Текст книги "Theodore Boone: The Accused"

Автор книги: John Grisham

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Chapter 11

Thursday morning. Theo was wide awake when his alarm rang at 7:30. There was a knot in his stomach, and he was certain he was too sick to go to school. He stared at the ceiling and waited for his illness to grow worse, to hopefully become a full-blown bout of nausea that would make him heave and vomit. His head hurt, too, and he was convinced a migraine was on its way, though he had never had one. Minutes passed, unfortunately his condition did not deteriorate.

How could he walk into school and face all the suspicion? How could he survive the jokes and snide comments and teasing? If there had ever been a perfect day to skip school, play hooky, call in sick, whatever, then it was today.

Judge moved first. He popped up from under the bed and was ready to go. Theo envied him. His day would be spent at the office, sleeping next to Elsa’s desk, roaming from one room to the next, hanging out in the kitchen looking for food, and napping in Theo’s office, waiting for him to arrive from school. No worries, no stress, no fears of someone stalking him and plotting more mischief. What a life, thought Theo. A dog’s life. It didn’t seem fair.

Theo sat on the edge of his bed, waited for a moment in hopes he would throw up, but soon admitted that he was feeling better. Judge just stared at him. There were footsteps outside his door, then a gentle knock. “Theo,” his mother said softly. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Theo said in a fake scratchy voice, as if he might be taking his last breath.

She opened the door, stepped inside, and sat next to him on the bed. “Here, I brought you a cup of hot chocolate.” Theo took the cup and held it with both hands. The aroma was strong and delicious.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked. She was still in her heavy bathrobe and her favorite pink fuzzy slippers.

“Not really,” Theo said. “I had this nightmare that wouldn’t go away.”

“Tell me about it,” she said as she tussled his hair.

Theo took a sip of the hot chocolate and smacked his lips. “It was a really weird dream that made no sense at all, and it seemed to go on and on. I was running from the police, lots of police, with guns and everything. I was on my bike, getting away, leaving them behind, when they shot out both tires. So I threw the bike in a ditch and ran through the woods. They were getting closer and closer, bullets hitting trees all around me, and they had dogs, too, and the dogs were right on my heels. Someone yelled, ‘Hey, Theo, over here.’ I ran to the voice and it was Pete Duffy, in a pickup truck. So I jumped in the back of the truck and we took off, bullets still flying all around us. He was driving like a maniac, slinging me all over the back of the truck, and suddenly we were on Main Street and people were yelling, ‘Go, Theo, Go’ and stuff like that. Police cars were behind us with lights and sirens. We smashed through a roadblock and were about to get away when the cops shot out all four tires.”

Theo paused, took another sip. Judge was staring at him with only one thought—where’s breakfast?

“Did you get away?” his mom asked. She seemed to be amused by the story.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I finished the dream. We were running through some alleys, and every time we turned a corner there were more policemen, all of them blasting away. It was like a small army was after us. There was a SWAT team, and even a helicopter overhead. Pete Duffy kept saying, ‘They’re not going to catch us, Theo. Just keep running.’ We ran through the courthouse, which was full of people, in the middle of the night, and we ran toward the river. For some reason we decided to cross the bridge. About halfway over, we saw a SWAT team on the other side, coming right at us. We stopped, looked behind, saw cops and dogs everywhere. Pete Duffy said, ‘We gotta jump, Theo.’ And I said, ‘I’m not jumping.’ So he crawled over the railing and was about to jump when he got hit with bullets from all sides. He screamed and fell over, and I watched him fall until he hit the water. There were people on the river in boats, and they cheered when he made a splash. Then they started yelling, ‘Jump, Theo, Jump!’ The police were closing in from both sides. The dogs were growling, sirens blaring away, gunfire. I held up my hands like I was going to surrender, then in a split second I jumped over the railing—which was about eight feet high—but this was a dream, okay? I looked like an Olympic diver flying through the air. On the way down I started doing flips and twists and turns, don’t know where I learned all those moves. The river was far below and getting closer and closer.”

