“Where’d you find these photos?” someone asked.
“Each year the bar association publishes a directory of all the lawyers and judges,” Theo answered.
“Are you included?” This brought a few light laughs.
“No. Now, there will be other lawyers and paralegals at both tables, prosecution and defense. This area is usually crowded. Over here, next to the defense, is the jury box. It has fourteen chairs—twelve for the jurors and two for the alternates. Most states still use twelve-man juries, though different sizes are not unusual. Regardless of the number, the verdict has to be unanimous, at least in criminal cases. They pick alternates in case one of the twelve gets sick or excused or something. The jury was selected last week, so we won’t have to watch that. It’s pretty boring.” The laser pointer moved to a spot in front of the bench. Theo continued, “The court reporter sits here. She’ll have a machine that is called a stenograph. Sorta looks like a typewriter, but much different. Her job is to record every word that’s said during the trial. That might sound impossible, but she makes it look easy. Later, she’ll prepare what’s known as a transcript so that the lawyers and the judge will have a record of everything. Some transcripts have thousands of pages.” The laser pointer moved again. “Here, close to the court reporter and just down from the judge, is the witness chair. Each witness walks up here, is sworn to tell the truth, then takes a seat.”
“Where do we sit?”
The laser pointer moved to the middle of the diagram. “This is called the bar. Again, don’t ask why. The bar is a wooden railing that separates the spectators from the trial area. There are ten rows of seats with an aisle down the middle. This is usually more than enough for the crowd, but this trial will be different.” The laser pointer moved to the rear of the courtroom. “Up here, above the last few rows, is the balcony where there are three long benches. We’re in the balcony, but don’t worry. We’ll be able to see and hear everything.”
“Any questions?” Mr. Mount asked.
The boys gawked at the diagram. “Who goes first?” someone asked.
Theo began pacing. “Well, the State has the burden of proving guilt, so it must present its case first. First thing tomorrow morning, the prosecutor will walk to the jury box and address the jurors. This is called the opening statement. He’ll lay out his case. Then the defense lawyer will do the same. After that, the State will start calling witnesses. As you know, Mr. Duffy is presumed to be innocent, so the State must prove him guilty, and it must do so beyond a reasonable doubt. He claims he’s innocent, which actually in real life doesn’t happen very often. About eighty percent of those indicted for murder eventually plead guilty, because they are in fact guilty. The other twenty percent go to trial, and ninety percent of those are found guilty. So, it’s rare for a murder defendant to be found not guilty.”
“My dad thinks he’s guilty,” Brian said.
“A lot of people do,” Theo said.
“How many trials have you watched, Theo?”
“I don’t know. Dozens.”
Since none of the other fifteen had ever seen the inside of a courtroom, this was almost beyond belief. Theo continued: “For those of you who watch a lot of television, don’t expect fireworks. A real trial is very different, and not nearly as exciting. There are no surprise witnesses, no dramatic confessions, no fistfights between the lawyers. And, in this trial, there are no eyewitnesses to the murder. This means that all of the evidence from the State will be circumstantial. You’ll hear this word a lot, especially from Mr. Clifford Nance, the defense lawyer. He’ll make a big deal out of the fact that the State has no direct proof, that everything is circumstantial.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” someone said.
“It means that the evidence is indirect, not direct. For example, did you ride your bike to school?”
“Yes.”
“And did you chain it to the rack by the flagpole?”
“Yes.”
“So, when you leave school this afternoon, and you go to the rack, and your bike is gone, and the chain has been cut, then you have indirect evidence that someone stole your bike. No one saw the thief, so there’s no direct evidence. And let’s say that tomorrow the police find your bike in a pawnshop on Raleigh Street, a place known to deal in stolen bikes. The owner gives the police a name, they investigate and find some dude with a history of stealing bikes. You can then make a strong case, through indirect evidence, that this guy is your thief. No direct evidence, but circumstantial.”
Even Mr. Mount was nodding along. He was the faculty adviser for the Eighth-Grade Debate Team, and, not surprisingly, Theodore Boone was his star. He’d never had a student as quick on his feet.
“Thank you, Theo,” Mr. Mount said. “And thank you for getting us the seats in the morning.”
“Nothing to it,” Theo said, and proudly took his seat.
It was a bright class in a strong public school. Justin was by far the best athlete, though he couldn’t swim as fast as Brian. Ricardo beat them all at golf and tennis. Edward played the cello, Woody the electric guitar, Darren the drums, Jarvis the trumpet. Joey had the highest IQ and made perfect grades. Chase was the mad scientist who was always a threat to blow up the lab. Aaron spoke Spanish, from his mother’s side, German from his father’s, and English, of course. Brandon had an early morning paper route, traded stocks online, and planned to be the first millionaire in the group.
Naturally, there were two hopeless nerds and at least one potential felon.
The class even had its own lawyer, a first for Mr. Mount.
Chapter 3
The law firm of Boone & Boone had its offices in an old converted house on Park Street, three blocks off of Main and a ten-minute walk to the courthouse. There were lots of lawyers in the neighborhood, and all the houses on Park had become the offices of attorneys, architects, accountants, engineers, and so on.
The firm had two lawyers, Mr. Boone and Mrs. Boone, and they were equal partners in every sense of the word. Mr. Boone, Theo’s father, was in his early fifties, but seemed to be much older, at least in Theo’s well-kept opinion. His first name was Woods, which, to Theo, seemed more suited for a surname. Tiger Woods, the golfer. James Woods, the actor. Theo was still searching for another human being with the first name of Woods, though he didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about this slight nuisance. He tried not to worry about things out of his control.
Woods Boone. Sometimes, Theo pronounced the name quickly and it sounded like woodspoon. He’d checked and woodspoon wasn’t really a word, but he thought it should be. A spoon made from wood is known as a wooden spoon, not a woodspoon. But who uses a wooden spoon? Why worry about such trivial matters? Anyway, like one of those annoying habits you can’t break, Theo thought of the word woodspoon every time he approached the door to his father’s office and saw his name stenciled in black lettering.
His office was on the second floor, up some rickety steps covered with stained and threadbare carpet. Mr. Boone was on the second floor, alone, because the ladies below had sent him there for two reasons. First, he was a slob and his office was a wreck, though Theo loved it. Second, and much more offensive, Mr. Boone smoked a pipe, and preferred to do so with the windows closed and the ceiling fan off so that the air was thick with the rich aroma of whatever flavored tobacco he happened to favor that day. The smoke didn’t bother Theo, either, though he did worry about his father’s health. Mr. Boone was not exactly concerned with fitness. He exercised little and was a bit on the heavy side. He worked hard but left his problems at the office, unlike his law partner, Theo’s mom.