by John Grisham
Sandy lowered his head and appeared to be devastated.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Thomas. Thomas Coe.”
“And your mother?”
“Evelyn.”
Theo pecked away. “What’s your address?”
“Eight fourteen Bennington.”
More pecking. They waited, then Theo said, “Oh boy.”
“What is it?”
“The bank is Security Trust, on Main Street. Fourteen years ago your parents borrowed a hundred and twenty thousand for a thirty-year mortgage. They have not made the monthly payments in four months.”
“Four months?”
“Yep.”
“All this stuff is online?”
“Yes, but not just anybody can find it.”
“How’d you find it?”
“There are ways. A lot of law offices pay a fee to gain access to certain data. Plus, I know how to dig a little deeper.”
Sandy sank even lower and shook his head. “So we’re gonna lose our house?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean? My dad’s not working.”
“There’s a way to stop the foreclosure, stiff-arm the bank, and keep the house for a while, maybe until your dad goes back to work.”
Sandy looked thoroughly bewildered.
“You ever heard of bankruptcy?” Theo asked.
“I guess, but I don’t understand it.”
“It’s your only choice. Your parents will be forced to file for bankruptcy protection. This means they hire a lawyer who’ll file some papers in Bankruptcy Court on their behalf.”
“How much do lawyers cost?”
“Don’t worry about that now. The important thing is to go see a lawyer.”
“You can’t do it?”
“Sorry. And my parents are not bankruptcy lawyers. But there is a guy two doors down, Steve Mozingo, and he’s very good. My parents send clients to him. They like him a lot.”
Sandy scribbled down the name. “And you think we might get to keep our house?”
“Yes, but your parents need to see this guy as soon as possible.”
“Thanks, Theo. I don’t know what to say.”
“No problem. Happy to help.”
Sandy hurried through the door, as if he might sprint home with the good news. Theo watched him get on his bike and disappear through the back parking lot.
Another satisfied client.
Chapter 4
At fifteen minutes before 5:00 p.m., Mrs. Boone walked into Theo’s office with a folder in one hand and a document in another. “Theo,” she said, her reading glasses halfway down her nose. “Would you run these over to Family Court and get them filed before five?”
“Sure, Mom.”
Theo was on his feet, reaching for his backpack. He had been hoping that from some corner of the firm someone would need something filed in the courthouse.
“Your homework is finished, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I didn’t have much.”
“Good. And today is Monday. You’ll pay a visit to Ike, won’t you? It means a lot to him.”
Every Monday of his life, Theo was reminded by his mother that the day was in fact Monday, and this meant two things: first, Theo was expected to spend at least thirty minutes with Ike, and, second, that dinner would be Italian food at Robilio’s. The visit to Robilio’s was more pleasant than the visit with Ike.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he placed her documents in his backpack. “I’ll see you at Robilio’s.”
“Yes, dear, at seven.”
“Got it,” he said, opening the back door. He explained to Judge that he would be back in a few minutes.
Dinner was always at seven. When they ate at home, which was rare because his mother didn’t enjoy cooking, they ate at seven. When they went out, they ate at seven. When they were on vacation, seven. When they visited friends they couldn’t be so rude as to suggest a time for dinner, but since all their friends knew how important seven was to the Boone family, they usually accommodated them. Occasionally, when Theo stayed over with a pal or went camping or was out of town for some reason, he took great delight in eating dinner before or after seven.
Five minutes later he parked his bike at a rack in front of the courthouse and locked the chain. Family Court was on the third floor, next door to Probate Court and down the hall from Criminal Court. There were a lot of other courts in the building—Traffic, Property, Small Claims, Drug, Animal, Civil, Bankruptcy, and probably one or two Theo had not yet discovered.
He hoped to find April, but she was not there. The courtroom was deserted. The hallways were empty.
He opened the glass door to the clerk’s office and stepped inside. Jenny, the beautiful, was waiting. “Well, hello, Theo,” she said with a big smile as she looked up from her computer at the long counter.
“Hello, Jenny,” he said. She was very pretty and young and Theo was in love. He would marry Jenny tomorrow if he could, but his age and her husband complicated things. Plus, she was pregnant, and this bothered Theo, though he mentioned it to no one.
“These are from my mother,” Theo said as he handed over the papers. Jenny took them, studied them for a moment, then said, “My, my, more divorces.”
Theo just stared at her.
She stamped and scribbled and went about the process of officially recording the papers.
Theo just stared at her.
“Are you going to the trial tomorrow?” he asked, finally.
“I might slip down if I can get away. You?”
“Yes. Can’t wait.”
“Should be interesting, huh?”
Theo leaned in a little closer and said, “You think he’s guilty?”
Jenny leaned even closer and glanced around as if their secrets were important. “I sure do. What about you?”
“Well, he’s presumed to be innocent.”
“You spend too much time hanging around the law office, Theo. I asked what you think, off the record, of course.”
