All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (20 page)

“S
how me the fish,” Mr. Krensky says. I lay the six cans out in front of him on the table in the law library. “Ah . . . yesss . . . ,” he says. He traces his fingers all the way around the top seam of one can. For about two seconds, Krensky looks happy.

“May I please have my camera back?” I say. He slides it over, and I breathe a great sigh of relief. It's only been a few days, but I have missed it. I wait and hope Mr. Krensky will have something important to tell me, and I hope he'll say it plainly.

“Well, you're right. There is something wrong with the case. Several things.”

I slide my notebook out of my backpack and open it. He's
going to talk fast, and he won't repeat anything, I just know it. I grip my pencil.

“Putting it simply . . . she refused counsel and confessed,” he says.

Six cans of fish and he's telling me something I already know.

“There's something wrong with that,” he adds. “I'll get back to it in a minute. As near as I can tell, the driver of that car was technically at fault.”

The driver
. I repeat it to myself. I don't interrupt. I already know this too.

“Only an eyewitness can dispute the description of what happened at that intersection,” he says. “The car pulled left into the path of the truck. The diagram of the accident clearly shows. I'd be interested in intersection records. The history. This looks like a supremely bad one.” He stuffs his fingers into his hair and scratches his head. “Now about the fatality—the man that died—looks like he was your mother's father . . .”

“Yes,” I say. I already know this.
Come on, Krensky!

“Well, unless it's on a missing document—and it might be”—he holds one finger in the air then points it at me as if to blame me for not photographing every page—“nothing in the report says he died of injuries sustained in the accident.”

“You mean he didn't get hurt by the car crash?” I think for a second.

“I don't know.” Krensky shakes his head. “It doesn't say.
That whole report is full of holes.” He flicks his hand. “See, counsel would've dug into that,” he says. “
If
she'd had counsel.” He drums his fingers on the sardine cans. “She refused a defense
and
she pled without a Breathalyzer test to check for alcohol. It's practically inexplicable,” he says. He wipes his lips with his fingers. “But debacles like this happen with mind-boggling frequency.”

I'm thinking about what Mom told me—that she didn't see the manslaughter charge coming.

“Wouldn't they make her do that?” I ask. “The breath-a-thing?”

“Should have. That had to be somebody's mistake. Can't tell you what happened there,” he says. “But I do know that the courts love a guilty plea. A confession is . . .”

“A conviction.” I say it.

“Correct. Thing is, I hadn't pegged your mother for an imbecile, even young as she was.” Krensky goes on. “I can tell you this, refusing counsel and confessing usually means one thing.” His eyebrows curve together like two furry white caterpillars meeting head to head. He makes me wait, like he's not going to tell.

“I got you your fish,” I remind him.

He nods. “My guess is . . . she was protecting someone.”

When he says it, it comes at me like a surprise, but not a surprise. It's more like a jolt that wakes up something inside me. “The driver,” I say. I'm talking to myself, but Krensky nods.

He says, “Look, kid. A mess was made of your mother's case. I see a girl with no representation, a dangerous intersection, bad weather . . . list goes on.” He shakes his head. “But I've asked around and—”

“You didn't ask
her
, did you?” I can't hide my panic.

“I didn't have to!” he squawks. “You know this place is full of voices. Your mother's trouble over her parole hearing is
not
because of the incident that got her put in here.” He fixes his eyes on mine and cocks his head.

“It's about me,” I say.

Krensky nods. “So all this digging around in the past probably isn't going to help her.”

“Even if she should've never been in here in the first place?”

“She's already served.” He sounds annoyed with me.

“But I-I have to keep her from getting more time,” I say.

Mr. Krensky's lips are in a tight line. I want him to say something more, give me a piece of advice—anything! But he sits there, tapping his old split fingernails on the cans of sardines.

“What do I do?” I finally ask him.

“You count on justice,” he says. “Good luck with that. If you ask me, somebody's going to have to pay.”

“You mean pay for me being at Blue River,” I say. I don't need Krensky to tell me that I'm right.

