The Activist tb-4

by John Grisham

  But not everyone was impressed. Mr. Lucas Grimes and another commissioner, Mr. Buddy Klasko, began firing questions at Sebastian. Everyone knew Mr. Grimes was in favor of the bypass, and as the evening progressed it had become clear that Mr. Klasko was too. Add the vote of Mr. Stak, the loudest supporter, and the bypass had three out of five, or a majority. A victory.

  After half an hour of haggling and bickering, Sebastian Ryan began to lose his cool, and with good reason. Mr. Grimes and Mr. Klasko became even more aggressive in challenging every minor point. Mr. Cerroni, an opponent, tried to help Sebastian, and at times it seemed as if all five commissioners were arguing and pointing fingers. The crowd reacted badly with mumblings and groans and even a few boos that followed silly questions and comments.

  Sebastian had been at the podium for almost an hour when things changed dramatically. During a brief lull in the arguing, a large and rather rough-looking man of about forty stood in the center of the auditorium and yelled, “Are you guys afraid to vote?” His sharp words cut through the heavy air and echoed around the auditorium. The crowd loved it and reacted with cheers and jeers. From somewhere in the rear a chant began, “We want a vote! We want a vote!” This spread instantly to all corners and within seconds hundreds of people were on their feet yelling as loudly as possible: “We want a vote! We want a vote!”

  Theo was screaming it too and could not remember having so much fun.

  Sebastian wisely sat down during this demonstration. Chairman Stak wisely let the crowd have its voice. After a minute or so, with the windows rattling, he slowly raised his hand and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Please. Yes. Thank you. Now please be seated.” The chanting stopped. Shuffling and grumbling, the people reluctantly sat down, or those who had seats did so. Theo and dozens of others had been standing for almost three hours.

  Mr. Stak said, “Please, no more outbursts. Our rules of order require that we vote tonight, so please be patient.” Near silence in the auditorium. Mr. Stak picked up a sheet of paper, frowned at it, then said, “Now, according to this sign-up sheet, there are ninety-one people who wish to speak.”

  Many in the crowd exhaled. It was 11:05.

  Mr. Stak continued, “Normally, when we have such a large crowd, we limit the speeches to three minutes each. Ninety-one speeches times three is about two hundred and seventy minutes, or four and a half hours. Not sure any of us want to say here that long.”

  Mr. Grimes interrupted by saying, “We can also change the rules if we want, right?”

  “We have the power, yes.”

  “Then I suggest we limit the number of speakers.”

  This caused another argument among the commissioners, and for ten minutes they haggled about how to save time. Finally, Mr. Sam McGray, the oldest commissioner and the one who had said the least, suggested a limit of five speakers at five minutes each. That would guarantee the meeting would be over by midnight, and it would allow enough different voices to be heard. He said what everyone knew—that many of the speakers would say the same thing. The other four finally agreed and the rules were changed on the spot. Mr. Stak urged those who wanted to speak to huddle quickly with their friends and colleagues and decide who would say what. This caused some chaos and burned some more clock.

  It was almost 11:30 when the first speaker stepped to the podium. He was a well-dressed gentleman from a business group and really wanted the bypass. Nothing he said was new; the congestion on Battle Street was choking traffic; Highway 75 was crucial to the rest of the state; economic growth depended on the bypass; and so on. Hardie’s father spoke next, and, on behalf of the landowners sitting in the path of the new four-lane, delivered a lecture on the abuses of eminent domain. As a minister, he was accustomed to preaching, and he was very effective. A local plumbing contractor spoke in favor of the project because he employed eight crews with eight trucks and was frustrated with the slow traffic around town.

  Theo was listening intently when he realized that Sebastian Ryan was beside him. Sebastian whispered, “Theo, take off your mask for a minute.” Theo did so and said, “What’s up?”

  Sebastian, leaning down, unusually nervous, said, “Look, Theo, we think it’s a great idea for you to speak on behalf of all these kids.”

