The Activist tb-4

by John Grisham

  Theo walked into his favorite spot, the large conference room with walls lined with thick books and a long shiny mahogany table down the middle, with a dozen leather chairs around it. The conference room was used for all sorts of important meetings, and it also doubled as the firm’s library. Theo knew that many of the imposing legal books on the shelves had not been touched in years, but they were still impressive. He fetched Hardie, and they fell into the leather chairs with Judge not far away.

  Hardie gawked at the walls and the long table and said, “Wow, Theo, this is pretty cool.”

  “This is where I like to work when the lawyers are gone.”

  “And your parents don’t mind?” Hardie asked with some uneasiness.

  “Not at all. Relax. It’s just a law office.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Theo, but I’ve never been in a law office before. My dad is a minister. And his father was a minister.”

  Theo had met Reverend Charles Quinn at a Scout function and thought he was pretty cool. “Relax, Hardie. You may be in a real law office, but I’m not a real lawyer, so I can’t charge anything.”

  “That’s good to hear. I wasn’t planning on hiring anybody. I’m just looking for information. I’m sure my parents will talk to a lawyer, and pretty soon. It’s just that we’re scared right now.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Theo said, getting down to business. “Eminent domain is an old legal idea that’s been on the books forever. It means the state has the right to take land when it can prove that it needs the land. The state has to pay a fair price to the landowners, but the landowners can’t stop the state from taking their land.”

  “That’s outrageous. Who thought up that law?”

  “Somebody in England, a long time ago. It’s actually not such a bad law, because if the state can’t take land when it needs to, then nothing would ever be built. Think about it. Highways, bridges, dams, parks, lakes—if one or two landowners said no, then none of these projects could go forward.”

  “You don’t understand, Theo. My grandparents are still on this farm. They live in this great old white-frame house where we all gather for the holidays. I’ve spent the night there with my cousins a thousand times. We’ve built tree houses, zip lines, forts, bike jumps, everything you can think of. There is a long front yard where we play tackle football, baseball, Frisbee, golf, soccer, lacrosse, you name it. There are two ponds stocked with more fish than we can ever catch, and we fish there at least once a month. We’ve even ice fished on the front pond in the winter. We play hockey on the pond when it’s cold enough. Near the house is a small barn where my grandfather keeps two ponies, Belle and Daisy, and a horse named Captain. I’ve been riding these guys since I could walk.”

  Hardie was leaning forward on his elbows, gesturing wildly with his hands. His voice was rising and shaking, and for a moment Theo thought Hardie might get choked up and start crying. He went on, “There’s a place we call the Campsite. It’s on the banks of Red Creek, in a bend in the river, and every cousin in my family, boys and girls, gets to camp out there on his or her fifth birthday. It’s a family ritual. My dad and my uncles set up camp and all of the older cousins show up, and for two nights we have this big family birthday party. We cook over a wood grill. We tell stories around a campfire, and my uncle Jack can tell ghost stories that will scare you so bad you can’t breathe. My uncle Henry knows every star in the sky, and we’ll lie on our backs for hours looking at the constellations. My first merit badge was Astronomy because I’ve known that stuff all my life.”

  Hardie paused to catch his breath, then, slowly, he wiped a tear. “I’m sorry, Theo.”

  “It’s okay, Hardie. I understand.”

  Hardie bit his lip, then continued: “My father and grandfather wanted us to appreciate nature and to respect the land. They took us hunting and fishing, still do. I killed my first deer when I was eight years old, then I watched my father clean it and save the meat. He made venison sausage and took it to the homeless shelter. We’ve never killed animals just for the sake of sport. We fish the ponds and Red Creek for bass, bream, and crappie, and I could clean and grill them in a skillet over a fire when I was ten years old. This is our land, Theo. No one has the right to take it.”

  Yes they do, Theo thought, but let it pass.

