"For what? You didn't do anything."
"I heard that they're planning to put you on trial. For manslaughter."
"Looks that way. Are they putting you on trial, too?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
She paused, then said, "You shouldn't be talking to me."
"Why?"
He couldn't see her, but he could hear her sigh in the darkness. "Because this is a trick."
"What kind of trick?"
"The detective put me in the cell next to yours for a reason. I'm supposed to get you talking. He hopes you'll slip and say something incriminating. Then I'm supposed to testify against you at trial and repeat all the damaging things you say."
Ryan scoffed. "It's hard to imagine how I could say anything that would make things worse than they already are."
"Things can always get worse. Take it from somebody who knows."
"I'm not so sure," said Ryan. "This may be one situation where it's about as bad as it gets."
"This is so unfair. You were just trying to save me. Why do I always do this? It seems like every time someone does something to help me, it ends up getting them into trouble."
She sounded genuinely upset. Funny, thought Ryan. When they'd first met in the ER, Kaylee had struck him as the kind of pretty and popular girl whose biggest challenge in her perfect life was trying to figure out what to wear every morning. Sometimes, first impressions could be way off the mark.
Ryan said, "Don't go blaming yourself. I know why they're doing this to me, and it has nothing to do with you."
"What's it about then?"
Ryan took a seat on the floor, his back against the brick wall. The sound of Kaylee's back sliding down the opposite side of the same wall told him that she, too, had taken a seat on the floor. But for the bricks and mortar between them, they would have been sitting back to back. Strangely, Ryan took some comfort in that. "You don't want to know the truth," he said.
"Does it have anything to do with Ryan L'new?"
Ryan bristled. This Kaylee was one smart girl. He drew a circle on the dirty floor with his fingertip. He was just doodling,, not sure if he should tell her.
"You can talk to me," she said. "I'm not going to tell those jerks anything."
He spoke softly, trying to bite back some of the anger in his voice. "My father's name is William Coolidge. He's in jail."
They were in separate cells, in almost total darkness, looking in completely opposite directions. Still, Ryan felt certain that she was seeing him in a completely new light. People always did, once they found out that his father was in prison.
Kaylee said, "Do you think they're out to get you because your father is in jail?"
"Of course. That's the way people think. You know that old saying, The apple doesn't fall far from the tree?' People know my dad's a criminal, so they treat me like one, too."
"I'm sorry about your dad," she said. "I really am."
Her tone surprised him. It was soothing, as pleasant as it ever had been. She didn't seem to be judging him. Maybe she'd never heard that old expression, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Or maybe she was different from most people.
"Thanks," he said.
"What did your dad do?" she asked.
"He was a journalist. An investigative reporter for the Tribune."
"No. I meant, what did he do to end up in jail?"
"They say he stole something."
"What?"
Ryan shrugged. "I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy."
"It's okay. That's the way it always is. Once people find out that your dad's in prison, that's all they want to talk about."
"I won't bring it up again, okay? If you want to talk about it, we'll talk about it."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Then we won't."
"Good." Ryan was glad to have that part of the conversation behind them, but it hadn't gone as badly as it might have. For the first time since his father had landed in prison, he felt as though he'd found someone who understood--someone he could talk to, if he wanted to.
"Ryan, I'm not going to repeat any of this to anyone. You know that, right?"
"I think I do.
"I wasn't trying to get you into trouble when I told them what happened in that conference room. I spoke up only because I thought they were going to give you a medal or a reward. What you did was so courageous. I never dreamed they were trying to build a criminal case against you. You do believe me, don't you?"
He paused, but only because it was his nature to be cautious. He . Didn't really doubt her sincerity. "Yes, I believe you."
The burning torch was flickering. The dungeon was getting darker. Kay lee's voice tightened. "Ryan, I'm scared. This place is creepy. What if there are rats or snakes?"
He didn't tell her about that thing--whatever it was--that had scurried over the top of his foot. "Try not to think about that."
"I can't stop. I'm afraid."
There was silence, total stillness. Ryan could hear only the distant drip of water in another damp cell.
"Ryan?"
"Yes?"
"Will you hold my hand?"
He glanced toward the bars. There was barely enough light to see his own hand, but hers almost seemed to glow in the darkness. She had reached through the bars of her own cell and slid her hand across the floor toward his. Ryan reached through his bars and took her hand.
It was cold in the dungeon, but her hand felt warm. His heart was beating a little faster, and it was a good feeling. It washed away a lot of loneliness, and not just the loneliness of his cell. It was the loneliness of lost friends at school, teachers who didn't trust him, parents who didn't want him staying in their house for sleep overs with their children. All those terrible things happened when your father was locked behind bars. This, however, had a way of making it all disappear.
It was the feeling that nothing else mattered.
They stayed that way, silent, their fingers interlocked. Ryan's thoughts turned to the four unlucky ones: Flu Lady, Sling Man, Head Case, and Coach Jenkins. He'd forgotten their real names, but he would never forget their faces. He said a silent prayer for each of them. He prayed for Kaylee, too.
The burning torch flickered. The flame weakened, fighting for survival. It shrank to almost nothing. Ryan caught his breath. Kaylee squeezed his hand.
