months later, but his appeal was denied.

I nodded, suppressing my own smile.

“I want to write a letter to Marcus.”
Mom looked taken aback. “What? We talked about this.”

Finally, she said, “I didn’t want to believe it at first. But I was at the trial and I heard all the testimony. Marcus was the last person seen with Lucy.”

“I bet Gabe could use some help.”
“Okay...,” I said reluctantly.

She handed the phone to me and I slowly put it to my ear. “Hello?” I said, tentative and low.

When the timer went off for the pasta, I went for the colander, but Grandma stopped me.

“Perfectly al dente,” Grandma said.
“Al what-te?” I asked.
She laughed. “It’s a term chefs use to describe the texture of the pasta. You want it to still be a little firm when you bite into it.”