Red Kayak

by Priscilla Cummings

  We rose when Master Williams—“All rise!”—entered. Then we sat down again and listened as a man addressed everyone in court.

  “My name is Charles Fine. I’m the state’s attorney, and I’m calling the matter of Jeremy Tyler and Michael Griswald, who have been charged with murder in the second degree in the death of Benjamin Anthony DiAngelo. It is my understanding that Mr. Tyler and Mr. Griswald wish to admit to this charge.”

  A murmur rippled through court.

  Surprised and a little confused, Mom, Dad, Carl, and I looked at one another. Mr. Anderson grinned and leaned over from the other side of Dad to tell me, “You’re off the hook, Brady. You won’t have to testify.”

  Carl reached across Mom’s lap to pat my knee.

  It had not occurred to me that this could happen. It threw me.

  Master Williams addressed J.T. and Digger. “You admit to this charge? Do you understand this means you plead guilty?”

  Digger said, “Yes.” J.T. nodded and mumbled the same.

  While I was still reeling from the fact that I didn’t have to get up in front of everyone and tell my story, Master Williams was asking J.T. and Digger, “Do you understand that by admitting to this charge, you give up your right to testimony on your own behalf?”

  The boys nodded.

  “Do you understand that, Mr. Tyler?” Master Williams asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said J.T., his voice barely audible, his head hanging, one hand clasped around the other behind his back.

  “Do you understand that, Mr. Griswald?” Master Williams asked.

  “Yes,” replied Digger, loud and clear. He stood up straight, with his hands at his sides.

  I wondered what had come over Digger—I’ll deny it till the day I die!—in the past month. Why didn’t he want to fight it anymore?

  “Do you still wish to enter a guilty plea?” Master Williams asked again. I guess she wanted to be sure they knew what they were doing.

  “Yes, ma’am,” J.T. replied.

  “I do,” said Digger.

  “Why?” Master Williams asked them.

  The courtroom grew absolutely silent. Everyone’s eyes were glued to Digger and J.T.

  J.T. spoke first. “Because I did it, Your Honor.”

  Digger was shaking his head. “No,” he said in a pretty loud voice. “I’m the one who’s guilty. Not J.T. He didn’t want no part of it. He kept watch is all—”

  “Mr. Griswald, stop! Please!” Master Williams ordered him.

  Digger stared at her, and I could see him take in and let out a big breath.

  The judge lowered her voice. “Look,” she explained in a kinder voice, “that’s not appropriate here. I promise you will have a chance to say whatever you want later. But not now.”

  She bent her head to write something on the papers in front of her, and attorneys up front started whispering because I guess Digger wasn’t supposed to go on like that. But I’d stood up out of my seat, I was so moved by what he said—how he, too, had finally come forth with the truth.

  Mom tugged on my jacket, and I sat down. Then we waited a few minutes. I’m not sure why. When Master Williams spoke again, she turned to a man at the side of the courtroom and asked, “Has either of these boys been charged with a crime before?”

  “That’s the bailiff,” Mr. Anderson whispered. “He’s got all their background information.”

  The bailiff replied, “No, Your Honor.”

  Master Williams went on to ask J.T. and Digger a bunch of questions: how old they were, how much school they’d had, were they under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or medication?

  The state’s attorney, Mr. Fine, stood up again. He announced that although the DiAngelos were not in court, they had written a “victims’ impact statement,” which he would read.

  Let me tell you, it tore everyone up pretty badly. I heard Mrs. DiAngelo’s voice behind every word: “Ben was supposed to start nursery school next month. Now there will be an empty cubby where he would have hung his Winnie-the-Pooh jacket…There won’t be fingerpaint pictures to hang up on our refrigerator. Or birthday parties to prepare for anymore…The tricycle we ordered is still in a box in the basement…No more stories in bed…There is not a single moment goes by when we don’t think of our son…”

  I bit my bottom lip hard to stop from crying because I knew that the DiAngelos would never get over losing Ben. I knew from losing my baby sister that the pain gets a little less the more time passes, that you go on living, and you learn how to cope with it. But it’s like my mom said, even though Amanda died, she’ll always be a part of who we are.

