The Sacrifice

by Robert Whitlow

  “Thanks. Please don’t let the kid borrow your pen. Follow me.”

  The deputy opened the metal door, and they walked down a short hall to a second metal door with another numeric padlock. Beyond this door they stepped into a large, spacious room with an elevated ceiling and high windows that let in light but didn’t afford an outside view. One side of the room contained eight or nine round tables with four chairs at each table. On the other side Scott could see through two large glass windows into two rooms filled with school desks.

  “Have you been here before?” the deputy asked.

  “No. My other juvenile clients weren’t in detention.”

  “I didn’t think I’d seen you around. What firm are you with?”

  “Humphrey, Balcomb and Jackson.”

  The deputy smiled and tried to raise one of his eyebrows without moving the other one. “Mr. Humphrey has been our family attorney for years. He’s the best.”

  Scott had heard that type of comment before.

  The deputy continued, “This is where we feed the kids and allow parental visitation. They go to school in the two classrooms to the side. The girls’ wing is down that hallway and the boys’ rooms are in the bigger section on this side.”

  “Where is the interview room?”

  “Right here.” The deputy stopped in front of another solid-metal door at the beginning of the boys’ hall. “Wait inside, and I’ll see if I can persuade Mr. Garrison to talk to you.”

  Scott opened a heavy door that automatically clanged shut behind him. The interview room was a small, windowless cubicle with three gray chairs and a small metal table. The light tan painted concrete-block walls were bare. He put his briefcase on the table and took out his legal pad.

  Several minutes passed. He began to fidget. The uncomfortably small room reminded him of the simulated interrogation room used during the prisoner-of-war training he received in the army. Finally the door opened.

  Beside Deputy Hicks was a tall, skinny young man with a shaved head. The youth was wearing a pair of tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had two prominent tattoos—a swastika on one arm and a pair of lightning bolts on the other. Scott could see that the boy’s right eye was puffy and that his left temple area showed evidence of a recent cut that had been closed with a couple of sterile adhesive strips. The deputy guided Lester with a firm grip on the young man’s right arm just below the lightning bolts.

  “Here we are,” Deputy Hicks said. “Only a visit from a lawyer could get you out of lockdown this afternoon.”

  Scott extended his hand. “I’m Scott Ellis.”

  Lester didn’t reach out to shake hands. Instead, he mumbled, “My hand’s sore.”

  “He cracked his knuckles,” the deputy explained. “He took a hard swing at another boy, missed, and hit the wall.”

  Deputy Hicks released his grip on Lester’s arm.

  “I’ll be in an office on the other side of the assembly room if you need me,” the deputy said.

  The door clanged shut. Scott sat down and motioned for Lester to take a seat. “Your father hired me to represent you.”

  “Has he left town yet?”

  “I think so, but he gave me your grandmother’s name and number. He said you live with her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The best way for me to understand what’s happened is to ask you some questions.”

  Before Scott could begin, Lester started talking.

  “When am I getting out? I shouldn’t be in here. It’s all a frame-up.”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.”

  Lester continued, “And they don’t allow the races to stay separate.”

  “What?”

  “That’s why I got in a fight. They wouldn’t let me sit at a table with only whites.”

  “Wait a minute,” Scott interrupted. “Back up. Let’s get a few things straight.”

  “I don’t need a lecture. I need to get out of here.”

  Scott could see traces of his father in the young man’s facial features, and even more of Harold Garrison’s influence in the young man’s attitudes.

  “I’m not going to lecture you,” Scott said. “As your lawyer, I need to tell you a few things. First, don’t talk to anyone, and I mean anyone, about why you are in here. Don’t talk to any of the other boys, guards, teachers, caseworkers from juvenile court or anyone else. Second, everything you tell me is between you and me. Nobody else will know about it. I’m representing you, not your father, and I don’t have to tell him or anyone else what we discuss. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah. I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t say you were stupid. I’m explaining how the attorney-client relationship works. Have you ever had a lawyer before?”

  “No.”

  “Then you need to listen. Third, my job is to represent you. I’m not working for the juvenile court authorities. I’m not trying to get the judge to like me. I’m here to give you legal representation. Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Lester said more quietly.

  Scott took a blank legal pad out of his briefcase. “Good. Let’s start at the beginning. Your father gave me some background information, but there is a lot I want to ask you.”

  An hour and a half later Scott put down his pen. He’d taken ten pages of information. Question marks and stars filled the margins next to his notes.

  “I’ll check with the juvenile court caseworker on my way back to my office and find out if a hearing has been scheduled in your case.”

  “When do I get out?”

  “That will be my second question to the caseworker.” Scott leaned across the table. “In the meantime, don’t even look sideways at anyone in here. No fighting. No arguing. Understand?”

  Lester grunted.

  “Getting out is going to depend as much on you as me.”

  At 11 A.M. Scott was sitting in the plainly furnished office of Juan Maribona, the juvenile court caseworker who had prepared the intake information on Lester Garrison.

  “A courier from the district attorney’s office picked up the Garrison file first thing this morning,” Juan said. “I’m sorry you wasted a trip.”