  Theo’s jaw dropped as a bolt of raw fear shot up and down his spine. He couldn’t say a word. Sebastian continued, “You’ll be the last speaker, and when you walk down to the podium we’ll get all the kids to follow you. It’ll be a mob staring at the commissioners. You gotta do it, Theo.”

  “No way,” Theo managed to say. His mouth was already dry.

  “Sure, you can do it. We heard a rumor that the commissioners and a lot of other people want to see the kids who made the video. You’re the man, Theo.”

  Chapter 28

  Each foot seemed to weigh a ton. As Theo walked down the center aisle, an aisle that led directly to the podium, and a few feet beyond that the hard faces of the commissioners, he realized he had nothing to say. Nothing was prepared. Not a single note. He was terrified, numb, having trouble breathing, and suddenly thinking of running away, of vanishing. A familiar face appeared to his left near the aisle. It was the Major, smiling proudly with a fist clenched, as if to say, “Go get ’em, Theo.”

  Theo was aware he was being followed; he could feel bodies hustling behind him and he could see the other kids moving in from his right and left. By the time he arrived at the podium, they were swarming around it. Dozens of kids, maybe hundreds, all in their yellow battle gear. Small kids from the kindergarten at Jackson Elementary, and older students from Theo and Hardie’s band of activists. They bunched together in one yellow mob around the podium and looked at the commissioners.

  Reluctantly, Theo stepped up to the podium. He took the microphone, pulled it down a few inches, and tried to think of something to say. The room was still and quiet. The rowdy mob of adults was silenced by the courage of the kids.

  Theo tried desperately to remember all the rules and tips from his debating career, but at that horrible moment his memory failed him. He was as stiff as a board and had never been so frightened. After a few awkward seconds, it was obvious that no one was going to speak for him, so he cleared his throat, pulled down his yellow mask, and managed to say, “I’m Theo Boone, and I’m in the eighth grade at Strattenburg Middle School.”

  Mr. Cerroni came to his aid with a quick, “Are you the kid who made the video on YouTube?”

  “Yes sir, with some friends.”

  This brought a roar from the crowd that stunned Theo. He glanced over his shoulder and saw people standing and yelling, and he managed to smile. At last count, the video had over 100,000 hits, and Theo guessed that everyone in the auditorium had seen it, and probably more than once.

  When the moment passed and the crowd settled down, Mr. Cerroni said, “Well thanks, Mr. Boone, for that video.” None of the other commissioners seemed to share his gratitude, but Mr. Sam McGray suddenly asked, “Are you the kid with the dog?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “If I recall correctly, according to the newspaper, you referred to the people who want to build the bypass as a bunch of thugs, or something like that.”

  A few slight hisses from the crowd, good people behind Theo who didn’t like the question. He realized he had the advantage of being a kid. The commissioners could not afford to be rude or rough with him. After all, he was only thirteen years old.

  Theo replied coolly, “No sir. The thugs I was referring to were the thugs who beat my dog.”

  Mr. McGray nodded but said nothing else.

  “How is your dog?” Mr. Cerroni asked.

  “He’s doing fine, thank you.” There was a smattering of hands clapping.

  “Can we move along?” Mr. Grimes said with great irritation. He was already tired of looking at all those brats out there, faces hidden behind yellow masks and bandannas.

  Mr. Stak, as chairman, said, “You have the floor, Mr. Boone. No longer than five minutes.” He glared at
Theo, drilling him with his black eyes. Theo could not maintain eye contact. Theo could not breathe, or think, or do anything but stand, clutching the sides of the podium as the seconds ticked by and everyone waited. He felt like fainting.

  One of Mr. Mount’s more difficult sessions during debate had been the exercise in spontaneous speaking, or rising before a crowd with no notes, no preparation. Each side entered the debate cold, with no idea of what to expect, no idea of what the issue would be. Mr. Mount then announced the topic of the day, and each side was given five minutes to scramble, prepare, and try to form intelligent arguments. The first trick, according to Mr. Mount, was to relate the topic to something personal. Something you know a lot about.

