From Chapter One

           Krissy Dunham drew a long breath and choked back the lump forming in her throat. She wasn’t guilty—this  time.            

          “You can go in now,” the secretary said as she ushered Krissy and her stepmother inside the judge’s chambers.            

          The scent of old leather and Lemon Pledge filled her nose, reminding Krissy of the last time she had gotten into trouble. That was when she dog-napped a golden Labrador retriever, a guide dog. She had been standing on a crowded street corner, waiting for the light to change, when the blind man standing next to her suddenly started kicking his dog. Krissy would never forget the scared, confused look in the dog’s eyes and the sickening yelps it made with every blow. All she could remember was yanking the dog’s harness out of the man’s hand and darting into the busy traffic, dog in tow, to safety on the other side of the street. The last time she saw the blind man, he was shouting obscenities on the corner.           

          Later, at the hearing—which had been in this very same room—Krissy remembered having mixed feelings about Judge Ling. She had let the cruel man keep his dog, ordering him to attend anger management classes. How lame was that? Once an abuser, always an abuser, that’s what her dad had always said. The judge should have at least charged him with animal cruelty and taken the dog away from him. But her? She got arrested, handcuffed, and dragged down to the police station. They charged her with grand theft, but thankfully, the judge reduced it to a misdemeanor. All she had to do was sixty hours of community service at the local animal shelter, which wasn’t so bad. Nevertheless, Judge Ling made it painfully clear to her that this was the last time the court would be so lenient. She made Krissy promise never to get into any more trouble.           

          But here she was. Again.           

Maybe it was a good thing that Judge Ling retired last year. Then again, maybe not. She didn’t know this new judge. She could be in real trouble this time.            

          A massive oak desk sat at the end of the long, book lined room. Behind it was a large window hunkered down with equally massive blinds. It was a claustrophobic, cave-like room, and the darkness made it feel even more so. Three chairs, their backs to the door, faced the desk.            

          The secretary snapped on the desk lamp and left, leaving them in the semi-darkness to wait.            

          Her stepmother settled into one of the sturdy leather chairs while Krissy paced back and forth, the ragged hem of her jeans scraping across the carpet. As she drew closer to the desk, she eyed a stack of folders trapped under the spotlight of the lamp. One file, dog-eared and worn on the edges, sat apart from the others. It bulged with slips of tired pink and yellow papers peeking from between the folds. Krissy stretched a long, slender arm toward the file and repositioned it to get a better look. Sure enough, it had her name on it: Dunham, Kristine Elizabeth. She sighed, knowing it would grow a little thicker by the end of the day. It was, after all, a sort of twisted diary, a journal of her life—the last two years of it, anyway.            

          Krissy snapped her gum and dropped into a chair beside her stepmother. That’s when she noticed it sitting off to the side on the desk—a bronze statue of a forlorn Indian astride an equally forlorn horse, their heads drooped in despair. The Indian held his lance and shield low as if both had become too heavy to carry. She leaned forward to read the brass plate at the base of the statue. “The End of the Trail.” It was by some guy named Frederick Remington.            

          Krissy sniffed and slunk down in her chair, splaying her legs out before her.            

          “The end of the trail, huh?” she mumbled, snapping her gum.           

          “Stop it,” her stepmother said as she pressed the buttons on her cell phone. A maroon leather day-planner lay open in her lap.                  

          “Hello, Bobby? Yes, it’s Kathryn,” her stepmother chirped into the cell phone. “Would you please call Mr. Bayer for me and tell him I won’t be able to make it back for my ten-thirty appointment. And Mrs. Kanamoto, too. See if we can reschedule the tours for both of them. I just don’t know how long I’m going to be this time. Unavoidable. Gotta do the mother-daughter thing, you know . . .”           

          Krissy rolled her eyes and shook her head. Her stepmother was dialing yet another number when her eyes met Krissy’s.           

         “Well, I am busy—” she said, her face brightening when her next call connected.           

