Mr. Goldman’s gaze follows mine, and he seems to get what I’m thinking. “That’s a copy of your police statement,” he tells me. “The one you gave when you reported what happened the night of Noah Beckett’s assault. Would you like to see it?”
He picks up the paper and extends it toward me, but I shake my head. I don’t need to read it; I remember what I said. I don’t want to relive that.
“All right,” Mr. Goldman says agreeably, setting the paper back down on the stack. “Do you remember what you said in your statement?”
I nod, not sure where he’s going with this. I uncap the pen and scribble on the legal pad.
Are they pressing charges against me?
“No,” he says. “They felt after their investigation that your story lined up. I just wanted to go over it with you, because there is a chance you’ll be needed to testify.”
A chance?
“Warren Snyder and Joey Morgan both pled not guilty at the hearing, but that’s typical for most initial pleas, even in the case of a confession,” Mr. Goldman explains. He says this all very matter-of-factly, and I appreciate how he’s speaking to me like I’m an adult instead of a little kid. “The evidence is pretty damning, and this isn’t a case that will look good in front of a jury, so I wouldn’t be surprised if their lawyers hammer out a plea deal behind closed doors and come to a settlement before this ever goes to trial. In that case, your testimony would not be necessary. However, you should be prepared in case it is required.”
I lean back against the couch cushion and silently pray for the option that renders my involvement unnecessary. And the one that punishes Warren and Joey as they deserve. Maybe it’s selfish but I want the best of both worlds.
“Your parents are good people,” Mr. Goldman goes on. “They’re doing their best to shield you from this, and as a father myself, I can appreciate that. But I believe it’s important for you to understand what’s going on. I think you’re old enough.”