The flame went out. Their cells were in total darkness.
Ryan said another little prayer. For courage.
Chapter 11
Ryan woke the next morning. Or was it the afternoon? He had no way of knowing. The cell was completely dark, night or day. Then he heard noises--faint at first, then louder. Footsteps! And they were coming toward his cell.
It had been a difficult night. Kaylee had made him promise not to fall asleep before she did. Ryan always kept his promises.
The corridor that led to his cell was growing brighter. Someone was coming. He could hear them. He could see the glow of their torch.
"Kaylee," he whispered into the next cell. There was no answer. He tried again, a little louder this time. "Kaylee, wake up."
Suddenly, the glowing torch appeared on the other side of the bars. The flame was harsh on Ryan's eyes, but it was sorely welcome. The iron door opened, and a guard entered his cell.
"Kaylee is gone," he said.
"Where did she go?"
"Detective Malone sent her home. You're the only one charged with a crime."
Ryan felt sad that she was gone, but he knew he was being selfish. Any home, even his own, had to be better than this place. "What happens now?"
"Let's go," said the guard.
"Time for my massage already?" said Ryan. Yet another joke. He was at it again, looking danger in the face and trying to defuse the situation with humor. Just like his dad.
"Time to meet your lawyer," the guard said.
"I don't have a lawyer."
"The cou
rt of justice appointed one for you. Now, come on. Move it."
Ryan followed the guard out of the cell and down the long, stone corridor. The thought of climbing out of the dungeon and seeing the blue sky and sunshine made him eager with anticipation, but he was soon disappointed. They weren't going upstairs. The guard stopped at a large wooden door at the end of the corridor. The painted sign on the door read, LAW LIBRARY.
Ryan said, "This is where I meet my lawyer?"
"Yup. This is where his office is."
"His office is in a dungeon?"
"The Court of International Justice goes to great lengths to make sure that all prisoners are given a fair trial. There is a law library here on the premises. All court-appointed lawyers are given an office in the library where they can meet with their clients."
"I'd be happy to relocate. I mean, if that would make my lawyer happy."
The guard shot him a nasty look, and then he knocked hard on the door. No answer. The guard grabbed the brass knocker and gave it three loud bangs. They waited. Finally, a reply came.
"Send the boy in!"
"He's expecting you," the guard told Ryan. He opened the door and gave Ryan a little shove. Ryan stumbled into the library, and the door closed behind him. The guard had not come with him. Ryan was alone, and he was simply awestruck by the surroundings.
"Wow, this is so cool." He was speaking to no one. His words were like a reflex.
He was standing in the center of a five-story atrium. It was like one of those cavernous lobbies in the big-city hotels where you could see all the way up to the top floor. Here, however, none of the floors had hotel rooms. Each level had only bookshelves, row after row of bookshelves. They were stacked with books from floor to ceiling. The volumes had to number in the thousands, at least. Ryan felt as though his head were on a swivel. He was looking up and all around, admiring all the books.
"How do you do, young man?"
Ryan turned to greet the voice. "Fine, thank you. You must be the lawyer."
"Yes, that's me. Hezekiah is my name."
"Pleased to meet you. My name's Ryan."
They shook hands, which made Ryan feel good. It was nice to know someone was on his side. Actually, everything about Hezekiah was strangely reassuring, though a bit quirky. He was a very old African-American with bushy white eyebrows that nearly joined at the bridge of his nose. It was as if a long, white caterpillar were crawling across the top of Hezekiah's eyeglasses. The glasses, themselves, were a relic from the past. They were black and horn-rimmed, with thick Coke-bottle lenses that made his eyes seem larger than life. They were dark, expressive eyes that sparkled when he smiled. His hair was a frizzy mess of long, gray strands that practically stood on end. "Wild" was the word that came to mind. The overall appearance was an eclectic cross between Thurgood Marshall and Albert Einstein, two very famous men whose photographs were in Ryan's dictionary. Hezekiah's clothing was only slightly less peculiar. He wore a navy blue suit and a white shirt, which were standard for a lawyer. Hezekiah's suit was completely wrinkled, however, as if he routinely slept in his work clothes. The skinny neck tie was straight out of the old black-and-white movies that Ryan's mother liked to watch on television. The shoes were the biggest surprise of all. Ryan did a double take, but sure enough, the old lawyer was wearing canvas, high-top basketball shoes.
"You were expecting wingtips?" said Hezekiah.
Ryan smiled, realizing that he must have been staring at the man's shoes. "Sorry. I don't know many lawyers who wear basketball shoes."
"That's because there aren't many lawyers like me." He smiled again, then gestured like a tour guide to show off the surroundings. "How do you like the library?"
"It's awesome."
The old man flashed a boyish grin. "It is, isn't it? That's one of the things I like most about handling cases before the Court of International Justice. I just love their library."
"Are these all law books?"
"Yup."
"Why do you need so many?"
"Because that's how our law is made."
"With books?"
"No. Not with books. With people."
Ryan looked up, then down, roaming the shelves with an inquisitive gaze. "All I see are books."
