In Too Deep by Norah McClintock Page A

computer at the same time. When he hung up, he shut down his computer, leaned back in his chair, and looked across the room at me.
    â€œHow’s the story coming?” he said. “Want me to take a look at it for you?” Before I could answer, he’d propelled his wheeled chair across the room to where I was working. I scooched aside so that he could take a look. “Hmmm,” he said as he read. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad. He nudged me gently aside and started to type. “There,” he said ten minutes later, pushing his chair away from the desk. “I didn’t change much—just punched it up a little.” He grinned at me.
    I skimmed the revised story. It read much better.
    â€œThanks, Tom.”
    Tom was the oldest person on staff—he was in his late sixties—but he’d insisted right from the start that I call him by his first name. Mr. Hartford had told me that Tom had been a reporter at a major daily newspaper for most of his life. He had been laid off ten years ago and had moved up here, supposedly to retire and take it easy. At least that’s what Tom had promised his wife. “But he has ink in his veins. Tom’s wife, Lucy, asked me to hire him part-time so that he wouldn’t drive her crazy moping around the house. Part-time somehow turned into full-time. Lucy usually has to call him to remind him to get home for dinner.”
    â€œIt’s a good article, Robyn,” Tom said to me. “All the facts, a little human interest—the quotes from those kids and their parents are terrific. Are you considering a career in journalism?”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYou sound surprised.”
    â€œIt’s just that I’d never thought about it.”
    â€œFor what it’s worth, I think you’d be good at it.” He shot himself back to his own desk and stood up.
    â€œCan I ask you something, Tom?”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œIt’s about Mr. Wilson.”
    â€œLarry?”
    â€œYou know him?”
    â€œI’ve interviewed him a few times. More than a few. He generates a fair bit of controversy around here. He and those kids of his.”
    â€œA lot of people don’t seem to like them.”
    Tom shrugged. “Part of it’s a NIMBY thing. Most people would agree that kids like that—kids who have been in trouble—need some help turning their lives around. In principle. But given a choice in the matter, they all tend to say the same thing—Not In My Back Yard. Part of that’s ’cause of the kids themselves. They’re not exactly angels. Some of them have gotten into trouble up here. A couple instances of recreational drug use, one kid got pinched for a couple of B and Es ... then there’s the issue of the local girls.”
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œApparently some of Larry’s kids are considered hot commodities—so I’ve been told. They’ve generated a lot of anxiety on the part of parents who don’t relish the thought of their darling daughters taking up with juvenile delinquents—their term, not mine. It’s been more than two years now since Larry started his group home, and there’s still a sizable group of people lobbying to shut him down and get the kids shipped back to where they came from.”
    â€œDo you think that will happen?”
    Tom shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, Larry rides those kids hard. He’s fair, but he’s tough on them. If they get in trouble, he sees to it that they make restitution. If all else fails, they know they could get shipped back to a detention facility in the city—”
    The phone rang. Tom reached for it and for a pen at the same time.
    â€œ
Lakesider
,” he said, his hand poised over a reporter’s notebook. “Is it? Already?” He thrust out a hand to check his watch. “I must have lost track of the time. No, no, don’t throw it out.