          Krissy popped her gum. Her stepmother frowned and turned away from her.           

          A moment later, Judge Sydney Mayfield Frost swept into the office wearing a dark green golf shirt and khaki pants. A short but distinguished man with graying hair at the temples, he reminded her of someone who was always in a hurry. He yanked open the blinds letting the morning sun flood into the office. He pulled his chair back from his desk, sat down, and grabbed Krissy's file.           

          “You’re the mother?” he asked abruptly without looking up.           

          “Stepmother,” Krissy said.            

          “My apologies for being late,” he said, ignoring Krissy. He leaned over the desk and quickly shook Mrs. Dunham’s outstretched hand. Settling back in his chair, he put on his glasses and flipped open Krissy’s file. Several minutes passed as he thumbed through the papers, stopping occasionally to read a few lines.            

          “You’re sixteen?” he asked without looking up.           

          “Almost seventeen,” answered Krissy.           

          “Yes, next January. This is June. You’re still sixteen.”           

          “Yeah.”           

          He looked up at Mrs. Dunham. “No siblings?”           

          “No, Your Honor.”           

          “Are you kidding? Like, we don’t even have a goldfish,” said Krissy, smacking her gum.           

          “What about school?” he asked, still reading the file.           

          “What about it?”            

          He peered at Krissy over the rim of his glasses. “How are your grades?”           

          “I get by.”            

          “I see here you missed eighteen days last semester. Have you been ill?”           

          Krissy shrugged.           

          “Yes or no?”           

          “Yeah,” she snickered. “Sick . . . of school.”           

          Judge Frost glared at her. “Yes, or no, young lady. When I ask you a question it’s either ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”           

          Krissy squirmed in her chair. “No.”           

          “Did you know about these truancies, Mrs. Dunham?”           

          “Well, yes . . . some of them, but—”           

          “And what have you done about it?”           

          “What can I do? She doesn’t listen to me. Besides, I don’t have time to run around and check on her all the time.”           

          “But that’s your job. You’re the mother.”           

          “Stepmother,” Krissy interrupted.           

          “I didn’t ask you,” the judge’s voice was stern.           

          “But she’s not my real mother.”           

          “According to the law she is. Now, what do you do when you don’t go to school?”           

          “Nothing.”           

          “Nothing?”           

          “Yeah. We just hang out.”            

          “We? Who is ‘we’?”           

          “You know. Friends.”           

          “Mmm,” he said reading the file. “No learner’s permit or driver’s license, either, I see.” He turned a questioning look at Mrs. Dunham.           

          “Well, it is San Francisco, judge. It’s hard enough even for me to drive in this city.”           

          Finally, the judge took off his glasses and leaned over the desk, peering into Krissy’s eyes.           

          She snapped her gum and, under the stony coldness of his gaze, slumped further down into the chair.           

          “Spit it out.” He demanded, handing her a Kleenex. Reluctantly, she took the tissue and spat the gum into it.            

          “That’s better,” he said. “Do you understand why you’re here, Krissy?”           

          She stared at him, her steel blue eyes defiant.            

          “This is the sixth time you’ve been taken into custody since last year. I understand that Judge Ling let you off last time with a little community service, even though dog-napping a guide dog should have been a felony, considering the cost of its training.”           

          “But the guy was hitting it,” she said, her tone strident.           

          The judge stared at her.           

          “The poor dog didn’t do anything," she persisted. "He was just confused by the heavy traffic. I don’t care if the guy was blind. No one deserves to get kicked like that.”           

          “Yes, well” The judge cleared his throat. “That was then. This time I’m not letting you off the hook. Stealing a motor scooter is also a felony. Are you doing drugs?”           

          Krissy shook her head. “No way.”           

          “Good.”           

          “And I didn’t steal it.”           

          “Mr. Raji Jassar says you did. There are witnesses.”

          “But I didn’t . . . Geez, why doesn’t anybody believe me?”

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