BigJoe watches the kid through the grimy window of the holding room, shoulders tight against the cinder block wall. The boy sits across from two cops who lean forward like dogs that smell blood. He's calm. Too calm. That's the problem. BigJoe knows what comes next. The kid will take the fall because he thinks it buys him respect. Territory respect. The kind that gets you noticed by crews who work the shadow of the old prison castle on the east end. The kind that gets you killed before sixteen. BigJoe spent six weeks in a room once for making that same trade. He pulls the cross necklace from his pocket, silver and black filigree catching the weak hallway light. The kid's mother wore it. Left it behind when she didn't come back. He pushes through the door without knocking. The cops turn. One starts to stand but BigJoe drops the necklace on the table between them and the kid. The boy's eyes go wide. BigJoe speaks to the cops but watches the kid. "He was with me. All night. At the old gazebo behind Marker Street. The one with the ivy. Anyone asks, I'll repeat it." The kid's mouth opens but nothing comes out. BigJoe reads the room. The cops exchange looks. They know what he used to do. They know what it means when he walks in and offers himself as an alibi. One cop leans back and crosses his arms. The other closes his notebook. They're not happy but they're done. BigJoe picks up the necklace and walks out. The kid follows thirty seconds later. Outside, BigJoe hands him the cross without a word. The boy takes it. His hand shakes. That's progress.