The Fugitive (9 page)

Woody glared at him as if to say, “Why'd you bring that up?”

Evan looked at him as if to say, “Way to go, super lawyer.”

Judge Yeck looked at Mr. Tweel and asked, “Do you want these boys to go to jail?”

Mr. Tweel shot back, “Wouldn't bother me.”

Judge Yeck looked at the Lambert brothers and asked, “Do your parents know about this?”

Both shook their heads emphatically. No. Evan said, “We'd like to keep this away from our parents. They have enough problems.”

Judge Yeck scribbled some notes on a legal pad. The courtroom was silent as everyone took a deep breath. Since Theo had been there many times, he knew the judge was looking for a compromise, and that he might appreciate some help. He said, “Judge, if you don't mind, may I offer a suggestion?”

“Sure, Theo.”

“Well, it's a bit extreme to talk about jail time. My clients are in school, and throwing them in jail doesn't help anything. And since their parents are not involved and they don't have any money to pay a fine, for trespassing, perhaps they could be sentenced to a few hours of labor on Mr. Tweel's farm.”

Mr. Tweel blurted, “I don't want 'em on my farm. My goats'll never be the same.”

Theo looked at Woody, and, as instructed, he stood and said, “Mr. Tweel, my brother and I are very sorry for what happened. We were wrong to go onto your property, and we realize we're guilty of trespassing. We were just having some fun and didn't mean to do any harm. We apologize and we'd like to do whatever you want to make things right.”

Sincere apologies went a long way in Judge Yeck's courtroom.

Mr. Tweel was really a nice man with a big heart. How could you raise fainting goats and not have a lighthearted view of the world? But he kept a grim face and stared at the floor. Woody sat down.

Judge Yeck looked at Mr. Tweel and asked, “How big is your farm?”

“Two hundred acres.”

“Well, I was raised on a farm, and I know that there's always brush to be cleared and firewood to be cut. Surely you can find some hard labor for these boys, something far away from the goat pen.”

Mr. Tweel began nodding and almost smiled, as if he just thought of some nasty job on the farm he'd been neglecting for years. He said, “I suppose so.”

Judge Yeck said, “So here's what we'll do. I find both of you guilty of trespassing, but there will be no record of your conviction. Since you have no money I will not order you to pay a fine. Your sentence will be twenty hours of labor, each, on Mr. Tweel's farm over the next month. If you fail to show up or fail to do what he tells you to do, then we'll meet back here again and I will not be in a good mood. And stay away from the goats. Fair enough, Mr. Tweel?”

“I suppose.”

“Any questions, Theo?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Next case.”

THE RETRIAL

T
heo awoke on Monday morning to the sounds of thunder and rain hitting his bedroom window. It was dark outside, too dark to be awake, but then he had slept little. He stared at the ceiling, lost in a world of heavy thinking, when he realized something was moving beside his bed. “All right,” he said, and moved over so Judge could crawl into the bed. Judge did not like thunder and felt safer under the covers than under the bed.

How would the bad weather affect the trial? Theo wasn't sure. It might keep some spectators away, but that was doubtful. The courtroom would be packed. The town had talked of little else since the day Pete Duffy had been captured in DC.

Would Theo be in the courtroom? That was the big question. Mr. Mount had asked Mrs. Gladwell, the principal, if his class could attend the opening day, same as the last time, but the request had been denied. The boys had other classes, other obligations, and it wasn't fair to allow one homeroom so much time out of school. This had really irritated Theo, and Mr. Mount as well, but there was nothing they could do.

The second murder trial of Pete Duffy was even bigger than the first. Why couldn't Mrs. Gladwell understand this? The boys would learn far more in the courtroom than they would suffering through yet another day of Spanish or Chemistry. Once it became apparent that they could not attend as a group, Theo began scheming of ways to get himself excused from school. He had thought about getting sick again, and not just his usual hacking cough or upset stomach or fever caused by placing a hand towel on the furnace vent and then draping it across his forehead. None of those would work, mainly because his parents had seen them so often. He had Googled flu symptoms, and strep throat, and whooping cough, even appendicitis, but realized those afflictions were too serious to fake. Besides, his mother would insist that he stay in bed for days. He'd thought about appealing to Judge Henry Gantry, a close ally, and trying to convince him that he, Theo, was actually
needed
in the courtroom. Maybe he could be useful in some way. He had talked to Ike about a scheme whereby Ike would check him out of school to attend a funeral, but remembered that that trick had already been used. Finally, he had convinced Mr. Mount to intervene and write a request that Theo be allowed to watch the first day so he could report everything back to their Government class. Mrs. Gladwell had reluctantly said yes, but only if Theo's parents agreed.

