"Power Play" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finder Joseph)

6

As I cruised down the 405 Freeway to Van Nuys, making unusually good time, a police cruiser came out of nowhere: blue strobe lights whirling, siren whooping. My stomach clenched. Damn it, was I speeding? Sure; who wasn't?

But then the cop raced on past me, chasing down some other poor sucker, leaving me with only an afterimage burned on my retina and a memory of a time I rarely thought about anymore.

The bailiff took me into the courtroom in handcuffs.

I wore a white button-down dress shirt, which was too big on me-sixteen years old, lanky, not yet broad-shouldered-and the label made my neck itch. The bailiff, a squat, potbellied man who reminded me of a frog, took me over to the long wooden table next to the public defender who'd been assigned to me. He waited until I sat down before he removed the cuffs, then took a seat behind me.

The courtroom was stuffy and overheated, smelled of mildew and perspiration and cleaning fluid. I glanced at the attorney, a well-meaning but scattered woman with a tangle of frizzy brown hair. She gave me a quick, sympathetic look that told me she wasn't hopeful. I noticed the file on the table in front of her wasn't my case: She'd already moved on to the next one.

My heart was pounding. The judge was a fearsome black woman who wore tortoiseshell reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She was whispering to the clerk. I stared at the plastic woodgrain nameplate in front of her: THE HONORABLE FLORENCE ALTON-WILLIAMS engraved in white block letters.

One of the fluorescent lights was buzzing, flickering. The huge radiators were making knocking sounds. Voices echoed from the hall outside the courtroom.

Finally, the judge turned toward me, peered over the tops of her half glasses. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Landry," she said. "There's an old Cherokee legend about a young man who keeps getting into trouble because of his aggressive tendencies." She spoke in a stern contralto. "The young man goes to see his grandfather, and says, 'Sometimes I feel such anger that I can't help it-I can't stop myself.' And his grandfather, who's a tribal elder and a wise man, says, 'I understand. I used to be the same way. You see, inside of you are two wolves. One is good and kind and peaceful, and the other is evil and mean and angry. The mean wolf is always fighting the good wolf.' The boy thought about it for a moment, then said, 'But Grandfather, which wolf will win?' And the old man said, 'The one you feed.'"

She picked up a manila folder, flipped it open. Cleared her throat. A minute went by. My mouth had gone dry, and I was finding it hard to swallow.

"Mr. Landry, I have found you guilty of criminally negligent homicide." She stared at me over her glasses. The public defender next to me inhaled slowly. "You should thank your lucky stars that you weren't tried as an adult. I'm remanding you to a limited-secure residential facility-that is, juvenile detention-for eighteen months. And I can only hope that by the time you've completed your sentence, you'll have learned which wolf to feed."

The radiators knocked and the fluorescent light buzzed and somewhere out in the hall a woman's laugh echoed.