The Accomplice (Theodore Boone 7)

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Boone said.

“Happens all the time back there, Mrs. Boone. We can’t have the inmates fighting among themselves so we take a hard line on bad behavior.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Theo said. “He and Tony got jumped by another dude.”

Mrs. Boone asked, “If I can find Judge Pendergrast, can he release the hold over the weekend?”

“He’s a judge, ma’am, and they usually do whatever they want. But you’re calling him over the weekend?”

“Oh, I’ve done it before, not Pendergrast, but plenty of other judges.”

“I’ll help any way I can,” Pruitt said.

“Thanks.”

Half an hour later, Theo returned to the jail with textbooks and workbooks stuffed into his heavy backpack. By now he felt like a regular, and the deputies and jailers and secretaries were no longer amused by the sight of a kid visiting the place and walking around as if he practically owned it. He spoke to them all, called them by name, was very polite because he had learned the valuable lesson years earlier that adults are always impressed by kids who are polite.

After twenty-four hours in solitary, Woody’s face had improved little. His left eye was still puffy and practically closed. The cut on his forehead had scabbed over and there was swelling around it. He seemed calm, though, and not as nervous as the day before. He described the dark little dungeon where they kept him, and the terrible food, and the boredom. He had no idea where Tony was but had heard from a guard that Jock had been released Friday morning.

“Think about that, Theo,” he said. “Garth pulls a stupid stunt, gets us arrested, and he’s been out since Wednesday morning. Then we get attacked by a pit bull named Jock and we get the blame. He gets out, too. We’re completely innocent but we’re still here. This system ain’t working too well, Theo.”

“I know, but we’re trying, Woody. We’ve raised the money and my mom tried to sign the paperwork an hour ago. Now she’s trying to find the judge, but it might be Monday.”

“Monday? Come on, Theo, I can’t stay here all weekend.”

“We’re trying, Woody. That’s all we can do.”

Woody’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

Friday dinner was always at Malouf’s, an old restaurant owned by a Lebanese couple. Theo complained to his mother that he was not feeling well and begged off. Plus, he thought his parents might enjoy an evening to themselves. The family had had a rough week, and he really wanted some time away from his parents.

The truth was that Theo disliked the idea of eating in a nice restaurant while his friend was stuck in a dungeon, choking down bad food. Mrs. Boone had been unable to locate Judge Pendergrast, so posting bail was not possible. Theo was furious at the system, and the way that the judges and policemen, even the lawyers, seemed to think that staying in jail a few more days was no big deal.

After another awful meal of vanilla wafers and not one but two cheese sandwiches, Woody was relaxing on his bed and trying to stay warm when a sudden knock jolted him to his feet. A guard walked in, said get up and follow me, and Woody did as ordered. With no handcuffs, he was led upstairs to the main wing, down a familiar hallway, and shown to a cell where Tony was waiting.

Their solitary confinement days were over. The cell was nicer and warmer, with two bunk beds and a small shelf with half a dozen paperbacks strewn about.

Sitting side by side on the bottom bunk, and talking in low voices, they compared notes and wounds. The cuts and bruises were healing slowly. Tony had heard that Jock was gone, thank goodness, so perhaps they were somewhat safer. Woody described his meeting with Theo and delivered the welcome news that the bail money had been raised. However, they would not be released until Monday.

“How did Theo find two thousand dollars?” Tony asked.

“Everybody pitched in. Mom, Theo, the Boones, my friends, a teacher, lots of folks. Even Dad came through with some money.”

“Dad?”

“Yep. Hard to believe. Theo said Garth is having a fine time on Facebook, laughing about his big adventure and bragging about what his lawyer will do. What a creep.”

“And he’s been out since Wednesday morning. Go figure. I might punch that jerk when I see him.”

They entertained that pleasant thought for a moment, then Woody said, “I can’t believe it but I kinda missed this cell. They had me in a dungeon.”

“Me too. We gotta get outta here, Woody. I’m not cut out for jail. Been doing a lot of thinking lately and I might just pick up my game a little, go back to class, hit the books, get serious about the future.”

