Boomtown

by Nowen N. Particular

“It could have smoke come out of its nose—and we could drop firecrackers out of its rear end.”

  “And sparklers burning on its back and tail!”

  “And we could make it roar—just like a real dragon!”

  Busy and Rocky had the solution for that: “We could borrow the sound system from the school and hook up speakers and make it really, really loud.”

  Jonny suggested, “What about wings? How about huge wings and a tail that moves and a mouth that opens and closes?”

  “The boys could dress up like knights and have swords and shields and try to slay the dragon.”

  “And the girls can dress up like princesses. They could run down the street crying because dragons like to eat princesses.”

  So that’s what the kids had done. The crowd was so impressed by their float that they started to follow along behind the dragon’s tail as it went by. The Founders’ Float crawled down the street just behind the crowd so that every-thing and everyone began to converge on Town Square in a rolling sea of people and floats and animals and children and noise and confusion—with me standing smack-dab in the middle of it all. I tried to get everyone to stand back and make room, but the noise was too loud.

  The Founders’ Float stopped about ten yards in front of our stage, where Burton Ernie stood directing the crowd. He waved for people to spread around in a circle to make room.

  “Stand back!” he shouted. “Farther back! At least fifty feet. Back up! ”

  While he directed traffic away from the float, the crew manning the rig prepared to destroy it. Three men scram-bled around the truck that held the display and began to string fuses. Two others checked the blast packs positioned underneath the deck.

  I nudged Reverend Platz and asked, “Do they have to park that thing so close to us?”

  He studied the situation and answered, “It’s about the same as last year. You have to watch out for that one fellow, though. You see the gangly gentleman under the truck there? Tends to overdo it on the gunpowder.”

  Before I could object, the men scrambled for cover. Sparks raced along the length of the fuses. I caught a glimpse of Sarah and Jonny standing on the edge of the circle. I waved but they didn’t see me. Too late to have them stand back. The noise of the crowd swelled. Loud shouting and cheers. Hands on ears. Kaboooooom!

  The plaster mountain and the tiny village disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flying debris to the delighted cheers of the spectators. Bits and pieces flew in every direction. I think I saw the model of the Boomtown Museum head toward Farmers’ Park. The miniature Boomtown Library landed on the roof of Top’s Soda Shop. The mini town hall shot straight up in the air and kept on going. The entire floor of the truck shot straight down and punched a crater in the street.

  Reverend Platz said, “Exactly what I was talking about. Too much gunpowder.”

  The hole under the truck opened up a crack in the street. It was small at first, but got bigger as it went along. It raced across the asphalt and quickly reached our platform. Along with it came the sound of splintering, ripping, and cracking cement as the road began to give way. The crack split left and right. We watched it disappear around the far side of Chang’s statue.

  Reverend Platz was the first to feel the ground shift. Reverend Tinker felt it second. As the crack raced around the perimeter of the curb surrounding the statue, they both jumped. The short, round preacher rolled to the left. The tall, thin preacher jumped to the right. His flailing arm knocked me backward into the statue of Chang, where my shirtsleeve snagged on the beak of one of the bronze chickens.

  I heard a roar and a loud cracking noise. I felt the whole world tip upside down. I saw the bright blue sky overhead. I seem to remember someone shouting my name. After that, I don’t remember much. It was all a blur.

  Later that day, after I regained consciousness and was lifted up out of the hole, my family was there to explain what had happened.

  “Where am I?” I asked groggily.

  “You’re in Dr. Goldberg’s office, dear,” Janice answered.

  “How’d I get here?”

  Jonny piped in. “Sheriff Ernie carried you down—after they dragged you up out of the hole. Don’t you remember? All the people in Town Square. You remember that?”

  “Um, I think so.” My memory was pretty fuzzy.

  “The crowd kept getting bigger and bigger. Musta been more than a million people!”

  “It was more like two thousand,” Janice corrected him.

