by John Grisham
“No.”
“Probably forty years ago.”
“I’m thirteen years old, Ike.”
“Right. Anyway, it happened over in Rooseburg. A crook named Bates faked his own death one night. Somehow snatched an unknown person, knocked him out, put this person in his car, a nice Cadillac, then ran it into a ditch and set it on fire. The police and firemen show up and the car is nothing but flames. They find a pile of cremated ashes and figure it’s Mr. Bates. They have a funeral, a burial, the usual. Mrs. Bates collects the life insurance. Mr. Bates is forgotten until three years later when he’s arrested in Montana outside a bar. They haul him back to face the music here. He pleads guilty. The big question is—who was the guy who got fried in his car? Mr. Bates says he doesn’t know, never got the boy’s name, just picked him up one night as a hitchhiker. Three hours later, the boy was reduced to ashes. Guess he got in the wrong car. Bates gets life in prison.”
“What’s the point here, Ike?”
“The point, my dear nephew, is that we may never know who the cops pulled from the river. There’s a class of people out there, Theo—bums, drifters, hobos, homeless folk—who live in the underworld. They’re nameless, faceless; they move from town to town, hopping trains, hitchhiking, living in the woods and under the bridges. They’ve dropped out of society, and from time to time bad things happen to them. It’s a rough and violent world they inhabit, and we rarely see them, because they do not wish to be seen. My guess is that the corpse the cops are inspecting will never be identified. But that’s really not the point. The good news is that it’s not your friend.”
“Thanks, Ike. I don’t know what else to say.”
“I thought you might need some good news.”
“It’s very good news, Ike. I’ve been worried sick.”
“She your girlfriend?”
“No, just a good friend. She has a weird family and I guess I’m one of the few kids she confides in.”
“She’s lucky to have a friend like you, Theo.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Ike relaxed and put his feet on his desk. Sandals again, with bright red socks. He sipped his coffee and smiled at Theo. “How much do you know about her father?”
Theo squirmed and wasn’t sure what to say. “I met him once, at their house. April’s mother threw a birthday party for her a couple of years ago. It was a disaster because most of the kids didn’t show up. The other parents didn’t like the idea of them going to the Finnemores’ house. But I was there, me and three others, and her dad was hanging around. He had long hair and a beard and seemed uncomfortable around us kids. April told me a lot over the years. He comes and goes and she’s happier when he’s not around. He plays the guitar and writes songs—bad songs according to April—and still has the dream of making it big as a musician.”
“I know the guy,” Ike said smugly. “Or, I should say, I know of him.”
“How’s that?” Theo asked, not really surprised that Ike knew another strange person.
“I have a friend who plays music with him occasionally, says he’s a deadbeat. Spends a lot of time with a ragtag band of middle-aged losers. They take little tours, playing in bars and fraternity houses. I suspect there are some drugs involved.”
“That sounds right. April told me he was missing one time for a whole month. I think he and Mrs. Finnemore fight a lot. It’s a very unhappy family.”
Ike slowly got to his feet and walked to the stereo mounted in a bookcase. He pushed a button, and some folk music began playing quietly in the background. Ike spoke as he fiddled with the volume, “Well, if you ask me, the police need to check out the father. He probably got the girl and took off somewhere.”
“I’m not sure April would leave with him. She didn’t like him and didn’t trust him.”
“Why hasn’t she tried to contact you? Doesn’t she have a cell phone, a laptop? Don’t you kids chat nonstop online?”
“The police found her laptop in her room, and her parents would not allow her to have a cell phone. She told me once that her father hates cell phones and doesn’t use one. He doesn’t want to be found when he’s on the road. I’m sure she would try and contact me if she could. Maybe whoever took her won’t let her get near a phone.”
Ike sat down again and looked at a notepad on his desk. Theo needed to get to school, which was ten minutes away by bike if he hit all the shortcuts.
“I’ll see what I can find out about the father,” Ike said. “Call me after school.”
