Текст книги "The Fugitive"

Автор книги: John Grisham

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter 12

Two days later the big news spread through Strattenburg. Pete Duffy would not fight extradition and was on his way back to town. On the late news Wednesday night, the lead story was the arrival of Mr. Duffy, and a television crew filmed him from a distance as he got out of the backseat of an unmarked car and shuffled through a side door of the jail. He was handcuffed and his ankles were obviously chained together. He wore a cap and sunglasses, and he was surrounded by policemen. It was just a brief glimpse of him, but enough to get Theo excited.

He was watching the news with his parents. It was past his bedtime, but they were ignoring the clock so he could see this breaking story. The reporter said that, according to an unnamed source, Mr. Duffy would make his first appearance in court on Friday.

Theo began scheming of ways to skip school and be in the courtroom.

“How does this make you feel, Theo?” his mother asked.

Theo shrugged and wasn’t sure how he felt.

She said, “If not for you, Duffy would be in South America right now. A free man, and probably free for the rest of his life.”

On the one hand, Theo sort of wished Duffy was down there, but on the other, he was excited to see him back in town and staring at another trial. Theo said, “I know we’re supposed to presume he’s innocent until proven guilty, but that’s kind of hard to do right now. If he were innocent, why did he run away like he did?”

Mrs. Boone said, “It’s difficult because he is guilty of escape and evasion. That’s pretty clear.”

“Ike thinks he’ll try to get a plea bargain,” Theo said.

“I doubt that,” said Mr. Boone, always quick to disagree with Ike. “Why would he agree to accept a life sentence with no chance of ever getting out?”

“To save his neck,” Mrs. Boone said, always quick to disagree with her husband, at least on legal matters. “He’s facing the death penalty, Woods.”

“I know that.”

The reporter walked a few steps and said hello to Jack Hogan, the longtime prosecutor for Stratten County. She asked Mr. Hogan about the details of Duffy’s capture in DC, but Hogan said he could not discuss the matter.

For a second, Theo couldn’t breathe.

Then she asked Hogan about the charges Duffy was facing. Same as last time, he replied. Murder, first of all. And now, obviously, escape. When would Duffy make his first court appearance? That had not yet been determined, Hogan replied, and it was clear he wasn’t saying much. The reporter finally thanked him and signed off.

“Bedtime,” Mrs. Boone said, and Theo trudged up the stairs with his dog at his heels.

Judge had no trouble falling asleep under the bed, but Theo couldn’t keep his eyes closed. At some point in the long, dark night, a brilliant idea came to him. Mr. Mount required a ten-page research paper to be turned in at the end of the semester. Theo would write his about the preliminary matters that take place before a big criminal trial. There were all sorts of important maneuvers in the early stages as the lawyers tried to gain advantage. They argued about bail. They filed motions to change venue, or move the trial to another city. They fought hard over what evidence should or should not be presented to the jury. And so on. Most people were not aware of all the work that went into a trial long before it ever started.

Theo, though, would explain it all in his research paper. And, if Mr. Mount agreed, Theo would need to spend a lot of time in court.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized how brilliant it was.

Mr. Mount liked the idea, too. Theo was so excited it was impossible to say no. That was Thursday. On Friday, Theo informed him that he needed to be in court at one fifteen for Pete Duffy’s first appearance since being hauled back to Strattenburg. To be in court on time meant Theo had to be excused from PE class by Mr. Tyler, and study hall by Mr. Mount himself. Theo had to haggle with Mr. Tyler for a few minutes before he gave in. It was, after all, Friday afternoon, and Theo was normally exempt from PE anyway. He had an asthma problem that he used to his advantage whenever necessary.

So, at ten minutes after one, Theo and Ike were sitting in a courtroom that was buzzing with excitement since quite a few other curious folks showed up for a look at Mr. Duffy. Theo recognized most of the clerks and bailiffs. There was the usual collection of bored lawyers who hung around the courtroom, doing little but trying to look important. There were at least three reporters and a few off-duty policemen. At the defendant’s table, Mr. Clifford Nance was chatting with two other lawyers. At the prosecution’s table, Mr. Jack Hogan and his crew were reading some documents that must have been difficult to read, judging by their frowns.

A door opened and two large deputies stepped into the courtroom. Behind them was Pete Duffy, in an orange city jail jumpsuit, his wrists and ankles cuffed and chained. Everyone stopped talking and stared in disbelief. It was really him. Caught! The rich guy with the expensive suits and confident air was now reduced to the status of a lowly inmate in the city jail. The handsome, well-groomed gentleman now looked like a lowlife with badly dyed blond hair and an unshaven face.

