Theodore Boone The Accused

Chapter 4


Boone & Boone was a small law firm on a street full of other lawyers, accountants, and architects. All of the buildings along that section of Park Street had once been homes, long before Theo was born.

He carried his bike up the front steps and leaned it against the wall, near the door, its customary parking place. He glanced around, just to make sure no one was watching him, or his bike. Inside the front door, the reception area was the turf of Elsa Miller, the firm’s head secretary and sometimes its boss. She was a spry, hyperactive woman who was old enough to be Theo’s grandmother, and she often acted as though she was.

As always, she bounced from her chair behind her desk and assaulted Theo the moment she saw him. There was a fierce hug, a painful yank of the earlobe, a tussling of his hair, but, thankfully, no kissing. Elsa understood that thirteen-year-old boys did not want to be kissed by anyone. During this attack, and Theo considered it nothing less, she was talking nonstop. “Theo! How was your day? Are you hungry? Does that shirt match those pants? Have you finished your homework? Have you heard the news about Pete Duffy jumping off a bridge?”

“Jumping off a bridge?” Theo repeated, taking a step back and freeing himself from her embrace.

“Well, that’s just one theory, but, good gosh, there is so much gossip racing around this town right now.”

“I was in court this morning when he didn’t show,” Theo said proudly.

“You were?!”

“Yes.”

Elsa retreated as quickly as she had attacked, allowing Judge to come forth and say hello. Judge spent his days easing around the office, checking on everyone, sleeping in various places, and always looking for something to eat. He usually waited for Theo in one of two places—either Theo’s chair back in his office, or on a small bed at Elsa’s feet, supposedly providing protection for the firm but doing nothing of the sort.

“There are pecan brownies in the kitchen,” Elsa said.

“Who made them?” Theo asked. It was a fair question. Elsa’s pecan brownies were somewhat edible, if one were starving, but the wedges occasionally brought in by Dorothy, the real estate secretary, were not. They looked like brick mortar and tasted like mud, and not even Judge would give them a sniff.

“I made them, Theo, and they’re delicious.”

“Yours are perfect,” Theo said as he headed down the hall.

“Your mother is in court and your father is across town wrapping up a real estate deal,” Elsa said. An important part of her job was to keep track of everybody, especially Mr. and Mrs. Boone, and this was easy because she was in charge of their schedules. But Elsa, at any given moment, could give you the precise whereabouts of Dorothy, and of Vince, the paralegal who worked under Mrs. Boone. Add Judge and Theo to the list, and Elsa knew everyone’s appointments, lunch dates, coffee dates, doctors’ visits, depositions, loan closings, birthdays, vacations, anniversaries, even funerals. She once gave Dorothy a sympathy card after her father’s funeral—three years to the day after the old guy was buried.

According to the Boone master plan for daily living, Theo was expected to (1) arrive at the office each day after school, where he (2) checked in with Elsa and suffered through her rituals, then (3) stopped by his mother’s office for a quick hello, then (4) walked upstairs, with Judge close at his heels, where he gave his father a rundown of the day’s activities, then, (5) after a quick word with Dorothy, and (6) another one with Vince, he (7) went to his small office in the back of the building and cranked out his homework, which was to be done before dinner. Of course, if he had something else to do, like work on a merit badge or watch his classmates play soccer or basketball, he was excused from the office ritual. He was a kid, an only child, and his parents, strict as they were, understood the realities of raising a well-rounded thirteen-year-old.

Theo closed the door to his tiny office and pulled his laptop from his backpack. He checked the local news for an update on the search for Pete Duffy. There was not a single word about the man jumping off a bridge, and this did not surprise Theo. Elsa was known to exaggerate.

Theo found it difficult to concentrate, but after two hours the homework was complete, for the most part. Elsa was tidying up her desk and preparing to leave. Both Mr. and Mrs. Boone were still busy elsewhere. Theo checked his bike for further damage, and finding none, took off with Judge in hot pursuit.

Ike’s office was on the second floor of an old building owned by a Greek couple. The first floor was their small deli, and the office above it was always engulfed in the smell of lamb roasting in onions. To a visitor, it was a heavy shot to the nose, though not altogether unpleasant, but Ike, after many years there, seemed not to notice the aroma.

Ike was at his long, cluttered desk, sipping a bottle of beer, listening to a barely audible Bob Dylan on the stereo, when Theo walked in without knocking and fell into a dusty old chair. “How’s my favorite nephew,” Ike asked, the same opening question each week. Theo was Ike’s only nephew. Ha-ha.