And that's where he hit a wall. His parents were of the opinion that he had missed too many classes already. Usually they split; if one said yes the other said no, and vice versa. But this time they remained united and Theo, so far, had been unable to persuade them.

He could not imagine missing the trial.

The rain stopped and the sky began to lighten. He showered, dressed, brushed his teeth, studied his thick braces, and finally went downstairs for the final round of battle. His parents were at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. His father was dressed in his usual dark suit. His mother was still in her pajamas and bathrobe. The air seemed tense. Everybody said good morning, and Theo sat in a chair, waiting. They seemed not to notice him.

After a few awkward minutes, his mother said, “Aren't you eating breakfast, Theo?”

“No,” he replied abruptly.

“And why not?”

“I'm on a hunger strike.”

His father shrugged, glanced at him with a quick grin, and returned to his newspaper. Starve if you want to, son.

“And why are you on a hunger strike?” his mother asked.

“Because you're not being fair, and I don't like the injustice of it.”

“We've had this discussion,” his father said without taking his eyes off the newspaper. Theo was often amazed at how much time his parents spent reading the local paper. Did Strattenburg really have so much fascinating news?

His mother said, “Injustice is a pretty strong word, Teddy.”

Theo replied, “Please don't call me Teddy. I'm too old for that.” It sounded far too harsh and she looked at him sadly. His father shot him a hard look. A tense moment or two passed as Theo twiddled his thumbs and Judge looked up, obviously starving.

His father turned a page and finally asked, “And how long will this hunger strike last?”

“Until the trial is over.”

“And what about Judge? Have you discussed it with him?”

“Yes, we had a long talk,” Theo said. “He said he'd rather not take part.”

“That's good to hear.” His father lowered the newspaper and looked at Theo. “So let me get this straight. Tonight we're going to Robilio's, your favorite Italian restaurant. And I'll probably order either the spaghetti and meatballs or the ravioli stuffed with spinach and veal, after, of course, we start with mozzarella and roasted tomatoes. Your mom will probably get the seafood capellini, or maybe the grilled eggplant. They'll serve us a basket of their famous garlic bread. We may even have their famous tiramisu for dessert. And the entire time you'll be sitting there watching us eat, smelling the garlic bread, looking at trays of delicious food being hustled about by the waiters, and doing nothing but sipping from a glass of ice water. Is that what you're telling us, Theo?”

Theo was suddenly starving. His mouth was watering. His stomach was aching. He could almost smell the delicious aromas that hit him every Monday night when he walked in the door of Robilio's. But he managed to say, “You got it.”

“Don't be silly, Theo,” his mother said.

His father said, “Think of the cash we'll save. Ice water is free at Robilio's. And all that lunch money.”

Judge reached up with a paw and raked it across Theo's leg as if to say, “Hey, buddy. I'm not on strike.”

Theo slowly got up and opened the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of whole milk—neither he nor Judge could stand skim—and got the Cheerios from the pantry. As he was pouring the cereal into a bowl, he saw something important. His father lowered the newspaper just an inch or so, just enough to make eye contact with his mother, and gave her a wicked grin.

The fix was in. They were playing games.

