by John Grisham
Nothing from Theo. Flay waited, blew some more smoke, then said, “The biggest crook might be a guy named Joe Ford. You know Joe Ford?”
“Never heard of him,” Theo said, looking at Flay. It was a fib but Theo didn’t care. He had met Joe Ford within the safe and secure offices of Boone & Boone. It was none of Flay’s business.
Flay glared at him as if he knew the truth. “I doubt that,” he said. “Your father has been Ford’s lawyer for many years.”
“So?”
“So, now I hear Ford has fired the law firm of Boone and Boone. Why, well I don’t really know, but I bet it’s related to the bypass.”
“What do you want from me?” Theo asked angrily.
“Information.”
“Forget it. I know nothing.”
“Perhaps you can learn something, do a little digging, find something that might prove valuable and help stop the bypass.”
“Digging is your job, not mine.”
“We’re on the same side, Theo.” Flay reached into his shirt pocket and whipped out a white business card. He thrust it at Theo and said, “Here’s my phone number. You hear something, you give me a call. I swear it’s all confidential. I have never revealed a source.”
Theo took the card and walked away without saying a word. Though he was certain he’d done nothing wrong, it didn’t feel that way. He got on his bike and took off down Main Street, wondering if he should tell his parents. Joe Ford had fired the Boone firm the day before—how did Flay know so soon?
At Guff’s, April was waiting in their favorite booth. She ordered her usual frozen yogurt, and Theo, his usual chocolate gelato covered in crushed Oreos. She was subdued, and Theo soon knew why. Her parents were in a constant state of war, and if they weren’t in the middle of a divorce, then they were threatening to get another one started. Theo’s problems vanished as he listened to his friend discuss the latest fights around her house. He could offer no advice, but he could certainly listen. April dreamed of running away, like her older siblings had done, but it wasn’t possible. At the age of thirteen, she had no place to go. Trapped at home, she created fictional worlds to which she could get away. Her favorite dream was being a student in Paris, studying art and painting at the edge of the Seine, very far from home.
Theo worked his gelato and listened dutifully, though he’d heard of this dream quite often. He secretly hoped she would not tear up and start crying. She did not.
Chapter 21
Woods Boone was a lifelong mediocre golfer who had never had the time to sharpen his game with lessons or practice or more time on the course. When Theo was ten, his parents gave him a set of clubs for Christmas, and his father attempted to give him some free lessons. However, both soon realized that lessons, free or not, from a weekend hacker were not that valuable. So each year on his birthday, his father gave him a package of ten, thirty-minute lessons from a pro. Theo’s swing improved dramatically, and by the age of twelve, he could almost beat his father.
Weather permitting, they played nine holes every Saturday morning at the Strattenburg Municipal Course, and followed this with a boys’ only lunch, usually at Pappy’s, a well-known downtown deli noted for its pastrami subs and onion rings. Though he enjoyed athletics, the doctors would not allow Theo to play team sports. Tennis was out, too. He could bike, hike, and swim and do almost everything else, but the doctors drew the line at team sports. This irritated Theo and had been the cause of much dismay and argument around the Boone home, but Theo was still on the sidelines. That’s why he loved golf. With a few exceptions, he could play as well as anyone his age, though he had yet to prove this in tournaments. His father discouraged competition on the golf course. Mr. Boone believed golf was a difficult game to begin with and most people made it worse by keeping score, fooling with handicaps, gambling, and playing in tournaments.
But they always kept score. Not on the official scorecard clipped to the golf cart’s steering wheel, but in their heads. Mr. Boone was usually seven or eight strokes over par for nine holes, and Theo was close behind. Both pretended not to know the other’s score.
Mr. Boone was drinking coffee at the kitchen table when Theo came down with Judge. “We have a tee time?” Theo asked as he released Judge through the rear door.
“Nine forty-five,” Mr. Boone said without looking up. “But, remember, Dr. Kohl wants to see Judge at nine a.m.”
“I forgot,” Theo said. “Can we still play?”
“Sure, but let’s move it.”
