The holding cell smelled sticky, like old sweat, beer, and the tinny scent of urine. Justin made his one phone call to Frank Delgado, his best friend and personal attorney. This was different from his last arrest.

On the other side of the cell an old man smelled like cheap wine and weed. “Gerald! Gerald!” He shouted at his shoes. “I told you. We should’ve left when we had the chance. But you,” he wagged his finger at his feet, “just. You got yourself too drunk there, didn’tcha?”

Justin watched him, leaning over until he fell to the floor, snoring as he hit the concrete.

Second time he’s been here. The last time was six months earlier, after the protest outside AgriGen’s regional office, just outside of Sioux City, thousands of acres of farmland right behind the building. Hard to hide in rural Iowa. It was the only three story building for forty-five miles. Easy to tell which ones were protesters. They parked on the county road. Not the parking lot. Before his arrest with roughly forty others, they were chanting, waving signs. Down with AgriGen. Poison is still poison. Stop the GMOs. Others were harsher, using language Justin preferred not to use. Not that he didn’t swear. It just seemed inappropriate, what with the news crews filming.

This arrest though. It felt different.

“Lamberio.” Standing at the open door, the guard’s name tag read Johnson, never looking up from his clipboard. Even inside the cell Justin smelled pepperoni or salami oozing from Johnson’s skin. “Lamberio.” Now he looked up — a scowl on his face. Maybe he didn’t get to finish his sandwich. The drunk mumbled something from the floor. “Shut up, Gerald.”

Frank Delgado settled into the chair across the scratched table Justin was handcuffed to and opened a manila folder.

Frank took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, Justin. Walk me through it again.”

“We were hiking in Ridgeline State Park. Me and some other guys from the shelter. I volunteer there on Thursdays. I signed out the van, drove to the park, and headed down the trail. We were just walking. I don’t think we made it a quarter mile before three park rangers caught us.”

“Why did they come after you?”

“That’s what I was trying to figure out. We were in the park, on the trail. We never left it.”

“Yeah. Okay. What about the guys staying at NLH — the men’s shelter?”

“Two guys, both looked white as ghosts. They were ready to take off until I told them they couldn’t do anything.”

“That’s not entirely true, Justin.”

“Yeah. I know that. But I needed them to stay calm. It was the best thing I could think of.”

“But no one tried to run off?”

“No. We just stood there.” Justin shifted in the cuffs. “Ranger Jane walked up the trail like she’d been waiting on us specifically.”

“Is that her name?”

“No, but it makes for a great story. Whatever her name was, she had already made up her mind before she reached us. Didn’t ask questions. Just started calling it in.”

“Stick to what happened, Justin.”

“Fine. She said we were trespassing.”

“But you were on the trail.”

“Yeah. That’s what I said! We were trespassing and I was detained for being a vagrant. I figured you’d have it dismissed by now.”

“It’s not vagrancy. It’s possession. With intent to distribute. Six ounces of pure methamphetamine. And a little over five thousand dollars, cash. All in a backpack found inside the van, your gym membership ID tag on it.”

Frank opened the folder back up, looking at Justin. “It’s way more serious.”

“Frank. Come on. You know me. First of all, if I was selling meth, would I really use my old gym bag? And if I did, wouldn’t I take anything out of it that could identify me?” Justin pulled on the cuffs. “Seriously, man. Someone is trying to set me up.”

Frank sighed.

“I went to a protest. Got arrested for civil disobedience, because I was chanting and holding a sign.”

Frank finally looked at him. “I know.”

“Then get me out of here. First offense. All that jazz.”

“Not that simple. This,” he pointed at the folder, “this is a felony charge. It’s serious. And they aren’t going to let it go.”

“What’s my bail?”

“If you are convicted, it’s up to 25 years in prison and a $100,000 fine.”

Justin turned white, laying his head down.

“The DA is pushing for no bail pending arraignment.” Frank tapped the folder. “Someone made calls, Justin. This didn’t come from some Ranger Jane deciding to get creative.”

Justin sat up. “Devereux.”

Frank said nothing.

“He was there, Frank. That day. Standing not more than twenty feet from me when I called him out in front of the camera. Said his AgriGen contract vote was the dirtiest thing this city council had done in thirty years.” Justin looked down at the cuffs. “He smiled at me, Frank. Right into my face.”

“Yeah. I hear you, pal. I’m just not connecting the dots.”

“He’s on the public safety committee. He knows the DA personally. He probably knows the ranger’s supervisor too.”

“Here’s what I know, Justin,” Frank said carefully. “A gym bag with your name on it ended up in a van at a state park you visited. And now you’re sitting here.”

“And Devereux gets to keep his AgriGen contract.”

“Even if you beat this — and I think you can — it’s going to follow you. Forever. Google searches. Jobs. Those kids in your class? They’ll hear about it too. And so will Tami.”

Justin thought about his students. Fourteen juniors and seniors in Advanced English. Rene, Karen, and Dave had just started opening up in class, actually writing something true for once.

“Tami’s going to think I’m a drug dealer,” Justin said.

“She knows you. Knows you better than you do, at times.”

Frank gathered his papers and stood. “I’ll try and have you out by tomorrow afternoon. But Justin — someone decided a fine and a night in jail wasn’t enough. Someone wanted the whole field burned. With you in it.”

Justin stared at the door, the peel of paint along the hinge, the scuff marks low on the metal where boots had kicked it a thousand times.

“Devereux smiled,” Justin whispered. “Like he already knew.”

Frank buttoned his jacket and knocked twice for the guard.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what worries me.”