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He stopped smack in front of the courthouse. I could see people beginning to gather from all directions, coming to stare at the motorcar. I was briefly tempted to wait, so that it would be me sitting in the back seat that they would see and envy, but I put old Satan behind me. "C'mon, Elliot," I said, climbing down carefully so as not to jar my head. "Thank the nice lady and man."
"Sank you," he said sweetly.
"You live at the courthouse?" The man was about to get riled at me again, but he saw all the people come crowding near, reaching out to touch his treasured vehicle. He was anxious then to be rid of me and Elliot and move out of danger.
The lady waved at us. "Take care of yourselves, boys," she called as they pulled away from the curb. We waved back. Then I grabbed Elliot's hand, and we started up the long flight of granite steps to the courthouse door where my duty lay in wait.
Elliot opened the door for me, looking anxiously at my face for signs of fainting. I was dizzy as a top, but I managed to smile. "Now, we go in there," I said, pointing at the heavy double doors that I fig ured must open into the courtroom itself. "I think Pa's in there."
I knew at once who was the judge and who were the jury. I could see the back of poor Zeb's head bent over a table at the front. There were maybe thirty or so people sitting in what looked like church pews. Before I could locate Pa, he spotted us standing at the back of the big room. He came hurrying from where he had been sitting. "Robbie, Elliot, what on earth...?"
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bsp; "Shh," warned a large man standing near the door. "No talking in here."
Pa guided us back into the vestibule. "What are you boys doing here?" He looked at me closely. "You've no business being out of bed, Robbie."
"We ride da motorcar," Elliot said, but Pa wasn't listening.
"Here," he said, taking me by the elbow. "At least sit down." He led me over to a long wooden bench. I was glad to sink down on it.
"Robbie, what in the name of Heaven—?"
"Pa." How could I explain everything? "I got to testify."
He didn't interrupt me, just waited patiently for me to figure out how to put the words together. "First. I was never kidnapped. So if they hang him, it would be—it would be just like I'd murdered him."
"Then the note...?"
"It—it was kind of a ... joke." My head was hanging nearly to my boots. "No one was meant to see it. It—it was sort of a mistake that it got into Zeb's pocket at all."
He could tell there was more to the story, but he put his hand on my shoulder to indicate I didn't have to go into all the gory details just then. "We'll talk about that later," he said. "The pressing matter is what will happen to Mr. Finch today. I don't think they plan to hang him, Robbie, but no matter. If there was no kidnapping, the judge must be told."
I looked up into his kind, honest face. I bet Abraham Lincoln didn't have as good and honest a face as my pa. The problem with such a face is it makes the other feller have to search his own false soul, so I bared mine. "Truth is," I said, "I run away. After I dunked Ned Weston, I was afraid ... Pa, the truth is I nearly drowned Ned Weston. I was scared—and shamed." I could feel tears starting behind my eyes. I didn't want to cry like a weakling just when I was trying so hard to be strong and do what was good and proper.
He sat down on the bench beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. "Thank you for telling me, Robbie. You're right, we need to talk to the judge straightaway."
Standing with Pa before the judge in his little back room, I wanted to confess everything. I started with Mabel Cramm's bloomers and how I turned into an apeist, wanting nothing but the pleasures of life before the end come. How I stole vegetables from my own parents and how I had succumbed to anger and nearly drowned Ned Weston.
About then the judge interrupted me. "I don't need to know everything that's on your conscience, son. That's between you and your Maker. I just need to know if you were kidnapped by Zebulon Finch."
"No, sir, I was not."
"Then the note they found on him was something of a hoax?"
It seemed wise to agree.
"But he did attack you?"
"Yessir, he hit me, but that was partly my fault. Me and Vile—Violet Finch, that's his daughter—we stole his booze. He had gone down to get some more."
"From the drugstore?"
"He favors Willerton's Digestive Remedy. You may not know, sir, but Willerton's is mighty near pure alcohol."
"I see," he said, something like a smile playing around his mouth.
"The booze just makes him crazy, and really, I attacked him first."
