30
A.C. brought the matter before the judge. Neither Truman, nor Nelle, nor Big Boy knew what was said, for A.C. refused to divulge any information. But a few days later, Truman and Nelle saw Sonny and Elliot together. They were in the courthouse, in front of Judge Fountain, a stern, gray-haired stone of a man.
Truman and Nelle watched the proceedings from the balcony. The rest of the grand courthouse was empty except for A.C., the sheriff, and Mr. Boular. An ancient fan turned slowly overhead, but Truman and Nelle could feel the heat this discussion was generating. Truman felt a pang of guilt as he watched Sonny sitting behind a table with his head bowed. He acted like a puppy that’d been smacked for chewing on the carpet.
Elliot was a younger version of the sheriff but he lacked the sheriff’s cool. He kept interrupting the proceedings, saying things like “It wasn’t my idea!” and “Sonny’s the one who stole that brooch!”
A.C. looked at Sonny. “Is that true, son? Mr. Yarborough was mighty upset. He said it was a family heirloom but if it was returned, why, he might be willing to overlook the matter, as long as the windows were paid for . . .”
Sonny just sat there quietly, staring at the ground.
The sheriff sat behind them in the gallery, arms crossed. Mr. Boular was next to Sonny, his neck red with anger. He leaned over and said something harsh into Sonny’s ear that just made him withdraw even more.
“Do you think they’ll get sent to prison?” whispered Truman.
“Maybe we shoulda kept our mouths shut. It was just a few windas, after all.”
“Maybe we could help pay for them,” said Truman. “Set up a lemonade and boiled peanut stand here in the square. Why, I bet we could raise twenty dollars just like that!” He snapped his fingers, causing the judge to look up at them. He and Nelle slunk down in their chairs.
A.C. and Judge Fountain had a long conversation. The slingshot sat between them on the judge’s bench.
The judge nodded, then sat quietly for a moment while A.C. headed back to the table. Finally, Judge Fountain banged his gavel lightly and said, “Will the defendants please rise?”
Elliot stood but Mr. Boular had to practically pull Sonny up by his collar. The judge spoke. “It is the opinion of this court that this kind of hooliganism in our proud little town should not be tolerated. However, it is also my opinion that these two young souls are worth saving . . . and to do so, I am assigning them to spend the next year away, interned in the State of Alabama’s reform school.”
Both the sheriff and Mr. Boular shot up in a huff and started talking out of turn to the judge. The judge banged his gavel; A.C. tried to calm them.
In the ruckus, Sonny’s eyes drifted around the chamber. He was clearly wishing he were anywhere else but here. His gaze finally settled on the balcony. When Truman and Nelle saw he’d spotted them, they just sat there, unsure what to do.
Sonny waved at them until his father got his attention again.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Truman.
They headed back to Nelle’s house without speaking and waited in A.C.’s office for him to return. It took almost an hour.
“Well, what happened, A.C.?” Nelle asked as soon as the door opened. “Did Sonny confess to stealing that cameo brooch?”
A.C. took his time cleaning his pipe and tapping it on an ashtray. “No, he did not, Nelle. So it remains . . . a mystery. But both the sheriff and Mr. Boular managed to convince the judge that keeping them home under house arrest would be a far worse punishment than sending them away to any reform school. Knowing them, I’m sure that’s true. Mr. Boular in particular insisted that Sonny would be taught a lesson he’d never forget.”
Truman looked at Nelle and gulped. “Maybe we should help pay for the broken window,” said Truman. “We could ask Jenny to give Mr. Yarborough her brooch . . .”
“Now, why would you want to do that?” asked A.C.
“’Cause it was our fault that Sonny was caught,” said Nelle.
“Sometimes, justice is served in ways that make nobody happy. But I think they learned their lesson.” A.C. nodded thoughtfully. “And maybe there’s a lesson you two can take away from this as well.”
Nelle asked, “What’s that, Daddy?”
A.C. smiled and puffed on his pipe. “Stay here, children,” he said, abruptly leaving the room.
“Where’s he going?” whispered Truman.
Nelle shrugged. “Search me.”
They heard A.C. open the basement door and thump down the steps.
“Doesn’t he keep his gun down there?” asked Truman, worried.
Nelle slapped him upside the head. “A.C. don’t know how to shoot. He’s a lawyer, for gosh sakes.”
They heard a muffled “Aha . . . there you are” come from down below. There was some rummaging about, followed by a few grunts, and, finally, the sound of A.C. plodding heavily back upstairs.
He barged through the door, back first, and slowly turned around. He held an old dusty metal box with a wooden handle, which he placed carefully on the desk in front of them.
Truman looked at Nelle as A.C. undid the latch. He opened it and revealed something that looked like an accordion on its back. But it was, in fact, an old black Underwood #5 typewriter.
“I learned how to write on this typewriter,” he said wistfully. “Now I’m giving it to both of you. Maybe it’ll be a reminder that perhaps you’re better off typing your tall tales, rather than getting into other people’s business. Leave that to the likes of me and the law.”
Nelle jumped up and felt the keys. “Our very own typewriter?” she asked.
“Yes.” He nodded. “Now you can write your own stories. Who knows—maybe that’ll take you somewhere other than the courthouse.”
Truman grinned. Christmas had just come early.