school on a blustery October afternoon. “We gotta job and we need you!”
“No way!” I protested. “The heat was really on me after Zellers, and things are finally starting to cool down.”
Derek leered as he pushed his chest into mine and leaned closer. “But they could get warmer. One quick call to the right people and you’re toast, my friend!”
I hated the deep-throated chuckle Derek used when he had control of someone.
“You wouldn’t dare!” I gasped.
“Don’t bet on it,” Derek said menacingly, his cold blue eyes drilling into my own.
I flinched, then dropped my gaze to the ground. “W-what have you got in mind?”
“That’s better!” Kirk said, grinning at my surrender to Derek’s threat. “The pop machine at Becker’s is an easy touch. You’ll see.”
I agreed to meet Derek and Kirk at the local variety store in the late evening after it closed. When I got there at midnight, the lights in the place were off. I took up sentry alongside the pop machine not far from the front door, nervously watching for my mother to drive by on her return from a night shift at the hospital. It was past my curfew. If she spotted me, I’d really be in trouble. Shivering, I retreated into the shadows.
A few minutes later a sports utility vehicle screeched to a stop in front of the Becker’s. Derek emerged from the driver’s side, and Kirk got out of the front passenger seat. Both headed immediately for the pop machine.
“What are you doing?” I whispered hoarsely at them. Both teens were carrying crowbars.
Kirk tossed me a third bar as they reached me, then they started prying the lock on the machine’s door, while I stood awkwardly to one side.
“If you’re not going to help us, stupid, keep watch!” Derek growled as he heaved his weight on the bar against the door. The shattering plastic and the grinding metal made a lot of racket. Then, just as the lock snapped, all three of us heard something moving inside the store.
A man rushed out, waving his arms. “Hey, you punks! Stop!”
Kirk, Derek, and I froze. Who was this? The store’s manager and clerk should have been long gone.
Before I could react, the charging man collided with me on the sidewalk in front of the pop machine. Derek and Kirk had bolted to the SUV and were already roaring down a side alley. The man gripped me by the shirt collar and hauled me into the store. The police arrived minutes later. The man who had grabbed me was the owner of the store. He had been doing some late-night inventory work. I had been caught red-handed.
The police handcuffed me and took me to the police station for questioning. After a phone call home, my parents arrived at the station with Mr. Roberts, the family lawyer. After several hours of questioning, the police released me, as a young offender, to the custody of my parents. As we left the station, Derek and Kirk stepped out of another squad car. I stopped and watched the two shuffle toward me.
As we passed one another, Kirk growled under his breath, “Keep your mouth shut, punk!”
Later I learned that the police had stopped Derek for speeding at a hundred kilometres an hour in a sixty-kilometre zone. The police had recognized the two teens from the descriptions radioed to them. Their SUV belonged to Derek’s dad, who had reported it stolen earlier that afternoon. Upon searching the trunk, the police had discovered two small packs of marijuana.
Then came the last of a series of meetings with Mr. Roberts. My parents and Jennifer had accompanied me. “Jason!” the lawyer cautioned. “You’ve been identified at the scene. If you cooperate with the police and the Crown attorney, you’ll get a maximum of thirty hours of community service with no criminal record, especially since you’re not involved in the drugs.”
At first I stubbornly refused. “Not a chance!” I told him. “I won’t rat on my friends.”
“Jason, please!” Jennifer cried.
“Mind your own business, Stilts!” I snapped.
I even shut out the sobs of my mother. “They know me, Mom.” I told her. “They’ll find me.”
“No, Jason,” my father said, “they won’t.” He stood before me, staring deeply into my eyes. I had never seen such a concentrated look from him before. “Listen to Mr. Roberts. It’s the only chance you have.”
Finally, I agreed to testify through a closed-circuit television that fed into the courtroom. Kirk and Derek received sentences of thirty hours of community service and twelve months’ probation for possession of marijuana, with an additional twenty hours of community service and fifteen months’ probation for attempted robbery. They began serving their sentences concurrently. Derek’s dad dropped the charges on the stolen SUV.
Focusing again on the vacant podium in the courtroom, I cursed the tardiness of the judge, then risked another brief look over my shoulder. I wished I hadn’t. Dad was staring at the high ceiling. His gaunt face seemed even more drawn than usual. The hollow sockets around his eyes were deeper, and the black rings were darker. His immaculate black hair normally shone. Now I noticed a cowlick at the back of his head, and his hair was uncombed. His blue pinstriped suit, though neatly pressed, hung loosely over his thinning frame.
Mom was slumped in the bench seat and was shakily removing her tinted glasses. As she fidgeted with her dangling auburn curls, I gasped at the redness encircling her eyes. Quickly, I blinked back tears.
“All rise!”
I jumped at the echoing command from the court clerk. Everyone stood. Mr. Roberts and the Crown attorney bowed to recognize the judge’s entrance. A short, stout man in a long, flowing black robe with a red shoulder sash climbed the few short steps to the judge’s bench. We all remained standing until the judge seated himself in a high-backed leather chair. The judge opened a thin brown file folder, adjusted his half-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, and studied the case documents.
“Jason Stevens!” he barked.
Mr. Roberts nudged me, and we both got to our feet and faced the judge.
“Mr. Stevens, you’ve been charged with mischief to private property over a thousand dollars. You’ve entered a plea of guilty, which has been confirmed by your own lawyer and accepted by the Crown attorney. Is that your wish?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“As you have no prior records and you’ve cooperated with the Crown’s office to bring this incident to a speedy close, I accept the plea of mercy from Mr. Roberts, your lawyer. You are hereby sentenced to thirty hours of community service in Toronto to begin immediately. Do you wish to address the court?”
I glanced at Mr. Roberts. “Your Honour,” the lawyer said, “the Stevens family is taking up residence in the village of Lucan