O
n Saturday, I tell Mom that I'm finished with my Coming to Butler County project. “The Blue River Stories are all written,” I say. “Everything I know . . .” I mumble the last part. I'm not going to bother her about it. I just want us to play a game and have a normal visit—whatever that is. Besides, we've got a bird on the line: someone is listening in.

Thomas VanLeer gave everyone the slip today. He is sitting close by. Mom and I have put our backs to him as much as we can. He keeps snapping open his newspaper pages behind us while we play a round of the memory game on one of the small tables. The game was my birthday gift from the warden when I was five. We have worn the pictures and blunted the corners of the cards. But it's a favorite.

“I have to print and bind the stories the beginning of this week, because we're presenting on Thursday. I made a cover. It's mostly a big blue sky with an outline of a building that
looks like Blue River. I cut out shadow shapes of the people and put them on the inside.”

“Oh . . . silhouettes,” Mom says. “Nice.”

“I still wish I could have made a video for the presentation day. But each of us gets a turn to stand and give an oral summary of our projects.” Behind us, VanLeer shifts. I go on. “We're going to move all the desks to the edge of the classroom. Miss Maya is giving us an entire class period to walk around and see the projects close-up and personal—”

VanLeer scoots his chair, and it's noisy. Mom and I both look over our shoulders at him. He looks back at us like he's going to speak, but then his mouth just hangs open. I wonder if he knows that Zoey hasn't started her project. I'm not going to tell him. I turn my back to him again. I flip over two cards. No match.

“We're having make-your-own sundaes afterward in the school cafeteria. That's our culmination celebration.” I grin. “So it's almost like an afternoon off.”

“Oh, I bet you love that!” Mom says, poking a finger at me. We go back to turning up cards two at a time. I love it when I know that I've seen the same picture twice. Then I love it more when I remember where the match is. I get a pair—the red bird on a branch. Then Mom snags two in a row. I hiss. Mom laughs. Later, Big Ed joins us for the second round. It is a quiet Saturday visit at Blue River.

In the late afternoon, I walk into the VanLeer kitchen
where the grown-ups are talking. I hear Mr. VanLeer say he has to
nix it.
“First thing Monday morning,” he says. “I'm going in to talk to the principal.” They go silent when they see me.

I look at Zoey's mom. Her face is red and she is wiping down the countertop like there's been a poison spill. This has to be about the Coming to Butler County projects. They know time is almost up, and I'm guessing they know that Zoey hasn't done her work. It's not my business, but I hope they'll cut her some slack. That bad tooth is a good excuse. She's a little bit off the hook anyway—in a sad way. She's going to miss the presentation day. It's the same day she goes back to the oral surgeon. I feel six kinds of sorry about it. For one, I'm nervous about presenting my Butler County project without Zoey there as my support person. But not being there is probably better for Zoey Samuels, who has not done her work.

On Monday it happens. Miss Maya calls Zoey into the hall. This makes my palms sweat. I keep watching the door. I'm dying to know what Miss Maya is saying. When Zoey comes back in, our eyes lock. She makes a tight little
O
with her lips like she's going to whistle. She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. Then she breaks into a relieved sort of smile. It's the face that Mr. Halsey and Mr. Rojas make when they
almost
get caught playing the jump game in the common. Zoey Samuels is getting away with something. She slips into
her seat next to me. She whispers, “Miss Maya gave me an extension on the project . . .”

“Perry.” Miss Maya waves me toward her.

I put my finger on my chest. “Me?” She nods. I follow her into the hall.

“Perry . . .” Miss Maya looks at me. She bites her bottom lip then she sighs. “I feel terrible about this, because I know how hard you've worked, and how much it has meant to you . . .”

I cannot imagine what she's about to say, and yet my face is turning hot.

“This doesn't come from me, but . . . I'm afraid we can't have you present your Coming to Butler project with the others.”

“What?” I am sinking.

She shakes her head sadly. “I just got the message this morning. It seems that the topic becomes sensitive because of . . .”

“Because of Blue River,” I say. “Because it's a prison.”

