Harry Steinman - Little Deadly Things

“Mr. Ecco, you’re an attorney. Can you explain to your son how serious this is?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s his mess. Let him fix it. Are we done here?” Galvin rose to leave.

“No, Mr. Ecco, we are not done here. Please sit down. There’s a second problem, one that involves you directly.”

“I don’t like the tone of your voice,” Galvin said.

“Sir, I’m sorry you’re upset. But your son is going to be expelled. It’s school policy.”

“That’s his problem. He also vandalized my office. Did he tell you that?”

“It sounds like he’s pretty angry about something. Do you know what that might be?” Sorenson asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“Mr. Ecco, the question is, what are you and Mrs. Ecco going to do about Jim’s education? If we can show a plan for rehabilitation that includes keeping him in school, the police will drop the charges. But he’s not going to be able to return to this school.”

“So, what’s going to happen?” Jim asked.

“Well. That’s why we’re here,” Sorensen said.

Jim’s father raised his voice, “He vandalized my office, he hit the teacher. He’s a big boy, he can pay the price. He’s got to learn some discipline.”

“Mr. Ecco, can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Settle down for a few minutes? Every family has problems. But yours cross over into my school and you can’t just wash your hands of the matter. Your son is thirteen years old, and you’re responsible for him.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do? He crossed the line with this stunt.”

“I’m trying to help, Mr. Ecco,” Sorenson said quietly. Then, a bit sterner, “Now please listen.” Galvin’s face colored. He opened his mouth and closed it, then opened and closed it again. For the first time since his books were stripped from his room, Jim became animated. A half-smile turned up one corner of Jim’s mouth.

Sorenson looked at Jim’s father. “Here’s my proposition. I’ve arranged a transfer to another school district where your son can start fresh.”

“Where?”

“Los Pobladores High in East Los Angeles.”

“East L.A.? Some ghetto school? Let’s see how smart he can be down there.”

“Actually, Mr. Ecco, Los Pobladores would be a good school for Jim. It’s one of the schools sponsored by the Hidden Scholar Foundation.”

“What’s that?” asked Jim.

“The Foundation takes good students from poor neighborhoods around the world. It places them in low-income neighborhood schools in the U.S. and then provides funding to those schools. The Hidden Scholar Foundation is the creation of the philanthropist, Robert Murray Herbertson.”

“The rich guy?” Jim asked.

“Yes, the rich guy.” Sorenson stroked his chin and his eyes went back and forth between the father and son. Then he fixed his gaze on Galvin. “Mr. Ecco, your son won’t be a Foundation scholar, but he will benefit from the Foundation’s programs. I’ve arranged for him to transfer to Los Pobladores. I know the principal there and we worked out an arrangement. We do this from time to time when a change of location might benefit a good student.”

“Jim is not a good student,” said Galvin.

“He’s an underachiever, but he has a lot of potential.”

“Well, I’m not driving him all the way down to East L.A. every day. And there’s no train from Pasadena to East Los Angeles.”

“Actually, sir, in view of the, uh, tension, at home, we’ve arranged for him to board with a local family—with your permission.”

“What about my dog?” said Jim. “What about Ringer?”

Sorenson sighed. “You’re going to have to work that out. Right now I’m trying to keep you out of the court system.” Sorenson unrolled his dataslate. Jim saw his school records. Sorenson continued, “Jim, I think you can make something of yourself, but you have an attitude problem. In the last nine months, you’ve been in three fights with other students.”

“It wasn’t my fault! I never start it.”

“I know, but each time you could have walked away.”

Jim started to protest but Sorenson held up a hand. “Stop. You have an attitude problem that’s getting you in trouble. Part of the plan to clear your record involves that you be placed in another home for the school year, if your father consents. Let’s see if that makes a difference.”

“Mr. Ecco, if we take this action, the courts will be satisfied. Your son will not end up with a juvenile record, and you avoid liability if the teacher seeks damages. As an attorney, I’m sure you can see the benefit to you.”

Turning back to Jim, Sorensen said. “Son, no matter what your father decides, you’re out for the rest of the year. You’re going to have to attend summer school to make up the days you miss here.” Jim heard a tone of finality in the principal’s voice.

“That’s not fair,” Jim protested.

“Enough! You assaulted a teacher. I know it was an accident, and you didn’t hurt anybody. But it was reported to the police, and this is the way it’s going to be.”

“Who reported it?” asked Jim.

“What difference does that make? There was a class full of students, and students talk. Ms. Rice needed some treatment for the scrape on her leg. So, there’s the infirmary. Someone might have been walking by. It doesn’t matter now. Keeping you out of the court system is the most important thing. Mr. Ecco, will you allow Jim to board with another family so he can attend Los Pobladores? If you agree, Jim’s record gets expunged and you won’t have to worry about a lawsuit.”

Dad said, “Yes. Are we done now?”

“Yes, Mr. Ecco, you and I are done.” Sorenson sighed again. It had been a long day, a long weekend, one that started when he picked up the phone, called the juvenile authorities, and arranged for Jim’s arrest and for his reassignment to a different school and a calmer home.

Jim completed summer school at Los Pobladores. In the fall, on the first day of classes, his attention was drawn to another freshman student, otherworldly and beautiful. She spoke with a Puerto Rican accent and walked with a limp.

EAST LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 6, 2022

At 7:30 AM, Tuesday, September 6, 2022, two students emerged from the Hidden Scholar Foundation car. The girl with the black hair craned her neck to take in the neighborhood, and then walked slowly towards the schoolyard. The smaller girl walked with an expression that showed simultaneous determination and disinterest.

Across the street, a trio of older students slouched outside a diner. They watched the two girls with undisguised hostility, appearing to agree on a course of action with raised eyebrows and nods. Their postures radiated contempt, and patrons emerging from the diner gave them a wide berth.

They were bullies with a grudge. Any of the eleven hundred or so returning students knew to avoid the stocky, pock-faced leader of the three who called himself Padron, ‘Boss’, as well as his cohorts, Frank Chung and Jamie Ortiz. Their prey were students from the Hidden Scholar Foundation. Targets of opportunity.

Padron had dull obsidian stones for eyes, broad cheekbones, and generous lips set in a puffy frown. Chung was stocky, his head and eyebrows shaven. He had a pictogram tattooed on his left cheek, a triangle containing a lightning bolt, the symbol for high voltage. Ortiz was tattooed with a rosy profusion of adolescent acne. All three affected a retro look, wearing long-sleeved shirts buttoned at the collar and low-slung baggy pants.