He took another sip.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Don’t know. That dive lasted for a long time, and I woke up before I hit the water. I tried to go back to sleep to finish the dive but couldn’t get it to work.”

“That’s a pretty cool dream, Theo. Lots of action and excitement.”

“It wasn’t very cool at the time. I was scared to death. You ever been shot at by the police?”

“No, I have not. You were going to think about some possible enemies who might be carrying a grudge of some sort.”

Theo took another sip and thought for a moment. “Come on, Mom. Kids don’t have enemies, do they? Look, we all have people we don’t like, and don’t like us, right? But I can’t think of a single person I’d call an enemy.”

“Fair enough. Who is the kid who dislikes you the most?”

“Betty Ann Hockner.”

“And what’s the history?”

“We had a debate several months ago, boys versus girls. The issue was gun control. Things got pretty heated, but it was all fair. We won the debate and she was really upset. I heard later that she called me a ‘jerk’ and a ‘cheap-shot artist.’ I’ve seen her almost every day since then, and she gives me these looks like she would love to slit my throat.”

“You should reach out to her, Theo.”

“No way.”

“And why not?”

“I’m afraid she’ll slit my throat.”

“Could she slash your tires and throw a rock through a window?”

Theo shook his head and thought for a second. “Not really. She’s a nice girl, but she’s not very popular. I kinda feel sorry for her. She’s not our suspect.”

“So who is?”

“I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”

“You’d better get ready for school.”

“I feel pretty lousy, Mom, nausea and a headache. I think I’d better stay in bed today.”

She smiled, tussled his hair again, didn’t believe a word of it, and said, “What a surprise. You know, Theo, if you didn’t fake so many illnesses in order to skip school, I might believe you every now and then.”

“School’s boring.”

“Well, it’s not optional. If you want to go to law school, there is a rule somewhere that you must complete the eighth grade.”

“Show me that rule.”

“I just made it up. Look, Theo, today might be a bit rough. Lots of gossip and such, and probably some jokes. I know you’d rather skip it, but you can’t. Bite your lip, grit your teeth, and hold your head up because you’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know.”

“And keep smiling. The world is a brighter place when you’re smiling.”

“It might be hard to smile today.”

Theo parked his bike at a different rack, one by the cafeteria, and after he chained it he couldn’t help but look around to see if anyone was watching. This looking over his shoulder was already a habit, and he was tired of it.

It was 8:20. He met April Finnemore in the cafeteria where students who arrive early on buses were allowed to meet and socialize, or have an apple juice, or to sometimes study. April was a friend, a close one, but not a girlfriend. Theo trusted her above all others, and she confided in him as well. Her home life was a constant mess, with a father who came and went, a mother who was at least half crazy if not more, and older siblings who had already fled town. April, too, wanted to leave home but was much too young. Her dream was to be an artist and live in Paris.

“How are you doing?” she asked as they sat at the end of a long table, as far away from the other students as possible.

Theo gritted his teeth, held up his head, and said, “I’m fine. Nothing wrong with me.”

“This stuff is all over the Internet. It seems to be growing.”

“Look, April, I can’t control that. I’m innocent. What am I supposed to do about it? You want an apple juice?”

“Sure.”

Theo walked across the cafeteria to a counter where cups of free apple juice were waiting. He picked up two, and was walking back to April when a group of seventh-grade boys began chanting, “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”

Theo looked at them and flashed his braces, offered a fake smile, as if he found it humorous. The biggest loudmouth was a kid named Phil Jacoby, a tough kid from a bad part of town. Theo knew him but they did not hang out. A few other kids joined in, “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” But by the time Theo sat down the chants were dying; the fun was over.

“Creeps,” April hissed as she glared at the boys.

“Just ignore them,” Theo said. “If you fight back, it just gets worse.”

More kids arrived and backpacks hit the tables.

“What will the police do next?” April asked, almost in a whisper.