Theo and Judge ate quickly. Theo never showered on Saturday morning and that was another reason he loved the day. They tossed their golf clubs into the rear of Mr. Boone’s SUV, and at nine a.m. walked into Dr. Kohl’s clinic. He sized them up and said, “Headed for the course, huh?”
“We tee off at nine forty-five,” Theo said, with some urgency in his voice. The course was always crowded on Saturday morning and being late caused major problems. While Mr. Boone waited in the reception area with yet another newspaper, Theo and Judge followed the vet to an exam room. Working quickly, but expertly, Dr. Kohl removed stitches, changed bandages, cleaned wounds, and reworked the splint on Judge’s broken leg, and managed to do all this while talking to both Theo and the dog in a voice so soothing he could almost put one to sleep. In Theo’s opinion, Dr. Kohl had saved the life of his beloved pet, plain and simple, and for that he would always be a hero.
Judge flinched and whimpered a few times, but he also realized he was lucky to be alive. He was a tough dog who could handle pain.
Dr. Kohl pronounced him “ready to go” and said he should come back in a week. Theo thanked him again for saving Judge’s life. “All in a day’s work, Theo,” he replied.
They stopped by the house, tucked Judge away, and headed for the golf course.
With its hills, ponds, abundant sand traps, and at least three treacherous creeks, the Strattenburg Municipal Course was difficult. But when you don’t keep score, who cares?
Mr. Boone had been a bit aloof since the Joe Ford matter, and Theo sensed some lingering attitude. However, when his father parred three consecutive holes, the last with an impossible forty-foot putt, the attitude vanished and all was well. They played for two hours, and enjoyed the scenery, the fresh air, the good golf and the bad. They ignored the law, the firm, the bypass, and talked instead about the game. Mr. Boone had learned not to give advice or pointers to Theo while they were playing, but he was prone to say things like, “Now, Theo, I think Tiger Woods would use a sand wedge here and aim for the front lip of the green.”
Theo suspected his father had no idea what Tiger Woods would do. They were in an entirely different world. Theo, though, had already learned that amateur golfers, even bad weekend hackers, often watch the pros on television and, because they’re playing the same game, feel as though they are somehow connected.
He always listened respectfully to his father, then played the shot precisely as he wanted. So many times, when Mr. Boone was pondering a shot, Theo was sorely tempted to say something like, “Now, Dad, I think Tiger Woods would look at your ball and say there’s no way you can put it anywhere near the green.” But, of course, he said nothing.
There had been two or three occasions when Theo had matched his father shot for shot, and this had caused a slight but noticeable rise in Mr. Boone’s stress level as they approached the last two holes. Regardless of how much he went on about how golf should be recreation and not competition, he really didn’t want to lose to his son.
How can you lose, though, when you don’t keep score?
Theo sensed this and sort of felt sorry for his father. Maybe one day when he was sixteen or seventeen it would be okay to win, but not at the age of thirteen. And not today. Mr. Boone made par on five of the nine holes. He had two bogeys and two double bogeys, for an unofficial score of 42, one of his better rounds. Theo played poorly and was happy there was no written record of the game.
They turned in the cart, loaded their clubs, changed shoes, and he
aded for Pappy’s downtown and a pastrami sub.
That afternoon, Theo told his mom he was going to watch friends play soccer, and he would be home by 5:00 p.m. She asked a few questions, all of which Theo artfully dodged without being deceitful, then gave her approval.
At 2:00 p.m., as planned, Theo met April at the end of her driveway, and they took off on their bikes to the Stratten Soccer Complex. Normally, such a journey by bike would not be permitted. There were too many busy streets, too much traffic, and too much distance. The complex was 1.5 miles west of Battle Street, “out in the county” as folks liked to say, and too far for city kids on bikes. But, thanks to Hardie, Theo knew a few shortcuts and back roads. He and April rode furiously for thirty minutes, and when they passed Jackson Elementary School they were ready for a break. The complex was within view, its parking lot packed with vehicles.
