The Crime Writer

She left me on the planter. The remaining kids laughed at me, the Down syndrome kid included, and the boy in the sweatshirt stuck out his tongue. I wanted Junior's description of the car that had interrupted his spray-paint job, but could see no acceptable way to get to him. Now.

I collected the ceramic shards in my palm and found a trash can a few steps up a hall. From the other room, I heard Caroline's and the counselor's raised voices.

"Judge Celemin has had it. He misses another appearance, he's going straight to the hall."

"What can we do, Caroline? I have to bail out Patrick now and the driver flaked. It's okay, there's nothing "

"No, it's not okay. I didn't double-schedule staff, and now he's gonna wind up in the hall because of me."

I left them to the joys of charitable enterprise.

I was pulling out when a bang on my window startled me upright. Caroline Raine gestured for me to roll down the window. I had the sense that when Caroline Raine suggested you do something, you did it. She thrust a document onto my steering wheel. "Here. Sign this. No, here. Now you're a Big Brother. Through our facility. Take Junior to court you're already late. It's just one hour out of your day, and you'll save him from juvenile hall."

I pictured the book jacket: Tuesdays with Junior. "Are you kidding me?"

"You can question him all you want on the way. Not that it'll get you anywhere."

"How do you know I'm not some psycho?"

"Clinician's eye."

"I was up for murder."

"By reason of insanity is pretty tame compared to these kids. Junior'll eat you for lunch."

"After what I've been through," I said, "I'm probably toxic. I think I can handle a kid with some attitude."

Chapter 20

So you got interrupted?" I asked. "By what kind of car?"

"Quit pushin' me, homes. I got court. I always get nervous when I got court."

"How often do you have court?" That got the look it deserved. "What for this time?"

"Sprayin', what else?" Junior fiddled with the radio, started bopping to a beat that made the windows rattle. "What's your story, homes?" he shouted. "You stared down a murder one?"

I adjusted the volume and told him, asking myself the whole time what the hell I was thinking recounting all this to a bored juvenile delinquent. The repetition, like rewriting, helped me clarify the holes and weaknesses, the detours requiring further investigation.

When I finished, Junior surprised me. "Thass fucked up, homes. You know what you need? You need you a dog."

"A talking dog who solves crimes?"

"Someone broke into your house, cut you up and shit. A dog would protect you, homes, watch your back. I had a Doberman-rotty mix. You had a dog like that, you wouldn't need to worry 'bout shit. Not in your castle."

I conceded that it wasn't a bad point. We pulled up to the East-lake Juvenile Courthouse. I glanced at the graffiti patterns on the back of Junior's jean jacket as he climbed out. "Given the grounds for your appearance, you think you might want to leave your jacket in the car?"

"No way, homes. I gots to represent." He kicked out a leg, showing off a white PRO-Ked. "This and my kicks, this my old-school tagger gear."

My watch put us forty-five minutes past the court-appointed time. "We're late."

"Don't worry about it," Junior said, skipping along. "Judge Celemin love me."

Judge Celemin glowered at us, black robes gathered high on his shoulders like a vulture's wings. "So pleased you could join us, Mr. Delgado. I trust you weren't too put out trying to make it here?"

Junior beamed. "Not at all, Your Honor."

The judge shifted his predacious attention to me. Given our tardiness, the public defender had moved on to another case across the corridor, but Judge Celemin had demanded that "Mr. Delgado and whoever was responsible for his transportation" appear regardless. "This is the second time Mr. Delgado, at the tender age of fourteen, has violated his probation by being apprehended in possession of spray-paint cans. You're his Big Brother?"

I found myself sweating. "Guilty as charged, Your Honor."

"You might want to think about the quality of the moral instruction you're imparting."

"I have in fact been giving that a fair amount of consideration lately, Your Honor."

"Surely your own recent experiences have taught you what the Sixth Amendment affords, Mr. Danner?"

I drew a complete blank. I used to have a great fear that I wasn't as smart as I thought I was. And it had been a great relief to discover that I was correct. Still, no professed grown-up wants to come up short on a topic taught in sixth-grade social studies. You get a certain distance from your schooling and you realize to your chagrin that you are that illiterate asshole who can't find Maryland on a map or name the planets in order. "I assume it's not the right to arrive late to court."

"Your guess is correct, Mr. Danner. Now, Mr. Delgado was down to his last shot here and elected to show up late, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to "