Miss Maya puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle jiggle. “A concern has been raised about privacy,” she says.

“But everyone gave me permission!” I throw my arms wide.

“I know. You did everything right. I'm truly sorry, Perry.” Miss Maya shakes her head. “We will still bind the stories, and when you turn the project in to me I will read every
word. I know that I'm going to see A-plus work.”

What good is that?
I think it to myself. Miss Maya's eyes are getting all pooled up. Now mine are burning too. I give her a nod, and we go back into the classroom. Sometimes you just know that everyone is looking at you. I feel it as I walk down the rows of chairs. Everyone can see me blinking my dumb eyes all the way to my seat. I park it, put my elbows on the desk, and set my forehead into my palms. A second ticks by. Zoey leans close.

“Perry? What happened?”

I can barely whisper back. “Tell you later.” I stare at the top of my desk.

“What's with him?” Brian Morris says. “Is he in trouble?”

“Whatever it is, it's not your business,” Zoey Samuels tells him.

Up in the front of the room Miss Maya is about to begin a new lesson. I shake my head. I look up and try to listen. “Before we begin,” she says, “I want to remind you all that you'll be taking the timed one-mile run in gym class this afternoon . . .”

Oh brother. I had forgotten about that.

“It has to happen before the first snowfall!” She says it like she's joking, but it's true. Then she warns us, “I expect good sportsmanship all around.”

I'd like to be first across the line for the one-mile run. But right now, I feel like I can't win anything. I can't share the Blue River Stories. I feel low; Miss Maya feels low. I think
how it's going to be with Brian Morris after that run. Somebody is going to feel bad about that too. I sink my face into my hands again. I'm sick of everything. But most of all, I'm sick of Thomas VanLeer.

I
have seen both men and horses kick at the ground before they race. I have plenty of reasons to want to kick something today. I scratch up the surface of the school track. The boys are running first. The girls are waiting on the bench. The air is chilly, but I feel heat around my nostrils. I also feel Brian Morris staring. He's been doing that ever since Miss Maya pulled me into the hall to nix my Blue River Stories presentation. Either he wants to know what she said to me, or he's just thinking about how he's going to bury me in the next seven and a half minutes.

“Come on, Perry. Make it your best mile yet,” I hear Zoey call to me. Then Brian's friends call out and cheer for him. They're a lot louder. At least nobody says, bury Perry!

Mrs. Snyder gives us the ready-set-go. Brian and I move right to the front. We run shoulder to shoulder. I remind myself to stay on my own pace. Soon, he's ahead of me. My
feet make a crunching sound on the cindery track. I huff a breath out every time my left foot strikes, the way Mr. Halsey taught me. I hear him in my ear saying, “Hoo-hahh, hoo-hahh . . .” I keep the rhythm. I think Brian is going to burn out if he keeps the pace he's on.

At the quarter-mile mark Brian is well ahead. I don't have my mind on winning. I'm on automatic pilot, and I'm thinking about Thursday. If I can't share my project, what am I going to do? It'll be worse! I'll stick out like a sore thumb, thanks to VanLeer. Heat surges through me and goes to my legs.

He didn't have the guts to tell me he was nixing my presentation. He's a chicken for making Miss Maya do it. That
hoo-hahh, hoo-hahh
rhythm in my ear changes to
darn-you, darn-you.
Then it's
Darn-you, Van-Leer!
I might be
pounding the track a little harder now.

At the three-quarter-mile mark, I am still behind Brian Morris. He looks over his shoulder. I stretch my stride. Little by little the gap closes. The final hundred yards, I come up beside him. I have a kick for the finish. I'm sprinting toward Mrs. Snyder with her ticking watch. Brian tries to match me. I go on by—

“Seven ten!” Mrs. Snyder calls out as I cross over the finish line. If I could smile, I would. That's a personal best. My legs chug to a stop. I lean forward and rest my hands on my knees and breathe.

“And . . . seven fourteen!” I hear the call and turn to see
Brian Morris pitching to the ground at the side of the track.