“Thanks, Ike. And, I suppose this is top secret, right, this great news about April?”
“Why should it be a secret? In about an hour the police will make the announcement. If you ask me, they should’ve informed the public last night. But, no, the police like to put on press conferences, make everything as dramatic as possible. I don’t care who you tell. The public has the right to know.”
“Great. I’ll call Mom on the way to school.”
Chapter 12
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Mount got his homeroom quiet and settled, which was not as difficult as usual. The boys were again subdued. There was a lot of gossip, but it was more of the whispered variety. Mr. Mount looked at them, and then said, gravely, “Men, Theo has an update on April’s disappearance.”
Theo stood slowly and walked to the front of the class. One of his favorite trial lawyers in town was a man named Jesse Meelbank. When Mr. Meelbank had a trial, Theo tried to watch as much as possible. The summer before, there was a long trial in which Mr. Meelbank sued a railroad company for the tragic death of a young woman, and Theo watched nonstop for nine days. It was awesome. What he loved about Mr. Meelbank was the way he carried himself in the courtroom. He moved gracefully, but with a purpose, never in a hurry but never wasting time. When he was ready to speak, he looked at the witness, or the judge or jury, and he paused dramatically before saying the first word. And when he spoke, his tone was friendly, conversational, seemingly off the cuff, but not a single word, phrase, or syllable was wasted. Everyone listened to Jesse Meelbank, and he seldom lost a case. Often, when Theo was alone in his bedroom or office (with the door locked), he liked to address the jury in some dramatic, make-believe case, and he always imitated Mr. Meelbank.
He stood before the class, paused just a second, and when he had everyone’s attention, he said, “As we all know, the police found a dead body in the river yesterday. It was all over the news, and the reports suggested that the body was April Finnemore.” (A dramatic pause as Theo searched their troubled eyes). “However, I have a reliable source that has confirmed that the body is not April. The body is that of a man about five feet six inches tall, and the poor guy has been in the water for a long time. His body is really decomposed.”
Grins everywhere, on every face, even a clap or two. Because he knew every lawyer, judge, court clerk, and practically every policeman in town, Theo’s word carried great weight with his friends and classmates, at least in matters like this. When the topic was Chemistry, music, movies, or the Civil War, he was not the expert and did not pretend to be. But when it came to the law, the courts, and the criminal justice system, Theo was the man.
He continued, “At nine this morning, the police will make this announcement to the press. It’s certainly good news, but the fact is, April is still missing and the police do not have many clues.”
“What about Jack Leeper?” Aaron asked.
“He’s still a suspect, but he’s not cooperating.”
The boys were suddenly talkative. They asked Theo more random questions, none of which he could answer, and they chatted among themselves. When the bell rang, they scampered off to first period, and Mr. Mount hustled down to the principal’s office to repeat the good news. It spread like wildfire through the office and teachers’ lounge, and then it spilled into the hallways and classrooms and even the restrooms and cafeteria.
A few minutes before 9:00 a.m., Mrs. Gladwell, the principal, interrupted the classes with an announcement through
the intercom. All eighth-grade students were to report immediately to the auditorium for another unscheduled assembly. They had done the same thing the day before when Mrs. Gladwell tried to calm their fears.
As the students filed into the auditorium, a large television was being rolled in by two of the custodians. Mrs. Gladwell hurried everyone to their seats, and when they were seated, she said, “Attention, please!” She had an annoying way of dragging out the word please so that it sounded more like “Pleeeeeze.” This was often imitated over lunch or on the playground, especially by the boys. Behind her, the screen came to life with a muted broadcast of a morning talk show. She went on, “At nine o’clock, the police are going to make an important announcement in the April Finnemore case, and I thought it would be great if we could see it live and enjoy this moment together. Pleeeeze, no questions.”
