by John Grisham
Theo’s cell phone vibrated—a text message was arriving. He glanced at it. April Finnemore, his close friend, said: TB, check email now. Urgent.
Interrupting dinner was frowned on by his parents, so Theo, between bites, texted back: What is it?
April replied: Terrible. Urgent! Go now.
Theo replied: OK.
He took a few more bites, chewed, and swallowed quickly, then announced, “I’m stuffed.” He stood with his plate and glass and headed for the kitchen.
“That was fast,” his mother said. His father was in another world.
Theo rinsed his plate and went straight for his backpack on the kitchen counter. A few seconds later he was online, then he opened his mailbox. He clicked on “Urgent Message from GashMail,” and saw the photo. Bright, clear, no doubt about who was leaving the police station. His first reaction when reading the description was disbelief. His jaw dropped, his mouth fell open wide, and for several seconds he stared at the image of himself leaving the police station. The shock was quickly replaced by anger. Anger at the lies, the fiction. He had not been arrested. He was not due in court. Then the questions—Who took the photo? Where had they been hiding? Why would anyone tell such outright lies? How many people have seen this? “Guys!” Theo yelled.
His parents crowded behind him and gawked at the monitor sitting on the kitchen counter. A photo taken secretly by some punk and then broadcast to the world with a bunch of lies to describe it. As lawyers, their first reaction was—what could be done legally to stop it, to fix it, to bring the guilty party to justice?
“I’m assuming this is everywhere,” Mrs. Boone said.
“Probably so.” Theo replied.
“What is GashMail?” Mr. Boone asked.
“It’s kind of a shady server you use when you don’t want to get caught. A lot of unknown e-mails start there, and it’s really hard to track them down.”
“So we can’t track this?”
“Anything is possible with the Internet, but it would be complicated and expensive.”
“The Internet,” Mr. Boone said in disgust, and walked to the window above the sink and stared into the darkness of the backyard.
Theo sat down at the table and rubbed his temples. “I guess my life is ruined,” he said, and for a moment was near tears.
“This can be explained, Theo,” his father said. “Your friends will know the truth. What strangers think doesn’t matter.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Dad. You don’t have to face all those kids at school tomorrow. And you don’t know how fast rumors fly on the Internet. Half the town is looking at the photo right now and deciding that I’m guilty.”
Theo’s mother sat next to him and patted his arm. “You’re not guilty of anything, Theo, and the truth will come out.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Mom. You saw Detective Hamilton today. He thinks I’m guilty. What if they don’t find the real thieves? What if they finish their investigation with nothing but me, just me and those three stolen tablets in my locker? At some point, they have to charge somebody with the crime, and it could easily be me. I saw the owner of the store today, they call him Big Mac, and, believe me, he’s convinced I’m guilty and he’s out for blood. He’ll see this photo. The police will see it, too. It makes it easier to believe I’m guilty.”
There was a long, heavy pause as Theo’s words settled in the kitchen. Was reality gradually seeping in? Was it possible that Theo could actually be charged with the crime? And once the wheels of justice began moving, could the Boones do anything to prevent a terrible outcome?
Each tablet had a value of approximately four hundred dollars, for a total of twelve hundred dollars. When the combined value of stolen goods was in excess of five hundred dollars, then the crime was deemed a felony, a more serious crime than a misdemeanor. Theo knew the law; he’d been pondering it for hours now. He had even double-checked the codes and statutes at the office when he was supposed to be doing his homework. If he were eighteen or older, he would be staring at a felony charge. However, because he was only thirteen, the case would be handled in Juvenile Court where the rules were different. Things were more private there. The files were not made public, nor were the hearings. There were no juries; all matters were decided by a Juvenile Court judge. Jail sentences were rare, and seldom for long periods of time.
If this train wreck continued and Theo somehow got convicted, he could possibly be sentenced to a few months in a detention center for kids.
Jail? Theodore Boone sentenced to serve time?
Outrageous. Crazy. An overreaction. All of the above, but Theo’s hyperactive mind was out of control.
His mother was speaking to him. “Theo, the first thing you do is fight back. Attack. When you’re right, you never back down. Post a message on your page and tell the truth. E-mail all your friends and tell them this photo and its caption are misleading. Get April, Chase, and Woody and those you trust the most to flood the Internet with the truth. Spread the word that we, your family, are considering legal action.”
“We are?” Theo asked.
“Of course we are. We are considering it. It might not work, but we are at least considering it.”
“Mom’s right, Theo,” Mr. Boone said. “The least you can do at this point is put up a fight.”
Theo liked it. He had been paralyzed for the past ten minutes, and now it was time for action.
An hour later, the Boones were still at the kitchen table, all three hammering away at their laptops as they tried to chase the rumors while containing them at the same time. It was a losing battle. The photo and its caption were too juicy to ignore, and Theo was proving to be a good target. The only child of two well-known lawyers arrested for breaking and entering, and burglary. Caught red-handed with the stolen goods in his school locker. Like every false rumor, it gained credibility while being repeated, and before long it was practically a fact.