  At one point, when I covered my eyes with my hand, Mom suggested I leave the courtroom, but I shook my head no and took the Kleenex she offered. She squeezed my hand because she was having as hard a time as I was getting through the DiAngelos’ statement. I couldn’t see J.T. or Digger’s reaction because my head was down the whole time.

  When it was over, everyone kind of needed a minute.

  I glanced up through watery eyes to see J.T. standing in front of the judge again. His lawyer, a woman in a bright red suit and with thick, jet-black hair brushing her shoulders, stood with him. She and J.T. didn’t look like they belonged together—he was taller than her, for one thing—and I hoped that didn’t prove to be bad.

  “Your Honor, I would like to begin by pointing out that Jeremy Tyler has never been in trouble with the law before,” his lawyer began. “As I’m sure you’ve read in the reports, he is a good student, a loving son, and a hard worker. Up until sixth grade he was home-schooled by his mother. His grades at school have all been A’s and B’s. He is active in a youth group at the church he attends with his family, and every day in the summer, he puts in a full eight hours of work on the family’s chicken farm.”

  I felt a twitch in my back. I wanted to jump up and tell everybody that sometimes J.T. hauled out of bed at midnight—or 2 A.M.—and worked clear through the night because those chicken buyers collected around the clock.

  “Your Honor,” the lawyer went on, “Jeremy was not a willing participant in this criminal act. He felt pressured to help his friend Michael Griswald. Even though Jeremy was present when Michael drilled those holes in the kayak and then replugged them, Jeremy nevertheless believed that the kayak would sink fairly quickly, as a practical joke, forcing Mr. DiAngelo to take a cold swim in to shore. He did worry that they might get caught and have to pay to replace the kayak. But it never occurred to Jeremy that Mrs. DiAngelo and her young son might be the ones to take the boat out first, or that any actual harm would come to anyone.”

  Of course he didn’t want to harm anyone. J.T. had a good heart—the best!

  “Your Honor, due to the fact that his father is seriously ill and in the hospital, Jeremy is needed at home. And may I remind the court that Jeremy is only thirteen years old. We ask you to please understand that he is still in many ways a child, easily swayed by peer pressure.”

  It’s true! J.T. was just a kid—like me. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I wiped a tear away from the corner of my eye.

  “All right, then,” Master Williams said. She tilted her head toward Digger.

  “Mr. Griswald?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Digger stood up and jammed his hands in his pockets, then quickly pulled them out and dropped them at his side. But I could see his fingers curl up into nervous fists.

  His public defender stood beside him, lifted a legal pad full of notes, and cleared his throat. “Your Honor, Michael Griswald has lived his entire life on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. He is one of five children in his family.”

  True, I thought. He was one of five, even though his two older brothers had already left home.

  “A fair student, Michael is nevertheless a very hard worker,” the lawyer continued, “often helping his father, a heavy-equipment operator, to haul loads of gravel and sand. His mother says he is invaluable at home, too, often taking care of his younger brother and sister,
including feeding and putting them to bed when both his parents have to work.”

  He glanced at his notes, and I hoped he would tell everybody in court to look at Digger’s chipped tooth, the one in front that never got fixed after he broke it throwing himself on the ice to save my life. Give him some credit for that, I wished I could holler. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Digger.

  “Michael has never been in trouble with the law before,” the lawyer went on. “But his father has had numerous contacts with police. I won’t go into detail here, but several complaints have been made against Mr. Griswald for assaulting his wife, often with the children present. Just last month, a restraining order was issued limiting Mr. Griswald’s contact with the family.”

  My eyes shifted to Digger’s dad and tried to burn a hole through the back of his thick, bald head, but he sat there like a rock. I wondered if that public defender was going to tell everyone how Mr. Griswald smacked Digger in the eye, too, the night before our Valentine dance in middle school.

