All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (18 page)

A
fter my surprise meeting with the warden, I go back up the street to VanLeer's office and let myself in through the varnished door. I'm not so early anymore. But my plan is the same; I'm going to sit on the stairs and read until five o'clock.

But when I look up the stairway, someone happens to be looking down. She's the receptionist who sits at a desk in the open space on the landing.

“Oh!” she says. “You're the boy from the . . . the boy that . . . you're staying with the VanLeer family.” She shakes her head as if she has webs in her brain. “It's Perry, isn't it?”

I nod. I force myself to smile. At least she doesn't think I've been adopted.

“Come on up,” she says with a big sweep of her hand.

So I climb. With each step I am thinking,
darn, yuck, darn, yuck
. I'm going to be stuck hanging out with Mr. VanLeer after all. I'm not sure I can stand it.

“You're early,” the receptionist says. “Mr. VanLeer is still over at the courthouse. I don't expect him back for another twenty minutes . . .”

Good!
I almost say it out loud.

“Hmm . . .” She checks her desk clock. “Four forty p.m. Mr. VanLeer told me to have you wait in his office if you arrived before he did. I don't think he expected you this early,” she says, “but let's just stick with the plan.” She motions. I follow her down the hall. “Sorry to say it, Mr. VanLeer is late returning from court more often than he's early.” I don't tell her that it's fine with me.

The door is open. Mr. VanLeer's rolling chair is pushed back from the desk. I think about taking a running jump at it. I could ride it across the floor like I used to do with the warden's chair at Blue River. But the receptionist is watching, and I'd only make it a few feet before I'd crash into VanLeer's bookcase. Besides, I'm not sure I'm still Perry Cook who rides on chairs.

“I'll clear you a little space at the table.” The receptionist begins to push the stacks of boxes to the left. She gives a little grunt as she sets one up on another. “Whew!” She takes a breath. “Paper is heavy! Now, I bet you need a snack.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I had a granola bar at the library.” The granola bar makes me think of Zoey and her bad tooth.
There must be news about that by now. I hope she feels better. I hope she can eat. If only she'd been with me, she could have met the warden.

“Well, I'll be down the hall at my desk if you need anything.” The receptionist gives me a little wave as she leaves.

I am alone in Mr. VanLeer's office.

I set my backpack down and pull a chair up to the long table. My eyes go straight to the boxes—first one and then another. They are all lined up with the ends facing out and each end has a label on it. They are like shoe boxes on a store shelf, only bigger. Inside of every one is somebody's story. Inside one is the story of my mom. I pull my bottom lip inside my teeth and bite it.

I look at the labels. Some are typed. Some are written by hand. But all have three lines on them: a case number, a name, and a date. Right in front of me, I see case number 1242-89. The name is HAYES, M. The date is 6-21-98. On top of HAYES I see PENDERS, then BROWN. I begin to scan every box on the table for the letter
C
for COOK. My heart jumps when I see COO. But the rest is PER for COOPER.

Where is COOK, I wonder? I stand at the table and do a slow full turn around the office. I see shelves and books and the documents on the wall—Mr. VanLeer's favorite, the Spark Award. He said he had Mom's file in his office. It has to be here . . . unless he lied. I go over to his desk. There are lots of papers there, but nothing that says COOK, and no
box on the floor nearby, which is where it seems to me a box he's working from would be.

Liar
, I think. He doesn't have it. He's not helping.

I give up and go back to the long table to start my homework. That's when I see more boxes. Lots of them. They're stacked on the floor underneath the left end of the table. There are three rows, stacked three high, and they are double deep, so eighteen in all.

I glance over my shoulder at the open door and wonder if VanLeer could be on his way. I feel like it hasn't been that long yet.

He's late more often than he's early.

That's what the receptionist said, and she must know. The office clock says 4:46. I read the labels in the front row. I find HOLMES, GOLDMAN, TARNOW, and six more names that are not COOK.

I've got to get to that back row. But what if VanLeer comes in? I'm supposed to be doing homework. I spill my whole backpack—books, notebooks, camera, pencils, a few crumbs, and a granola bar wrapper—onto the table in the space the receptionist made for me. I flip my notebook open. I toss my pencil to the floor. If VanLeer catches me moving boxes, I can say I was looking for the pencil. My heart pounds. I'm not used to lying.

I squat down to the floor and move the first stack of boxes. They're hefty, but they slide on the carpet. On my
hands and knees I tilt my head to read the back row. ANGEL, JAMISON, MARTIN.