Theo placed the bowl on the floor and resumed his seat at the table, starving. Things were too quiet, and he decided to start another serious discussion. What did he have to lose? “So, again, I don't see any harm in allowing me to watch the opening day of the trial. Both of you know it's the biggest trial in the history of Strattenburg, probably the biggest trial we'll ever see, and it's just not fair to make me skip it. The way I see things, I'm sort of involved in this case because if it weren't for me, we wouldn't even be talking about a trial. Pete Duffy would be in South America and the police would never find him. An accused murderer gone free. But no, thanks to me and my keen powers of observation, and my amazing ability to recognize fugitives, not once but twice, we, the people of this town and of Stratten County, are about to witness our judicial system in action. Thanks to me. Plus, I know more about this case than almost anybody. I tracked down Bobby Escobar, the prosecution's star witness.” His throat tightened and for a split second his lip quivered. He would not, however, give them the satisfaction of watching him crack up. “It's just not fair. That's all I can say. I really think you guys should reconsider.”

He folded his hands and stared at the table. They were lost in the newspaper and seemed not to hear him. Finally, his mother said, “Woods, do you think we should reconsider?”

“Fine by me.”

She looked at Theo and gave him one of those big, motherly smiles that made everything warm and happy. “Okay, Theo, we've reconsidered. But only for today. Deal?”

Theo was thrilled, but he had the presence of mind not to agree to any deal. He knew he would be in the courtroom later in the week when Bobby Escobar testified, but he hadn't figured out how exactly. He jumped to his feet, hugged his mother, said thanks a dozen times, and went for the Cheerios.

“I assume the hunger strike is over,” his father said.

“You got it,” Theo said. And it had worked. He had never used the threat of a hunger strike to outflank his parents, but he had just added it to his bag of tricks. One of the great advantages of being an only child was that his parents didn't have to worry about making a bunch of silly rules for the other kids to follow. They could be more flexible, and Theo knew how to work them.

A
t eight thirty, Theo was sitting at his desk in Mr. Mount's homeroom, staring at the clock, watching the second hand slowly sweep through its rotation, waiting for the bell that would begin the day. He had arrived early and had tried unsuccessfully to convince Mr. Mount that he should march into Mrs. Gladwell's office and demand that Theodore Boone be allowed to skip homeroom and hustle on over to the courthouse where the courtroom was undoubtedly already packed. Mr. Mount was of the opinion that they had bothered Mrs. Gladwell enough already. Just cool it, Theo.

The bell finally rang and the class came to order. Aaron raised a hand and said, “I don't think it's fair that Theo gets to go watch the trial today and we don't. What's the deal?”

Mr. Mount was in no mood to quarrel. “There's no deal, Aaron,” he said. “Theo will watch the trial today and give us a recap tomorrow in Government. If you don't like that, then you can write a three-page paper tonight on the presumption of innocence and deliver it tomorrow.”

Aaron had no further questions or comments.

Mr. Mount said, “Theo, you'd better take off. Miss Gloria has your pass.”

Woody and a couple of other clowns booed and hissed as Theo sprinted from the room. Miss Gloria worked the front desk and thought she controlled the entire school. In spite of the fact that she had a thankless job, one that involved dealing with sick students, and students who were not sick but trying their best to fake it, and angry parents, and frazzled teachers, and a tough boss (Mrs. Gladwell), and all manner of stressed-out people, she managed to keep a smile on her face. Twice Theo had given her free legal advice, and he would gladly do so again because Miss Gloria had the power to let him sneak out of school. He might need her later in the week, but for today his early exit had been cleared. She handed him an official pass, one that would protect him from the pesky truant officers who often roamed the city looking for kids skipping school. They had caught Theo twice, but both times he managed to talk his way out of trouble.

He jumped on his bike and raced away, headed for downtown. The trial would start promptly at nine a.m., and Judge Gantry ran a tight courtroom. Theo was sure all seats had already been taken. Two television news crews had set up cameras in front of the courthouse and a small crowd milled about. Theo parked well away from them and chained his bike to a rack. He entered through a side door and bounded up a narrow stairwell that was seldom used. He said hello to a clerk in an office where they kept the property deeds but did not slow down. He zigzagged through some smaller offices, spoke to another clerk, and found a dark corridor that led to a landing near the room where the jury deliberated. He held his breath and opened a larger door that opened into the courtroom. As expected, a crowd was already there, and the courtroom buzzed with great anticipation. Ike waved him over, and Theo managed to squeeze into a tight spot next to his uncle. They were in the third row behind the table where Mr. Jack Hogan and his team of prosecutors were going about the busy work of preparing for the start of the trial.

