John Grisham - The Accused

“But if you access the digital vault there will be a record of your entry.”

“Don’t worry about that, Theo. I’ll use an encrypted code that cannot be traced. I’m a step ahead of you on this. I’m not your typical low-tech geezer, Theo.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“And, I’ll bet the entry log is checked about once a year, right?”

“Probably.”

“Give me the password, Theo.”

“It’s Avalanche88TeeBone33.”

“Spell it.”

Theo slowly spelled it, then gave him the account code.

“Smart move, Theo. I’ll get to work.”

Theo stretched out on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Ike was a smart man who’d once been a brilliant lawyer, but he often had strange ideas. His theory that Theo’s problems were being caused by one of his mother’s nasty divorces was pretty far-fetched. But, at least he had a theory. Theo was dwelling on Isaac Scheer, and the more he thought about him the less he was convinced the kid could be a real suspect.

Theo texted Griff: Any luck finding the name of the guy selling 0-4s?

He waited for ten minutes, then turned off his phone.

Saturday morning, Theo awoke to the sounds of heavy thunder and raindrops pecking at his window. He slowly crawled out of bed and peeked through the curtains. Water was standing in puddles in the backyard. No golf today. Judge followed him downstairs where his parents were busy in the kitchen cooking pancakes and sausage and talking, of course, about the weather. Theo would never understand why adults spent so much time on the subject of the weather. They couldn’t change it.

The town was buzzing with the news that Pete Duffy had been spotted at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. He had tried to pay cash for a one-way ticket on a flight to Mexico City, but was delayed when the clerk noticed something odd about his fake passport. The clerk notified her supervisor. At that point, Duffy fled the ticket counter and disappeared into a crowd. The FBI identified him by lifting a fingerprint from the passport, and by analyzing video footage. There was a photo of Duffy on the front page of the Strattenburg newspaper, and he was not recognizable, at least in Theo’s opinion. He was wearing some type of beret, thick-framed eyeglasses, the makings of a beard, and his hair was blond, almost white.

“The FBI has this technology that can enhance a photo of a person’s face and see things not visible to the naked eye,” Mr. Boone was explaining as if he knew a great deal about FBI techniques. Theo was at the table, eating pancakes, feeding some to Judge, staring at the black-and-white photo of Pete Duffy, and giving thanks that the man was back in the news. Maybe the town would spend a few days rekindling its interest in Pete Duffy and forget about that other criminal-Theo Boone.

“I wonder where he’s been all week?” Mrs. Boone asked as she sipped her coffee and read the obituaries.

“Working on his new look, I guess,” replied Mr. Boone. “Doing his hair, grooming his beard. A beret? Give me a break. A guy walking through O’Hare wearing a beret is bound to attract attention.”

“It sure doesn’t look like Pete Duffy,” Theo said.

“It’s him,” Mr. Boone said with certainty. “He’s changed his looks, got some cash, bought him some new papers, though they must not be very good, and he almost got away.”

“I’d like to get away,” Theo said.

“Theo,” Mrs. Boone said.

“It’s true, Mom. I’d like to bolt out of here and go hide someplace.”

“Things are gonna be okay, Theo,” Mr. Boone said.

“Oh really? How do you figure that? I have the cops breathing down my neck, ready to haul me into Youth Court. And I have some crazy stalker chasing me all over town with a knife, ready to slash my tires again. Sure, Dad, things are really looking great.”

“Relax, Theo. You’re innocent and you will be proven innocent.”

“Okay, Dad, here’s the question. Do you think the person who robbed Big Mac’s is the same person who’s slashing tires, throwing rocks, and spreading all the garbage on the Internet?”

Mr. Boone chewed on a bite of sausage for a few seconds, then said, “I do.”

“Mom?”

“I believe so.”

“That makes three of us. To me it’s pretty obvious. So why can’t we convince the police of this?”

“I think we can, Theo,” Mr. Boone said. “They’re still investigating the break-in and burglary. I trust the police and I think they’ll catch the criminals.”

“Well, I think they’ve already decided it’s me. That guy Vorman thinks I’m lying. I don’t like him. He gives me the creeps.”

“Things will be fine, Theo,” Mrs. Boone said, patting his arm, then Theo saw her glance at his father. They held each other’s gaze for a second or so, and it was not a look of confidence. They were as worried as Theo, maybe more.

After breakfast, Theo and his dad drove to Gil’s Wheels for yet another new tire. At Mr. Boone’s request, Gil disappeared into the rear of his store and found the first two damaged tires. He gave them to Mr. Boone, who now had a collection of three. Mr. Boone paid for numbers two and three, and paid the eight dollars Theo owed on the first tire. Gil assured them that there was no epidemic of tire slashings in town; in fact, he had seen only three the entire week, all of which belonged to Theo.

Outside the bike shop, the rain had stopped, but the skies were still cloudy and threatening. For a moment, Theo and his father talked about driving to the golf course and waiting on the weather. The course, though, would be soaked, and if it was opened later in the morning there would be a crowd. Theo knew that a crowded golf course was worse than no course at all. They agreed that it was not a good idea.

Ike had texted twice during the morning and wanted to meet. Back home Theo puttered around the house and watched the weather. After an hour he announced that he was bored and explained to his parents that Ike had invited him for lunch. They said yes, and Theo took off on his bike.

Ike looked worse than usual. His eyes were red and puffy with dark circles just below them. “I’ve been up all night,” he said as Theo took a chair. “Didn’t sleep a wink. Spent the whole night reading through divorce files, and you want to know something, Theo, there are a lot of sad folks out there who need to get divorced. I’ve never been so depressed in my life. I don’t know how your mother does this kind of work every day of the week. Wives accuse husbands of all manner of terrible behavior. Husbands accuse wives of even worse. They claw each other’s eyes out over who gets the house, the cars, the bank accounts, the furniture, but man, when it comes to who gets the kids-it’s worse than cage fighting. Horrible stuff, Theo.”

Theo just sat and listened. Ike was hyper, probably jazzed on coffee and one of his little super juice drinks that guaranteed quick energy. He blitzed on: “So, I still like my theory. Do you?”

“Sure, Ike. It’s the best theory yet.”

“Thank you.”

“They slashed my bike tire again yesterday, at the VFW.”

Ike paused, pondered this, took a swig of coffee. “We gotta catch ’em, Theo.”

“The police do not believe me, Ike.”

“We gotta move fast.” Ike picked up his notepad and flipped some pages. “I found two cases that we should explore. Both are nasty divorces from the Secured Docket, which, of course, means that the court has locked away the files, so only the lawyers have access. The first case involves Mr. and Mrs. Rockworth. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s safe to say that Mr. Rockworth does not like your mother. Two children involved, huge fight over who should get custody, with both parents doing a pretty good job of proving that neither was fit to raise kids. After a bitter trial, Mrs. Rockworth was given custody and Mr. Rockworth was given liberal visitation rights with the kids, both of whom are in counseling. The judge ordered Mr. Rockworth to pay eighteen thousand dollars in attorney fees to the firm of Boone amp; Boone. Do you know anybody named Rockworth?”