Mr. Boone closed his laptop and began taking notes on his standard yellow pad. At any given moment in Theo’s young life, he could walk through the house and lay eyes on at least five yellow legal pads.
“Let’s do some detective work,” Mr. Boone said. Mrs. Boone removed her reading glasses and closed her laptop, too. She took a sip of herbal tea and said, “Okay, Sherlock Holmes, let’s go.”
“First, who could break into your locker without being seen?” Mr. Boone asked. “I can’t imagine a stranger, an adult, entering the school, going straight to the locker, somehow knowing the code, and breaking in.”
“Agreed,” said Mrs. Boone. “Theo, do you ever see teachers, or coaches, or janitors or any other adult opening the lockers?”
“Never. You never see them around the lockers. The teachers hang out in the faculty lounge. The janitors have a locker room in the basement, but it’s off-limits for students. The coaches use the locker rooms at the gym.”
“So an adult would be noticed?”
Theo thought for a moment, then said, “If we knew the adult, and she was opening one of our lockers, then, sure, we would make a note of it. That would be unusual. If it were a stranger, we would probably say something to the person. I don’t know for sure because it’s never happened.”
“But this is between classes when the halls are busy, right?” asked Mr. Boone.
“Yes.”
“What about while you’re in class and the halls are empty?”
Theo thought some more. “The halls are rarely empty. During class there’s usually someone going somewhere—a student with a hall pass, a janitor, a teacher’s assistant.”
“What about security cameras in the halls?” Mr. Boone asked.
“They took them down a few weeks ago to install a new system.”
Mrs. Boone said, “Sounds to me like it would be too risky for an adult to open a student’s locker.”
“I agree,” Theo said. “But every crime has some risk, right?”
“Sure, but isn’t the risk much greater for someone who does no
t normally use a locker?”
“Yes,” Mr. Boone said with certainty. “And even riskier for someone from outside the school. I say we eliminate that person. Can we agree that this is an inside job, someone from inside the school?”
Theo shrugged but did not disagree, nor did his mother.
Mr. Boone continued, “Someone who knows how to open the locker. Someone who could steal the code. And, someone with easy access to the bike racks where it takes about two seconds to poke a hole in a tire. Someone who knows Theo’s bike, knows where he parks it. Someone who knows his schedule and movements. Someone who knows Theo well and can watch him without getting caught.”
“Another student?” Theo asked.
“Exactly.”
Mrs. Boone was skeptical. “I find it hard to believe that a thirteen-year-old could break into the computer store, avoid the security cameras, and make a clean getaway.”
“That’s more believable than a janitor or a teacher’s assistant,” Mr. Boone replied.
There was a long pause as the three detectives took a deep breath and considered this. Theo spoke first. “He had a partner, right? Remember the anonymous call from the pay phone near the hospital. Plus, it would take at least two people to haul away all the stolen goods from the computer store.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Boone said again. “And look at the technical know-how involved here. Someone hacked into the school’s file and got the code. Someone was clever enough to snap a photo of us this afternoon as we left the police station, and knew how to use this GashMail to distribute it without getting caught. Sounds like a kid to me.”
“I guess anyone could throw a rock through a window,” Mrs. Boone observed.
“Yes, but it does seem more of a juvenile act, doesn’t it?”
All three agreed.
Theo said, “And I guess most kids in the school, at least most of the boys, know when and where the Boy Scouts meet. It wouldn’t be difficult to sneak around the VFW and find my bike during the meeting.”
The evidence was becoming overwhelming.
“How many students are in the middle school, Theo?” Mrs. Boone asked.
“Five sections in grades five through eight. That’s about eighty for each grade, times four, so somewhere around three hundred and twenty.”
“Let’s eliminate the girls,” Mr. Boone said. “I can’t see a girl slashing tires or throwing rocks through windows.”
“I don’t know, Dad. We have some pretty rough girls in our school.”
“Humor me for now, Theo. We can talk about the girls later.”
“Okay, now we’re down to a hundred and sixty boys,” Theo said. “Where do we start?”
The trail suddenly seemed a bit cooler. Mr. and Mrs. Boone knew Theo was a popular kid who did not bully or fight or start trouble.
Mr. Boone said, “We know your friends, Theo, but that’s only a handful. We don’t know the majority of the students at school. Why don’t you make a list of possible suspects? Kids you’ve had disagreements with. Kids who may carry a grudge for something that happened recently, or a year ago.”
“What about the Debate Team?” Mrs. Boone asked. “You’ve never lost a debate. Maybe someone on the losing side got their feelings hurt.”
“Maybe one of your fellow Scouts is jealous,” added Mr. Boone.
Theo was nodding along, his mind racing and trying to imagine possible enemies. He said, “Well, I’m sure there are kids who don’t like me, but why this? It seems like they’re going overboard to settle a grudge, a grudge I know nothing about.”
“Indeed it does,” said Mrs. Boone.
“Think about it, Theo. Make a list of your top suspects, and we’ll discuss them over dinner tomorrow night.”
“I’ll try,” Theo said.
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, o
kay? 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.”