She glanced at her watch, and then glanced at the television. “Let’s put it on Channel twenty-eight,” she said to the custodians. Strattenburg had two network stations and two cable. Channel 28 was arguably the most reliable, which meant that it generally made fewer blunders than the others. Theo had once watched a great trial in which Channel 28 was sued by a doctor who claimed a reporter for the station had said false things about him. The jury believed the doctor, as did Theo, and gave him a bunch of money.
Channel 28 was showing another morning talk show, one that started the hour not with the news but with the latest breathtaking details of a celebrity divorce. Thankfully, it was still on mute. The eighth graders waited patiently and quietly.
There was a clock on the wall, and when the minute hand made it to five minutes past nine, Theo began to squirm. Some of the students began to whisper. The celebrity divorce gave way to a bridal makeover, one in which a rather plain and somewhat chubby bride got worked on by all manner of flaky professionals. A trainer tried to whip her into shape by screaming at her. A man with painted fingernails restyled her hair. A real weirdo plastered on new makeup. This went on and on with virtually no improvement. By 9:15, the bride was ready for the wedding. She looked like a different person, and it was obvious, even with no sound, that her groom preferred the version he had originally proposed to.
But by then, Theo was too nervous to care. Mr. Mount eased over to him and whispered, “Theo, are you sure the police will make the announcement?”
Theo nodded confidently and said, “Yes, sir.”
But all confidence had vanished. Theo was kicking himself for being such a loudmouth and know-it-all. He was also kicking Ike. He was tempted to sneak his cell phone out of his pocket and text Ike to see what was going on. What were the police doing? The school, though, had a strict policy regarding cell phones. Only seventh and eighth graders could have them on campus, and calls, texts, and e-mails were permitted only during lunch and recess. If you got caught using your phone at any other time, then you lost your phone. About half of the eighth graders had cell phones. Many parents still refused to allow them.
“Hey, Theo, what’s the deal?” Aaron Helleberg asked at full volume. He was seated behind Theo, three seats down.
Theo smiled, shrugged, and said, “These things never run on time.”
Once the chubby bride got married, it was time for the morning news. Floods in India were claiming thousands of lives, and London got hit with a freak snowstorm. With the news out of the way, one of the hosts began an exclusive interview with a supermodel.
Theo felt as though every teacher and every student was staring at him. He was anxious and breathing rapidly, and then he had an even worse thought. What if Ike was wrong? What if Ike had believed some bad information and the police were not so sure about the dead body?
Wouldn’t Theo look like an idiot? Indeed he would, but that would be nothing if the police had in fact pulled April out of the water.
He jumped to his feet and walked over to where Mr. Mount was standing with two other teachers. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, still managing to appear confident. “Why don’t you call the police department and see what’s going on?” Theo said.
“Who would I call?” Mr. Mount asked.
“I’ll give you the number,” Theo said.
Mrs. Gladwell was walking over, frowning at Theo.
“Why don’t you call, Theo?” Mr. Mount said, and that was exactly what Theo wanted to hear. He looked at Mrs. Gladwell and said, very politely, “May I step into the hall and call the police department?”
Mrs. Gladwell was pretty nervous about the situation, too, and she quickly said, “Yes, and hurry.”
Theo disappeared. In the hall, he whipped out his cell phone and called Ike. No answer. He called the police department, but the line was busy. He called Elsa at the office and asked if she had heard anything. She had not. He tried Ike again, no answer. He tried to think of someone else to call at that awful moment, but no one came to mind. He checked the time on his cell phone—9:27.
Theo stared at the large metal door that led into the auditorium where about 175 of his classmates and a dozen or so teachers were waiting on some very good news about April, news that Theo had brought to school and delivered as dramatically as possible. He knew he should open the door and return to his seat. He thought about leaving, just going someplace in the school and hiding for an hour or so. He could claim that his stomach was upset, or that his asthma had flared up. He could hide in the library or the gym.
The doorknob clicked and Theo stuck the phone to his ear as if in a deep conversation. Mr. Mount came out, looked at him quizzically, and mouthed the words “Is everything okay?” Theo smiled and nodded his head as if he had the police on the line and they were doing exactly what he wanted them to do. Mr. Mount returned to the auditorium.