Across the courtroom, Pete Duffy sat at the defense table with Clifford Nance and another lawyer. While waiting in jail, the hair he had dyed blond had returned to its normal color—black with a lot more gray than the last time. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and tie, and he could have easily passed for just another lawyer.

“Any trouble?” Ike asked.

“No. My parents changed their minds this morning.”

“No surprise there.”

“Did you talk to them?”

Ike just smiled and said nothing. Theo suspected his uncle had made a phone call during the night and convinced Woods and Marcella Boone that he belonged in court.

At exactly nine a.m., according to the large clock on the wall above the judge's bench, a bailiff stood and bellowed, “All rise for the Court.” Everyone immediately stood as a few stragglers scrambled for their seats. Judge Gantry appeared through a door behind the bench, and the bailiff continued: “Hear ye, hear ye, the Criminal Court for the Tenth District is now in session, the Honorable Henry Gantry presiding. Let all who have matters come forth. May God bless this Court.”

Judge Gantry, with his long black robe flowing behind him, took his place behind the elevated bench and said, “Please be seated.” Theo glanced around. There was not an empty seat anywhere, including the balcony where he and his classmates had been sitting during the opening of the first trial.

This trial was different. During the first one, there had been the general feeling in town that Pete Duffy had killed his wife, but that the State would have a hard time proving it. His great defense lawyer, Clifford Nance, would do a superb job of punching holes in the State's case, of creating enough doubt to free his client. Now, though, at the start of the retrial, there was the strong belief that Duffy was guilty of murder and headed for death row. Everyone knew he had escaped. He had to be guilty! Even Theo, who strongly believed in the presumption of innocence, could not force himself to view Duffy as an innocent man.

According to Ike, Clifford Nance had tried valiantly to cut a deal with Jack Hogan, a plea bargain that would allow Duffy to plead guilty to murder and escape and spend twenty years in prison. He was forty-nine years old, and if he survived prison he might still be able to live a few years as a free man. Hogan, according to Ike, wouldn't budge. His best offer was life in prison without the chance of parole. Duffy would die in prison, one way or the other. Ike thought Duffy should take the offer. He said there was a big difference between being locked down on death row and living in the general population of a prison.

Judge Gantry instructed a bailiff to bring in the jury. A door opened, and the courtroom was still as the jurors filed in and filled the jury box. They had been selected the week before in a closed courtroom. There were fourteen of them—twelve regular jurors and two alternates in case someone got sick or had to be excused. Everyone watched them closely as they took their seats and settled in. Strattenburg was a small city, only seventy-five thousand people, and Theo thought he knew almost everyone. But he didn't recognize a single person. Ike claimed to know juror number six, an attractive middle-aged woman who worked in a downtown bank. Other than her, they were strangers.

Judge Gantry quizzed them for a few minutes. He was concerned about improper contact. Had anyone spoken to them about the case? And so on. Judges always did this and the jurors always said no. But this case was different. Pete Duffy had money—how much no one knew at this point because of all he'd been through—and given his desperate situation he was not above dirty tricks.

Jack Hogan stood and walked to a small podium in front of the jury. He was tall and wiry, and he wore the same black suit every day. He was a veteran prosecutor and very well respected. Theo had watched him many times in court. He began with a pleasant, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” He introduced himself again and asked the members of his team to stand. Hogan was not flashy, but he did a nice job of breaking the ice and getting the jury to relax. He explained that his job was simply to present the facts and let them decide the case.

The facts: Myra Duffy, age forty-six, had been strangled to death in the living room of her home, on the sixth fairway of Waverly Creek golf course. Golf was a crucial element in the case. At the time, her husband, the defendant Pete Duffy, was playing golf, alone, as he often did. Hogan stepped over to his table, hit a key on a laptop, and a color photo of Myra Duffy appeared on a large screen opposite the jury. She was a pretty lady, the mother of two fine young men. The next photo was of the crime scene: Myra Duffy lying peacefully on a carpeted floor in the living room of a spacious house. No blood, no signs of a struggle, just a well-dressed woman seemingly asleep. The cause of death was strangulation. The next photo was an aerial view of the large, modern home sitting on a heavily shaded lot and hugging the sixth fairway. Using photos and diagrams, Hogan walked the jury through the events of that awful morning. At eleven ten, Pete Duffy teed off on the North Course with the intention of playing eighteen holes of golf. He was alone, which was not unusual. He was a serious golfer who liked to play by himself. The day was cool and dreary; the course was practically deserted. He picked the perfect time for the perfect crime.