"That's all most people see. But when you've been trained as I have, you see much more. These are case books. Every time there's a legal case, that means someone went to court. Every time someone goes to court, that means somebody wins and somebody loses. Someone goes to jail, someone goes free.
Every single case reported in every last one of these books is a piece of someone's life."
"I never thought of it that way."
Hezekiah shrugged, as if he weren't surprised. "You hungry?"
"Yes."
"How hungry?"
"Enough to eat a book."
"Good. Take your appetite straight back that way, then turn left to the kitchen. Help yourself to the refrigerator. When you've had your fill, you can get out of that hideous orange prison jumpsuit. Your jeans and sweatshirt are in the closet."
"What about my basketball jersey?"
"Darn, I was going to keep that for myself. Goes well with the shoes." He winked to let Ryan know he was kidding. "Come get me when you're finished. I'll be on the second floor. I have a ton of research to do."
"Thanks," said Ryan.
"You're welcome."
Ryan was starting to like this Hezekiah better by the minute. He followed the old man's directions and found the kitchen. His stomach growled as he opened the refrigerator, and he nearly flipped when he saw what was inside. Not only was it packed with food, but it contained only the food he liked. Cheeseburgers, mac and cheese, yellow cake with chocolate frosting. Raisin bread, chocolate milk, and vanilla-flavored cola. Hezekiah even had his favorite sports drink in his lucky citrus-cooler flavor. Ryan grabbed a little of everything, cleared a spot on the table, and then proceeded to eat and drink until the-thought of swallowing one more bite made him sick to his stomach. He pushed away from the table and found his clothes in the closet. They'd been washed and were neatly folded. It felt good to put on his favorite jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers. And the basketball jersey always brought him good luck.
A sudden crash from inside the library wiped the smile from his face.
He ran out of the kitchen and took a quick look around. Everything looked normal, but then he heard another crash upstairs, in the atrium. It sounded like books tumbling to the floor. Finally, his eyes locked on a huge mess on the second floor. One of the bookshelves had been overturned. It was exactly where Hezekiah was supposed to be doing his research. Ryan raced up the stairs and headed straight for the pile of books.
"Hezekiah!" he shouted, fearing the worst.
The pile of books was enormous, taller than Ryan and almost fifty feet long. The entire row of shelving had collapsed. Books were piled on top of books. Somewhere beneath the rubble, Ryan feared, was his new friend Hezekiah. Ryan started tossing books aside, digging furiously.
"Are you okay?" he shouted. No one replied. Ryan kept digging through the pile.
"Hezekiah! Are you--"
The old man's head suddenly popped up through the pile. He was laughing.
"Hezekiah?"
"Oooooh boy. That was a close one."
"Are you hurt?" asked Ryan.
He struggled to push his way up from the bottom of the pile. Ryan helped him to his feet.
"I'm fine, just fine. That happens every now and then."
"What happens?"
"Oh, the re-entry can be a bit rough sometimes."
"Re-entry? What do you mean, re--" Ryan stopped himself.
He noticed Hezekiah's clothes. "How did you get all soaking wet?"
"Research, of course."
"You get wet doing research?"
"Sometimes. It depends on the case."
Ryan made a face, confused. "What are you talking about?"
Hezekiah dug through the pile. He found the right book and
turned to a certain page. "Here it is. This is what I was researching."
It was an old case. The pages had yellowed with age. The date was 1842. Ryan read the case name aloud. "United States versus Holmes."
"That's right," said Hezekiah. "I was doing research to prepare your defense at trial. This case--United States versus Holmes--will be very important to your defense."
"Why?"
"Because that's the way the law works. Judges rely on old cases to decide new cases. They're called legal precedents."
Ryan was still confused, but he was also curious. "What is this Holmes case about?"
"Oh, it was a terrible case. Just awful what happened to those poor souls." Hezekiah was trembling as he spoke.
Ryan was almost afraid to probe, but he asked anyway. "What happened?"
"A long time ago, a ship called the William Brown was sailing across the North Atlantic Ocean. It was carrying passengers from Liverpool to the United States. It hit an iceberg off the coast of Canada. The ship went down in a matter of minutes."
Ryan thought of the movie about the Titanic, another ship that hit an iceberg. It gave him chills. "That does sound awful. But what does a sinking ship have to do with my case?"
"Everything, my boy. That's what I've been trying to tell you. These cases are about people. To understand them, you have to get in to them. In to them, I tell you."
Ryan wasn't sure what to make of the old man. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that the reason you're all wet is because Hezekiah nodded slowly, flashing a mischievous grin. "Now I think you're beginning to get the picture."
"Nah," said Ryan, scoffing. "No way. You can get into books, figuratively, I mean. But you can't literally get in to them. Nobody can do that."
Hezekiah chuckled to himself. "What do you think happened here, then?"
"Looks like you pulled these bookshelves over and dumped a bucket of water over your head."
"Do you really think that's what happened?"
"I don't know. But that's a heck of a lot easier to believe than you jumping inside a book and getting all wet doing research about a ship that sank in 1842."
Hezekiah nodded, as if he expected Ryan's reaction. "What if I could prove it to you?"
"How are you going to do that?"
Leapholes (2006) Page 6