“Great,” Theo replied. “Kinda bummed out about the trial.”

“Strange, indeed. I’ve been listening all day and have heard nothing.”

Since his dramatic fall from a prominent and well-respected lawyer to a disbarred and eccentric old hippie, Ike had lived on the fringes of the underworld in Strattenburg, and down there he heard plenty. In one poker club, he played cards with retired cops and lawyers. In another, he rubbed elbows with several ex-criminals like himself. Regardless of the raging story, Ike could usually track down a rumor and examine it closely before it made its wider rounds.

“So what’s your theory?” Ike asked.

Theo shrugged as if he knew precisely what happened. “It’s simple, Ike. Pete Duffy hopped on a bike sometime after midnight, rode it a couple miles down a gravel road, hooked up with his accomplice, tossed his bike in the trunk of a car or the back of a pickup, and away they went.” Theo delivered this quick narrative casually, as if he knew exactly how things had happened, and when he finished he offered a silent word of thanks to Mr. Mount.

Ike’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed this. His jaw dropped slightly as he thought about it. His forehead wrinkled as he analyzed it. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear it? Nowhere. I think it’s obvious what happened. How else can you explain it?”

Ike scratched his beard and stared across the table. He was often impressed by the maturity and street savvy of his nephew, but this easy explanation of the Duffy mystery seemed a bit rehearsed. Theo decided to continue: “And I’ll bet they don’t find him. I’ll bet Pete Duffy planned this perfectly and is now somewhere far away, probably with plenty of cash and a new set of ID papers.”

“Oh really.”

“Sure, Ike. He had an eight-hour head start, and the police have no idea what kind of vehicle he’s in. So, what are they looking for? They don’t know.”

“You want something to drink?” Ike asked as he turned in his swivel chair. There was a small refrigerator under the credenza behind his desk and it was usually well stocked.

“No thanks,” Theo said.

Ike pulled out another bottle of beer, popped the top, and took a sip. Theo knew that he drank too much, which he had learned by listening carefully around the offices at Boone & Boone, and around the courthouse as well. Two or three times he had picked up on comments that suggested Ike Boone struggled with the bottle, and Theo assumed this was true. However, he had never witnessed it. Ike was divorced and far removed from his children and grandchildren. He lived alone, and was, in Theo’s opinion, a sad old man.

“Do you still have a B in Chemistry?” Ike asked.

“Come on, Ike. Do we have to discuss my grades all the time? They get enough attention from my parents. And it’s an A minus, not a B.”

“How are your parents?”

“They’re doing fine. I have a note from my mother reminding me to ask you to join us for dinner tonight at Robilio’s.”

“How nice of her.” Ike waved his hand over the files stacked haphazardly on his desk, then delivered the same, tired old line Theo heard almost daily from his own parents: “I have too much work.”

What a surprise, thought Theo. For reasons he would never understand, the relationship between his parents and Ike was complicated, and there was nothing he could do to simplify things. “It doesn’t take long to eat dinner,” he said.

“Tell Marcella I said thanks.”

“Will do.”

Theo often confided in Ike, and told him things he would not tell his own parents. He considered mentioning how bizarre his day had become after leaving the courtroom that morning, but decided to let it pass. He could always tell Ike later, and seek his advice.

They talked baseball and football, and after half an hour Theo and Judge said good-bye. His bike was right where he had left it, with two tires full of air, and he dashed away with Judge following. He found both of his parents back at the office and went through the routine of briefly describing his day.

Marcella Boone did not enjoy cooking and was often too busy to even attempt it. Woods Boone was a lousy cook, but a fine eater, and since Theo was a toddler the family enjoyed sampling the wonderful ethnic foods of Strattenburg. On Monday, they ate Italian at Robilio’s. Tuesday was soup and a sandwich in a homeless shelter, not exactly fine cuisine. They bounced back Wednesday with Chinese carryout from one of three restaurants they liked. On Thursday, Mr. Boone picked up the daily special at a Turkish deli. Friday dinner was always fish at Malouf’s, a rowdy Lebanese bistro. On Saturday, they rotated selections, with each of the three picking their preference without input from the other two. Finally, on Sunday, Mrs. Boone would assume command of her kitchen and try a new recipe for a roasted chicken. The results were not always spectacular.

Precisely at 7:00 p.m., the Boone family entered Robilio’s and were led to their favorite table.