Hardie was playing on field number six, and the game was in progress. Theo and April found seats in the bleachers and caught their breath. Hardie was a forward, and when the ball rolled out of bounds near the bleachers, he chased it and saw his two friends in the stands. He smiled and nodded, then hustled away. Theo and April watched a few minutes, got bored, and began wandering around. It was an amazing sight to see ten games in progress at the same time, all with fans screaming and coaches yelling and whistles blowing. The complex was in a beautiful setting, with hills on all sides, surrounded by woods and nature, far removed from any traffic congestion.
Why ruin it? Theo asked himself. Why slap a four-lane highway carrying twenty-five thousand vehicles a day through the middle of such a pretty, rural part of the county? Why choke up the place with traffic and smog? It made no sense.
He and April made their way back to the parking lot. Theo was holding his cell phone, and April was holding her mother’s video camera. They began walking along a long row of parked cars, Theo on one side, April on the other, and as they went they videoed the license plates of the vehicles. No one else was in the parking lot; they were off cheering for their teams, but Theo kept an eye on the foot traffic. It wasn’t illegal to video the license plates of a car anywhere, but he didn’t want to be forced to explain what they were doing.
There were actually three large lots scattered around the complex, and it took almost an hour to walk behind every vehicle and record the license plate numbers. No one noticed what they were doing, though there were a couple of close calls. Theo simply put his phone to his ear and began talking.
They counted one hundred forty-seven cars and trucks. The plan was to review the video, write down the license plate numbers, go to the website of the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles), and find a way to get the names of the owners. It was safe to assume, at least to Theo, Hardie, and now April, that the owners of the vehicles parked at the soccer complex could well be some of the strongest opponents of the bypass. What parent would want their kid playing soccer in an atmosphere of exhaust smoke and gaseous fumes?
Fortunately, the Red United team won, and Hardie’s coach was in a good mood after the game. His name was Jack Fortenberry and his son was the team’s goalie. According to Hardie, Coach Fortenberry was a soccer fanatic who coached teams in the complex during the fall and spring and also coached an elite travel team in the summer. Hardie had briefed him on the bypass and its dangers.
They met behind a net, far away from the others as the crowd was breaking up and leaving. Hardie introduced Theo and April to his coach, who quickly made it clear he had strong misgivings about the bypass. He distrusted the politicians, and he suspected a handful of big businessmen were pushing the project. He was angry that the proposed route ran next to the soccer complex, and he understood the potential hazards.
Coach Fortenberry said exactly what they wanted to hear. He offered to help in any way possible, so Theo laid out their plan.
Chapter 22
Judge, who was still sleeping on Theo’s bed instead of under it, got restless on Sunday morning about the time the sun began peeking through the curtains. Theo always enjoyed sleeping a little later on Sundays, but that would not happen on this day. He told Judge to be quiet, and that made matters worse. The dog needed to go outside, and after fifteen minutes of harassing his owner, he won the battle. Downstairs in the kitchen, Theo said a lazy good morning to both parents as he carried Judge to the back door and released him.
“Why are you up so early?” his mother asked.
“Judge wanted to go out.”
The kitchen table was covered with thick Sunday newspapers, and the way they were strewn about gave the impression his parents had been reading for some time. Theo glanced at the coffeepot and saw it was almost empty. He glanced at the clock—6:45. “You guys are up early too,” he said.
“Couldn’t go back to sleep,” his father grunted.
“Who wants pancakes?” his mother asked. She didn’t cook often, and Theo and Mr. Boone knew they should take advantage of every opportunity. “With sausage?” Mr. Boone asked.
“Of course.”
“What kind of pancakes?” Theo asked.
“What kind do you want?”
“Blueberry.”
“Blueberry it is.” She was already opening the fridge.