The deputies quickly unshackled him. He rubbed his wrists as they led him to a chair at the defendant’s table. Clifford Nance leaned down and said something to him. Duffy looked wildly around the courtroom, startled at the number of people there to observe him. He looked frightened and disoriented, like he couldn’t believe he was back.

In the front row behind the bar, where the spectators sat, Theo caught a glimpse of Omar Cheepe, one of Duffy’s men.

A bailiff called court to order, everyone stood, and Judge Henry Gantry appeared from a door in the rear. He tapped his gavel and asked everyone to have a seat. Not wasting time, he looked at the defendant and said, “Would you approach the bench?”

Duffy stood and took a few steps to a spot in front of the bench. He looked up. Judge Gantry looked down. Clifford Nance slowly made his way over to stand beside his client.

“You are Pete Duffy?” the judge asked.

“I am.”

“Welcome home.”

“Thank you.”

“Is Mr. Clifford Nance here still your lawyer?”

“He is.”

“You are still charged with the capital murder of your wife, Ms. Myra Duffy. Do you understand this?”

“I do.”

“Do you wish to plead guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“And you are also charged with escape. Have you discussed this charge with your attorney?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And how do you wish to plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Thank you. You may be seated.”

Duffy and Nance sat down. Judge Gantry said he wanted the case to proceed as rapidly as possible, would not tolerate delays by either side, and was quite eager to set a trial date. Clifford Nance mentioned the possibility of a hearing on the issue of bail, and Judge Gantry cut him off. No, Mr. Duffy would be spending his days and nights in jail as he awaited trial. Bail was not a possibility. Nance seemed to know this was coming. Everyone else did too. The lawyers went back and forth arguing about how much time they needed to prepare.

Theo whispered to Ike, “I thought you said Duffy wouldn’t be able to afford Nance this time around.”

Ike whispered, “Anything is possible. Everyone thinks Duffy is broke. Maybe he’s got some loot stashed away. Maybe Nance will work cheaper just so he can stay involved. Who knows?”

Ike often spouted off screwball theories with nothing to back them up. Theo suspected he spent too much time gossiping with his old retired buddies, all of whom were over the hill and prone to speculate about things without having any facts.

Theo was being careful. He was sitting low and ducking behind the person in front of him. He did not want to make eye contact with Pete Duffy. Sure the guy was in jail and should probably be considered harmless, but Theo wanted to keep his distance. They had looked each other in the eyes last Saturday at the airport in DC, and Duffy might remember. Of course, Theo was partially disguised then. He had discussed this with Ike, but Ike didn’t frighten too easily.

Then there was Omar Cheepe, a shady-looking character known to hang around Clifford Nance’s office and do his dirty work. He had a sidekick named Paco; just a couple of thugs.

When the hearing was over, Theo had two choices. He could hop on his bike and hustle back to school, or he could suggest having a frozen yogurt with Ike at Guff’s just down the street. He knew Ike would never say no, and that his uncle would happily buy the treat.

Theo ordered the usual – chocolate drenched with crushed Oreos. Ike had a small serving of mango with black coffee. “I have a question for you, Ike,” Theo said, then shoveled in an impressive spoonful of frozen yogurt.

“I’m sure you do,” Ike said. “You always have questions.”

“As I understand the way things work, before the trial, both sides will be required to give the other a list of their witnesses. Right?”

“Right. It’s called discovery. Not only the names of the witnesses, but brief summaries of what their testimony will be.”

“So the identity of Bobby Escobar will be known to Duffy and his lawyers. They will find out that the prosecution has a witness who’ll say he saw Duffy dash into his home at the same time his wife was strangled. Right?”

“Normally, yes.”

“Normally? Is there an exception to the rule?”

“I think so. As I recall from my days in the trenches, the prosecution can ask the judge to allow it to withhold the name of a witness if that witness needs to be protected. It’s the result of some of the old Mob cases where the star witness against a Mafia leader was a snitch from within the organization. If his identity had been revealed, they would have found the guy at the bottom of a lake wearing concrete boots.”

“That makes sense.”

“I’m glad you approve. In this case, I’ll bet Jack Hogan and the police will try their best to keep Bobby’s identity a secret until the last possible moment.”

“I sure hope so. I saw that creep Omar Cheepe in the courtroom. I’m sure Paco is lurking somewhere in the shadows. If they find out about Bobby, it could be dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Theo. Hogan knows he doesn’t have much of a case without Bobby. You remember the first trial. It was going badly for the prosecution and Duffy was about to walk free. Hogan and the police will protect the boy.”

