The Activist (Theodore Boone 4)

“Fine. You?”

“Great.”

“Got a minute?”

Not really. It was ten minutes before 4:00 p.m. and April would soon arrive at Guff’s Frozen Yogurt, which was only a few blocks away. The son of two lawyers, Theo had been raised in an atmosphere of distrust when it came to reporters. Their job was to dig and reveal facts and details that people preferred to keep quiet. As lawyers, Theo’s parents lived by a code of protecting, at all costs, the privacy of their clients. Theo was often amazed when he saw lawyers on television hotdogging it for the cameras as they blathered on and on about their clients and the details of their cases. Not so around good old Boone & Boone. His father was fond of saying, “Lawyers and cameras are a vile mixture.”

“Maybe,” Theo said cautiously.

“Did you like your picture in the paper yesterday morning?” Flay asked proudly.

“It was okay,” Theo said, glancing around. “What’s up?”

Flay glanced around, too, and a casual bystander might have thought a drug deal was taking place. “You leaving?”

“Yep,” Theo replied.

“Good. I’ll walk out with you.”

They left the lobby, walked through the front doors, and stopped in the shadows of one of the columns. “How’s the dog?” Flay asked.

“Fine.” Theo had no idea why Flay would want to talk to him, and the longer they were together the more nervous he became. What if someone saw them whispering in the shadows on the front steps of the county courthouse?

Flay lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke above Theo’s head. He was shifty eyed and a little jumpy, and Theo wanted to bolt.

“Look, Theo, there are a lot of rumors about this bypass and issues related to it. I have a source telling me a lot of local businessmen are pushing hard because they plan to make a buck, know what I mean?”

Theo was staring at his shoes.

Flay went on. “Especially the developers. Looks like they’re a bunch of vultures just waiting for the bypass to get approved, then they’ll swoop down and line both sides of it with shopping centers and fast-food joints. Before you know it, they’ll have the bypass jammed up as bad as Battle Street, know what I mean?”

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 doo

r.

“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 headed 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