“Finish their investigation,” Theo said softly, glancing around. “There are no fingerprints on the tablets found in my locker, so they figure the thief is pretty smart. They were going to dust my locker, but now they figure that’s a waste of time. You gotta keep in mind, April, this is a minor crime. The cops have much more important matters to worry about.”

“Like finding Pete Duffy.”

“Exactly. Plus they have drug cases and more serious crimes to investigate. They won’t spend a lot of time on this burglary. It’s not that serious.”

“Unless you’re the accused. Don’t tell me you’re not worried about getting framed for this.”

“Sure, I’m worried, but I trust the police and the courts. You gotta trust the system, April. I’m innocent and I know it. The police will find the real thieves and I’ll be off the hook.”

“Just that simple?”

“Yes. I think.”

The gang of seventh graders walked behind him. Phil Jacoby said loudly, “Hey, you guys, watch your backpacks. Theo the Thief is in the room.” His buddies howled with laughter but kept walking. The other students glared at Theo. A couple moved their backpacks closer.

“Oh boy,” Theo said, defeated. “I guess I have a new nickname.”

“Creeps.”

Theo found it difficult to bite his lip, grit his teeth, and hold up his head. This would indeed be a long day.

The fight broke out a few minutes later as Theo was closing his locker. The troublemaker was another loudmouth, a kid named Baxter who was in Madame Monique’s eighth-grade homeroom and had a locker not far from Theo’s. Baxter walked behind Theo, and in a loud voice, said, “Hey, what’s up, jailbird?” This got a few laughs but not nearly as many as Baxter was looking for. He stopped and grinned at Theo.

Baxter’s mistake was opening his big mouth when Woody happened to be closing his own locker. He whirled around and angrily said, “Shut up!”

Nobody messed with Woody. He had two older brothers who played football and loved karate and were known to fight for any reason. Woody’s home was in a constant state of physical conflict, with broken windows, furniture, and sometimes bones. As the youngest, Woody had been the tackling dummy and the punching bag, and he actually enjoyed a good fight with someone his own size. He was never a bully, but often he was too quick to throw a punch, or to threaten a classmate.

But Baxter had his own tough-guy reputation, and he could not back down with people watching. “Don’t tell me to shut up,” he shot back. “If I want to call Theo a jailbird, then I’ll call him a jailbird.”

Woody was already walking toward Baxter, and at that point serious trouble was inevitable. Excitement gripped the hallway as the other students realized that, like a couple of gunslingers, neither of these two would back down.

Theo glanced up and down the hall in hopes of seeing Mr. Mount or another teacher, but there was no adult in sight at that crucial moment. He said, “It’s okay, Woody, it’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay with Woody. He glared at Baxter and said, “Take it back.”

Baxter said, “No, thanks. When you steal and get arrested, then in my book you’re a jailbird.” He was still talking tough, but his eyes were also getting bigger. His left eye, though, was about to get closed.

Woody lunged with a right hook that landed perfectly on Baxter’s face. Baxter, to his credit, managed to land a solid punch before both boys locked each other up in death grips and tumbled to the floor. Fights were rare at the middle school and a good one was not to be missed. A crowd gathered around instantly. Down the hall someone yelled, “A fight! A fight!” Woody and Baxter were sliding all over the tiled floor, clawing and scratching like two cats.

Baxter’s sidekick was a runt named Griff, and evidently he knew what the other boys knew—it would only be a matter of seconds before Woody gained the upper hand and began working on Baxter’s face. So Griff, to protect his friend, made the dumb move of joining the fray. He growled some sort of impromptu battle cry and lunged himself onto Woody’s back. Theo and the rest of the crowd gawked in disbelief.

Fighting carried an automatic suspension from classes. The student manual was clear and every teacher stressed the evils of fighting. The punishment, handed down by Mrs. Gladwell, was flexible and depended on the circumstances. A push-and-shove match on the playground might result in a one-day suspension with three extra hours in study hall. A full-blown fist fight with busted lips and bloody noses might result in a three-day suspension, no after-school activities, and one month of probation.

