Jaime spoke up. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Decker answered. But his eyes remained on his prey. “The cup has some Hebrew writing on it. See here?” He showed it to Golding. “It’s easy Hebrew. Read it for me.”
“I don’t read Hebrew—”
“I thought you said it was a family heirloom.”
“My family’s origins are Jewish. But that doesn’t mean that I know Hebrew. It’s like assuming every Italian knows Latin.”
Decker was taken aback. “Your family’s Jewish?”
“No, my family is not Jewish. We’re humanists with ancestry in the Jewish race.”
The Jewish race—a Nazi buzz phrase.
“I don’t want to repeat myself,” Jaime stated bluntly, “but what is going on?”
Decker said, “Did you listen to the news this morning, Dr. Dahl?”
“Of course.”
“Then you must know that a local synagogue was broken into and vandalized. I was down there. Most of the damage was ugly, but it can be repaired. The one thing that was reported stolen was a silver benediction cup.”
Jaime looked at Ernesto, then at Decker, who held up the cup. “This family heirloom is inscribed with the words ‘Beit Yosef.’ That’s the name of the vandalized synagogue.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” Ernesto insisted. “We’re doing a family history. A family tree for honors civics. Dr. Dahl is aware of this assignment. Back me up on this one, Doctor.”
“There is a family-tree assignment in honors civics—Dr. Ramparts.”
“Yeah. Third period.” Ernesto rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I brought this in specifically to illustrate my family’s past, and to give Dr. Ramparts a more … genuine feel for where I came from. I’m sure there is more than one Beit Yosef in the world.”
The kid was oh so cool. And he probably thought he was pulling it off. Never mind about the beads of sweat that dotted his upper lip. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Golding. Even so, you’re coming with me.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“That can be arranged.”
They took him to Dr. Williams’s office, Decker standing over Ernesto’s shoulder as the kid called his parents—Jill and Carter Golding. Decker could hear outraged voices on the other side of the line. He couldn’t discern much, but he did hear them instruct Ernesto to refrain from talking to anyone. From that point on, things moved quickly.
Mom made it down in six minutes. She was a pixie of a thing with pinched features and thin, light brown hair that was long, straight, and parted in the center. She wore rimless glasses and no makeup. Behind the specs, her eyes were smoldering with anger that only a parent knew how to muster. First, there were a few choice glances thrown in Decker’s direction. The stronger ones were reserved for her son. Decker knew what that was about.
Dad arrived about ten minutes later. He was short and thin. The eyes were dark and most of the face was covered with a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with silver. He appeared more befuddled than angry. He even shook hands with Decker when introduced. Ernesto didn’t resemble either of his parents, leaving Decker to wonder if the boy had been adopted.
The last part of the equation came in on Dad’s heels. Everett Melrose was an Encino lawyer who had made a name in California Democratic politics. He was well built, well tanned, and had the appropriate amount of sincerity in the eyes and distinction in the curly gray hair. He wore designer suits and dressed with flair. He had a wife, six kids, and was active in his church. He had defended some very big and bad people in his years, and had come out on top. Melrose’s past was squeaky clean as far as Decker knew. Amazing—a lawyer and a politician with nothing to hide. He shook hands all the way around and requested that he speak to his client, the young Ernesto, in private.
His request was granted.
The twenty minutes that followed were protracted and tense.
When they came back into Headmaster Williams’s CEO office, Ernesto looked upset, but Melrose was unreadable. He said, “Can you tell me the basis for this detainment?”
Decker said, “Your client has a stolen cup in his possession—”
“Have we determined that the cup was stolen?” Melrose asked innocently. “My client claims that the cup was an heirloom.”
Decker said, “Counselor, the cup belonged to the synagogue, Beit Yosef, that was vandalized this morning—”
“That’s impossible!” Jill broke in.
“Impossible that the synagogue was vandalized, or impossible that your son could have some involvement in the crime—”
“Don’t answer that!” Melrose interrupted.
“Ernesto, what is going on?” Carter asked.
“I wish I knew, Dad.” Ernesto tapped his toe and made eye contact with the floor.
A good bluff, but not a great one. Decker said, “The cup was taken from Ernesto’s backpack. That’s a fact. Dr. Dahl was there as a witness.”
“Did he give you permission to search his backpack?”
“Absolutely not,” Ernesto stated.
“It’s irrelevant whether or not you gave him permission!” Carter Golding spoke out. “I’d like to know what it’s doing in your possession.”
“So you’re saying it’s not a family heirloom?” Decker remarked.
“Carter, please!” Melrose said. “He’s not saying anything. He’s not the subject of this inquiry. What I’m hearing is that no one was granted permission to check Ernesto’s backpack!”
Dr. Williams came alive. “The school’s bylaws state that faculty can search lockers and personal property of any student at any given time to hunt out contraband or unlawful substances. Mr. Golding is aware of the bylaws. He has signed an honor code, acknowledging such rules with a promise to abide by them. So have Mr. and Mrs. Golding. It is a requirement of attending the school.”
“Lieutenant Decker is not faculty.”
“Dr. Dahl is faculty,” Decker countered. “She was the one who ordered Ernesto to open his knapsack.”
A few seconds of silence before Melrose turned his curious eyes on Jaime Dahl. “If you do routine searches for contraband, I’m assuming you have a list as to what constitutes contraband?”
“Of course.”
“And does it say specifically what items are contraband?”
“Stolen items are contraband,” Williams interjected.
“So