“You think I should warn him?”

“No, I think you’ve done enough. It’s a dangerous situation and you need to keep your nose out of it. Okay?”

“I guess.”

Ike reached over and grabbed a wrist. With a hard frown, he said, “Listen to me, Theo. Butt out, okay? It’s none of your business.”

“Well, it sort of is. Bobby Escobar wouldn’t be involved if I hadn’t convinced his cousin Julio that he should come forward. And, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if I hadn’t spotted Duffy on the subway.”

“True. Nice work. Now leave it alone. You can write your research paper. We’ll watch the trial and hope justice prevails. Just stay on the sidelines, okay?” Ike released his wrist.

“Okay,” Theo said reluctantly.

“Now, you need to get back to school.”

“I don’t think so, Ike. It’s Friday afternoon and I’ve had a tough week.”

“A tough week. You sound like a workingman who puts in forty hard hours in a factory.”

“Look, Ike, even kid lawyers have tough weeks.”

Chapter 13

Across Main Street and four blocks east of Guff’s Frozen Yogurt, another meeting was underway and the topic was also the Duffy trial. Clifford Nance had a splendid office on the second floor of what had once been the finest hotel in town; in fact, Mr. Nance owned the entire building and used most of it to house his busy law firm. From his high, arching windows he had great view of the streets below, the courthouse, even the river in the distance. Not that he had much time to enjoy the view; he did not. He was an important lawyer and one of the most prosperous in town.

He was at his desk sipping coffee and chatting with a young lawyer named Breeland, one of the many associates who took orders from him. Nance was saying, “When Judge Gantry stopped the first trial and sent everybody home, he explained to me and Jack Hogan the following morning that a surprise witness had come forward and had information that was crucial to finding the truth. He would not tell us the name of this witness, nor would he tell us what the witness might say. He left us completely in the dark. We were preparing for the retrial, and at some point Jack Hogan would have been required to disclose the names of all of his witnesses. Before this happened, of course, our dear client skipped town.”

“So we still have no clue about this witness?” Breeland asked.

“None whatsoever. Now, though, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“And what do we do?”

“Depends on who he is and what he’ll say.”

“Sounds like a job for Omar.”

“Not yet. But remind me to remind him that threatening a witness for the prosecution is a serious crime.”

“Omar knows that.”

Breeland’s cell phone vibrated. He glanced at it and said, “Well, speaking of the devil. Omar is downstairs and wants to talk.”

“Send him up.”

Omar entered the office and took a seat next to Breeland. Nance said rudely, “I have a meeting in ten minutes, so talk fast.”

“Okay,” Omar said. “I was just at the jail talking to Duffy. That little Boone kid was in the courtroom this afternoon – don’t know how he manages to skip so much school – but he was there with his crazy uncle. I saw them. Pete saw them, and Pete swears he saw them last Saturday at the airport in DC when the Feds snatched him. He can’t figure that one out. But if you’ll remember, the night before Judge Gantry declared a mistrial, we saw him walk to the Boone & Boone law firm and meet with the family, including the kid and the crazy uncle. Next day – Bam! A mistrial. Something strange is going on here.”

“But the Boones are not criminal lawyers,” Mr. Nance said. “I know them pretty well.”

“Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s just the kid,” Omar said. “The kid has his nose stuck in the middle of Pete’s case, and his parents are just trying to protect him.”

“You can’t follow a kid around town, Omar,” Breeland said.

“The kid knows who the mysterious witness is,” Omar said. “I’ll bet good money on it.”

Nance and Breeland studied each other for a moment.

Omar continued, “And, I’ll bet the kid had something to do with the Feds finding Pete. They were in DC the week before he got nailed.”

“Who?” Nance asked.

“The entire eighth grade at Strattenburg Middle School. Their annual field trip. A mob of kids roaming around DC. Maybe somebody saw something.”

“Which brings up the obvious question,” Breeland said. “Why was Pete Duffy in DC?”

“Too late to worry about that,” Mr. Nance said. “Don’t follow this kid and don’t approach him. But keep an eye on him.”

Chapter 14

Theo was leaving school on a Wednesday afternoon when his pal Woody stopped him at the bike rack. Woody was obviously worried about something. He said, “Say, Theo, you know the judge in Animal Court, don’t you?”