  Theo looked at Mr. Cerroni, an ally, and began, “Both of my parents are lawyers, and I’m lucky enough to spend hours in their office. I’ve sort of grown up there, and I’ve learned a lot, at least for a thirteen-year-old. I’ve done plenty of research into the legal rule of eminent domain, or the government’s right to take property away from a person who doesn’t want to sell. In our country, owning property is a very important right, something most Americans dream of, and for most Americans the dream comes true.” He was breathing well. His voice was settling into a nice rhythm. He was still terrified but was managing to hide his fear. He remembered Mr. Mount’s constant advice: “Speak slowly. Speak clearly. Speak deeply.”

  The crowd was silent. Go Theo.

  “Eminent domain is to be used only in extreme cases. And this is not one of them. This bypass is not crucial to our lives here in Strattenburg. In fact, life will go on here just the same without the bypass. It might benefit a few, but the vast majority of us will never know the difference. So, under our laws, this project is not crucial. Therefore, the government cannot take property using eminent domain. And why should the government?” A slight pause for dramatic effect. He just remembered a great line—something he’d read in a Supreme Court case. “Just because the government is big enough, strong enough, rich enough, and powerful enough, doesn’t mean it has the right to take land from its citizens.”

  This landed perfectly and the crowd reacted with another boisterous round of approval.

  Theo had found his rhythm, his traction, and for a brief moment he relished being in the spotlight. He shifted his weight, like all good lawyers do in court when addressing the jury, and he wished he could pace, back and forth, but he was stuck behind the mike. He continued looking at Mr. Cerroni’s friendly face and said, “You’ve already heard from Reverend Quinn, who described their family’s farm. Well, I’ve been there. Hardie Quinn is my friend and one of the kids behind the video. He’s grown up on the family farm, a beautiful one-hundred-acre piece of land that every one of us would love to live on. It has everything—thick forests for hunting, springs and creeks for fishing, the river for rafting, open pastures for growing hay, miles and miles of trails for hiking and horseback riding. There is a tree house, a barn, a stable, a toolshed, a cemetery, and an old country house where the Quinn family gathers every holiday and on most weekends. On the front porch, hundreds of Quinns have gathered over the years to drink iced tea and talk about life. In the backyard, they’ve had weddings, funerals, and a pig roast every Fourth of July. Imagine, just imagine, the State Highway Department reducing it all to rubble with a bunch of bulldozers. That would be wrong.” Several in the crowd agreed and voiced their approval.

  All five commissioners were staring at Theo, hanging on every word. He threw another punch with, “That would be an abuse of power.”

  He changed gears, raised his voice, and said, “Now, the smart folks who designed this bypass think it’s a good idea to reroute twenty-five thousand vehicles a day alongside an elementary school and a soccer complex. At least ten thousand of these will be large trucks with diesel engines. Since no one has bothered to conduct an accurate study of how much the air will be polluted, we don’t, excuse me, you don’t know what you’re talking about. No one does. It seems to me though, and I’m a kid lawyer and not a kid scientist, that the last place you would want to build a busy four-lane road is right next to a school.”

  Hardie, Woody, Chase, and April were standing behind Theo, and on cue they began coughing and gagging. The rest caught on quickly, and for about thirty seconds the entire yellow horde shook and gyrated and bent double in an exaggerated display of the effects of diesel contamination.

  Mr. Stak finally raised his hand and said, patiently, “Okay, okay.” The coughing and gagging stopped immediately. The crowd was greatly amused, as were most of the commissioners and their assistants.

  Theo continued, “Fortunately, my school is not close to the proposed bypass, but let me tell you a little about my school. In the past two months, my school has been forced to cut programs, lay off part-time workers, fire coaches, janitors, and cafeteria workers, and cancel trips. Every school in our district has done this. Why? Budget cuts. Not enough revenue. And it’s not just the schools. Our police and fire departments have laid off employees. We’ve had cuts in street maintenance, garbage collection, parks and recreation, in every single department. You know that because you’ve been forced to cut the county’s budget.” Another pause as he looked up for the kill. “How can you, as leaders of our community, cut budgets one day and then vote to approve a bypass to nowhere that will cost two hundred million dollars?”

