“But the Boones are not criminal lawyers,” Mr. Nance said. “I know them pretty well.”
“Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s just the kid,” Omar said. “The kid has his nose stuck in the middle of Pete’s case, and his parents are just trying to protect him.”
“You can’t follow a kid around town, Omar,” Breeland said.
“The kid knows who the mysterious witness is,” Omar said. “I’ll bet good money on it.”
Nance and Breeland studied each other for a moment.
Omar continued, “And, I’ll bet the kid had something to do with the Feds finding Pete. They were in DC the week before he got nailed.”
“Who?” Nance asked.
“The entire eighth grade at Strattenburg Middle School. Their annual field trip. A mob of kids roaming around DC. Maybe somebody saw something.”
“Which brings up the obvious question,” Breeland said. “Why was Pete Duffy in DC?”
“Too late to worry about that,” Mr. Nance said. “Don’t follow this kid and don’t approach him. But keep an eye on him.”
Chapter 14
Theo was leaving school on a Wednesday afternoon when his pal Woody stopped him at the bike rack. Woody was obviously worried about something. He said, “Say, Theo, you know the judge in Animal Court, don’t you?”
It was a loaded question, and Theo immediately wondered what mischief Woody had been up to. He was a good kid and Theo liked and trusted him, but his family was a bit on the rough side and Woody was always either in trouble or close to it. “Sure. What’s up?”
“Well,” Woody said, glancing around as if the police might be listening, “I have to be in court tomorrow afternoon. My brother Evan and I are being accused of something.”
Theo slowly got off his bike, hit the kickstand, and said, “Okay, what are you accused of?”
“My mom and stepdad don’t know about this, Theo, and I’d like to keep it quiet.” Woody’s home life was unsettled. His mother had been married at least twice and her current husband traveled a lot. Woody’s father was a stonemason who lived in town with another wife and some small children. An older brother had been in trouble with the law. He asked, “If you go to Animal Court, do you have to tell your parents?”
“Not always,” Theo said. He almost added that it’s always best to tell your parents, but then he often kept secrets from his. “What’s happened?”
“Have you ever heard of fainting goats?”
“Fainting goats?”
“Yes. Fainting goats.”
“No. I’ve never heard of fainting goats.”
“Well, it’s a long story.”
• • •
The following afternoon, Theo was sitting next to Woody and Evan in a small, cramped room in the basement of the Strattenburg County Courthouse, waiting for Judge Sergio Yeck to assume the bench and call things to order. They were in folding chairs behind a folding table, and behind them were several other people, including Chase, Aaron, and Brandon, all there out of curiosity. Across the aisle sat an angry man named Marvin Tweel. He was a farmer dressed in his work clothes—faded denim overalls, plaid shirt, and steel-toed boots with mud caked permanently on the soles and heels. Behind him were several people, part of the usual Animal Court crowd of folks trying to rescue unleashed dogs that had been picked up by the town’s rather aggressive dogcatcher.
At four p.m., Judge Yeck walked through a rear door and took his seat at the bench. As always, he was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and an old sports coat. As usual, he seemed bored with what he was doing. He was the lowest-ranking judge in town; in fact, he was the only lawyer who would handle the part-time job. Animal Court got little respect. Theo, though, loved it because there were few rules and no lawyers were required. Anyone, including a thirteen-year-old who thought he was a lawyer, could appear on behalf of a client.
“Hello, Theo,” Judge Yeck said. “How are your folks?”
“They’re doing fine, thanks, Judge.”
Yeck looked at a sheet of paper and said, “All right, our first case is Mr. Marvin Tweel versus Woody and Evan Lambert.” He looked at the farmer and said, “Are you Mr. Tweel?”
Mr. Tweel stood and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Welcome to Animal Court, sir. You may keep your seat. Things are real informal in here.” Mr. Tweel nodded awkwardly and sat down. He was obviously nervous and out of place. Judge Yeck looked at Theo and said, “I take it you represent the Lambert brothers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Mr. Tweel, you are the complaining party, so you go first.”
Mr. Tweel said, “Well, uh, Your Honor, do I need a lawyer? If they got one, do I need one?”
“No, sir, not in this court. And Mr. Boone here is not a real lawyer, not yet anyway. He’s more like a legal adviser.”
“Do I need a legal adviser like him?”
“No, sir, you certainly do not. Proceed with your story.”