It was a loaded question, and Theo immediately wondered what mischief Woody had been up to. He was a good kid and Theo liked and trusted him, but his family was a bit on the rough side and Woody was always either in trouble or close to it. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Well,” Woody said, glancing around as if the police might be listening, “I have to be in court tomorrow afternoon. My brother Evan and I are being accused of something.”

Theo slowly got off his bike, hit the kickstand, and said, “Okay, what are you accused of?”

“My mom and stepdad don’t know about this, Theo, and I’d like to keep it quiet.” Woody’s home life was unsettled. His mother had been married at least twice and her current husband traveled a lot. Woody’s father was a stonemason who lived in town with another wife and some small children. An older brother had been in trouble with the law. He asked, “If you go to Animal Court, do you have to tell your parents?”

“Not always,” Theo said. He almost added that it’s always best to tell your parents, but then he often kept secrets from his. “What’s happened?”

“Have you ever heard of fainting goats?”

“Fainting goats?”

“Yes. Fainting goats.”

“No. I’ve never heard of fainting goats.”

“Well, it’s a long story.”

The following afternoon, Theo was sitting next to Woody and Evan in a small, cramped room in the basement of the Strattenburg County Courthouse, waiting for Judge Sergio Yeck to assume the bench and call things to order. They were in folding chairs behind a folding table, and behind them were several other people, including Chase, Aaron, and Brandon, all there out of curiosity. Across the aisle sat an angry man named Marvin Tweel. He was a farmer dressed in his work clothes – faded denim overalls, plaid shirt, and steel-toed boots with mud caked permanently on the soles and heels. Behind him were several people, part of the usual Animal Court crowd of folks trying to rescue unleashed dogs that had been picked up by the town’s rather aggressive dogcatcher.

At four p.m., Judge Yeck walked through a rear door and took his seat at the bench. As always, he was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and an old sports coat. As usual, he seemed bored with what he was doing. He was the lowest-ranking judge in town; in fact, he was the only lawyer who would handle the part-time job. Animal Court got little respect. Theo, though, loved it because there were few rules and no lawyers were required. Anyone, including a thirteen-year-old who thought he was a lawyer, could appear on behalf of a client.

“Hello, Theo,” Judge Yeck said. “How are your folks?”

“They’re doing fine, thanks, Judge.”

Yeck looked at a sheet of paper and said, “All right, our first case is Mr. Marvin Tweel versus Woody and Evan Lambert.” He looked at the farmer and said, “Are you Mr. Tweel?”

Mr. Tweel stood and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Welcome to Animal Court, sir. You may keep your seat. Things are real informal in here.” Mr. Tweel nodded awkwardly and sat down. He was obviously nervous and out of place. Judge Yeck looked at Theo and said, “I take it you represent the Lambert brothers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Mr. Tweel, you are the complaining party, so you go first.”

Mr. Tweel said, “Well, uh, Your Honor, do I need a lawyer? If they got one, do I need one?”

“No, sir, not in this court. And Mr. Boone here is not a real lawyer, not yet anyway. He’s more like a legal adviser.”

“Do I need a legal adviser like him?”

“No, sir, you certainly do not. Proceed with your story.”

Satisfied and more at ease, Mr. Tweel began: “Well, Judge, you see I have a small farm just south of town, and I raise and sell a certain breed of goats that some people enjoy as pets. Others raise them for meat and cashmere. They’re not your typical goats. They’re much smaller and easier to care for. They’re called myotonic goats, on account of a muscle condition known as myotonia congenita. Now that’s about all I know when it comes to the science, but one aspect of this condition is that their muscles freeze when they panic and they get all stiff and frozen, then they fall over with their legs straight out. That’s why they are better known as fainting goats. They don’t really faint, they remain conscious, but they’re out of it for about ten seconds. Then they get up and everything’s okay. It’s just a muscle condition, nothing to do with the brain or anything.”

“Fainting goats?” Judge Yeck said.

“Yes, sir. They’re pretty well known in the goat world.”

“Well, excuse me. So what’s your complaint about?”

Mr. Tweel glared at Woody and Evan and continued: “Well, late Monday afternoon, I was in the house reading the newspaper when my wife sticks her head in the den and says there’s a commotion down at the goat shed. It’s about a hundred yards behind the house, so I head down there. As I get close, I hear somebody laughing. Somebody’s on my property, so I step into my toolshed and grab my twelve gauge. When I get closer to the goat shed, I see these two boys here messing with my goats. I watch ’em for a few minutes. One is on one end of the goat pen, and the other is leaning on a fence taking a video. One – and I can’t tell them apart – jumps out from behind a water trough, claps his hands real loud, yells at my goats as he lunges at them, then cracks up laughing when they faint. When the goats get up, they run away, and he chases them, yelling like an idiot until he corners a couple, lunges at them again, and howls when they go down.”

