Imagine you're shifting uncomfortably on a hard wooden bench in the high school principal's

office and the seat's been worn smooth by decades of squarming the linkant back size.

Most of them brown like yours, but after two years of high school this is your first

time in here and you can't get comfortable. The principal waddles in, wiping sweat from

his brow, his seat weasels as he lowers his massive frame into its plush leather patting

and scratches at the stubble on his chin.

So what do we have here? You have no idea how to answer? You don't know why you're here.

You're not a model student but you're also not the kind of kid who spends time and detention

either. You sit up straight and try to sound reasonable. Sir, whatever this is about,

I'm sure there's an explanation. But the principal just holds up a stubby finger. Hold on,

I want you to meet some friends of mine. The door opens in three white men walk in.

They're in uniform bright white, freshly start shirts and shiny metal handcuffs. Whatever

this is, it's not school business. You swallow hard, your hands go clammy and you wedge

them under your legs to keep them from shaking. One of the men in the uniform looks down

at you. You can smell the bitter black coffee he had with his breakfast this morning.

Son, do you know Lyon to a police officer as a crime? Sure, but your head is spinning

as you're trying to figure out what is going on here. Why the show of force, why the cuffs

and who's that anything about Lyon to the police? They haven't even asked you anything yet.

As if he's reading your mind, the officer puts a heavy hand on your shoulder and bends

over so you're out of eye. Don't worry, son. All you have to do is tell the truth.

The point across the room to a gleaming state of the RTV-VCR combination is the principal

pops a tape in. A grainy black and white image appears on screen, security footage. You

...