Theo poured himself some orange juice and took a seat at the table. A headline in the Strattenburg Gazette caught his attention. It read: COMMISSIONERS UNDECIDED ON BYPASS. He picked it up and started reading. It was not written by Norris Flay but by another reporter. According to the story, two commissioners were in favor of the bypass; two “had problems” with it; and the fifth seemed hopelessly undecided. The loudest supporter was a Mr. Mitchell Stak, a fifteen-year veteran of the County Commission and its current chairman. Mr. Stak owned a hardware store south of town and claimed the bypass would not affect his business in the least. This appeared to be true. As a businessman, a retailer, he was described as a rabid pro-growth commissioner who had never voted against a new subdivision, shopping center, apartment complex, mini-mall, car wash, or anything else that might add to the area’s “economic development.” A conservationist described Mr. Stak as being a “terror to our clean air, clean water, and quiet streets.” Stak fired back with a beauty: “The tree huggers would keep us in the dark ages.”
The report went back and forth with the pros and cons, and it was obvious that hard feelings were developing and tensions were high. As he read, Theo noticed a knot forming in his stomach. Why was he getting involved in such a nasty fight? He was just a kid and this was a real war being fought by some hard-nosed politicians. Then he thought of Hardie and the Quinn family farm. He thought of Judge and the thugs who beat him.
He read on as the sausage began to sizzle in a skillet. His mother hummed in her bathrobe as she cooked away. His father was lost in the business section of the New York Times. Judge was whimpering at the back door, no doubt excited over the fresh aroma from the kitchen. Theo let him in.
The public hearing on the bypass would be held before the County Commission in just over two weeks, and from all indications it would be a regular brawl. Mr. Stak boasted that 75 percent of the people in the county were in favor of the bypass and his supporters would flood the public hearing with a massive show of strength. Hogwash, said Sebastian Ryan of the Stratten Environmental Council, the bypass is favored by a slim minority and most of those are business people who want to make a buck. The opponents would turn out in record numbers.
For the first time, Theo actually thought about going to the public hearing. It might be a cool thing to watch! Hundreds of angry citizens, all squaring off in front of the five county commissioners. It promised to be a controlled mob scene, probably with deputies scattered around the room to keep the peace. Theo doubted his parents would allow him to go, but he liked the idea. He decided to think about it and maybe ask them later.
Over pancakes and sausage, Mrs. Boone said, “Let’s go to the early worship service.”
Mr. Boone nodded and said, “Sure.”
“I like it,” Theo said. He
really didn’t have a vote in matters involving church attendance, but that rarely stopped him from offering his thoughts on the matter. The early service was more enjoyable. It ran from 9:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. and was not as stuffy as the main worship hour at 11:00 a.m. The dress was more casual and the sanctuary was not as crowded.
“Then you guys had better hurry up,” his mother said. Theo and his father exchanged looks of polite frustration. It was just after 7:30. They had well over an hour to get ready. Mr. Boone could shower, shave, and get dressed in about twenty minutes. Theo, not yet shaving, could do it in fifteen. Both knew it would take Mrs. Boone at least an hour to get ready, yet she was telling them to hurry. But both remained quiet. Some things were not worth discussing.
After lunch, and long after church, Theo reluctantly went to his room to begin work on a book report. It was to be a three-page analysis of the main characters in Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, one of Theo’s favorite books. He liked the book but he didn’t like the idea of spending a good chunk of Sunday afternoon writing about it. Nevertheless, he trudged up the stairs and closed his door. But he couldn’t find the book. He looked everywhere, then went downstairs to the den and searched some more.
“Maybe you left it at the office,” his mother said. Bingo! That’s exactly where the book was.
“Be back in a minute,” Theo said. He took off on his bike and ten minutes later slid to a stop at the rear door of Boone & Boone. He unlocked it and stepped into the little room he called his office. He found the book where he’d left it, on a shelf next to his Minnesota Twins poster schedule.
Theo could not remember the last time he was all alone in the family’s law office. The place was always busy with lawyers on the phone, clients coming and going, printers rattling away, Elsa up front running the show and directing traffic, and Judge sneaking around looking for either another nap or something to eat. Now, though, on a Sunday afternoon, there was not a sound. It was eerily dark and quiet as Theo eased through the hallway and walked to the front window by Elsa’s desk. The conference room, with its dark leather chairs and book-laden shelves, was somber and still. Theo decided he preferred the place when there were people around.