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watched as Travis absorbed this news. His face didn’t register any of the emotions she would have expected: shock and fear if he were innocent, or if he really had intended to kill the judge, elation at having hit his target, disappointment at not having killed him. Instead, Travis seemed just mildly concerned.
    “What about the dog?” he asked.
    “Huh?”
    “The dog—did it get hurt in the explosion?”
    “Uh, not that I’m aware.” Manny looked down and made some notes on her pad to give herself a moment to think. Her new client seemed utterly unfazed by being involved in an incident that had nearly killed a judge, but he was worried about the victim’s dog. She had no experience representing juveniles—would a jury believe he was screwy or that he merely had his priorities straight?
    She resumed the interview. “Do you know who Patrick Brueninger is?”
    Travis shrugged. “No. Why would I?”
    The truth or a lie? Manny couldn’t be sure. That bored teenage demeanor was so hard to read. For a newshound like her, Brueninger’s name was instantly recognizable. But teenagers, even smart ones, were famously self-absorbed. Maybe Travis really didn’t have a clue about the prominence of the man who’d been injured by this stunt. She moved on. “How many kids in your group?”
    “It was just Paco and me from Monet. We met these four other guys at the club. They were a little older. They bought us some beers.” Travis’s voice got softer and Manny had to strain to hear. “After the music was over, we all went to the deli for some food. We passed the mailbox, and one of the guys bent down, like he’d dropped something. The next thing you know, everyone was running, so Paco and I ran, too. And then the mailbox exploded, the cops came, and here I am.”
    “And you never saw these guys before you met them at the club?”
    Travis shook his head.
    “What were their names?”
    Travis shrugged. “One was named Jack, and there was one they all called Boo. And Gordie and Zeke, or Deke or Freak or something. It was so loud in there, I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
    “And they came down to the police station, too?”
    “Paco and I got into one police car.” Travis twisted the edge of his cuff as he spoke. “The other guys were standing out on the sidewalk, talking to the cops. We couldn’t hear what they were saying, except they kept shaking their heads. And finally they all showed the cops their driver’s licenses and the cops wrote stuff down, and then they let them go.”
    Manny rubbed her temples. Clearly, “Freak” and “Boo” knew a bit more about dealing with law enforcement than this little rabbit. The older guys had simply declined to make the trip to the station, and the cops, not having enough to arrest them, had let them go after checking their IDs. God only knew if the IDs were real.
    “And what about Paco?”
    “They put us in separate rooms when we got here, and I haven’t seen him since.”
    “How much did you tell the cops once you got here?”
    “Just what I told you. That Paco and I were supposed to be sleeping over at his house but came over to Hoboken to check out this club and met those guys. One of the guys dropped something by the mailbox; then we all ran. That’s it.”
    “Which guy dropped something?”
    “The guy whose name I didn’t catch. Zeke … whatever.”
    Travis sounded impatient. Manny guessed he was tired of telling his story. Well, too damn bad. He’d tell it until she understood every detail. No wonder the cops were holding on to him. This was the oldest cover-up in the book—a version of the old “The drugs aren’t mine; I was holding them for a friend” routine.
    “There’s nothing else? You stuck to this story?”
    Travis bristled. “It’s not a story; it’s the truth!” Then he glanced over his shoulder at the guard. “I thought they were going to let me go, until they opened my backpack and found the book.”
    “What book?”
    “A