  “Along the front drive there is a grove of sugar maples, and in the middle of it is a cemetery, a little square with a white picket fence around it. That’s where all the Quinns are buried. Dozens of small tombstones, all lined up in neat rows. My great-grandparents, side by side, and next to their parents. Aunts and uncles. Edward Quinn, who died in the Second World War. Bob and Holly Quinn, great-aunt and uncle, killed in a car wreck in 1985, long before we were born. You can walk through the cemetery and relive the history of my family. Every July the Fourth we have a big cookout on the farm, and just before dinner we all walk down to the cemetery to place flowers on the graves and pay our respects. My dad has a cousin, Daniel Quinn, who’s retired, and his job is to cut the grass and maintain the cemetery. What happens to the graves, Theo, to the cemetery? Surely the state can’t take that part of the property. That’s not right.”

  Theo squirmed a bit and said, “I may have to do some research, Hardie, and I’ll probably talk to my dad because he’s a real estate lawyer and knows a lot about eminent domain, but I don’t think there is a good answer, or at least the answer you want to hear. If the state takes the property, then it owns it in every way. They’ll send in the bulldozers and flatten everything.”

  “What about the graves, Theo?”

  “I’ll have to ask my dad.”

  Hardie sat still for a long time and gazed at the table, his thoughts far away. Finally, he said, “The house goes back a hundred and fifty years. My father has two sisters and two brothers, and since he’s the oldest he gets the house when my grandparents are gone. Since I’m also the oldest, I’m supposed to get the house one day. It’s the family tradition and it’s worked well for a long time. It’s a great old house and getting to live there is an honor, but you also have to take care of the farm. And that’s a lot of work. What happens to the house, Theo?”

  Theo was getting tired of tough questions he couldn’t really answer. “I guess I’ll have to check with my dad,” he said, though he suspected he knew the truth. But Hardie was upset and Theo did not want to make things worse. After the state takes the land, the state can do whatever it pleases.

  Hardie continued: “My parents were discussing this bypass last night over dinner.”

  “Mine too.”

  “It’s being pushed by some trucking companies north and south of Strattenburg. They hate coming through town on Battle Street because they get clogged up in traffic. They think a bypass around town will make it easier to haul freight and do all sorts of wonderful things for their business. They give money to the politicians, including the governor, and so the politicians pull the right strings, and here we are with the state taking away our farm.”

  “I think my mother would agree with that. Not so sure about my dad.”

  “And there are also these local business guys who think they can make a buck off the bypass. Think about it. Two hundred million dollars is about to be spent right here in Strattenburg, and so a lot of folks are jumping on board.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like construction companies, bridge builders, equipment salesmen, companies that sell materials. My dad says these guys will go nuts in support of the project. The economy is down, business is slow, and now suddenly there is this huge project. My dad says it’s just a typical government pork scam. The politicians go for the votes while the businessmen scramble to make a buck. Meanwhile the taxpayers get stuck with the bill for another bad project.”

  “What’s pork?” Theo asked.

  “According to my dad, pork is when government money is given to politicians who use it to build projects in order to get votes in order to stay in office. Sometimes the projects are good, but often they ar
en’t really needed. Pork is a bad word now in politics, but the politicians are still chasing the pork, according to my dad.”

  “I think my mom would agree with your dad.”

  “What should we do, Theo?”

  “Hire a real lawyer. Eminent domain cases are tried in court before a judge who makes the decision as to how much money the property is worth. You gotta have a lawyer.”

  “Do you think your mother would take the case?”

  “No. She just does divorces.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He doesn’t go to court.”

  “Can you talk to your parents and get the name of a good lawyer?”

  “Sure. I’m happy to do that.”

  Hardie slowly got to his feet, and said, “Thanks, Theo.”

  “I really didn’t do anything.”

  “You listened, and that’s worth a lot.”

  As they left the conference room, Theo turned off the lights. Judge followed them back to Theo’s office, then outside.