  “None of this is any excuse for what happened to Benjamin DiAngelo,” the young public defender continued, “but I want the court to know that Michael has harbored a lot of resentment and anger toward his father, and has never had a healthy escape valve. Never any counseling of any kind. Never anyone to talk to, or go to for help, except for his grandfather, who recently has become frail and was placed in a nursing home.”

  At the mention of his grandfather, Digger crossed and then uncrossed his arms.

  “I would like to add,” the attorney said, “that it was Mr. DiAngelo who purchased the farm belonging to Michael’s grandfather, tearing down the old farmhouse before building a new home there. And while we realize this is no excuse for the terrible loss of life that has resulted, we nevertheless ask the court to keep all this in mind. Truly, it was a practical joke gone bad.”

  The public defender stood back and indicated Digger’s mom. “Mrs. Sue Lorraine Griswald would now like to address the court.”

  Mrs. Griswald, her stringy, gray-streaked hair falling halfway down her back, stood up and tugged a snug blouse over her wide hips. I have always liked Digger’s mom. She had a rough life, I know, but she loved telling jokes and teasing the kids when I was around. Sometimes she laughed so hard her eyes would tear up. And I admired her toughness. Maybe she wasn’t tough enough to whip Mr. Griswald, but she could drive a dump truck and operate a bulldozer as good as any man.

  “I know I have to keep it short,” Digger’s mom started, “but I wanna tell you, my son, here, is a good boy in his heart. He has always obeyed his parents, and he means the world to Hank and LeeAnn, his little brother and sister. It’s true, he does get a fiery temper at times. Runs in the family, I guess…Anyways, I can promise you this, that if and when my boy comes home, we will—the children and I—have moved permanent to my sister’s over to Denton. She’s got a pretty big house on Pea Liquor Road and Digger—that’s Michael, Your Honor—he’d go to school there, in Kent County, ’cause I wanna give him a fresh start.”

  She hung her head for a second and then said, “That’s all. I thank you very much for your time, Your Honor.”

  While she sat down, I watched Mr. Griswald, but he didn’t move or even look at his wife.

  After that, both J.T. and Digger had a chance to speak for themselves.

  J.T. was first, in a voice just loud enough for us to hear: “I am real sorry for what happened to Ben and his family. I wrote the DiAngelos a letter. I told them if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have been there, down at their dock that day. Honestly, we never meant to hurt Ben, or his family. But I know that because of what we did, we hurt them and a lot of other people. I am truly sorry. I know that I will answer to the Lord for this. It is something I will always carry with me.”

  When J.T. sat down, his lawyer touched him on the shoulder.

  Digger scraped back his chair and stood. “I want to say I’m sorry, too,” he began. “I’ve had a long time to think about what we done. And I want Your Honor to know that I’m the only one here who should be blamed. Like my mom said, I get a fiery temper sometimes, and I was pretty angry at Mr. DiAngelo for rippin’ down my grampa’s house and movin’ in there, takin’ away all those things in my life that I loved so much. I know now it wasn’t Mr. DiAngelo’s fault. I was just lashin’ out…the way my dad lashes out at me, I guess.”

  Digger paused a moment. I wondered if he was going to go on.

  “Anyway, so I told J.T.,” Digger continued, “that if he didn’t come with me to steal the drill and that glue, that the next time Curtis tried to punch him out at school, I weren’t gonna be there to put a stop to it.”

  Suddenly Digger was turning, his eyes scanning the courtroom until he saw me. “I also want everyone in here to know that my friend Brady Parks—he’s sittin’ there in the back—that Brady should in no way get blamed or looked down on for what happened. I don’t hold nothin’ against you, Brady. And I’m sorry I lied to you. We was best friends growin’ up and…well, you were right, about no one ever forgettin’. That day in the field after school? You asked how I’d feel if it was Hank or LeeAnn in the kayak?”

  I sat up tall and nodded so he could see I remembered.