At this point, Jack Hogan talked about motive. Pete Duffy was in real estate and had made a lot of money. But, the markets had turned against him and he had a lot of debt. Some banks were squeezing him. He needed cash. There was a one-million-dollar life insurance policy on Myra, and her husband was the beneficiary.

With great drama, and with the jurors absorbing every word, Jack Hogan said, “The motive was simply money. One million dollars, payable to Pete Duffy in the event of his wife's death.”

Back to the facts: At the time of her death, Myra was preparing to meet her sister in town for a noon lunch. The front door was unlocked and slightly open. The alarm was in standby mode. The time of death was approximately eleven forty-five. Using a large diagram, Hogan explained that Pete Duffy was somewhere near the fourth or fifth hole on the North Course, about an eight-minute ride in a golf cart from their home.

Hogan paused and stepped closer to the jury. He said, “At that point, Pete Duffy left the North Course and sped away. His destination was his own home. He arrived around eleven forty and parked his golf cart near the patio. Mr. Duffy was right-handed, so like virtually all right-handed golfers he was wearing a glove on his left hand. A well-used glove. But as he entered his house by the back door, he did something strange. He quickly put a glove on his right hand. Two hands, two gloves, something never seen on the golf course. He disappeared inside, attacked his wife, and when she was dead he raced through the house, opening drawers and taking such things as jewelry and vintage watches and handguns. He made it look like a robbery, so that we would believe some unknown thief broke into the house with the intent to burglarize it and stumbled upon Myra, who, of course, had to be eliminated.”

Another long pause. The courtroom was deathly silent. Hogan seemed to enjoy the drama. He continued, “And how do we know this? Because there was an eyewitness, a young man by the name of Bobby Escobar. He worked at the golf course cutting grass and such, and at eleven thirty that morning he began his lunch break. Bobby is from El Salvador and he is an undocumented worker. He is here illegally, like so many others, but that does not change the fact that he saw Pete Duffy hurry into his home that morning.” Hogan touched his laptop and another aerial photo appeared. Using a red laser pointer, he said, “Bobby was sitting in the woods right here, about halfway through his thirty-minute lunch break. From where he was sitting, he had a clear view of the rear of the Duffy home. He saw Pete Duffy park his golf cart, put the second glove on his right hand, and hurry inside. A few minutes later, he saw Duffy emerge, in an even bigger hurry, and speed away.”

Jack Hogan walked to his table and took a sip of water from a plastic cup. Every juror watched him. He stuck both hands into his front pockets, as if it was time for a friendly chat. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, it is easy to criticize, even to condemn, Mr. Escobar because he is not supposed to be in this country. He came here seeking a better life. He left his family at home, and he sends money to his mother every month. But, he is here illegally, and this will be kicked about at length by the defense. They will attack him. He speaks little English, and when he testifies it will be through an interpreter. Please don't allow this to cloud your judgment. He doesn't want to testify. He's afraid of courtrooms and those in authority, and with good reason. But he saw what he saw, and what he saw was an important part of this crime. He has no reason to lie. He didn't know Pete or Myra Duffy. He wasn't looking for trouble. He didn't know she had been murdered. He was simply a lonely and homesick boy who was having a quiet lunch by himself in the woods, away from his fellow workers. He happened to be in the right place at the right time to witness something profound. It takes great courage for Bobby Escobar to come forward, and for him to testify in this courtroom. Please listen to him with an open mind.”

Jack Hogan sat down, and at that moment Theo could not imagine that anyone believed Pete Duffy was innocent.

Judge Gantry tapped his gavel and called for a fifteen-minute recess. Theo was not about to risk losing his seat, so he and Ike stayed put. Ike whispered, “Have you heard from Bobby?”

Theo shook his head. No.