about the luck of the Irish, Joseph. No thanks to you, that boy’s able to move all his extremities
and he’s not havin’ any trouble breathin’.”
“Where you takin’ me? It better be the station.”
Reseta got behind the wheel and started driving, easing slowly around the ambulance and making two left turns to head south
on Main toward City Hall.
“You know, Joseph, the more you talk the more you sound like you been in the backseat before, am I right?”
“Juvenile records are private.”
Juvenile records are private?
Reseta looked in the mirror at the jailhouse lawyer, all of maybe a hundred twenty pounds. “You’re right, Joseph, juvey records
are private. So are juvey proceedings. But who’d you think all those other people were the last time, huh?”
“What last time?”
“Hey, stonehead, all those adults who were in the room the last time you went through the system, who did you think they were?”
No answer.
“Suddenly can’t talk now, huh? You don’t remember those grownies standin’ around in Family Court? Or maybe you had your hearing
in front of a master, huh? If there was no judge in a robe, there had to be an acting judge. You don’t remember somebody called
a master?”
No answer.
“Don’t talk, that’s alright, I’ll talk. There had to be an assistant DA, a deputy sheriff probably, at least one cop testifyin’
about why he arrested you, a stenographer takin’ down every word everybody says—what, you think when it was your turn they
all went deaf, dumb, and blind? You think when you walk in there this time none of them’s gonna be allowed to read what happened
the last time? Or they won’t remember you? Mommy must not’ve explained that part, huh?”
The boy said nothing and pretended to look out the window.
“Still no answer? What am I gonna read, huh? Other assaults? Aggravated assaults? I get to read that stuff too, you know.
And look at you. Those Nikes you got on I bet cost more than all the clothes that kid was wearin’. Bet your parents make more
in one week than that kid’s parents make in a year. What’s his name? You even know his name?”
“Who cares?” the boy said with a sneer. “Misco-somethin’. He’s stupid, he smells, he falls down all the time, he’s a poster
boy for abortion.”
Reseta pulled into the lot beside City Hall, shut the MU off, and hustled around to open the passenger back door. He reached
down, grabbed the strap that had been held by the door and jerked up on it hard, sending Joseph Maguire sprawling onto his
left shoulder.
“Ow! Hey! That hurts!”
“Excuse me, my foot slipped. There’s some oil here or somethin. Did that hurt? I’m awfully sorry, won’t happen again, I promise.
Swing your legs out, so I can get this strap off, I know it’s uncomfortable. Then we can go inside, take care of the paperwork.
Won’t take long.”
After Reseta removed the nylon strap, the boy started to stand, and Reseta said, “Watch your head. Here, let me help you out,”
and he reached behind the boy, grabbed the links between the cuffs and jerked upward hard, while faking another slip on the
imaginary oil.
“Ow! You’re doin’ that on purpose, you … you …”
“On purpose? Me? Oh no, I swear,” Reseta said. “It’s this oil here, I slipped.”
“There’s no oil there, you’re makin’ that up, I know what you guys do—”
“You guys?
Oh no, it’s a dangerous condition here, I’m gonna have to report it to my superiors. Somebody could get hurt. Accidents happen,
you know? Like when we get inside I could slip again. My shoes, you know, they could just, with this oil on ’em, they could
shoot straight out on me, and we could both fall. Me on top, you on the bottom. I read about accidents like that all the time,
don’t you? Or maybe you think that only happens to other people, huh? Like Timothy Miscovitz, you know? Stupid people? People
that smell? Clumsy people, people
and he’s not havin’ any trouble breathin’.”
“Where you takin’ me? It better be the station.”
Reseta got behind the wheel and started driving, easing slowly around the ambulance and making two left turns to head south
on Main toward City Hall.
“You know, Joseph, the more you talk the more you sound like you been in the backseat before, am I right?”
“Juvenile records are private.”
Juvenile records are private?
Reseta looked in the mirror at the jailhouse lawyer, all of maybe a hundred twenty pounds. “You’re right, Joseph, juvey records
are private. So are juvey proceedings. But who’d you think all those other people were the last time, huh?”
“What last time?”
“Hey, stonehead, all those adults who were in the room the last time you went through the system, who did you think they were?”
No answer.
“Suddenly can’t talk now, huh? You don’t remember those grownies standin’ around in Family Court? Or maybe you had your hearing
in front of a master, huh? If there was no judge in a robe, there had to be an acting judge. You don’t remember somebody called
a master?”
No answer.
“Don’t talk, that’s alright, I’ll talk. There had to be an assistant DA, a deputy sheriff probably, at least one cop testifyin’
about why he arrested you, a stenographer takin’ down every word everybody says—what, you think when it was your turn they
all went deaf, dumb, and blind? You think when you walk in there this time none of them’s gonna be allowed to read what happened
the last time? Or they won’t remember you? Mommy must not’ve explained that part, huh?”
The boy said nothing and pretended to look out the window.
“Still no answer? What am I gonna read, huh? Other assaults? Aggravated assaults? I get to read that stuff too, you know.
And look at you. Those Nikes you got on I bet cost more than all the clothes that kid was wearin’. Bet your parents make more
in one week than that kid’s parents make in a year. What’s his name? You even know his name?”
“Who cares?” the boy said with a sneer. “Misco-somethin’. He’s stupid, he smells, he falls down all the time, he’s a poster
boy for abortion.”
Reseta pulled into the lot beside City Hall, shut the MU off, and hustled around to open the passenger back door. He reached
down, grabbed the strap that had been held by the door and jerked up on it hard, sending Joseph Maguire sprawling onto his
left shoulder.
“Ow! Hey! That hurts!”
“Excuse me, my foot slipped. There’s some oil here or somethin. Did that hurt? I’m awfully sorry, won’t happen again, I promise.
Swing your legs out, so I can get this strap off, I know it’s uncomfortable. Then we can go inside, take care of the paperwork.
Won’t take long.”
After Reseta removed the nylon strap, the boy started to stand, and Reseta said, “Watch your head. Here, let me help you out,”
and he reached behind the boy, grabbed the links between the cuffs and jerked upward hard, while faking another slip on the
imaginary oil.
“Ow! You’re doin’ that on purpose, you … you …”
“On purpose? Me? Oh no, I swear,” Reseta said. “It’s this oil here, I slipped.”
“There’s no oil there, you’re makin’ that up, I know what you guys do—”
“You guys?
Oh no, it’s a dangerous condition here, I’m gonna have to report it to my superiors. Somebody could get hurt. Accidents happen,
you know? Like when we get inside I could slip again. My shoes, you know, they could just, with this oil on ’em, they could
shoot straight out on me, and we could both fall. Me on top, you on the bottom. I read about accidents like that all the time,
don’t you? Or maybe you think that only happens to other people, huh? Like Timothy Miscovitz, you know? Stupid people? People
that smell? Clumsy people, people
Similar Books