  “Sure, maybe. Sheriff Ernie thinks the vibrations from all the marching and the weight of all those people with all the floats and then the Founders’ Float blowing up, that’s what did it.”

  “I can’t really remember what happened,” I admitted. “What did I miss?”

  “You got caught on one of Chang’s chickens. Grabbed you with its beak, that’s what it did! And then crash! Down you went! Whomp!”

  In bits and pieces, I finally managed to get the whole story. Basically, I’d been sucked down into a gaping sink-hole. Panic ensued. Children wept. Women prayed. Men called for ropes and shovels. Burton Ernie blew his whistle. Dr. Goldberg grabbed his bag. The fire chief brought a lad-der. The search committee from Boomtown Church checked their calendars. Janice and the kids just stood next to the hole waiting for the dust to settle.

  When it finally did, there I was twenty feet down in a hole sitting right in the middle of Chang’s bronze lap, covered in dirt and debris, bruised and battered, with a sprained wrist and chunks of cement in my lap. Otherwise, I was all right, thanks to Waldo’s football helmet and the most over-worked guardian angel in human history.

  Still, that wasn’t the biggest shock of all. No one could have prepared for what they saw next. Looking up out of the shadows of the hole, standing in the opening of what was clearly a tunnel, covered in dust and wearing a hard hat on his head, was the living, breathing, mirror-image of Chang himself—back from the grave. His face was filthy from the cave-in; his clothes were torn and tattered; his eyes squinted from the dust and the sudden bright light pouring into his underground hiding place—but the resemblance was unmistakable. If this wasn’t Chang, then it was his twin brother.

  He looked at me. I looked at him.

  “Oh my,” I said, recognizing the face.

  Then I fainted.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Trial of the Century

  The town was buzzing like a swarm of bees in a rose garden. All anyone could talk about was the upcoming trial scheduled for exactly three weeks from the Fourth of July. A trial—with an actual jury and judge and everything!

  Of course, every able-bodied citizen in Boomtown wanted to be on the jury. Mayor Tanaka’s office was bombarded with phone calls and letters and a line of people at his door demanding to be selected. In other towns, you couldn’t pay people to stand jury duty. But this was Boomtown’s trial of the century.

  Since the town didn’t have its own prosecutor or defense attorney, it had to borrow both of them from Stickville. Like-wise, the circuit judge, Maria Rodriquez, would have to sit in for the trial; she was given a temporary office down the hall from Mayor Tanaka. She couldn’t get a moment’s peace either.

  The immediate problem was where to hold the proceedings, since all eleven hundred seventeen residents of Boomtown wanted to attend. Not more than fifty would fit in the regular courtroom downstairs; only two hundred in the main room of the library if all the tables were removed; only about four hundred in the great room of the museum, even if everyone stood up; only three hundred and fifty could fit into the gymnasium of the school.

  The problem was solved when the Hopontops offered their main circus tent as a courtroom. It seems that even the socially distant Hopontops were suffering from a severe case of “trial fever.” They graciously rearranged their summer travel schedule in order to make the tent and grandstands available. The tent was staked out in Chang Park and a makeshift judge’s podium and jury box was built. The Hopontops offered their public address system,
and that pretty much settled it. Everyone in town was welcome to attend the trial and would be able to see and hear the entire proceedings.

  News updates about the trial were on the radio day and night. It made the papers in Stickville and Ainogold and as far away as Spokane and Seattle. Soon we had eight news paper reporters and even a film crew staying at Mitterand’s Boarding House. Everywhere you turned, a reporter was pushing a microphone into someone’s face. They were as common as cow pies in a cornfield.

  Not that anyone seemed to mind. It was the only thing anyone wanted to talk about—except for me, that is. They learned about my other five “near misses” and how I was the one who’d almost been killed by the mysterious “Mole” (as they were calling him). They heard I had helped Sheriff Ernie with part of the investigation. They heard I would be called as a star witness for the prosecution. After that I wasn’t given a minute’s rest. They kept asking the same ridiculous questions over and over again:

  “Were you surprised when the street caved in?”

