The Accomplice (Theodore Boone 7)

“It’s not a gun. It’s a water pistol, and a very nice one at that. Just having a little fun.”

“How much cash did you take?”

“Not much. All he had. He emptied the drawer. I’d say a couple of hundred.”

“Look, Garth, we’re going home,” Tony said angrily. “Take us back to my truck. You got that? I’m on probation, remember? A stupid trick like that will bring in the cops and I’m headed to jail. I don’t care what kind of gun you used. Take us back to my truck.”

“What? We got some beer to drink, Tony. Don’t freak out on me.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Come on, Tony, don’t go chicken on me.”

“It’s not being chicken. It’s being stupid. I don’t want the beer and I’m telling you right now we’re getting out of here.”

“All right, all right.”

“You okay back there, Woody?” Tony asked.

“Sure,” Woody barely managed to say. He wanted to inform his older brother that he thought he was an idiot for getting in Garth’s car to begin with, but he bit his tongue and avoided more trouble.

They were back in the city, near the college, and the highway had widened into a boulevard. They stopped at a red light and a police car eased alongside them, to Garth’s left. His window was down.

From the back seat, Woody heard the words he would never forget. A cop said loudly, “Stop right there, kid.”

Suddenly, there were blue lights everywhere.

A thick cop kept growling, “Shut up, kid. Shut up, kid.” But Garth kept talking over his shoulder. He was on the hood of his car, facedown, hands cuffed behind him, feet off the ground. Tony was standing behind the Mustang, also handcuffed, quietly answering questions from two policemen. There seemed to be a dozen of them milling about, poking through Garth’s car, huddling with one another, listening to their phones. Radios squawked and a hundred blue lights lit up the intersection. Traffic was blocked in several lanes and a uniformed officer pointed this way and that. A crowd was gathering on a sidewalk, everyone curious to know what terrible crime had been committed by the three young hoodlums.

In the back seat of a patrol car, Woody sat alone and felt very small. His hands were cuffed behind his back. They were snug on his wrists and quite uncomfortable. But, at the moment, he figured that a little pain from the handcuffs was not his biggest problem.

The cops had yanked him out of the car and at first shoved him around, the usual routine, but when they realized he was just a kid, they relaxed and searched him. They took his cell phone, slapped the cuffs on him, and put him in the back seat where he had a decent view of the action. Garth wanted to resist and explain and make it all go away, but the more he talked the rougher the cops became. Tony seemed too frightened to argue with the police.

The crowd continued to gather and Woody tried to slide lower. He watched as Tony was led to another patrol car and placed in the rear seat. Then Garth was removed from the hood of his car and sort of dragged to yet another patrol car and shoved in, talking away the whole time. With the three suspects secured, the police waved over a tow truck with its yellow and orange lights blinking wildly.

To Woody, it seemed like a little too much muscle and manpower just for three stupid kids drinking beer. Still, he knew he was in trouble.

Two policemen got in the front seat and slammed the doors. “You okay, kid?” one asked.

“Yes, sir,” Woody answered quickly. Everything had been “yes, sir” and “no, sir” since the moment he’d seen the blue lights.

“We gotta take you to the police station, son,” the driver said as he drove away from the scene. The Mustang’s front tires were off the ground and the tow truck driver was pulling levers.

“Yes, sir,” Woody said. “I guess we should call my mom.”

“We’ll call her from the station. We got her number from your brother.”

“I don’t suppose you guys could just take me home could you?”

Both laughed. Short little humorous grunts that quickly passed.

“A comedian,” the driver said.

Woody said, “I mean, you know, it’s just a little beer.”

“A little beer?” the cop in the passenger seat repeated. He turned around, glared at Woody, and growled, “Son, we’re talking armed robbery.”

A sharp pain hit Woody deep in the gut. He tried to say something—he wasn’t sure what—but his throat suddenly clamped shut and his mouth was dry. He managed to breathe and felt sweat under his arms.

Was this a joke, he wanted to ask, but it was obvious that it was not. Were they really charging him with armed robbery? Surely not. He and Tony had never left the car at the convenience store. How can you pull an armed robbery with a water pistol? It was only a water pistol, right? Woody’s shirt was still wet! He had the proof!

He breathed deep and said, “It was only a water pistol.”

“That’s not what he told the guy at the store,” the driver said.

“My shirt is still wet,” Woody said, and he realized how stupid he sounded.

“Just shut up, kid,” the other cop said.

And he did. And he bit his lip to keep from crying.

At the police

station, Woody was led through a side door and into a large reception area where other cops and clerks stopped and gawked at him as if he’d committed a murder. There was no sign of either Tony or Garth. Woody was taken to a room where his handcuffs were removed. A gruff, angry sergeant in a tight uniform growled, “Stand over there, kid. This is your mug shot.” Woody backed against a wall, stared at a camera, and for a split second thought of all the bad mug shots of famous people he’d seen online. “Don’t smile, kid,” the cop said.

“I’m not smiling,” Woody said. He had not smiled in days.

“On three. One, two, three.” The camera clicked. The sergeant looked at a screen and said, “Beautiful. Make your mom proud. Sit over there.”

Woody went to a chair and did as he was told. The sergeant took a step over, looked down with a frown, and said, “So they say you’ve been drinking beer, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much?”

“Two cans.”

“Gee, I’ve never heard that before. Every drunk who comes in here says he had just two drinks. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“I need to check your blood alcohol level. We use a machine called a Breathalyzer. Ever heard of it?”

“No, sir.”

“First I need you to agree to it, understand?”

“Not really.”

“You need to sign this consent form which allows us to use a Breathalyzer to measure how much alcohol is in your system. Follow me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sign right here.” The sergeant handed down a clipboard with a pen. Woody signed his name by a large X. His hand was shaking so wildly he couldn’t read his own name. “Should I ask my mom about this?” he asked as he handed the clipboard back.

“Your mum’s not here, is she?”

“No, and I’d like to call her but those other policemen took my phone.”

“Standard procedure,” the sergeant said as he rolled over a cart with the Breathalyzer. He flipped a switch, glanced at a small monitor, then shoved a small tube in Woody’s face. “Now, stick this in your mouth and blow as hard as you can.”