“I had a source.”
Grinder had never thought of himself as a source. He was just a low-paid courtroom bailiff with a uniform and a gun, and bills to pay. He was about to be sued by Sears for his wife’s credit card. He wanted to wipe the sweat from his forehead but was afraid to move.
“A source,” Harry repeated, mocking Slick. “Of course you had a source, Mr. Moeller. I assumed this. You weren’t here. Someone told you. This means you had a source. Now, who was your source?”
The lawyer with the grayest hair quickly stood to speak. He was dressed in standard big-firm attire — charcoal suit, white button-down, red tie but with a daring yellow stripe on it, and black shoes. His name was Alliphant. He was a partner who normally avoided courtrooms. “Your Honor, if I may.”
Harry grimaced, and he slowly turned from the witness. His mouth was open as if he were shocked at this daring interruption. He scowled at Alliphant, who repeated himself. “If I may, Your Honor.”
Harry let him hang there for an eternity, then said, “You haven’t been in my courtroom before, have you, Mr. Alliphant?”
“No sir,” he answered, still standing.
“I didn’t think so. Not one of your usual hangouts. How many lawyers are in your firm, Mr. Alliphant?”
“A hundred and seven, at last count.”
Harry whistled and shook his head. “That’s a buncha lawyers. Do any of them practice in Juvenile Court?”
“Well, I’m sure some do, Your Honor.”
“Which ones?”
Alliphant stuck one hand in one pocket while running a loose finger along the edge of his legal pad. He did not belong here. His legal world was one of boardrooms and thick documents, of fat retainers and fancy lunches. He was rich because he billed three hundred dollars an hour and had thirty partners doing the same. His firm prospered because it paid seventy associates fifty thousand a year and expected them to bill five times that. He was here ostensibly because he was chief counsel for the paper, but actually because no one in the firm’s litigation section could make the hearing on two hours’ notice.
Harry despised him, his firm, and their ilk. He did not trust the corporate types who came down from the tall buildings to mingle with the lower class only when necessary. They were arrogant and afraid to get their hands dirty.
“Sit down, Mr. Alliphant,” he said, pointing. “You do not stand in my courtroom. Sit.”
Alliphant awkwardly backed into his chair.
“Now what are you trying to say, Mr. Alliphant?”
“Well, Your Honor, we object to these questions, and we object to the court’s interrogation of Mr. Moeller on the grounds that his story is protected free speech under the First Amendment of the Constitution. Now—”
“Mr. Alliphant, have you read the applicable code section dealing with closed hearings in juvenile matters? Surely you have.”
“Yes sir, I have. And, frankly, Your Honor, I have some real problems with this section.”
“Oh you do? Go on.”
“Yes sir. It’s my opinion that this code section is unconstitutional as written. I have some cases here from other—”
“Unconstitutional?” Harry asked with raised eyebrows.
“Yes sir,” Alliphant answered firmly.
“Do you know who wrote the code section, Mr. Alliphant?”
Alliphant turned to his associate as if he knew everything. But he shook his head.
“I wrote it, Mr. Alliphant,” Harry said loudly. “Me. Moi. Yours truly. And if you knew anything about juvenile law in this state, you would know that I am the expert because I wrote the law. Now, what can you say about that?”
Slick slid down in his chair. He’d covered a thousand trials. He’d seen lawyers hammered by angry judges, and he knew their clients usually suffered.
“I contend it’s unconstitutional, Your Honor,” Alliphant said gallantly.
“And the last thing I intend to do, Mr. Alliphant, is to get into a long, hot-air debate with you about the First Amendment. If you don’t like the law, then take it up on appeal and get it changed. I honestly don’t care. But right now, while I’m missing lunch, I want your client to answer the question.” He turned back to Slick, who was waiting in terror. “Now, Mr. Moeller, who was your source?”
Grinder was about to vomit. He stuck his thumbs under his belt and pressed against his stomach. By reputation, Slick was a man of his word. He always protected his sources.
“I cannot reveal my source,” Slick said in an effort at great drama, the martyr willing to face death. Grinder took a deep breath. Such sweet words.
Harry immediately motioned for the two deputies. “I find you in contempt, Mr. Moeller, and order you to jail.” The deputies stood beside Slick, who looked around wildly for help.
“Your Honor,” Alliphant said, standing without thinking. “We object to this! You cannot—”
Harry ignored Alliphant. He spoke to the deputies. “Take him to the city jail. No special treatment. No favors. I’ll bring him back Monday for another try.”
They yanked Slick up and handcuffed him. “Do something!” he yelled at Alliphant, who was saying, “This is protected speech, Your Honor. You can’t do this.”
“I’m doing it, Mr. Alliphant,” Harry yelled. “And if you don’t sit down, you’ll be in the same cell with your client.”
Alliphant dropped into his chair.
They dragged Slick to the door, and as they opened it, Harry had one final thing to say. “Mr. Moeller, if I read one word in your paper written by you while in jail, I’ll let you sit there for a month before I bring you back. You understand.”
Slick couldn’t speak. “We’ll appeal, Slick,” Alliphant promised as they shoved him through and closed the door. “We’ll appeal.”
Dianne Sway sat in a heavy wood chair, holding her oldest son and watching the sunlight filter through the dusty, broken blinds of Witness Room B. The tears were gone and words had failed them.
After five days and four nights of involuntary confinement in the psychiatric ward, she at first had been happy to leave it. But happiness these days came in tiny spurts, and she now longed to return to Ricky’s bed. Now that she’d seen Mark, and held him and cried with him, she knew he was safe. Under the circumstances, that was all a mother could ask.
She didn’t trust her instincts or judgment. Five days in a cave takes away any sense of reality. The endless series of shocks had left her drained and stunned. The drugs — pills to sleep and pills to wake up and pills to get through it — deadened the mind so that her life was a series of snapshots thrown on the table one at a time. The brain worked, but in slow motion.
“They want us to go to Portland,” she said, rubbing his arm.
“Reggie talked to you about it.”
“Yes, we had a long talk yesterday. There’s a good place for Ricky out there, and we can start over.”
“Sounds good, but it scares me.”
“Scares me too, Mark. I don’t want to live the next forty years looking over my shoulder. I read a story one time in some magazine about a Mafia informant who helped the FBI and they agreed to hide him. Just like they want us to do. I think it took two years before the Mafia found him and blew him up in his car.”
“I think I saw the movie.”
“I can’t live like that, Mark.”
“Can we get another trailer?”
“I think so. I talked to Mr. Tucker this morning, and he says he had the trailer covered with plenty of insurance. He said he had another one for us. And I still have my job. In fact, they delivered my paycheck to the hospital this morning.”
Mark smiled at the thought of returning to the trailer park and hanging out with the kids. He even missed school.