“Did you ask for a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Her voice became controlled.
“Listen to me. Do not sign anything. Do not explain anything else. If anyone asks you about what happened, say clearly that you do not want to answer questions without counsel.”
“Okay.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Call Dad.”
A pause.
“I already will.”
Malik looked through the glass toward Drexler.
“He thinks Dad isn’t around.”
Nadia went silent.
When she spoke again, the anger had disappeared from her voice.
That was more frightening.
“Your father is very much around.”
The call ended.
Drexler leaned against a desk nearby.
“Mom coming?”
“Yes.”
“Dad too?”
“Yes.”
Drexler smirked.
“Well, family reunion.”
Malik returned to the interview room.
He sat alone.
Across downtown, United States District Judge Desmond Banks was in chambers reviewing a sentencing memorandum.
He was fifty-one, six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, and known for an almost unnerving calm.
As a young man, Desmond had played college football before a knee injury ended that path.
He attended law school.
Worked as a federal public defender.
Later became a prosecutor.
Then a magistrate judge.
Eventually, after Senate confirmation, a United States district judge.
Malik had never been particularly impressed by the title.
At home, Desmond was the man who overcooked salmon, complained about thermostat settings, and once spent forty minutes assembling a patio chair backward.
His robe did not enter the house with him.
His private line rang.
He looked at the display.
NADIA — EMERGENCY.
He answered immediately.
“What happened?”
“They arrested Malik.”
Desmond stopped moving.
Nadia told him.
School.
Watch.
Drexler.
Cuffs.
Injury.
Fourth Precinct.
Desmond listened without interrupting.
Then:
“Has he been questioned?”
“He said he asked for counsel.”
“Good.”
“I’m heading there.”
“So am I.”
Nadia’s voice sharpened.
“Desmond.”
“Yes?”
“You are his father today.”
He understood exactly what she meant.
Not judge.
Not crusader.
Father.
“I know.”
“No speeches.”
“I know.”
“No threats.”
“I know.”
“No telling police how to run their station.”
He exhaled.
“I know.”
“Get him a lawyer.”
“I’m calling Aisha.”
Aisha Coleman had known the Banks family for fifteen years.
She was a juvenile-defense and civil-rights attorney in Richmond, sharp enough to make Desmond careful even in casual arguments.
Desmond called her before leaving the courthouse.
She answered:
“You calling as a judge or as a man who owes me lunch?”
“As Malik’s father.”
That changed everything.
“What happened?”
He explained.
Aisha interrupted only twice.
When he finished, she said:
“I’m thirty minutes away.”
“I’m closer.”
“Do not interview anybody.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not demand evidence.”
“I know.”
“Do not announce what crimes you think anybody committed.”
Desmond almost smiled despite himself.