After school, after a quick trip to get phones, I reported to Zellman and Cross how the rest of the day went. How I took note of every single thing anyone said in their interviews. How once they saw me taking note, they clamped up. How that was a good sign.
Zellman slouched down in the truck, his leg up on the dashboard. “I’ll say that’s a good sign. Maybe people will just shut the f**k up. Crews ain’t no one’s business but our own.”
Cross didn’t respond. Neither did I. There was really nothing more to say so instead, we resumed waiting for Jordan. We were outside the police station, and he’d gone inside to make his statement.
His parents went in with him.
We weren’t allowed, and when he came back out, both parents just shook their heads at us. He headed over, gave us the run-down, whi