Theo was not a fighter. His last scuffle had been in fourth grade when he and Walter Norris got in a heated wrestling match at the city swimming pool. But as he stood there, frozen, and watched the fight right in front of him, he suddenly had the urge to join it. After all, his friend Woody was slugging it out in defense of his honor. The least Theo could do was go to his rescue. And perhaps a suspension was not the end of the world. His parents would go berserk, but they would eventually settle down. What did his mother say last night? “The first thing you do is fight back. Attack. When you’re right, you never back down.”

Ike would be proud.

Sometimes, a guy has got to fight.

Theo dropped his backpack, yelled something that not even he understood, and jumped into the pile.

Chapter 12

On one side of the table, Baxter sat with Griff, and on the other side Woody sat with Theo. The opposing sides faced each other as the tension slowly faded and reality set in. Baxter had an ice pack on the side of his face and his left eye was swollen and completely closed. It looked awful. Woody was proud, though he suppressed a smile. With suspension coming and angry parents to deal with, smiles were not possible. Griff’s face showed no damage, nor did Woody’s. Theo’s bottom lip was puffy and there was a spot of dried blood on it. He tapped it with a tissue. His more serious wound was a throbbing head, courtesy of a kick at the bottom of the pile by either Baxter or Griff, but he did not mention this.

Mr. Mount sat at the end of the table and stared at the boys. He had angrily pulled them apart and marched them down to the library and into the small study room where they were now sitting and cooling off. As the seconds and minutes ticked by, the boys settled down. Their breathing slowed. Their heart rates were returning to normal. Nothing like a good fight to get the pulse racing and the blood pumping.

“What happened?” Mr. Mount finally asked.

All four boys stared at the table. Nothing. Not a word.

“Could this have anything to do with the rumor that Theo was arrested yesterday?” Mr. Mount asked, looking squarely at Theo, who did not take his eyes off the surface of the table.

Mr. Mount knew that Woody was a hothead and Baxter liked trouble. He also knew that Griff followed Baxter around like a new puppy. He would never believe, though, that Theo Boone would start a fight, or jump into the middle of one. But Mr. Mount had once been a boy, and he understood things. The way he figured it, Baxter and Griff were picking on Theo, and Woody defended his friend.

There were voices outside the room. Mr. Mount said, “I think Mrs. Gladwell is here. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.” With that, he stood and left the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Woody snarled, “Nobody rats, okay? I mean it, nobody rats. Not one word.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the door opened wide and Mrs. Gladwell stormed in. One look, and the boys knew they were dead.

She stared at them as she slowly took a seat at the end of the table. Mr. Mount eased into the room, closed the door, and stood against the wall. He was there as her witness.

“Are you okay, Baxter?” she asked, without a touch of sympathy.

Baxter nodded slightly.

“And Theo? Is that blood on your bottom lip?”

Theo nodded slightly.

She stiffened her spine, frowned even harder, and began, “Well, I want to know what happened.”

Neither boy moved the tiniest muscle. All seven eyes (Baxter had only one workable eye at this point) were glued firmly at something fascinating, though invisible, on the table. Silence, as seconds passed. Her face became redder, her frown even harsher.

“Fighting is a very serious offense,” she lectured. “We do not tolerate fighting at this school, and you’ve known this since you arrived here in the fifth grade. Fighting carries an automatic suspension. A suspension goes into your file and becomes part of your permanent record.”

Not exactly, Theo said to himself. Sure, it might be a permanent record, but it would never leave the middle school. No college or law school or potential employer would ever know that a student got suspended for fighting in the eighth grade.

“Theo,” she said sternly, “I want to know what happened. Look at me, Theo.”

Theo slowly turned and looked at the rather frightening face of his principal. “Tell me what happened,” she demanded. Theo, unable to maintain eye contact, focused his attention at a spot on the wall and clenched his jaws.

Of the four, Theo was a leader; Griff was a follower; Woody and Baxter generally moved with the pack. If Theo kept his mouth shut, then the other three would, too. This was Mrs. Gladwell’s first mistake.