“Excellent times, both of you!” Mrs. Snyder calls to us. Then she turns her attention back to the track to call out the next finishers.

Brian gets to his feet. He comes up to me and bumps his shoulder into mine. Both of us are huffing and puffing. “You drafted me!”

“I wasn't close enough to draft,” I say. “Until I passed you.”

“Race you again,” he says with a sneer. I think he's out of his gourd! I'm pooped, and I bet he feels worse. “One more lap,” he says. He taps his fingers on his chest. “Come on. Take me on.”

I should give him a chance if that's what he really wants. I look at Brian. Slowly, I crouch into runner's stance. He says, “Go!”

I ache. Everywhere. Especially in my lungs, which crave normal breaths about now. I hear Mrs. Snyder shout at us to halt. But we're gone, pounding our way around the gritty track. We pass the slowest runners—kids who haven't completed the mile yet. That's when I understand that this was not a good idea. It's mean. But it's too late to stop. I focus on matching Brian. We run. Hard.

This time the finish is a blur of people. Most of the boys are standing at the line. The girls are on their feet. Mouths are open—shouting and cheering. I have the race—I know I have it—

My head and chest break the invisible thread of the finish line. But am I first?

“Aaarrrgh!” I hear the sound come from Brian's throat as he follows me in. There is a dull thud when he rolls onto the ground. His friends moan in disappointment. Brian is laid out flat, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. When he can speak he calls out, “Uh . . . you beat me, Cook!” Funny thing is, he doesn't sound mad. Kids are hanging around saying it was close. Somebody says we are both the best runners in the class.

Zoey Samuels gives me a grin and a fist pump. My legs feel rubbery as I begin to walk it off. I watch the late finishers coming in with red faces. They're ready to collapse. I offer a high five, and two of them tag my hand. Mrs. Snyder calls out their times down to the final finisher. She compliments them on their effort, and for sticking to it. Then she turns to Brian Morris and me.

“That was poor form,” she says. “Very discourteous, very unsportsmanlike.” All I can do is look down at my shoes. She sends Brian and me to the end of the bench where we will have to sit—together—until the girls finish their run.

We are a hunched pair of losers, trying to catch our breath. I don't know about him, but feeling ashamed makes my heart beat faster. We watch the girls move onto the track. Zoey always does fine on fitness tests. Today she's mid-pack.

“So hey, sorry.” Brian finally speaks. He keeps his gaze out at the track. “I challenged you. And I got you in trouble.”

I shrug. “I didn't have to take the challenge.”

“Yeah . . . but if you hadn't . . . well, that would have been pretty dorky.”

I snort a big snort. It just happens. That makes Brian laugh, and he snorts too. I never thought I'd be sitting on a bench snorting with Brian Morris.

“Seriously, why are you so good?” he asks.

“One of my friends is a super-athlete.” I'm thinking of Mr. Halsey. “You could say I trained with him.” I like the way that sounds. “And my mom was a swimmer, so maybe competing is in my genes.” I look out at the school track and see that Zoey Samuels is losing ground. I keep my eye on her, but I ask Brian, “What about you? Why are you so good?”

“Older brothers,” he says. “I'm always either chasing them or running away from them.” I snort again. A few seconds later Brian asks, “So why did you get taken into the hall today?”

“Oh, that.” It all comes zinging back at me. “I can't—they won't let me—” I hesitate. Brian will find out anyway. “They can't let me present my Coming to Butler County project with the rest.”

“What?” Brian sits up straight and turns toward me. “Why not?”

“Too much private stuff,” I say. On the track, Zoey has slowed to a walk. She is holding her cheek in her hand. It's the bad tooth.

“That stinks,” Brian says.

“Yeah . . .” I get to my feet. “Mrs. Snyder! Mrs. Snyder!” I point out across the track to Zoey, just as she drops to her knees. “Runner in trouble!”

“Oh goodness!” Mrs. Snyder says. “Hurry out there, Perry. Walk her in,” she says. I get up and start sprinting. I'm surprised when Brian Morris follows.