I slide the boxes back and pull the next row out. I'm looking at the first few letters only now. I see RO, TER, DUT. Still no COOK.
Darn!
I steal a peek at the clock; it's 4:50.
Move it, Perry! Move it!
Last row of boxes—last chance. I tuck myself below the table. KU, SO, SK.

No COOK.

My heart slides down to my gut. I shove the stack back into place and plunk down hard in the chair. I'm hot inside my fleece—and I'm mad. I thump my fist on the table.
Liar!
Somebody should know what a liar VanLeer is. Who is the boss of him, anyway? I kick my feet out. My toe strikes something that feels like another box. Did I really miss the one box that was closest to me all this time? Could it be . . .

I take a breath and think, Oh, please, please . . .

I slide down low in my chair. I lean sideways and look into the dark corner below the table. I squint and read: LAWSON. “A-a-ack!” I shove the box hard with my foot. I feel it jam up against something else, something behind it. I stretch my leg way under the corner of the table. I hook the LAWSON box with the toe of my sneaker. I push it to the side the tiniest bit.

I can see one last box. The last box in the whole world, I think. I swallow. I bump LAWSON again. On the last box, I see a
C
. . . and then an
O
. I suck a breath. I feel the dry air in
the office rimming my wide-open eyeballs. I knock the box another inch and see another
O
. . . then
K
! Then I see the letter
J
—just like
Jessica.

My forehead gets an amazing smack on the edge of that table when I dive down to the floor. I blink and shove the LAWSON box out of my way. I put both my hands on the one that says COOK, J. I feel like I'm touching dynamite.

The lid is free—a piece of plastic tape has been snapped. VanLeer wasn't lying! He has looked in this box. But then I wonder, when? How long ago? Probably back when he got me yanked out of Blue River. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. I can't stop to think about it now. I'm in the race of my life.

I poke my head out to check the clock. It's 4:52.

I pull the lid off the box and stare down at a stack of papers in the bottom. It seems like not that much—not when it's about someone's whole life. These papers, I think, are older than I am. But it's way too much to read in eight minutes—if I even have eight minutes—
and
I know the papers are full of giant words. This is the stuff the residents try to learn about in the law library at Blue River.

I jiggle the collar of my fleece to fan my sweaty neck. I have to do something before VanLeer comes back from the courthouse.
Think fast.

I reach up to the table and grab my camera.

H
ow can I hide below this table and shoot a whole bunch of photos? I can't. It's dark, and I will smack my head again. I need space and light. I use both arms to plow the mess from my backpack out of the way. I grab up the whole stack of papers from the box—about as thick as a skinny paperback—and set it on the table. I have the light from the window
and—
I can't believe I didn't remember this before—this window looks right down to the street! I can
see
the courthouse! I can watch for VanLeer.

“Yes! A win!”

I hover the camera over the first page. My hands are shaking. “Steady, steady,” I whisper to myself. I put as much of the page in the viewer as I can and let the camera autofocus. I see mostly clean edges on the letters, and I take the shot.

I flip pages quickly, but I keep the stack neat. I see Mom's name, but I don't stop to read. I get a rhythm going. Shoot, flip. Shoot, flip. Look out the window, check the courthouse. Then shoot and flip two more.

It seems to take forever, but I make it to about halfway through and still no VanLeer. What if I missed him? What if he's through the varnished door and on his way up the stairs? No. Can't be. I've kept watch. I know I have.

He's late more often than he's early
.
The receptionist said so. I breathe and keep shooting. Six more pages. Ten more. I look out the window—there he is. He's on the courthouse steps. He is talking to a man and a woman. VanLeer loves to talk. I have wicked jitters, but I shoot two more pages—not just lines of type and big words this time. One is a photo of two roads crossing. The other is a sketch. No time to study them, I flip to the next.

I look outside again. VanLeer is stepping off the curb at the crosswalk. Two final clicks, and I make myself put the camera down. I gather the papers together and square them up. I set them back into the box. I pop the lid on top and slide the box deep into the corner behind LAWSON. I leave it like I found it. I look out the window again. I can't see VanLeer. He has to be down below. I imagine his hand on the brass door handle.

The seconds grind by. My heart thuds bass drum beats inside my body. I should sit down and pretend to work. But I can't. It's just a feeling, but I have to put myself far away from
the box. I stash my camera in my backpack, leave everything else on the table. I cross the room and stand in front of the wall where VanLeer's Spark Award hangs. I stare at it. That's where I am when he comes through the frosted door.

“Hey, Perry,” he says. He almost bumps into me. He sounds glad to see me. I feel a wash of guilt. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too long.” My voice is jaggedy. I'm not sure he notices.

