John Grisham - The Activist

The boys took in the scenery as they rested. Hardie pointed to his right and said, “The bypass cuts across the entire valley, one wide gash that begins over there between those two hills and goes through the tallest hill that way.” His right arm swept to his left. “That’s Chalk Hill, and the plan is to level it with dynamite. Just blow it up and flatten it out. Everything else gets bulldozed, then covered with asphalt. Not sure what happens to my grandparents.”

“How can they do this?” Woody asked.

“Ask Theo.”

Theo said, “The law gives the state the right to take anybody’s land. The state has to pay for it, of course, but they still get it.”

“That sucks.”

“It really does,” Hardie said sadly.

They rolled down the hill and minutes later came to a stop in front of the house. Hardie’s grandmother, Mrs. Beverly Quinn, was waiting on the porch with a plate of walnut cookies and ice water. Hardie introduced his friends, and Judge, and she sat with them during the quick snack. Hardie’s grandfather was “puttering” down at the tractor barn, according to his wife. There was no mention of the bypass—that topic seemed too awful to even consider. As Theo ate a cookie and rocked gently in an old wicker rocker, he admired the spotless painted porch, the hanging ferns, the beds of neatly tended flowers, the white picket fence along the front yard, and he tried to envision a bunch of bulldozers destroying it all. The very idea seemed grossly unfair, even cruel.

When the boys finished, they thanked her and hurried off to go fishing. In a storage shed behind the house, they found a wide selection of rods and reels, along with cane poles, tackle boxes, soccer balls, volleyballs, badminton sets, Frisbees, two canoes, four kayaks, even golf clubs. “We have a lot of fun out here,” Hardie said. He claimed to have eleven cousins in the Strattenburg area, along with aunts and uncles and friends close enough to be kinfolks, and they spent a lot of time on the family farm.

They picked three rods and reels, and Hardie stuffed a small tackle box into his backpack. They were off again, flying down a narrow dirt trail that wound its way through a patch of thick woods. Ten minutes after leaving the house, they plowed to a stop at the banks of Red Creek. “This is the best spot on the farm,” Hardie said as he unpacked the tackle box. “Some of the best smallmouth bass in this area.” Theo unleashed his dog and Judge jumped into the water. The creek was wide and the water splashed over rocks in the distance.

“We camp here all the time,” Hardie said.

“It’s beautiful,” Theo said. “Can we go kayaking?”

“Maybe later,” Hardie said. “There are some decent rapids just around the bend there, a little too rough for a canoe. We kayak it all the time.”

As an only child who lived in town, Theo was mildly envious of Hardie and his big family and this tract of land where they had so much fun. The farm was like one big adventure park but with real adventures, not fake ones.

Hardie was standing on a granite ledge, about ten feet above the water, and he had cast twice into the creek when he suddenly spotted something in the distance. “What is that?” he asked himself out loud.

“What?” asked Woody, who was nearby.

Hardie pointed and said, “Look beside those trees down the hill. Some men.” Theo and Woody were climbing onto the ledge next to Hardie, whose voice left no doubt he was concerned. Sure enough, across a narrow valley that bordered the creek, there were several men milling around a pickup truck, probably a half a mile away.

“That’s our property,” Hardie said.

“What are they doing?” Theo asked.

“Don’t know, but they shouldn’t be there,” Hardie said.

“We should’ve brought binoculars,” Woody said.

“Better yet, let’s go find out,” Hardie said, and the boys forgot about fishing. Theo could have let it pass; the men did not appear to be doing anything wrong, but he did not understand how much the Quinn family valued their land and its privacy. The boys jumped on their bikes. “Follow me,” Hardie said as they took off. Judge, soaking wet, followed Theo, who followed Woody. They went a short distance and crossed the creek on an old footbridge, one barely wide enough for bikes, then they sped along a dirt road until they approached the men.

There were four of them, three younger men with an older guy who was probably the boss. Their truck was a large, service-type vehicle with a club cab and the words STRATEGIC SURVEYS painted on the doors. Not far from the truck was the beginning of a line of stakes stuck in the ground with red ribbons tied to each top.

“What do you boys want?” the older man asked.

Hardie was off his bike and approaching the men. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Maybe that’s none of your business, kid.”

“Maybe it is. This is my family’s property. Who gave you permission to be here?”

The three younger men laughed at this kid with the questions. Theo looked at them—all three were fairly large with dirty shirts and beards and the general appearance of men who lived hard and made no effort to avoid trouble.

“Don’t get smart with me boy,” the older man said.

“What’s your name?” Hardie shot back.

“Willis. What’s yours?”

“Hardie Quinn. My family has owned this land for a hundred years.”

“Well congratulations,” Willis said with a sneer. “Ownership is about to pass over to the state.”

The other three found this funny and they laughed again, and as they did so they inched forward, closer to the rear of the truck where Willis was standing less than ten feet from Hardie. Theo took a step forward and said, “He asked you a question. Who gave you permission to come onto this land?”

“The state,” Willis growled toward Theo, who quickly said, “Oh yeah, but the state doesn’t own this property yet.”

“A bunch of wise guys,” Willis said to his men. Then to Hardie and Theo he said, “Look, boys, we’re here doing some preliminary survey work for the bypass, that’s all. Our company has a contract with the state and they sent us out here. Why don’t you boys just relax and go on about your business? We’re doing our jobs and we’re not bothering anyone.”

To which Hardie fired back, “You’re bothering me because you don’t have permission to be here.”

Theo, the lawyer, quickly added, “You’re trespassing, okay? And that’s a criminal offense. You can go to jail for it.”

The shortest of the three younger men took a step in Theo’s direction and said, “Wow, a real know-it-all. You watch too much TV, kid.”

“That, or maybe I just have the ability to read,” Theo shot back. Shorty’s face turned red and he clenched his fists. Woody stepped beside Theo, and Judge was at his feet. The situation was tense and ridiculous. Three thirteen-year-old boys and a mutt facing off against four full-grown men. There seemed to be a stalemate. The men were not leaving, and the boys were not backing down.

Theo had an idea, one that would quickly prove to be disastrous. He reached into his pocket, removed his cell phone, and said, “I’m calling 911. We’ll let the police help us out here.”

Willis yelled, “Put that phone down, kid! You’re not calling the police!”

Theo said, “I can call anybody I want to call. Who are you to tell me I can’t call someone?”

“I said put the phone down!”

Shorty suddenly lunged for Theo. He grabbed him by the arm, shook it violently, sent Theo’s phone flying into the dirt, then shoved Theo to the ground. “Stupid kid,” Shorty mumbled. Woody and Hardie were startled by this act of aggression, and they stepped back.