“Are you included?” This brought a few light laughs.
“No. Now, there will be other lawyers and paralegals at both tables, prosecution and defense. This area is usually crowded. Over here, next to the defense, is the jury box. It has fourteen chairs—twelve for the jurors and two for the alternates. Most states still use twelve-man juries, though different sizes are not unusual. Regardless of the number, the verdict has to be unanimous, at least in criminal cases. They pick alternates in case one of the twelve gets sick or excused or something. The jury was selected last week, so we won’t have to watch that. It’s pretty boring.” The laser pointer moved to a spot in front of the bench. Theo continued, “The court reporter sits here. She’ll have a machine that is called a stenograph. Sorta looks like a typewriter, but much different. Her job is to record every word that’s said during the trial. That might sound impossible, but she makes it look easy. Later, she’ll prepare what’s known as a transcript so that the lawyers and the judge will have a record of everything. Some transcripts have thousands of pages.” The laser pointer moved again. “Here, close to the court reporter and just down from the judge, is the witness chair. Each witness walks up here, is sworn to tell the truth, then takes a seat.”
“Where do we sit?”
The laser pointer moved to the middle of the diagram. “This is called the bar. Again, don’t ask why. The bar is a wooden railing that separates the spectators from the trial area. There are ten rows of seats with an aisle down the middle. This is usually more than enough for the crowd, but this trial will be different.” The laser pointer moved to the rear of the courtroom. “Up here, above the last few rows, is the balcony where there are three long benches. We’re in the balcony, but don’t worry. We’ll be able to see and hear everything.”
“Any questions?” Mr. Mount asked.
The boys gawked at the diagram. “Who goes first?” someone asked.
Theo began pacing. “Well, the State has the burden of proving guilt, so it must present its case first. First thing tomorrow morning, the prosecutor will walk to the jury box and address the jurors. This is called the opening statement. He’ll lay out his case. Then the defense lawyer will do the same. After that, the State will start calling witnesses. As you know, Mr. Duffy is presumed to be innocent, so the State must prove him guilty, and it must do so beyond a reasonable doubt. He claims he’s innocent, which actually in real life doesn’t happen very often. About eighty percent of those indicted for murder eventually plead guilty, because they are in fact guilty. The other twenty percent go to trial, and ninety percent of those are found guilty. So, it’s rare for a murder defendant to be found not guilty.”
“My dad thinks he’s guilty,” Brian said.
“A lot of people do,” Theo said.
“How many trials have you watched, Theo?”
“I don’t know. Dozens.”
Since none of the other fifteen had ever seen the inside of a courtroom, this was almost beyond belief. Theo continued: “For those of you who watch a lot of television, don’t expect fireworks. A real trial is very different, and not nearly as exciting. There are no surprise witnesses, no dramatic confessions, no fistfights between the lawyers. And, in this trial, there are no eyewitnesses to the murder. This means that all of the evidence from the State will be circumstantial. You’ll hear this word a lot, especially from Mr. Clifford Nance, the defense lawyer. He’ll make a big deal out of the fact that the State has no direct proof, that everything is circumstantial.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” someone said.
“It means that the evidence is indirect, not direct. For example, did you ride your bike to school?”
“Yes.”
“And did you chain it to the rack by the flagpole?”
“Yes.”
“So, when you leave school this afternoon, and you go to the rack, and your bike is gone, and the chain has been cut, then you have indirect evidence that someone stole your bike. No one saw the thief, so there’s no direct evidence. And let’s say that tomorrow the police find your bike in a pawnshop on Raleigh Street, a place known to deal in stolen bikes. The owner gives the police a name, they investigate and find some dude with a history of stealing bikes. You can then make a strong case, through indirect evidence, that this guy is your thief. No direct evidence, but circumstantial.”
Even Mr. Mount was nodding along. He was the faculty adviser for the Eighth-Grade Debate Team, and, not surprisingly, Theodore Boone was his star. He’d never had a student as quick on his feet.
“Thank you, Theo,” Mr. Mount said. “And thank you for getting us the seats in the morning.”
“Nothing to it,” Theo said, and proudly took his seat.
It was a bright class in a strong public school. Justin was by far the best athlete, though he couldn’t swim as fast as Brian. Ricardo beat them all at golf and tennis. Edward played the cello, Woody the electric guitar, Darren the drums, Jarvis the trumpet. Joey had the highest IQ and made perfect grades. Chase was the mad scientist who was always a threat to blow up the lab. Aaron spoke Spanish, from his mother’s side, German from his father’s, and English, of course. Brandon had an early morning paper route, traded stocks online, and planned to be the first millionaire in the group.
Naturally, there were two hopeless nerds and at least one potential felon.
The class even had its own lawyer, a first for Mr. Mount.
Chapter 3
The law firm of Boone & Boone had its offices in an old converted house on Park Street, three blocks off of Main and a ten-minute walk to the courthouse. There were lots of lawyers in the neighborhood, and all the houses on Park had become the offices of attorneys, architects, accountants, engineers, and so on.
The firm had two lawyers, Mr. Boone and Mrs. Boone, and they were equal partners in every sense of the word. Mr. Boone, Theo’s father, was in his early fifties, but seemed to be much older, at least in Theo’s well-kept opinion. His first name was Woods, which, to Theo, seemed more suited for a surname. Tiger Woods, the golfer. James Woods, the actor. Theo was still searching for another human being with the first name of Woods, though he didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about this slight nuisance. He tried not to worry about things out of his control.