  Digger wiped at one eye and turned to his mother. “I don’t want nothin’ bad to ever happen to the kids, Mom…I’m so sorry for all I done to mess things up.”

  Mrs. Griswald started crying, and when Digger did, too, I couldn’t watch any longer.

  My head bowed, I listened to him plead with Master Williams. “Please don’t punish J.T. the same as me, Your Honor. I brung a lot of shame on him, but I’m the only one here in this room is to blame.”

  When he finished and sat down, several minutes of silence followed. I felt as though my whole life was on hold right then. I kept looking from the back of J.T. to the back of Digger, and smack out of the blue an oxymoron came to my mind: alone together. That’s what we were. Together in this room, with all these people, I had never felt more alone.

  All this time, Master Williams was busy writing in different folders on her desk. When she finished, she took off her glasses.

  “Please stand,” the bailiff said quietly. J.T. and Digger stood.

  I knew this was the moment. I felt myself leaning forward, my hands gripping my knees, bracing myself for what she would decide.

  She started off slowly. “Mr. Tyler, Mr. Griswald, I appreciate your apologies and all of your heartfelt comments. I know that you have apologized, and I know that you have both said you didn’t mean to kill anyone.” She paused a second before continuing. “But I’m afraid that in this case, apologies are not enough.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Mom fold her hands in her lap. Dad leaned forward beside me.

  “What you boys did is like firing a gun into a crowded movie theater just to scare everybody—only someone got killed.” Master Williams focused intently on my friends as she explained this. “Mr. Griswald, you’ve admitted this was all your idea and that you threatened your friend, Mr. Tyler, compelling him into committing the act with you.”

  She turned to J.T. “But, Mr. Tyler, I don’t see any evidence here of physical force. You’re not a puppet. You could have said no. You could have walked away. But you didn’t. And then, you did nothing to stop Mr. Griswald. In fact, it is my understanding that you helped to steal that drill and the glue and that you ‘stood guard’ while Mr. Griswald destroyed property belonging to the DiAngelos, thereby setting the stage for the horrendous act that followed.

  “Let this be a lesson to you, Mr. Tyler,” she said, “that just because you don’t actively participate in a crime, you’re not off the hook. No. You are both to blame for what happened to that little boy.”

  J.T.’s mom put a hand up to her mouth.

  “This offense is so serious that there have to be consequences,” Master Williams continued, her voice growing harsher. “Look around you. Look at your mothers! Look at the pain you have caused your families—not to
mention the pain and the enormous loss the DiAngelos have suffered.

  “The most important thing you boys need to learn is that what you did was so reckless and so unthinking that a little boy lost his life. One little boy won’t grow up and go to school or ever have a job or a family of his own. Because of what you did.” She paused again. “Now, that kind of behavior cannot and will not go unpunished in the state of Maryland. You need to know this. You need to know this for the rest of your life.”

  When she finished, she leaned back but continued staring at Digger and J.T. for a moment. Then she put her glasses back on and busily wrote on the papers in front of her.

  Both J.T. and Digger looked whipped and stood limply with their heads hanging. It killed me to watch, but I couldn’t turn away either, not then.

  A couple more minutes went by. Maybe it wasn’t even that long.

  When Master Williams spoke again, the words came fast. There was some legal jargon, but I grasped this: She committed J.T. and Digger to the custody of juvenile services—to nine months in a forestry camp for juvenile offenders out in western Maryland.

  “At the end of nine months, I’ll review your records,” she warned. “If I think you haven’t learned anything, I will not hesitate to keep you both out there for another couple years.”

  Nine months. Well, I was relieved, to tell the truth. Nine months was a whole lot better than hearing “until you’re twenty-one.” Nine months was the school year. By summer, I thought, they could both be home! They could be back in school for sophomore year—well, or freshman year if they had to repeat.

  “It’s not too bad,” Mom said to me.

  “No,” I agreed.

  Everyone was talking in hushed voices, and I began to think that forestry camp had to be better than some juvenile jail place, too.