“Same thoughts here. I’ve been thinking about Mom and how hard her life is. And we’re not making things any easier. The least we can do is straighten up and stay in school.”

“And avoid stupid mistakes. You know, Woody, nothing good happens when you’re riding around at night, on a school night even, drinking beer. It was pretty stupid, and I want to say I’m sorry. We had no business running around with Garth, and I feel bad because I forced you to do it. I’m your big brother and I’m supposed to set a good example. I blew it. My bad, kid.”

Tony put an arm around Woody’s shoulders and squeezed him. “It won’t happen again.”

Woody didn’t like being hugged by his brother but he was touched by his apology. “It’s not your fault, Tony. We knew what we were doing.”

“You’re only thirteen, and every kid your age is influenced by older people, especially family members. I blew it, and I promise it won’t happen again.” Tony removed his arm and Woody relaxed.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m just glad we’re together again.”

“Right, and we’re going to stick together. We did nothing wrong and we can’t let Garth and his lawyer trick us into a bad deal. Got it?”

“Whatever you say.”

Early Saturday morning, Judge Frank Pendergrast was snoozing in his recliner in the den, still in his pajamas. It had been another long night with little sleep. For about the tenth night in a row, his bloodhound had gone berserk around midnight, barking and howling and lunging at the kitchen door. Once again, he had stepped outside onto the patio and listened in disbelief as every dog on the street yelped and shrieked hysterically in one endless chorus. Something was provoking the neighborhood dogs to go nuts at midnight, and once the racket started it went on for hours. He had talked to his neighbors and no one was sleeping. No one had ever seen their dogs behave in such a bizarre manner. It was like a ghost was running door-to-door and whipping the animals into a frenzy. Something had to be done, but what? How do you catch a ghost?

Just as he dozed off again, the phone rang and he grabbed for it. A mistake.

A familiar voice said, “Good morning, Frank, this is Marcella Boone. Hate to bother you at home but this is important. Hope I didn’t disturb.”

Oh no, Marcella. It’s only Saturday morning, my day off, and I haven’t slept in days. And you called me “Frank” as opposed to “Judge Pendergrast.”

He swallowed hard and said, “Well, good morning, Marcella. To what do I owe this honor?” He asked the question but he had a hunch.

“It’s the Lambert boys, Frank. They’re still in jail. We’ve raised the money for their bail and tried to get them out yesterday afternoon. However, there is a hold on them because of a fight at the jail. They can’t get out until

Monday, which is outrageous.”

The tone of her voice left little doubt that Marcella believed strongly in her cause and was itching for a fight. He had always admired her, and Woods as well, and he really didn’t want trouble. For the most part, the local bar—the lawyers and judges—knew one another well and strived to get along. There was nothing to be gained by fighting and bickering, regardless of the conflicts they dealt with. It was a civilized bar and they took pride in their professionalism.

He stood, scratched his head, and said, “Well, I’m not sure what’s happening here, Marcella. I do not recall hearing anything about a fight.”

“The jailers are blaming you. They told us you are reprimanding the boys for fighting in jail. Is this true?”

“No, it is not. This is the first I’ve heard about it. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Listen, Frank, this is what’s going on. The Lambert boys were arrested Tuesday night and charged with armed robbery. The guy with the gun, and the driver of the car, posted bail Wednesday morning and is having his fun on social media. His family has money. The Lamberts do not. Once in jail, they were attacked by another juvenile named Jock. I’m sure you know of him, and he’s already out. We have managed to beg and borrow the money necessary to post bail, ten thousand dollars each, which, in my opinion, is excessive, but nonetheless we have the money and we want the boys out. Now.”

Had they been in the courtroom, His Honor would consider gently suggesting that Mrs. Boone relax her tone a bit. He felt as though he was being reprimanded. But the courtroom was far away, and he was standing in the middle of his den, in his pajamas, and he felt all of his power draining away.

He said, “Marcella, I swear I do not remember anything about a fight.”

“I’m not surprised. That jail is a zoo and you know how often the paperwork gets lost. May I suggest you call down there and instruct them to get the boys ready to be released? I’ve just talked to the bail bondsman and he can meet us at the jail in an hour. As I said, Frank, we have the money.”