  Chapter 6

  For the second morning in a row, the Friday edition of the Strattenburg Gazette ran a front-page story about the Red Creek Bypass. Theo read it with great interest at the kitchen table as he and Judge ate Cheerios and prepared for another day, although it was far from just another day because he was going camping. The only bad thing about a camping trip was that dogs were not allowed. Theo and a few of the other Scouts had once asked the Major if they could bring their dogs, and they got a flat “No.” The Major said his job was difficult enough keeping up with fifty city kids off in the woods. The last thing he needed was a pack of dogs running wild.

  Though he didn’t argue, Theo thought this was a bit unfair. Judge was a very disciplined dog who came when he was told to come, sat when he was told to sit, rolled over when he was told to roll over, and never ran off. He stayed close to Theo at all times when they were away from home. Judge would love to camp out with the boys, and sit around a campfire, and sleep with Theo in a pup tent, and hike and swim. But when the Major said no, he meant it.

  Mr. Boone was already gone; he enjoyed an early piece of wheat toast with his coffee club at a downtown diner. Mrs. Boone did not eat breakfast. Instead she usually sat in the den in her bathrobe and read the newspaper in silence. For a woman who talked all day long, she enjoyed the quietness of the early morning. Occasionally, though, like today, she sat at the kitchen table with Theo and they read the newspaper together. He was leaving for the weekend, and she wanted to be close.

  According to the Gazette, the announcement by the governor had set off a storm of bickering by various groups in town. The tree huggers, led by the Sierra Club, the Stratten Environmental Council, and a bunch of other groups, were screaming noisy objections and threatening lawsuits. The pro-business crowd was praising the governor and the bypass and howling about how bad traffic was on Battle Street and how much this was hurting the city. A good-government group chimed in with a protest that the project was too wasteful and unnecessary. Several landowners were angry that the state planned to take their property. Hardie Quinn’s family was not mentioned.

  In other parts of the state, the governor was being congratulated for pushing the project. In Lowensburg, an hour south, the mayor said the absence of a bypass around Strattenburg had choked off important “avenues of commerce” and harmed the economy of his city. In Carlsburg, an hour to the north, a state senator said two factories had closed in recent years because truck traffic was so slow around Strattenburg.

  The war of words raged on. As he read, Theo learned that the final decision on whether or not to build the bypass would be made by the County Commission, a board with five elected members from the five districts in the county. Two commissioners were on record favoring the bypass. Two were undecided. The fifth one could not be found at the moment.

  On page two, there was a large map of Stratten County, with the city square in the middle of it. Highway 75 was a major four-lane road that ran the entire length of the state and was heavily traveled. When it got to the northern part of Strattenburg it became known as Battle Street, and that’s where the problems started. To keep the old section of town from becoming too congested, city and county planners had shoved virtually all development out of the city limits and into the county. For almost thirty years, shopping centers, fast-food joints, car washes, motels, bank branches, big grocery stores, service stations, and the like had been crammed together along both sides of Battle Street, which had gone from two lanes to four to six and now to eight. There was a lot of traffic, but it moved reasonably well. The strategy had worked because the charm and character of the old sections of Strattenburg had been preserved. It was not unusual to hear people complain about the mess out on Battle Street, but in all fairness, that five-mile section of Highway 75 kept the traffic off Main Street.

  The bypass would begin just north of the city limits and make a wide semicircle away from the congestion and into the rural areas. It would pass very close to Jackson Elementary School, and it would plow through a brand-new soccer complex adjacent to the school. It would destroy St. Andrew’s Lutheran, a small church that dated back over two hundred years. It would require the taking, by eminent domain, of fifty homes and a dozen farms (including the Quinns’). It would reduce the values of another four hundred homes. It would wipe out the Red Creek Trail, a popular fifteen-mile hike-and-bike pathway through the hills around Strattenburg. And it would cross Red Creek in two places.

  According to those in favor of the bypass, it would relieve the congestion on Battle Street by taking between twenty and twenty-five thousand vehicles a day off that street.

  What a mess, thought Theo as he finished his Cheerios. However, on this Friday the arguments over the bypass belonged to someone else. Theo was going camping and little else mattered.