  “Who’s going to handle the hearing in juvenile court?”

  “Not us. The D.A. doesn’t want to leave the case in juvenile court. They’re going to ask the judge to allow Lester to be prosecuted as an adult in superior court.”

  “As an adult?” Scott asked with surprise.

  “It happens,” Juan shrugged. “He’s almost seventeen, and it was an ugly incident. I was ready to let him go home today and schedule a hearing next week. But somebody wants to teach this kid a lesson. A long, hard lesson.”

  3

  The youth who loves his alma mater will always ask, not “What can she do for me?” but “What can I do for her?”

  RUSSELL BRIGGS

  September weather in the Piedmont area of North Carolina is unpredictable. It can be as scorching hot as late July or offer a tantalizing hint of cool weather ahead in early November. Today was on the sweltering side, and Scott was glad he could park in a visitor space near the main entrance to the high school and avoid a long walk across the black asphalt that had been baking in the morning sun.

  Catawba High School had relocated to a new facility two years after Scott graduated. The old, red-brick high-school building with its steep rooflines and hissing and popping steam heat had been completely renovated and now served as the middle school. The classroom where Scott and Perry suffered through Mrs. Willston’s history class was now a brightly painted art studio for seventh graders.

  The new high school had a quiet, efficient heating system but none of the charm of the old buildings. The rectangular tan structures looked like a series of concrete blocks stacked at random angles on the ground. Scott pushed open one of the front doors and passed by a male and a female student who were talking to one another. Glancing sideways, he saw the glint of sterling silver on top of the young man’s t
ongue.

  In the main lobby there was a school trophy case filled with memorabilia from the athletic triumphs of Catawba sports teams. Scott stopped for a quick look. Football predominated in the glory years of the 1950s and 1960s, but the trophies behind the glass case were now tarnished, and several of the young men who played on the great teams that traveled to Raleigh on cold December nights now had trouble climbing the steps of the bleachers to reach a good seat for the home games. Scott played linebacker on the Catawba High football team for three years. In his senior year they made it to the play-offs only to be soundly defeated in the first round.

  There weren’t any students in the broad hallway. Scott turned left toward the administrative offices. Inside he was greeted by a tall woman with gray-streaked dark hair who was standing in front of a copy machine.

  “I’m Scott Ellis,” he said. “I have an appointment with Dr. Lassiter.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  While he waited, Scott picked up a yearbook from a small table. Flipping to the teacher section, he found Mrs. Willston’s picture and studied it closely. It looked like the same photo she’d used when he was in school. Maybe for the history teacher time stood still.

  A short, rotund, middle-aged man with bright, deep brown eyes and a fringe of gray hair around his bald head came out of the office suite and extended his hand.

  “Mr. Ellis, I’m Vince Lassiter.”

  Scott stood and shook the principal’s hand.

  Dr. Lassiter pointed at the yearbook. “I understand you graduated from Catawba.”

  “Yes. I was checking the faculty section to see who is still here.”

  “No bad memories, I hope?”

  Scott didn’t answer. A bell rang in the hallway signaling the end of a class period.

  “We’d better hurry,” the principal said. “The cafeteria will be mobbed within the next few minutes.”

  As they walked down the hall, Dr. Lassiter continued, “I mentioned your name in connection with the mock trial program to Mrs. Willston yesterday afternoon. She remembered you well.”

  Scott swallowed. “Yes, I took her class when I was a junior. What did she say?”

  “That you had a lot of potential. She was pleased to find out that you are a lawyer.”

  Scott waited for the principal to add that his former teacher was going to be the faculty sponsor for the mock trial team, but Dr. Lassiter kept walking and pushed open a swinging door that led into a cavernous dining hall. The room was quickly filling with hundreds of students who had thirty minutes to eat before going to their next class. Scott followed Dr. Lassiter down the serving line. Ladies wearing hairnets efficiently loaded the plates and set them up on a metal counter. One of the older women dishing out the food looked vaguely familiar to Scott. Dr. Lassiter greeted almost everyone by name.

  They left the main cafeteria and sat down at a table in the faculty dining room. Scott stuck his fork into the piece of brown meat on his lime-green plate.

  “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

  Dr. Lassiter was already eating. “I don’t know. The menu listed it as ‘country meat loaf.’ Try it. It’s not too bad.”

  Scott followed the older man’s lead, and to his surprise, the meat tasted better than similar meals he remembered from his own high-school years. The cook had added just enough pepper to slightly interest his taste buds. But the meat loaf was the culinary highlight of the meal. The green beans tasted like the metal can they’d lived in for many months, and the mashed potatoes were a first cousin to plaster of Paris. Dr. Lassiter seemed to enjoy everything on his plate. Scott didn’t complain and pretended he was back at the mess hall.

  “Thanks again for agreeing to help with the mock trial team,” the principal said. “I want our students to participate in activities they’ll remember after they forget the day-to-day grind of the classroom. Who knows? We may have a future trial lawyer in our midst.”