Theo could (1) run and hide; (2) stop the damage with a little fib, something like—“The announcement by the police has been postponed,” or (3) stick with the current plan and pray for a miracle. He thought about throwing rocks at Ike, then gritted his teeth, and pulled open the door. Everyone watched him as he returned. Mrs. Gladwell pounced on him. “What’s going on, Theo?” she said, eyebrows arched, eyes flashing.
“It should be any minute now,” he said.
“Who did you talk to?” Mr. Mount asked—a rather direct question.
“They’re having some technical problems,” Theo replied, dodging. “Just a few more minutes.”
Mr. Mount frowned as if he found this hard to believe. Theo quickly got to his seat and tried to become invisible. He focused on the television screen, where a dog was gripping two paintbrushes in his teeth and splashing paint on a white canvas while the host howled with laughter. Come on, Theo said to himself, someone save me here. It was 9:35.
“Hey, Theo, any more inside scoop?” Aaron said loudly, and several kids laughed.
“At least we’re not in class,” Theo shot back.
Ten more minutes passed. The painting dog gave way to an obese chef who built a pyramid out of mushrooms, then almost cried when it all tumbled down. Mrs. Gladwell walked in front of the television, shot a vicious look at Theo, and said, “Well, you need to get back to class.”
At that moment, Channel 28 cut in with a BREAKING NEWS graphic. A custodian hit the mute switch, and Mrs. Gladwell hurried out of the way. Theo exhaled and thanked God for miracles.
The Police Chief was behind a podium with a row of uniformed officers behind him. To the far right was Detective Slater in a coat and tie. Everyone looked exhausted. The chief read from a page of notes, and he gave the same information Ike had delivered to Theo about two hours earlier. They were waiting on DNA testing to confirm things, but they were almost certain the body pulled from the river was not that of April Finnemore. He went into some detail about the size and condition of the body, which they were working hard to identify, and he gave the impression they were making progress. As for April, they were following many leads. The reporters asked a lot of questions, and the chief did a lot of talking, but not much was said.
When the press conference was ove
r, the eighth graders were relieved, but still worried. The police had no idea where April was, or who took her. Jack Leeper was still the prime suspect. At least she wasn’t dead, or if she was, they didn’t yet know it.
As they left the auditorium and returned to class, Theo reminded himself to be more cautious next time. He had just barely avoided being the biggest laughingstock in school.
During the lunch break, Theo, Woody, Chase, Aaron, and a few others ate sandwiches and talked about resuming their search after school. The weather, though, was threatening and heavy rain was predicted for the afternoon and into the night. As the days had dragged by, there were fewer and fewer among them who believed April was still in Strattenburg. Why, then, should they search the streets each afternoon if no one believed she would be found?
Theo was determined to continue, rain or not.
Chapter 13
Halfway through Chemistry, with rain and wind pounding the windows, Theo was trying to listen to Mr. Tubcheck when he was startled to hear his own name. It was Mrs. Gladwell again, over the intercom. “Mr. Tubcheck, is Theodore Boone in class?” she screeched, startling the boys and Mr. Tubcheck as well.
Theo’s heart stopped as he bolted straight up in his chair. Where else would I be at this moment? he thought.
“He is,” Mr. Tubcheck responded.
“Please send him to the office.”
As Theo walked slowly down the hall, he tried desperately to think of why he was needed in the principal’s office. It was almost 2:00 p.m. on Friday afternoon. The week was almost over, and what a miserable week it had been. Perhaps Mrs. Gladwell was still sore over the delayed press conference this morning, but Theo didn’t think so. That had turned out well. He had done nothing significantly wrong the entire week, violated no rules, offended no one, successfully completed most of his homework, and so on. He gave up. He really wasn’t that worried. Two years earlier, Mrs. Gladwell’s oldest daughter had gone through an unpleasant divorce, and Marcella Boone had been her lawyer.