  “Did you have any idea who was behind the tunneling?”

  “Are you going to sue the Mole for damages?”

  “Is it really true that you’ve nearly been killed six times?”

  “Is there any way you can sneak us into the jail for an interview with the Mole?”

  They hounded me for the slightest tidbit of information that could be added to the very little that any of us already knew—which wasn’t much. By now we’d determined that the “Mole” was in fact Xian (pronounced “She-On”), the great-grandson of Chang. His previous existence was unknown; he was currently a permanent guest at Burton’s station house. Men had climbed down into the hole and traced the tunnel back to its origin. It headed west toward the river, passing just to the south of Lazy Gunderson’s house, and then straight on to the north side of Chang’s Famous Fireworks Factory. Hidden by the thick trees and heavy overgrowth was an abandoned warehouse. Inside the basement of the building was where we discovered the entrance to Xian’s excavation.

  Everything that had been stolen was found in the tunnel. Wood and boards were used to shore up the ceiling and walls. Various parts from farming equipment, bicycles, wheels, wires, belts, gears, and whatnot had been culled together to build a digging machine—rather ingenious, and strong evidence that Xian shared his famous ancestor’s knack for invention. The lights stolen from in front of the courthouse were tapped into the electricity from the factory and strung along the tunnel to light the way. The motor from my lawn mower was cleverly rigged as the drive unit for a rope and pulley system to pull cart-loads of dirt down the tunnel. A conveyor belt lifted the dirt up to where Fred Cotton’s truck was parked inside the ware-house. Xian had devised a special sort of muffler for the truck so it could be driven in absolute silence around town at night so he could dump the dirt. The entire setup was quite remark-able. It was hard not to be impressed by Xian’s ingenuity.

  Beyond that there were a thousand unanswered questions, especially the question of who would sit on the jury. Town hall was swamped with phone calls, and a line formed down the hall and out the front door morning, noon, and night.

  It was Helga the librarian who finally came up with an agree-able solution. Every eligible juror in town had a library card. She took all of them (except those on the witness list) and put them in a basket, and Judge Rodriguez drew out twelve names. Fair, impartial, and fast. Boomtown had its first official jury in history. Unfortunately, the jurors who were named now became fodder for the newspaper reporters. The judge had to sequester the jury before the trial just so they could get some sleep.

  Fortunately for the jurors, the trial was scheduled only three days after the selection. Everyone on the witness list spent that time being interviewed by Xian’s defense attorney, George Rigdale, and the prosecuting attorney, Horatio Hooke. The former was quiet and efficient and kept his questions to a minimum. He wanted to help his client with as little trouble as possible. The prosecutor, however, was a horse of a different color.

  The venerable Horatio Hooke was an ambitious lawyer from Stickville positioning himself for a future career in politics. He made no secret that the trial was his opportunity to get away from prosecuting parking tickets; he wanted to step up to the big leagues. He seized every opportunity to push his face in front of the cameras, to offer his latest theory of the case, to get his picture in the paper, and to pontificate about his strategy for the upcoming trial and his plans to get the maximum sentence for the Mole.

  He stood on the steps of the town hall dressed in his black suit and white shirt, his dark hair slicked back, waving his arms, punching the air with his fist, and decrying the rapidly rising rate of crime in the county. He blamed Sheriff Ernie. He blamed the mayor. He blamed the county government. He blamed Congress. He blamed the Supreme Court.

  Stomping his foot and pounding his fists, he cried out, “The only way to stop the deterioration of decent society and clean up our streets is to elect new representatives who can restore sanity to the towns and villages of Washington!

  “We need better leaders—stronger leaders—courageous leaders! You need a man who will seize the reins of government and do whatever it takes to save our women and children from the degradation that threatens to destroy our way of life!”

  He humbly announced his intention to run for governor of the fine state of Washington as soon as the trial was over. Until then, his entire life would be strictly focused on the trial and the conviction of Xian, “the most notorious and dangerous criminal of the twentieth century.”

