Clearwater Summer by John Keegan

Author:John Keegan [Keegan, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2016-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

When Wellesley and her mom started to leave, I did too and waited in the hallway. It seemed homier than before the hearing. The ceiling wasn’t as high. The wood paneling on the walls wasn’t so polished. The seats along each side of the hall looked like park benches where people could read the newspaper.

Wellesley came out surrounded by Mrs. Thistle, her mom, and Mr. Feinberg. She walked toward me, with her lopsided smile fully cocked. I moved my cast away from my stomach, to make room for a hug. As a reflex, my eyes closed, expecting to feel her sailor dress against me. Instead, she just shook me by the arms. “You creamed ’em, Will!”

I blushed. The stares of the three adults discouraged me from crushing her into my chest.

Mrs. Baker nodded politely. “Thank you, Will.” “Wellesley,” Mr. Feinberg said, “I want to apologize for something. As you know, I work for the prosecuting attorney and it’s my job to try whatever’s on the calendar. I’d never met Mr. Sparkman until this morning. All I knew about him was what it said in the police report. We should have done our homework. If I’d known what your friend explained on the stand, we’d have probably dropped the case. He wasn’t a witness you’d like to stake your career on.” Everyone laughed politely. “I’m glad the judge split the charges and gave you probation. I owe you one.” He put out his hand, Wellesley slowly drew hers up, and they shook.

“Put this whole thing behind you,” he said. “I’d just as soon never see you down here again.” He winked at me. “Nor you. And don’t report this one to the taxpayers.” “Are you going to bring any charges against Mr. Sparkman for snitching the tools?” Wellesley asked.

Mr. Feinberg switched his briefcase to the other hand. “You don’t let up, do you? I doubt we can get him on the basis of one café conversation, but maybe we’ll have a word with Mr. Cirro.” He’d seen the same thing everyone else had. When I said steal, Mr. Sparkman had jumped like a drill hit a nerve in his tooth. “Unfortunately, I won’t have the pleasure of prosecuting him even if we have a case. I finish three years with the prosecutor at the end of this month, then I’m giving a try to private practice.”

At the top of the stairs, Mr. Feinberg said good-bye. I wished we’d talked more. In person, he’d shown a kindness I wouldn’t have expected in someone who just tried to put Wellesley in the detention center. Mrs. Thistle took Wellesley’s mom into an office on the first floor to sign papers.

Wellesley guided me to the other side of the corridor. “Will, last night I was so scared I’d go to jail that I actually prayed. Somebody must have heard me and sent you.” “Yeah, but you didn’t get off entirely.”

“Mrs. Thistle told me probation just means I have to report once a month to somebody in Juvenile Services, maybe her.

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