The way to crack a case with multiple defendants is to separate them. Theo, if in charge, would isolate Griff in a small room with several grim-faced adults—administrators, coaches, people with clout and authority. They would explain to Griff that the other three boys were talking and pointing the finger at him. “Griff, Baxter is saying that you were taunting Theo.” And, “Griff, they’re saying you threw the first punch.” And so on. Griff wouldn’t believe this at first, but after a few minutes of getting hammered at, he would eventually start talking. Once he gave his version, he would be told that it didn’t jive with the other three; so, obviously, Griff was lying. Lying would only compound his troubles. Lying, plus fighting, would lead to an even longer suspension and probation. Griff would then become desperate to make it known that his version was indeed truthful and accurate. Once this strategy was used on all four boys, they would be singing like birds and the truth about the fight would become clear.

This, of course, would require deception on the part of the authorities, but such tactics are permissible under the law. On the other hand, Mrs. Gladwell’s strategy involved no deception, and she would learn nothing from the boys. Theo was happy that she did not understand basic police interrogation tactics.

Theo said nothing and returned his gaze to the table in front of him. His refusal to speak, to rat, meant all four would go down together.

She continued, “Baxter, who punched you in the eye?”

Baxter lowered the ice pack and set it on the table. The ice was working and the swelling had gone down a little. He almost said, “I don’t know,” but caught himself. He, of course, did know. There was no benefit in lying at this point. Just clam up like Theo and suffer through this.

There was a long pause as she waited. The air was thick with tension and looming trouble. None of the boys had ever been suspended, though Woody and Baxter had been on probation a couple of times.

Mrs. Gladwell had been informed early that morning  the Internet was buzzing with the rumors that Theo had been arrested for the theft and was going to court. She had been shown the photo posted on GashMail. She had planned to meet with Theo at some point during the day and offer her support. Now, she was faced with the unpleasant task of suspending him and the other three.

Finally, she said, “I suspect that either Baxter or Griff said something about Theo getting into trouble with the law, maybe getting arrested or something like that. Since Woody and Theo are classmates and good friends, I suspect that Woody intervened and this started the fight. Am I right about this, Griff?”

Griff jerked as though he’d been slapped, but he quickly composed himself so he could say nothing. Not a word. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth and gave her nothing.

She waited and waited and her frown disappeared. The boys were playing games, so she would play along. “Baxter?”

Baxter tapped the table nervously but said nothing.

“Boys, we can sit here all morning,” she said.

Behind her, Mr. Mount tried not to smile. Secretly, he admired the boys for protecting each other and facing their punishment together.

“Mr. Mount, would you take Baxter, Griff, and Woody outside?” she said. “I want to talk to Theo alone.” Without a word, the three followed Mr. Mount out of the room. When the door closed, Theo felt totally isolated.

“Look at me, Theo,” she said softly. Theo turned and made eye contact.

“I know you’ve had a bad week,” she said. “You feel as though you’re the victim. The police are after you. Someone is trying to frame you for the burglary. Someone is stalking you. Someone is bullying you. Your face is all over the Internet in that photo of you and your parents leaving the police station. Lies are being told. Rumors are out of control. I understand all this, Theo. I’m on your side, and I hope you know this.”

Theo managed to nod slightly.

“And I’m certain that you did not start this fight. I want you to tell me exactly what happened, okay?”

“I got in a fight,” Theo said.

“But did you start the fight, Theo?”

“I got in a fight and fighting is against the rules.” He found the strong urge to look away, but somehow managed to stare at her. She was disappointed, even hurt, and Theo felt lousy. He considered her a friend, an ally, a person of authority who was trying to help him, and he was giving her nothing.

After a long, tense, nervous, silent pause, she said, “So, you’re not going to tell me what happened?”

Theo shook his head. It hurt more when he moved it.

Then a cruel question: “What will your parents think when I call them and tell them you’ve been suspended from school for fighting?”