  “What’s the plan?” his mother asked as he rinsed both bowls and placed them in the sink.

  “School’s out at three thirty, and I’ll hustle home to get my stuff. Everything’s packed—clothes, sleeping bag, toothbrush, etcetera. I’ll meet you here at four and you take me to the VFW.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Go brush your teeth.” She said this every morning.

  Theo ran upstairs to his bathroom, ran water in the sink, but did not brush his teeth, grabbed his backpack and returned to the kitchen.

  “Do you have lunch money?” she asked, the same question five mornings a week.

  “Always.”

  “And your homework is complete?”

  “It’s perfect, Mom.” Theo was halfway out the door.

  “Be careful, Theo, and remember to smile.”

  “I’m smiling, Mom.”

  “Love you, Teddy.”

  “Love you back,” he said, and closed the door behind him. Judge followed him to the edge of the garage, where Theo scratched the dog’s head, said good-bye, hopped on his bike, and took off. He, Theo, was not actually smiling. He had the thickest braces in the eighth grade and was dying to get rid of them. Maybe next month, his orthodontist kept saying. He mumbled the word, “Teddy,” and was thankful none of his friends ever heard it. It was a baby name only his mother kept using. Even Mr. Boone had moved on to “Theo,” or, occasionally when he was lecturing, “Theodore.” As Theo sped away on his bike, he almost shuddered thinking about the abuse he would take if his friends every caught on to the “Teddy” business. Thirteen-year-old boys were pretty brutal when it came to nicknames, and so far Theo had avoided getting tagged with a bad one. Fred Jasper was fair-skinned with freckles and had been called Freck for so long the name was now permanent. Freck’s best friend, Brandon Taylor, had dissected a bullfrog with a steak knife when he was only ten years old, and had since been known simply as Frog. Freck and Frog; you saw them together everywhere. Poor Scott Butts had an unfortunate last name that gave rise to an amazing variety of colorful, and often tasteless, nicknames and jokes. Indeed, almost every boy in the eighth grade was known by something other than his real na
me.

  Theo had asked his mother to stop calling him Teddy, partly out of fear that someone else might hear it. She always just smiled, as if it was their private little matter. She had brought him into this world, and loved him like no other, and if Teddy was the first name she called him, then she would probably use it forever. But, she would keep it between them. Theo certainly hoped so.

  Theo waved and smiled at Mr. Nunnery, a nice old man who was able to sit on his porch for hours without moving. The air was clear and cool and the weather forecast for the weekend was perfect; no rain in sight. Last month the troop camped near some Indian burial mounds in a state park and it rained for three straight days. Fun, still, but when the campsite is nothing but mud and the campfires are too soaked to burn and the food is soggy and ruined and no one has a dry stitch of clothing, well, it’s time to go home.

  The bus had once been painted the standard yellow and had hauled kids to and from school. It was now painted a dark green, with white trim, with BOY SCOUT TROOP 1440—OLD BLUFF COUNCIL—STRATTENBURG in bold letters and numbers down both sides. On board were thirty-eight Scouts, all in perfect uniforms, all terribly excited to be leaving home and leaving town. Behind the wheel was Major Ludwig, the unquestioned leader of this gang, and when he called the roll and closed the door, a loud cheer echoed through the bus. It was almost 4:30 p.m. on Friday, and Lake Marlo was two hours away. The back benches were stuffed with a small mountain of camping gear, all neatly arranged under the Major’s supervision. Seated behind him were three adults, fathers of various Scouts drafted as volunteers for the weekend. They would be known as the Old Goats Patrol. They sipped coffee from paper cups and laughed among themselves. It was obvious they were as excited as the boys. The bus weaved through the back streets of Strattenburg, then headed west out of town. As the traffic thinned and the miles clicked along, the excitement waned and several Scouts nodded off. Others played video games. One or two read a book. Theo was gazing out a window, a cool breeze in his face, when Hardie Quinn swapped seats and fell in beside him.