  Horatio Hooke continued to bang the drum until the very morning of the trial, 9:00 a.m., July 25, 1950, a date that would go down in Boomtown history. As expected, everyone was in attendance. The circus tent was filled to capacity and overflowing with people trying to catch the smallest glimpse of the action. With a few loud bangs of her gavel, Judge Rodriguez called the courtroom to order and the trial began.

  Horatio Hooke stood before the jury to deliver his opening statement. The pompous lawyer stuck his thumbs in his vest, puffed out his chest, and marched back and forth like a peacock. Dramatically he crowed, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today we have before us, sitting over there next to his defense attorney, a man who has no defense. A criminal of the most despicable sort! A man who, unbeknownst to the citizenry of Boomtown, snuck into your small town under the cover of darkness and began to steal whatever he could lay his hands on. While you slept, he took whatever he needed—food, supplies, equipment—and then he began to dig a tunnel underneath your very feet!”

  I sat toward the front with Janice and Holly on my left and Ruth, Jonny, and Sarah to my right. I glanced down the row and received a smile of reassurance from Ruth. Sarah fidgeted in her seat. Jonny wouldn’t look at me. His eyes were riveted on the drama unfolding in front of him.

  He was pale and gripped the edge of his folding chair with white knuckles. Why was he so nervous? What was going on with him?

  Horatio Hooke commanded attention with his thundering voice. “Why did the defendant do it? What was he up to? That is what we are here to find out!

  “It is my purpose in this trial, as the prosecuting attorney for the fine county of Okanogan in the wonderful state of Washington, to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Xian, the great-grandson of Chang, intended, without regard to the safety or well-being of the residents of this fair city, to dig a tunnel underneath Town Square until he reached the Bank of Boomtown, where he planned to rob the bank by digging under the vault and making his getaway, taking with him every nickel and dime that the citizens of this town have slaved so hard to earn and save! When I have finished presenting evidence and testimony, you will most certainly return a verdict of guilty, guilty, guilty for attempted bank robbery, not to mention the other daring crimes he has committed! You will sentence Xian to the maximum sentence, twenty years in prison, which he so richly deserves!”

  When he was finished, Mr. Hooke wiped his sweating face with a handkerchief a
nd marched back to his table where he plopped down in his chair and stared triumphantly at Xian and his lawyer, George Rigdale.

  The lawyer stood, walked over to the jury, smiled, and calmly said, “Xian is guilty of everything for which he has been charged.”

  Everyone in the tent gasped in surprise and started talking at once. The photographers flashed pictures. The reporters jotted down notes as fast as they could write. Horatio Hooke crossed his arms and smiled in victory. Judge Rodriguez banged her gavel and demanded silence.

  As soon as order was reestablished, George Rigdale continued. “It doesn’t matter that he’s guilty. As soon as you hear what he has to say, the bank will drop the charges against him and let Xian go free.” With that, he turned around, went back to his table, and sat down.

  The courtroom exploded a second time. Everyone was shouting. Reporters ran for the exit to go and call their news-papers. The judge banged her gavel again and again to no avail. Burton Ernie and the bailiff stood up and tried to get the situation back under control. In spite of everyone’s best efforts, it still took at least five minutes for the pandemonium to subside.

  Once it was quiet again, the judge said, “One more out-burst like that, and I will move this trial back to the court-house and no one will be allowed inside—especially the reporters. Just because we’re in a circus tent doesn’t mean this is a circus. It’s far too hot in here for funny business. Be quiet, or I’ll end this thing!”

  The assembled audience quieted down, chagrined by the judge’s harsh words. Then she gestured and said, “Proceed, Mr. Hooke. Call your first witness.”

  The prosecuting attorney called Fred Cotton to the stand. He waved to his wife from the jury box and saluted some of the farmers he knew out in the crowd. He’d come straight in from the field, dressed in his boots and overalls and a wide-brimmed hat. He removed his hat as he took the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God.