“I don’t know,” Theo managed to say, horrified by the prospect. Facing his parents would be far worse than getting kicked in the head. A sharp pain stabbed him in the stomach as he saw the looks in their eyes.

“Okay, please step outside.”

Theo quickly jumped from his chair and left the room. When he stepped through the door, he saw the other three and ran his index finger across his mouth. Lips are zipped. I didn’t rat, and you don’t either.

Baxter was next. He returned to the room, to the table, as if he might be executed.

“Did you say something to Theo about getting into trouble?” she asked.

No response.

“Did you taunt him or harass him?”

No response.

“Did Woody hit you in the face?”

No response.

“Did Theo?”

Nothing.

“Would you please step outside and send in Woody,” she said.

When Baxter stepped through the door and saw the other three, he ran his index finger across his lips. Nobody rats.

While Woody was getting grilled by Mrs. Gladwell, Theo and Griff and Baxter sat on a wooden bench under the watch of Mr. Mount, who felt sorry for the boys. They were all good kids and nothing would be gained by suspensions. Still, rules were rules.

Of the four, Woody would be the last to crack under pressure, and he refused to answer any question from Mrs. Gladwell. When she asked him if he hit Baxter, he responded, “Name, rank, and serial number only.”

“Very funny, Woody. You think this is a game?”

“No.”

“Did you throw the first punch?”

“I refuse to incriminate myself,” he replied.

“Get out of here.”

The weakest link was Griff, and when he survived his little question-and-answer period with Mrs. Gladwell by refusing to rat, she reassembled the four boys in the room. She said, “Very well. I’m going to suspend each of you one day for fighting, and another day for your refusal to cooperate. Today is Thursday and the suspension will run today and tomorrow. You will return to classes on Monday, at which time you will begin a thirty-day probation. Any violation during the next thirty days, and you will be suspended for a week.”

The prospect of missing classes for two days did not really trouble Theo, but the reality of facing his parents was painful. He thought about calling Ike first because Ike would understand and probably praise Theo for taking a stand. Perhaps Ike could then break the news to Theo’s parents and soften the impact. Theo was contemplating this when Mrs. Gladwell said, “I’ll call your parents.”

It took an hour to work out the details of the suspensions and do the paperwork. The boys stayed in the room, at the table, facing each other while Mr. Mount sat, bored, at the end of the table. He stepped out once to get coffee, and while he was gone Baxter said, “Sorry, Theo.”

“No problem,” Theo said.

Woody did not apologize.

Woody’s parents and Baxter’s parents had jobs; thus, no one was home during the day. Mrs. Gladwell explained they would be receiving “in-school suspensions” and would be required to sit in separate study rooms at school from 8:40 a.m. until classes ended at 3:30. They would be alone with nothing to do but extra homework. No cell phones, laptops, nothing but textbooks. They would eat lunch at their desks, alone. This seemed far worse than the old-fashioned suspensions where they kicked you off campus. Griff’s mother was a housewife so he could stay at home, and probably sleep late, watch television, play with the dog, and do whatever he wanted, unless, of course, his parents were ticked off enough to impose penalties. Theo, too, had a place to go—the offices of Boone & Boone.

His mother was in court. His father picked him up from school. As they were driving away, Theo said, “What about my bike?”

“We’ll get it later,” his father replied. So far, he had been remarkably cool and undisturbed, at least on the surface.

A block or two later, his father said, “What happened?”

“It’s just between me and you, right?”

“What happened, Theo!” his father snapped.

“You’re not telling Mrs. Gladwell, are you? I can’t rat on the other guys.”

“No. Just tell me what happened.”

Theo told him everything. The details poured forth in a rush, and Theo, who had been unable to tell his side of the story, unloaded. When he finished they were sitting in the small parking lot behind the office. “Are you upset with me, Dad?” Theo asked.

“You know the rules, and you broke the rules,” Mr. Boone said sternly.

“I did, but at the time, I had no choice.”

Mr. Boone turned off the ignition and said, “That’s the way I see it, too.”