Verdict in Blood - By Gail Bowen Page 0,23

glitch had timetabled two sections of Political Science 110 together, and by the time I had separated the classes, half the period was over. In the afternoon, my senior class informed me sulkily that their text wasn’t in the bookstore. When I got back to my office, the telephone was ringing, but it rang its last as I unlocked the door. I checked my voice mail. My first two callers invited me to start-up meetings of organizations I had no intention of joining; my third caller was Alex, asking a favour. He had been phoning Eli’s school all day, but hadn’t been able to connect with Eli’s teacher. Now he had a meeting that would run all afternoon, and he wondered if I could get in touch with the school and fill them in. I hung up the phone and grabbed my briefcase. Suddenly I had a legitimate excuse to get out of the office early, and I snatched it.

Gerry Acoose Collegiate was an inner-city experiment: an old secondary school that the community had convinced the Board of Education to give over to those who believed First Nations’ kids might thrive on a curriculum that reflected their cultural history and an attendance policy that took into account the realities of adolescent life in the city’s core. As I pulled up in front of the school, I thought about the new-model cars that lined the streets near my son Angus’s south-end high school.

The students at Gerry Acoose weren’t kids whose parents handed them the keys to a Nova on their sixteenth birthday. These young people had seen a lot more of life than the shining-eyed innocents who clutched Club Monaco book-bags in the back-to-school ads. Among other innovations, G.A.C. had a program for teen mothers, and as I waded through the students lounging on the front steps, I passed a number of girls, barely into puberty themselves, who were clutching babies. The only student who reacted to my presence was a whippet-thin boy with shoulder-length hair, worn in the traditional way. He gave me a half-smile, which encouraged me enough to ask him for directions to the principal’s office.

The halls of the school were filled with student art: some good; some not so good. On the wall outside the gymnasium, there was a life-sized painting of a white buffalo that was absolutely breathtaking. I thought of Eli’s spray-painted horses; this looked like a place where they might find a home. The principal wasn’t in his office, but the school secretary, a motherly woman in a flowered dress, pink cardigan, and sensible shoes, checked the computer and directed me to Eli’s homeroom.

At the back of Room 10C, a young woman in bluejeans and a T-shirt was stapling a poster of an aboriginal man in a white lab coat to the bulletin board. She didn’t look old enough to be the one in charge of the staple-gun.

I coughed to get the woman’s attention, but she didn’t respond. Finally, I said, “I’m looking for the homeroom teacher.”

“You’re looking at the homeroom teacher,” she said, without turning. “Hang on. I’ll be right with you.”

As I waited for her to finish, I glanced around. It was a pleasant room, filled with that gentle hazy light that comes when afternoon sun filters through chalk dust. There was a hint of sweetgrass in the air, a starblanket against the far wall, and a bank of computers in front of the windows. Posters brightened the other walls: a hockey player, a powwow dancer, an actor, a playwright, and an orchestra conductor – all aboriginal.

When Eli’s teacher turned and saw me, her face was as impassive as those of the kids outside. “I’m Anita Greyeyes,” she said, not smiling. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to tell you why Eli Kequahtooway wasn’t in class today,” I said.

Anita Greyeyes moved to the desk at the front of the room and motioned me to the chair opposite hers. “Are you his social worker?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m a friend. Of Eli and of his uncle.” As I explained the situation, Anita Greyeyes’ gaze never left my face.

When I finished, she said, “What’s Eli’s prognosis?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But, Ms. Greyeyes, he’s very bright and he has a close relationship with his uncle. We’re hopeful.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “I take it that your relationship with his uncle is also close.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Any chance that’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.”

Anita Greyeyes went to a table near