  The crowd roared instantly and within seconds many of those cheering were on their feet. The ovation went on and on and gathered steam, and Theo took a step backward. Mr. Stak raised his hand for order but he was ignored. What was he going to do anyway? Arrest several hundred people at one time? Wisely, he sat grim-faced and listened to the roar. During one brief second, he locked eyes with Theo, and both knew the truth.

  Theo realized his little off-the-cuff speech had reached its peak. Mr. Mount always said it’s best to quit when you’re ahead. Many speakers lose their audience by going on too long. Plus, Theo was so relieved to have made it this far, and he really had nothing left. When the crowd finally settled down, he stepped back to the microphone and said, “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Boone,” Mr. Stak said. It was almost midnight. The last speaker had just spoken. There was nothing left on the agenda but a vote on the bypass. It was obvious the crowd was not leaving until the commissioners voted. The kids in yellow did not return to their seats. Instead, they bunched even closer together around the podium and up the aisles, as close to the commissioners as they could get. They locked arms and sat on the floor.

  “You guys can go back to your seats,” Mr. Stak said, but the kids shook their heads. They weren’t budging.

  From the back, a loudmouth stood up and yelled, “We want a vote!” This immediately led to another deafening round of “We want a vote!! We want a vote!!” The walls shook and the windows rattled and the commissioners looked aggravated and confused. They wanted to huddle in a back room, as was their usual custom, and work out a deal before going public. But not tonight, not at this moment. There was nothing to do but vote.

  Mr. Stak raised his hand again and finally brought the crowd under control. He said, “Very well, under the rules of this commission, it is now necessary that we take a vote. Madame Secretary, will you call the roll?”

  At the end of their long table, the secretary said, “Certainly. All five commissioners are present and voting. The vote will be a simple Yes to approve the bypass and No if you do not approve the project. Approval is by a simple majority. Mr. Stak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Grimes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Cerroni?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. McGray?”

  Mr. McGray was rubbing his white whiskers, troubled and deep in thought. With a scratchy voice he finally said, “No.”

  Theo was sitting on the floor in front of the podium, arm in arm with Hardie and April, and it seemed as though every kid around him was holding his or her breath. At that tense moment, things did not look good.
The vote was tied 2–2, with only Mr. Klasko remaining, and he had given the clear impression he wanted the bypass.

  “Mr. Klasko?”

  Mr. Klasko’s spine stiffened and his head jerked back. He ran a hand over his mouth, fidgeted, seemed to be short of breath, and finally managed to blurt, “Abstain.”

  Mitchell Stak and Lucas Grimes shot panicked looks at Buddy Klasko, who wasn’t looking at anyone. He was gazing at a distant window, obviously wanting to jump through it. The crowd gasped and mumbled and no one seemed certain of the vote.

  The secretary calmly announced, “By a vote of two in favor, two opposed, and one abstention, the motion to approve the Red Creek Bypass Project hereby fails for lack of a majority.”

  This set off a rowdy standing ovation. The kids in the front of the room were jumping and applauding. Their parents were hugging and high-fiving and shaking hands and celebrating. In the midst of the noise, the five commissioners gathered their papers and began to leave. The experts from the State Highway Department and the project’s supporters grabbed their briefcases and materials and headed for the nearest door.

  The meeting was adjourned, but the kids were not leaving. Instead, they swarmed around the podium, where Theo Boone stood in the center of the mob, soaking up his finest moment.

  Chapter 29

  The party began at 2:00 p.m. on the Saturday after the public hearing. It was thrown together at the last minute by the Quinn clan, all of them it seemed. They invited lots of people: neighbors whose land and homes had also been threatened, opponents who’d led the fight against the bypass, people like Sebastian Ryan and members of the Sierra Club, and many of the kids—the “yellow gang”—who had been so important in the fight. On a clear and beautiful afternoon, they gathered on the Quinn farm, behind the house, in the long, wide backyard where so many generations of Quinns had played and partied.