Theodore Boone: The Accomplice

Chapter 3

A thick cop kept growling, “Shut up, kid. Shut up, kid.” But Garth kept talking over his shoulder. He was on the hood of his car, facedown, hands cuffed behind him, feet off the ground. Tony was standing behind the Mustang, also handcuffed, quietly answering questions from two policemen. There seemed to be a dozen of them milling about, poking through Garth’s car, huddling with one another, listening to their phones. Radios squawked and a hundred blue lights lit up the intersection. Traffic was blocked in several lanes and a uniformed officer pointed this way and that. A crowd was gathering on a sidewalk, everyone curious to know what terrible crime had been committed by the three young hoodlums.

In the back seat of a patrol car, Woody sat alone and felt very small. His hands were cuffed behind his back. They were snug on his wrists and quite uncomfortable. But, at the moment, he figured that a little pain from the handcuffs was not his biggest problem.

The cops had yanked him out of the car and at first shoved him around, the usual routine, but when they realized he was just a kid, they relaxed and searched him. They took his cell phone, slapped the cuffs on him, and put him in the back seat where he had a decent view of the action. Garth wanted to resist and explain and make it all go away, but the more he talked the rougher the cops became. Tony seemed too frightened to argue with the police.

The crowd continued to gather and Woody tried to slide lower. He watched as Tony was led to another patrol car and placed in the rear seat. Then Garth was removed from the hood of his car and sort of dragged to yet another patrol car and shoved in, talking away the whole time. With the three suspects secured, the police waved over a tow truck with its yellow and orange lights blinking wildly.

To Woody, it seemed like a little too much muscle and manpower just for three stupid kids drinking beer. Still, he knew he was in trouble.

Two policemen got in the front seat and slammed the doors. “You okay, kid?” one asked.

“Yes, sir,” Woody answered quickly. Everything had been “yes, sir” and “no, sir” since the moment he’d seen the blue lights.

“We gotta take you to the police station, son,” the driver said as he drove away from the scene. The Mustang’s front tires were off the ground and the tow truck driver was pulling levers.

“Yes, sir,” Woody said. “I guess we should call my mom.”

“We’ll call her from the station. We got her number from your brother.”

“I don’t suppose you guys could just take me home could you?”

Both laughed. Short little humorous grunts that quickly passed.

“A comedian,” the driver said.

Woody said, “I mean, you know, it’s just a little beer.”

“A little beer?” the cop in the passenger seat repeated. He turned around, glared at Woody, and growled, “Son, we’re talking armed robbery.”

A sharp pain hit Woody deep in the gut. He tried to say something — he wasn’t sure what — but his throat suddenly clamped shut and his mouth was dry. He managed to breathe and felt sweat under his arms.

Was this a joke, he wanted to ask, but it was obvious that it was not. Were they really charging him with armed robbery? Surely not. He and Tony had never left the car at the convenience store. How can you pull an armed robbery with a water pistol? It was only a water pistol, right? Woody’s shirt was still wet! He had the proof!

He breathed deep and said, “It was only a water pistol.”

“That’s not what he told the guy at the store,” the driver said.

“My shirt is still wet,” Woody said, and he realized how stupid he sounded.

“Just shut up, kid,” the other cop said.

And he did. And he bit his lip to keep from crying.

At the police station, Woody was led through a side door and into a large reception area where other cops and clerks stopped and gawked at him as if he’d committed a murder. There was no sign of either Tony or Garth. Woody was taken to a room where his handcuffs were removed. A gruff, angry sergeant in a tight uniform growled, “Stand over there, kid. This is your mug shot.” Woody backed against a wall, stared at a camera, and for a split second thought of all the bad mug shots of famous people he’d seen online. “Don’t smile, kid,” the cop said.

“I’m not smiling,” Woody said. He had not smiled in days.

“On three. One, two, three.” The camera clicked. The sergeant looked at a screen and said, “Beautiful. Make your mom proud. Sit over there.”

Woody went to a chair and did as he was told. The sergeant took a step over, looked down with a frown, and said, “So they say you’ve been drinking beer, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much?”

“Two cans.”

“Gee, I’ve never heard that before. Every drunk who comes in here says he had just two drinks. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“I need to check your blood alcohol level. We use a machine called a Breathalyzer. Ever heard of it?”

“No, sir.”

“First I need you to agree to it, understand?”

“Not really.”

“You need to sign this consent form which allows us to use a Breathalyzer to measure how much alcohol is in your system. Follow me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sign right here.” The sergeant handed down a clipboard with a pen. Woody signed his name by a large X. His hand was shaking so wildly he couldn’t read his own name. “Should I ask my mom about this?” he asked as he handed the clipboard back.

“Your mum’s not here, is she?”

“No, and I’d like to call her but those other policemen took my phone.”

“Standard procedure,” the sergeant said as he rolled over a cart with the Breathalyzer. He flipped a switch, glanced at a small monitor, then shoved a small tube in Woody’s face. “Now, stick this in your mouth and blow as hard as you can.”