Judge Yeck was amused. He looked at Theo and said, “So we have this on video?”

Theo nodded. Yes.

“How many goats were in the pen?” Judge Yeck asked.

“Eleven.”

“Please continue.”

“And then, and this is what really ticks me off, when things get real still, one of the boys lights a firecracker and tosses it at the goats. Bam! All eleven go down, stiff-legged, like they’re dead. At that point, the boys start running, but I’m right on them. They see my shotgun, and they decide their fun and games are over. They’re lucky I didn’t shoot them.”

“Did the goats get up?” Judge Yeck asked.

“Yes, sir, they did, but here’s the bad part. About an hour after I get rid of the boys, after I get their names and address, I go back down to the goat pen to check on things. That’s when I saw that Becky was dead.”

“Who’s Becky?”

Mr. Tweel picked up two enlarged photos. He handed one to the judge and one to Theo. It was a fluffy white goat, lying on its side, either in the process of fainting, or in fact dead.

“That’s Becky,” Mr. Tweel said, his voice suddenly weaker. They looked at him and realized his eyes were moist.

“How old was Becky?” Judge Yeck asked.

“She was four, Judge. I was there when she was born. Probably the sweetest goat I’ve ever had.” He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. In an ever-weaker voice, he went on, “She was perfectly healthy. I kept her because she was a good breeder. Now she’s gone.”

“Are you accusing Woody and Evan Lambert of killing your goat?” Judge Yeck asked.

“She was fine and dandy until they came along. I don’t make my goats faint. Some people do, I guess, for fun and sport. Not me. These boys scared ’em to death at first, then I think that firecracker really upset them. Yes, sir, I think these boys killed Becky.”

“How much was she worth?”

“Four hundred dollars on the market, but to me she was worth more because she was such a good mare.” Mr. Tweel was regaining his composure.

Judge Yeck paused for a long time, and finally said, “Anything else, Mr. Tweel?”

He shook his head. No.

“Theo.”

Theo, who’d spent Wednesday night outlining his arguments and had thought of little else all day, began by stating the obvious. “Well, Judge, of course my clients were wrong to be there. It’s not their property. They were clearly trespassing and should be punished for that. But there was no intent to do anything wrong. Look, fainting goats are famous because they faint. Mr. Tweel just said that a lot of owners make their goats faint for the fun of it. Go online and check out YouTube. There are dozens of videos of people who own these goats jumping and yelling and springing up with big umbrellas and such, all in an effort to frighten the goats so they’ll do what they’re expected to do – to faint! That’s all.”

“But your clients didn’t own the goats,” Judge Yeck interrupted.

“No, Judge, of course they did not. Again, they should not have been there.”

“And they made a video?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To post on YouTube, I presume.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Let’s roll the tape.”

Theo knew the video would be shown, and he was prepared. It was hilarious and he planned to use it anyway. Some humor might soften up Judge Yeck and show that making a fainting goat faint was harmless.

He had loaded the video into his laptop and wired it to a larger screen. He placed it on a folding table near Judge Yeck and hit a button. Everyone in the courtroom squeezed closer to the table.

The video: a fenced-in pen attached to a shed; a herd of eleven smallish goats, some black, some white, all with large bug-like eyes protruding from sockets, and all obviously minding their own business. Suddenly, Evan Lambert jumps from behind a water trough, yelling and clapping his hands, whooping and lunging at the startled and unsuspecting goats; several go stiff-legged and keel over; others go scurrying about as Evan gives chase, still yelping like an maniac, but also laughing. He zeroes in on one of the goats and stalks it until it decides life might be safer if it just faints; down it goes; others get up, baying at one another in chaotic frenzy; Evan continues tormenting them while, from behind the camera, Woody can be heard laughing uncontrollably.

It was indeed funny, and most of the people in the courtroom could not contain their laughter. In particular, Woody, Evan, Chase, Aaron, and Brandon were in stitches. Theo, the lawyer, managed to watch it with a straight face, partly because he had already seen it many times. Judge Yeck was amused. Mr. Tweel was not.

The video: During a lull in the action, the goats – all standing now – bunch together as if looking for safety while Evan fishes something out of his pocket. The firecracker. He grins at the camera, lights the firecracker, tosses it near the herd of rattled goats; sounds like a cannon, and all eleven hit the ground, their short little legs stiff as poles. Evan doubles over in a fit of laughter. Woody is heard roaring again.