Woods Boone. Sometimes, Theo pronounced the name quickly and it sounded like woodspoon. He’d checked and woodspoon wasn’t really a word, but he thought it should be. A spoon made from wood is known as a wooden spoon, not a woodspoon. But who uses a wooden spoon? Why worry about such trivial matters? Anyway, like one of those annoying habits you can’t break, Theo thought of the word woodspoon every time he approached the door to his father’s office and saw his name stenciled in black lettering.
His office was on the second floor, up some rickety steps covered with stained and threadbare carpet. Mr. Boone was on the second floor, alone, because the ladies below had sent him there for two reasons. First, he was a slob and his office was a wreck, though Theo loved it. Second, and much more offensive, Mr. Boone smoked a pipe, and preferred to do so with the windows closed and the ceiling fan off so that the air was thick with the rich aroma of whatever flavored tobacco he happened to favor that day. The smoke didn’t bother Theo, either, though he did worry about his father’s health. Mr. Boone was not exactly concerned with fitness. He exercised little and was a bit on the heavy side. He worked hard but left his problems at the office, unlike his law partner, Theo’s mom.
Mr. Boone was a real estate lawyer, and in Theo’s opinion this was the most boring of all areas of the law. His father never went to court, never argued before a judge, never addressed a jury, never, it seemed, left the office. In fact, he often referred to himself as an “office lawyer,” and appeared pleased with such a title. Theo certainly admired his father, but he had no plans to spend his career locked away in some office. No, sir. Theo was headed for the courtroom.
Because Mr. Boone was alone on the second floor, his office was huge. Long, saggy bookshelves lin
ed two of the walls and on the other two were ever-expanding collections of framed photographs depicting Woods doing all sorts of important things—shaking hands with politicians, posing with lawyers at bar meetings, and so on. Theo had seen the inside of several other lawyers’ offices in town—he was quite nosy and always looking for an open door—and he’d already learned that lawyers loved to cover their walls with such photos, along with diplomas and awards and certificates of membership in this club or that. The Ego Wall, his mother called it, sneering, because her walls were practically bare, with only a few pieces of some baffling modern art hanging about.
Theo knocked on the door as he pushed it open. He was expected to say hello to both parents each afternoon after school, unless he was busy elsewhere. His father sat alone behind an ancient desk that was covered with piles of paper. His father was always alone because his clients seldom stopped by. They called or sent stuff by mail or fax or e-mail, but they didn’t need to visit Boone & Boone to get advice.
“Hello,” Theo said as he fell into a chair.
“A good day at school?” his father asked, the same question every day.
“Pretty good. The principal approved our field trip to go to court tomorrow. I saw Judge Gantry this morning and he promised seats in the balcony.”
“That was nice. You’re lucky. Half the town will be there.”
“Are you going?”
“Me? No,” his father said, waving at the piles of paper as if they required immediate attention. Theo had overheard a conversation between his parents in which they had vowed not to stop by the courtroom during the murder trial. They were busy lawyers themselves, and, well, it just didn’t seem right to waste time watching someone else’s trial. But Theo knew that they, like everyone else in town, wanted to be there.
His father, and his mother to a lesser extent, used the excuse of too much legal work when they wanted to avoid doing something.
“How long will the trial last?” Theo asked.
“The word on the street is that it might take a week.”
“I’d sure like to watch all of it.”
“Don’t even think about it, Theo. I’ve already talked to Judge Gantry. If he sees you in the courtroom when you’re supposed to be in school, he will stop the trial, order a bailiff to take you into custody, and haul you away. I will not bail you out of jail. You’ll sit there for days with common drunks and gang members.”
With that, Mr. Boone picked up a pipe, fired a small torch into its bowl, and began blowing smoke. They stared at each other. Theo wasn’t sure if his father was joking, but his face certainly looked serious. He and Judge Gantry were old friends.
“Are you kidding?” Theo finally asked.
“Partially. I’m sure I’d fetch you from jail, but I have talked to Judge Gantry.”
Theo was already thinking of ways to watch the trial without being seen by Judge Gantry. Skipping school would be the easy part.
“Now shove off,” Mr. Boone said. “Let’s get the homework done.”
“See you later.”
Downstairs, the front door was guarded by a woman who was almost as old as the office itself. Her first name was Elsa. Her last name was Miller, though this was off-limits to Theo and everyone else. Regardless of her age, and no one knew it for certain, she insisted on being called Elsa. Even by a thirteen-year-old. Elsa had worked for the Boones since long before Theo was born. She was the receptionist, secretary, office manager, and paralegal when needed. She ran the firm, and occasionally she was forced to referee the little spats and disagreements between lawyer Boone upstairs and lawyer Boone downstairs.
Elsa was a very important person in the lives of all three Boones. Theo considered her a friend and confidante. “Hello, Elsa,” he said as he stopped at her desk and prepared to give her a hug.
She jumped from her chair, bubbly as always, and squeezed him tightly. Then she looked at his chest and said, “Didn’t you wear that shirt Friday?”
“I did not.” And he did not.
“I think you did.”
“Sorry, Elsa.” She often commented on his attire, and, for a thirteen-year-old boy this was tiresome. However, it kept Theo on his toes. Someone was always watching and taking notes, and he often thought of Elsa when he hurriedly got dressed each morning. Another irritating habit he couldn’t shake.
Her own wardrobe was legendary. She was short and very petite—“could wear anything,” his mother had said many times—and preferred tight clothing in bold colors. Today, she was wearing black leather pants with some sort of funky green sweater that reminded Theo of asparagus. Her short gray hair was shiny and spiked. Her eyeglasses, as always, matched the color of her outfit—green today. Elsa was anything but dull. She might be pushing seventy, but she was not aging quietly.
“Is my mother in?” Theo asked.