Woody did as instructed. He blew a second time, then a third, and when the sergeant was finally satisfied he grabbed the tube and hit another switch.

“How’d I do?” Woody asked, breathing heavily as his heart pounded away.

“Great, kid. Point zero six. Not legally drunk but enough to nail you for underage drinking. Now stand up and turn around.”

Woody got to his feet and the sergeant slapped the handcuffs onto his wrists. He was led from the room and down a hallway where the two detectives were waiting. The sergeant said, “He’s all yours. Point zero six.”

The detectives took him down some stairs to a small windowless room where he was told to sit in a chair and say nothing. They just left him there. He had not seen Tony or Garth since they had driven away from the street. He waited and waited and had no idea of the time. He wanted to call his mother because she would be worried, and he really needed her at that awful moment.

There was no one to help him. A thirteen-year-old kid locked away in the basement of the police station and no one to help.

Tony was in a similar room two doors down, though neither knew where his brother was at the moment. Garth was also in the basement, just down the hall.

Two detectives in plainclothes walked into Garth’s room, closed the door, and pulled chairs up to the narrow table. The first one said, “You’re eighteen years old so we’re treating you like an adult. You ever been arrested before?”

Garth knew it was all a misunderstanding and his father would have it cleared up by sunrise. So, he had nothing to worry about. “Couple of times,” he said without concern. “But nothing serious. Youth Court stuff.”

“This ain’t Youth Court, son. This is the real thing. We need to ask you some questions.”

“Okay, but don’t you have to read me my rights, like they always do on television?”

“Sure. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. And you have the right to an attorney. Understand?”

“Don’t I get a phone call? I really want to call my dad.”

“Later. Where did you get the pistol?”

“What pistol?”

The second detective pulled out a clear plastic bag and laid it on the table. He said, “Looks just like a nine millimeter Ruger. Could’ve fooled me. Certainly fooled the guy at the convenience store.”

“Where’d you get it?” the first detective asked again.

“The kid gave it to me. It’s his. What — you think I go around shooting water pistols? It’s the kid’s.”

“Woody’s?”

“Sure. Not mine.”

Garth believed that if he and Tony stuck together and blamed it all on Woody, a thirteen-year-old kid, then they could walk away free as birds and nothing much would happen to Woody. Anyway, it was just a little fun and games and his father would handle it soon enough.

“Who planned the robbery?” the second detective asked.

“I really want to talk to my dad. He’ll get a lawyer. If that’s okay?”

“Whose idea was it to rob the convenience store?”

“No one’s. You see, it really wasn’t a robbery because it was just a water pistol. It was sort of a joke, you know? This is all one big misunderstanding and my dad and his lawyer will clear up everything. You guys need to relax a little.”

“So it was your idea?”

“Look, you said I could remain silent, right? And that I can have a lawyer. Okay, I want to call my dad and he’ll bring in a lawyer.”

“How much money did you take?”

“I’m not talking anymore.”

The detectives finally left the room. They chatted briefly in the hallway, then entered the room where young Woody was waiting, terrified by now.

They sat down, both scowling as if they were about to interrogate a serial killer, and the first one said, “We’ve talked to your brother Tony and your pal Garth. Both of them swear that the pistol belongs to you.”

Woody felt like he’d been hit in the head with a brick. “What?” he managed to say, in shock. His jaw dropped and his eyes watered, and he looked at the first detective in total disbelief. Why would Tony say something like that? Why would both of them lie to the police and try to pin the blame on him?

“You heard me, kid,” the first detective said. “Your buddies are saying it’s your gun.”

“It’s just a water pistol.”

“The guy at the store didn’t think so. Under our law it’s armed robbery. Twenty plus years for your two buddies, off to the juvenile joint for you. But if you tell us the truth, we’ll lean on the judge to cut you some slack. Know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“We know the judge, he knows us. If you tell us everything, we can put in a good word with him and you’ll get off light.”

“What do you want to know?” Woody asked slowly. Something told him not to say too much to the police, but then he was terrified at the moment and wanted to help.

“Whose gun is it?”

“Garth’s. Tony and I never saw it until he came back to the car. We didn’t go into the store. Look at the security cameras. We had no idea what Garth was doing. He just wanted some more beer, and so he drove to the store, told us to wait for a minute, went inside, came back with a case of beer, and after we were driving away he pulled out the pistol and laughed about robbing the guy. That’s what happened. I swear. Tony and I knew nothing.”

“How long had you guys been drinking beer?”

“I don’t know. Tony and I delivered pizza, then bumped into Garth. I knew it was a mistake to go cruising with him. He had some beer and really wanted me to drink some. I can’t stand the stuff, but I was trying to, you know, be cool, like the big guys.”

Woody’s voice cracked and his lip quivered.

The detectives exchanged looks. The first one said, “Cool like the big guys. We see it all the time. That’ll get you some jail time.”