“I think he’s guilty.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” She gave him a quick smile, then turned away to finish her business.
“Say, Jenny. That trial this morning, the Finnemore case, I guess it’s over, right?”
She glanced around suspiciously, as if they were not supposed to be discussing an ongoing case. “Judge Sanford adjourned at four this afternoon, to be continued in the morning.”
“Were you in the courtroom?”
“No. Why do you ask, Theo?”
“I go to school with April Finnemore. Her parents are divorcing. Just curious.”
“I see,” she said with a sad frown.
Theo just stared at her.
“Bye, Theo.”
Down the hall, the courtroom was locked. A bailiff with no gun and a tight, faded uniform was near the main door. Theo knew all the bailiffs and this one, Deputy Gossett, was one of the grumpier ones. Mr. Boone had explained that the bailiffs are usually the older and slower policemen who are nearing the end of their careers. They are given new titles—“bailiffs”—and reassigned to the courthouse, where things are duller and safer than on the streets.
“Hello, Theo,” Deputy Gossett said with no smile.
“Hi, Deputy Gossett.”
“What brings you around here?”
“Just filing stuff for my parents.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You sure you’re not snooping around here to see if the courtroom is ready for the big trial?”
“That, too.”
“That’s what I figured. We’ve had some traffic today. A television news crew just left. Should be interesting.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“Of course I’m working tomorrow,” Deputy Gossett said, and his chest puffed out a little, as if the trial would be impossible to put on without him. “Security will be tight.”
“Why?” Theo asked, though he kne
w why. Deputy Gossett thought he knew a lot about the law, as if he’d absorbed a great body of knowledge just because he sat through trials and hearings. (He was often half asleep.) And, like many people who don’t know as much as they think they know, Deputy Gossett was quick to share his insights with the less informed.
He glanced at his watch as if he had a tight schedule. “It’s a murder trial, a big one,” he said importantly. No kidding, Theo thought. “And, well, murder trials attract some folks who might be security risks.”
“Like who?”
“Well, Theo, let me put it like this. In every murder there’s a victim, and the victim has friends and family, and these people are, naturally, not happy that their victim got murdered. Follow what I’m saying?”
“Sure.”
“And you have a defendant. In this case it’s Mr. Duffy, who claims he’s not guilty. They all say that, of course, but let’s assume he’s not guilty. If that’s the case, then the real killer is still out there. He might be curious about the trial.” Deputy Gossett glanced around suspiciously, as if the real killer could be close and might be offended.
Theo almost asked: Why would the real killer be a security risk if he showed up to watch the trial? What’s he gonna do? Kill somebody else? In open court? In front of dozens of witnesses?
“I see,” Theo said. “You guys better be careful.”
“We’ll have things under control.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’ll be here?”
“Sure.”
Deputy Gossett was shaking his head. “I don’t think so, Theo. This place will be packed. You won’t find a seat.”
“Oh, I talked to Judge Gantry this morning. He promised to save me great seats.” Theo was walking away.
Deputy Gossett could not think of a response.
Ike was Theo’s uncle, the older brother of Woods Boone. Before Theo was born, Ike had started the firm of Boone & Boone with Theo’s parents. He had been a tax lawyer, one of the few in town. According to the scant information Theo could get on the subject, the three lawyers had enjoyed a pleasant and productive relationship until Ike did something wrong. Bad wrong. So wrong that he was stripped of his license to practice law. On several occasions Theo had asked his parents what, exactly, Ike did wrong, but his parents refused to give the details. They said they didn’t want to talk about it. Or, that they would explain things when Theo was old enough to understand.
Ike was still doing tax work, but of a lesser variety. He was not a lawyer and not an accountant. But since he had to do something for a living, he prepared tax returns for working people and small businesses. His office was on the second floor of an old building downtown. A Greek couple ran a deli on the first floor. Ike did their tax work and was paid in part with a free lunch five days a week.
His wife divorced him after he was disbarred. He was lonely and generally unpleasant, and Theo did not always enjoy stopping by every Monday afternoon. But Ike was family and that mattered, according to Theo’s parents, though they spent almost no time with him.
“Hello, Theo,” Ike called out as Theo opened the door to a long, cluttered room and stepped inside.
“Hello, Ike.” Though he was older than Theo’s father, he insisted on being called Ike. Like Elsa, it was part of his effort to stay young. He wore faded jeans, sandals, a T-shirt that advertised beer, and various beaded bracelets on his left wrist. His hair was long, wild, white, and gathered in the back in a ponytail.
Ike was at his desk, a wide table stacked with files. The Grateful Dead played softly on a stereo. Cheap funky art covered the walls.
According to Mrs. Boone, Ike had been the typical dark-suited, buttoned-up corporate tax man before he got into trouble. Now he fancied himself as an old hippie, anti-everything. A real rebel.
“How’s my favorite nephew?” he asked as Theo settled into a chair across the desk.