Mr. VanLeer smiles at me. “What are you looking at?” he says. He glances at the wall. “Oh, my Spark Award?” He's smiling about it as he sets his briefcase down and snaps it open. He shuffles some papers out and other papers in. He brings work home every night. He does work a lot. But that doesn't mean that he works on Mom's file. Who knows how long it's been sitting in that corner? I narrow my eyes. I wish there was a way to know . . . a hidden camera . . . a fly on the wall . . . a spy in the office of VanLeer . . .

I go back to the long table, stack my books and papers, and slide everything into my backpack. I stick my hand deep inside to make sure my camera is there. All the while I know that the toes of my sneakers are just a few feet away from the box that says COOK, J.

I shoulder the pack and cross the room again. I stop to look at the award on the wall one last time. Mr. VanLeer joins me. He sighs and says, “I see that award every day, and it reminds me what I'm aiming for, everything I have
planned. It reminds me to dream,” he says. “But of course, you can't just dream, you have to act. You have to practice and prepare. There were four years of college, then three more intense years in law school, then two years interning, and my year as the assistant in . . .”

My head is doing the math while VanLeer talks. I'm adding up his years.

“. . . there's no denying, I've put in my time.” He finally stops.

“But . . . that's . . . almost the same.” The words fall from my mouth into the quiet office air.

“The same?” He looks down his shoulder at me.

I hesitate, then say it. “You've been working at your career just as long as my mom has been in Blue River.” I look up at VanLeer. “It sounds like you're about the same age.”

His eyelids flutter. “Well . . . perhaps. But our lives aren't at all the same.”

“But they could have been. Maybe.” I shrug, not sure that I'm right about that. “My mom earned a degree, and she gets the highest prison pay there is for her work. She saves and makes plans,” I say. “And she dreams.” I think about the New Start folder. “She wants a job on the outside and a membership at the YMCA. She wants to teach me to swim.”

We stand in the quiet of the office for a few seconds. Then VanLeer begins to stammer. “Well, she made . . . well . . . you know she could be d-doing—”

“I know what you think,” I say.

VanLeer scrunches his brow at me. “What's that?”

“You think that you're a lot different than my mom.” I turn to lead us out the door. “And maybe you are.”

Mr. VanLeer comes up behind me and puts his hand on the back of my neck to usher me along. I'm sure he's about to tell me he knows how tough everything has been for me and that he's here to help. Instead he says, “You feel . . . you're very warm, Perry.” He tucks his cool fingers into my collar and it makes my shoulders pinch up. “And you're sweaty too,” he adds. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I'm fine.”

He starts to close the door behind us then stops. “Oh, almost forgot,” he says. “It's Monday. The cleaning crew comes in tonight.” He pushes the door back open, and we walk along the hall, past the receptionist. She's on her phone, but she waves.

Down on the street I toss my backpack into the car and climb in to sit in the seat behind Mr. VanLeer. He settles in and draws his seat belt out. I hear it click. He starts the car up and tunes the radio.

Then an idea lands in my brain. It's like a dart coming out of nowhere. Maybe there is a way to know—

“Wait! Mr. VanLeer! I think I need to use the bathroom,” I say. “Like, right now. Can I run back upstairs?” I have the car door open and one foot on the pavement.

“Oh, of course, Perry! Go ahead.”

“I'll be just a minute,” I promise him. I hurry. Inside the
varnished door, I take the stairs two at a time.

The receptionist is still on her phone. I point down the hallway and mouth the word
bathroom
at her. She nods then turns her chair around to pull papers out of her fax machine. I hustle down the hall. At the bathroom door I look back over my shoulder. She's not looking. I slip into VanLeer's open office.

Smooth and easy
, I think. I slide LAWSON aside and drag Mom's case box out of the corner and lift the lid. Then I go and stand in front of VanLeer's Spark Award and take a huge breath. Will this work? I'm not sure . . . but
something
will happen because of this. I have to do it.

I reach up with both hands, close my fingers around the frame, and lift the award off the hook. I carry it to Mom's box and lay it inside, right on top of the papers—it just fits. I cover the box and slide it back into the corner. I push LAWSON into place.

At the door I feel dizzy. I puff two breaths then peek out into the hall. All clear. I slip into the bathroom, flush a toilet, and wash my hands with the squirty soap. Then I swing back out and down the stairs to the car where VanLeer is waiting.

He twists in his seat to look back at me. “Better?” he asks.

“Way better.” I buckle up, dry my hands on the legs of my pants. Then I ask him, “Mr. VanLeer, how is Zoey? Have you heard?”