  Scott took a sip of tea. “I didn’t have a clue in high school that I’d be a lawyer someday.”

  “What did you want to do?”

  “Join the army. My father retired from the military as a lieutenant colonel before our family moved to Catawba. He liked army life, and it must have rubbed off on me. Within a few weeks of high-school graduation I was in boot camp at Fort Benning.”

  “I should have guessed. You sit so straight in your chair. We don’t teach that here.”

  “There are things they do in the military that have a way of hanging around after you take off the uniform. Sit up straight, stand at attention, say ‘yes, sir,’ and never cry in public.”

  “How long were you on active duty?”

  “Three years. After my initial commitment was up, I didn’t reenlist and went to college at Appalachian State followed by law school at Wake Forest.”

  “Are your parents still in the area?”

  “No, they moved to Texas a few years ago to be close to my two older sisters who live in the Dallas area. My dad works as a management consultant, and my mother baby-sits her grandchildren every chance she gets.”

  Scott decided not to ask about Mrs. Willston’s role with the mock trial team. There was no need to confirm that the teacher was going to reappear in his life like a wraith out of the mists of the past.

  “What’s the high school like now?” he asked.

  “I’m sure it’s changed some since you graduated, but it’s no different from thousands of other schools across the country. There are probably more cliques on campus than in your time. Some groups are bizarre and have to be watched, but my greatest concern is for the students who don’t belong to anything or anybody—the loners. No one is looking after them. They are the ones most likely to fall through the cracks and have the worst personal and social problems.”

  “I never thought about that when I was here.”

  Dr. Lassiter smiled. “You were probably a popular student. They usually don’t look very far beyond their peer group.”

  “Not really,” Scott replied. “I was introverted in high school. I played sports and had a few close friends, but I moved in a small circle. I still enjoy my privacy.”

  “Then, I especially thank you for giving up your personal time to help with the program. Mrs. Wilson has been recruiting a handpicked group.”

  At the mention of the teacher’s name, Scott’s heart sank, and the wraith rode out of the mist. He’d been through a lot in the past twelve years and could cope with almost anything, but there were practical reasons why the history teacher shouldn’t sponsor the mock trial team.

  He spoke slowly and respectfully. “Dr. Lassiter, don’t you think she’s too old to take on an extracurricular responsibility like this? Your letter said the time commitment would be significant.”

  “Too old?” The principal looked puzzled. “What do you mean? She’s not that old.”

  Scott decided it was time to be blunt. If he was going to help with this program, he didn’t want it to crash before it got off the ground. No decent students would volunteer for an activity if the history teacher were involved.

  “Mrs. Willston taught me,” he said. “She was as old as dirt then . . .”

  Dr. Lassiter burst out laughing. It reminded Scott of Perry Dixon’s reaction—only worse.

  “I don’t think this is funny,” he said. “I want the program to be a success. That can’t happen without the right people being involved.”

  “I totally agree,” Dr. Lassiter said, still chuckling. “You didn’t hear me correctly. I said Mrs. Wilson, not Mrs. Willston. There’s no way I’d ask Delia Willston to work on something like this.”

  “Oh,” Scott said, deflated. “I thought you said . . .”

  “It’s okay.” The principal held up his hand. “And I promise not to tell anyone. The faculty sponsor for the mock trial team is Kay Wilson, a second-year English teacher. I believe she was a student at Catawba High for a year or two before moving to California. You may remember her. I do
n’t know her maiden name.”

  “I’ve only kept up with a few of my classmates.”

  “When we’re finished eating, we can go back to my office, and I’ll show you Mrs. Wilson’s picture in the yearbook. I also need to give you a packet of materials we received from the trial lawyers’ association.”

  After pushing their trays through an opening onto a conveyor belt that chugged its way into the depths of the kitchen, they returned to the administrative area. On one wall of Dr. Lassiter’s office Scott saw a large, detailed floor plan of the school. Four blocked areas were labeled A, B, C, and D. The principal pointed to the diagram. “Each of the four grades has all its homerooms in one of the four zones, but the students move from section to section for classes.”

  Scott saw three small squares labeled “Modular Units” on the south side of the campus. “Are these trailers?”

  “Yes. Number three is Mrs. Wilson’s regular classroom. That’s where you’ll meet.”

  “What days and times would be best?” Scott asked.

  “That’s up to you. You’re the volunteer, so we want to work with your schedule. Do you have any regular commitments on a particular night of the week—business meetings, sports team, church?”

  “No, I work out at a gym, and except for the weekends, my evenings are usually free.”

  “The program will only interfere with your weekend activities during the regional and state competitions. Everything else can be scheduled during the week. I talked with Mrs. Wilson, and she suggested Tuesday and Thursday evenings at seven o’clock. That would avoid conflicts with most other school programs. You’ll meet in her classroom, so you can come and go as you please without having to come into the main building.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  Dr. Lassiter picked up a thick packet of papers on his desk and handed it to Scott. “This is the information about the competition. With your experience I’m sure you won’t have any problems sorting through it, but if you need my help in any way, let me know.”