“Great.” Theo was the only nephew. “How was your day?”
Ike waved at the debris littering his desk and said, “The usual. Just sorting out the money problems of people with no money. How are things over at Boone and Boone?”
“The same.” Though he was only four blocks away, Ike seldom saw Theo’s parents. They were somewhat friendly, but the past was complicated.
“How’s school going?”
“Fine.”
“Straight A’s?”
“Yes. Maybe an A minus in Chemistry.”
“I expect straight A’s.”
You and everyone else, Theo thought. He wasn’t sure how or why Ike thought he was entitled to an opinion about Theo’s grades, but he figured that’s what uncles were for. According to his parents, Ike was brilliant and had finished college in just three years.
“Your mother is well?”
“Mom’s great, working hard.” Ike never asked about Mr. Boone.
“I suppose you’re excited about the trial tomorrow.”
“Yes. My Government class is taking a field trip to the courtroom. We’ll be there all day. Are you going?” Theo asked, but he knew the answer.
Ike snorted in disgust. “Not me. I don’t voluntarily enter courtrooms. Plus, I have too much work.” A typical Boone.
“I can’t wait,” Theo said.
“So you still want to be a lawyer, a great trial lawyer?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, nothing, I guess.” They had this same conversation every week. Ike wanted Theo to be an architect or an artist, something creative. “Most kids dream of being a policeman, or a fireman, or a great athlete or actor. I’ve never seen one so taken with the idea of being a lawyer.”
“Everybody’s gotta be something.”
“I suppose. This defense lawyer, Clifford Nance, is very good. You ever seen him in action?”
“Not in a big trial. I’ve seen him in the courtroom arguing motions and stuff, but not in a trial.”
“I knew Clifford well, at one point. Many years ago. I’ll bet he wins.”
“You really think so?”
“Sure. The prosecution has a weak case, from what I hear.” Though he kept to himself, Ike had a knack for hearing the courthouse rumors. Theo’s father suspected that Ike’s information came from his weekly poker games with a group of retired lawyers.
“There’s really no proof that Mr. Duffy killed his wife,” Ike said. “The prosecutor might be able to establish a strong motive and arouse some suspicions, but nothing else.”
“What’s the motive?” Theo asked, though he thought he knew the answer. He wanted to see how much Ike knew, or how much he was willing to tell.
“Money. A million dollars. Mr. Duffy bought a million-dollar life insurance policy on his wife two years ago. In the event of her death, he gets a million dollars. His business was not doing well. He needed some cash, so the theory is that he, literally, took matters into his own hands.”
“He choked her?” Theo had read every newspaper story about the murder and knew the cause of death.
“That’s the theory. She died of strangulation. The prosecutor will claim that Mr. Duffy choked her, then ransacked the house, took her jewelry, tried to make it look as if she walked in on a burglar.”
“What will Mr. Nance try and prove?”
“He doesn’t have to prove anything, but he’ll argue that there’s no proof, no evidence that Mr. Duffy was at the scene of the crime. To my knowledge there are no witnesses who can place him there. It’s a very tough case for the prosecution.”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
Ike cracked at least eight knuckles and locked his hands behind his head. He thought for a moment, then said, “Probably. I’ll bet Duffy planned it all very carefully, and that it went down exactly as he wanted it to. Those people do some strange things out there.”
“Those people” were the residents of Waverly Creek, a wealthy community built around a twenty-seven-hole golf course and protected by gates. They were the newer residents, as opp
osed to the more established ones who lived in the town proper and considered themselves the real citizens of Strattenburg. The phrase “They live out at The Creek” was heard often and usually described people who added little to the community and were much too concerned with money. The divide made little sense to Theo. He had friends who lived out there. His parents had clients from Waverly Creek. It was only two miles east of the city, but it was often treated as if it belonged on another planet.
Mrs. Boone said that people in small towns spend too much time looking up to or down on others. She had lectured Theo since he was a small boy on the evils of judging people.
The conversation drifted to baseball, and, of course, the Yankees. Ike was a rabid Yankees fan and loved to spout statistics on all his favorite players. Though it was April, he was already predicting another World Series win. Theo argued as usual, but as a Twins fan he had little ammunition.
After thirty minutes, he left with the promise to stop by next week.
“Get that Chemistry grade up,” Ike said sternly.
Chapter 5
Judge Henry Gantry tugged on the right sleeve of his long black robe to adjust it properly, then stepped through the massive oak door behind the bench of his courtroom. A bailiff suddenly yelled, “All rise for the Court!”
Everyone—spectators, jurors, lawyers, clerks, all the participants in the trial—bolted to their feet in one scramble. As Judge Gantry was establishing himself in his thronelike chair, the bailiff quickly rattled off his standard call to order: “Hear ye, hear ye, the Criminal Court of the Tenth District is now in session, the Honorable Henry Gantry presiding. Let all who have matters come forth. May God bless this Court.”