End of video.

Everyone inched back to their seats. Judge Yeck waited for quiet and took a deep breath. Finally, “Proceed, Mr. Boone.”

“I would like for Evan Lambert to make a statement,” Theo said.

“Very well.”

Evan sat up straight and cleared his throat. He was fifteen but no taller than his younger brother. All humor had vanished and Evan was unsure of himself. He said, “Well, Judge, like Theo said, we shouldn’t have been there. It was my idea. I saw a YouTube video last week, and so Woody and I started looking for fainting goats. We looked in the Yellow Pages and found goat farms, then we found Mr. Tweel’s place. All we wanted to do was see if the goats would really faint. You know how it is – you can’t believe everything you see on the Internet, and so we were just having some fun. That’s all.”

“Did you post the video?” Judge Yeck asked.

“No, sir. Mr. Tweel said he would shoot us if we did.”

“And I will!” Mr. Tweel growled from twenty feet away.

“Enough of that,” Judge Yeck said. “Theo.”

“Yes, sir, and I’d like for my client Woody Lambert to make a statement.”

Woody was cockier than his big brother and was really not remorseful. Theo had cautioned him that any brash talk would hurt their cause. Act like you’re sorry, Theo had warned him more than once.

Woody began, “Well, sure, we’re real sorry about this. We didn’t intend to hurt anybody, or any goat. Did you know, Judge, that they have a fainting goat festival every year down in Tennessee? I swear. Folks take their goats to the festival and for three days make ’em faint. I think they even give prizes. So what we did was not that bad. But, I agree, we were wrong.”

“What about Becky?” the judge asked.

“Who?”

“The dead goat.”

“Oh, that one,” Woody replied. “Look, Judge, when we left there, after a long talk with Mr. Tweel, all his goats were fine. We didn’t kill one. If one died later, I don’t see how you can blame that on us.”

“You gave her a heart attack,” Mr. Tweel said. “Just as sure as I’m sitting here.”

Theo said, “But there’s no way to prove that, Judge, short of an autopsy. That’s the only way to prove what caused her death.”

“You want to do an autopsy on a goat?” Judge Yeck asked, his eyebrows arched as high as possible.

“No, I didn’t say that, Judge. That would cost more than she’s worth.”

Judge Yeck scratched his stubble and seemed to be deep in thought. After a pause he said, “You have to admit, Theo, that it looks pretty suspicious. The goats were fine until a firecracker went off and shocked them to the ground.”

“They just fainted, Judge, then, they got back to their feet and forgot about it.”

“How do you know they forgot about it?”

“Uh, well, I guess I really don’t.”

“Be careful what you say, Theo,” Judge Yeck lectured. “Lawyers have a way of overstating their case.”

“Sorry, Judge, but it’s going overboard to accuse my clients of killing a goat. Under our statutes killing a farm animal is a felony that carries a punishment of up to five years in jail. Do you really think Woody and Evan deserve five years in jail?”

Woody glared at him as if to say, “Why’d you bring that up?”

Evan looked at him as if to say, “Way to go, super lawyer.”

Judge Yeck looked at Mr. Tweel and asked, “Do you want these boys to go to jail?”

Mr. Tweel shot back, “Wouldn’t bother me.”

Judge Yeck looked at the Lambert brothers and asked, “Do your parents know about this?”

Both shook their heads emphatically. No. Evan said, “We’d like to keep this away from our parents. They have enough problems.”

Judge Yeck scribbled some notes on a legal pad. The courtroom was silent as everyone took a deep breath. Since Theo had been there many times, he knew the judge was looking for a compromise, and that he might appreciate some help. He said, “Judge, if you don’t mind, may I offer a suggestion?”

“Sure, Theo.”

“Well, it’s a bit extreme to talk about jail time. My clients are in school, and throwing them in jail doesn’t help anything. And since their parents are not involved and they don’t have any money to pay a fine, for trespassing, perhaps they could be sentenced to a few hours of labor on Mr. Tweel’s farm.”

Mr. Tweel blurted, “I don’t want ’em on my farm. My goats’ll never be the same.”

Theo looked at Woody, and, as instructed, he stood and said, “Mr. Tweel, my brother and I are very sorry for what happened. We were wrong to go onto your property, and we realize we’re guilty of trespassing. We were just having some fun and didn’t mean to do any harm. We apologize and we’d like to do whatever you want to make things right.”