Satisfied and more at ease, Mr. Tweel began: “Well, Judge, you see I have a small farm just south of town, and I raise and sell a certain breed of goats that some people enjoy as pets. Others raise them for meat and cashmere. They’re not your typical goats. They’re much smaller and easier to care for. They’re called myotonic goats, on account of a muscle condition known as myotonia congenita. Now that’s about all I know when it comes to the science, but one aspect of this condition is that their muscles freeze when they panic and they get all stiff and frozen, then they fall over with their legs straight out. That’s why they are better known as fainting goats. They don’t really faint, they remain conscious, but they’re out of it for about ten seconds. Then they get up and everything’s okay. It’s just a muscle condition, nothing to do with the brain or anything.”
“Fainting goats?” Judge Yeck said.
“Yes, sir. They’re pretty well known in the goat world.”
“Well, excuse me. So what’s your complaint about?”
Mr. Tweel glared at Woody and Evan and continued: “Well, late Monday afternoon, I was in the house reading the newspaper when my wife sticks her head in the den and says there’s a commotion down at the goat shed. It’s about a hundred yards behind the house, so I head down there. As I get close, I hear somebody laughing. Somebody’s on my property, so I step into my toolshed and grab my twelve gauge. When I get closer to the goat shed, I see these two boys here messing with my goats. I watch ’em for a few minutes. One is on one end of the goat pen, and the other is leaning on a fence taking a video. One—and I can’t tell them apart—jumps out from behind a water trough, claps his hands real loud, yells at my goats as he lunges at them, then cracks up laughing when they faint. When the goats get up, they run away, and he chases them, yelling like an idiot until he corners a couple, lunges at them again, and howls when they go down.”
Judge Yeck was amused. He looked at Theo and said, “So we have this on video?”
Theo nodded. Yes.
“How many goats were in the pen?” Judge Yeck asked.
“Eleven.”
“Please continue.”
“And then, and this is what really ticks me off, when things get real still, one of the boys lights a firecracker and tosses it at the goats. Bam! All eleven go down, stiff-legged, like they’re dead. At that point, the boys start running, but I’m right on them. They see my shotgun, and they decide their fun and games are over. They’re lucky I didn’t shoot them.”
“Did the goats get up?” Judge Yeck asked.
“Yes, sir, they did, but here’s the bad part. About an hour after I get rid of the boys, after I get their names and address, I go back down to the goat pen to check on things. That’s when I saw that Becky was dead.”
“Who’s Becky?”
Mr. Tweel picked up two enlarged photos. He handed one to the judge and one to Theo. It was a fluffy white goat, lying on its side, either in the process of fainting, or in fact dead.
“That’s Becky,” Mr. Tweel said, his voice suddenly weaker. T
hey looked at him and realized his eyes were moist.
“How old was Becky?” Judge Yeck asked.
“She was four, Judge. I was there when she was born. Probably the sweetest goat I’ve ever had.” He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. In an ever-weaker voice, he went on, “She was perfectly healthy. I kept her because she was a good breeder. Now she’s gone.”
“Are you accusing Woody and Evan Lambert of killing your goat?” Judge Yeck asked.
“She was fine and dandy until they came along. I don’t make my goats faint. Some people do, I guess, for fun and sport. Not me. These boys scared ’em to death at first, then I think that firecracker really upset them. Yes, sir, I think these boys killed Becky.”
“How much was she worth?”
“Four hundred dollars on the market, but to me she was worth more because she was such a good mare.” Mr. Tweel was regaining his composure.
Judge Yeck paused for a long time, and finally said, “Anything else, Mr. Tweel?”
He shook his head. No.
“Theo.”
Theo, who’d spent Wednesday night outlining his arguments and had thought of little else all day, began by stating the obvious. “Well, Judge, of course my clients were wrong to be there. It’s not their property. They were clearly trespassing and should be punished for that. But there was no intent to do anything wrong. Look, fainting goats are famous because they faint. Mr. Tweel just said that a lot of owners make their goats faint for the fun of it. Go online and check out YouTube. There are dozens of videos of people who own these goats jumping and yelling and springing up with big umbrellas and such, all in an effort to frighten the goats so they’ll do what they’re expected to do—to faint! That’s all.”
“But your clients didn’t own the goats,” Judge Yeck interrupted.
“No, Judge, of course they did not. Again, they should not have been there.”
“And they made a video?”