Atty at Law Read online

  When I came out of my room Taleesa was in the kitchen, just closing her laptop.

  “I’m hungry,” I said.

  “Me too,” Taleesa said. “And no wonder. We’ve been working all day.”

  Working. I liked the sound of that.

  When I’m not working, I play with dollhouses.

  Not dolls. I hate dolls. It’s the eyes, I think. Most dolls kind of stare into space like pretty little zombies. I know it’s stupid, but I get the feeling that if I brought these little zombies into my bedroom, they’d stab me with little knives in the middle of the night. Give me a doll for Christmas and I’ll blow it up at New Year’s. That way I can honestly tell you I enjoyed my present.

  Dollhouses are different. Little plastic doors, each of them just like a real door on a real house, with a real shiny silver knob. A tiny perfect dining room table with perfect chairs. A kitchen where there’s always a sticker of a perfect Thanksgiving turkey in the oven. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t like dollhouses, really, even though some folks won’t admit it.

  I have a whole neighborhood of them. Well, actually, Nutter McNutters does. He’s a squirrel, a little toy squirrel I’ve had since I was about three years old. He used to be covered in bristly fuzz, most of which has rubbed off, but he still wears a little green vest and black tie that show he’s successful in the squirrel world. He spends his time lounging around in his seven houses of various sizes, enjoying a life of luxury. He doesn’t have adventures often, and I guess his life is kind of dull, if owning seven cars and spending a lot of time in the hot tub is dull.

  McNutters was just settling into the jacuzzi with a martini that Saturday morning when Dad creaked the door open.

  “It’s time to revise,” he said.

  “I’m having a martini,” I said in the voice of McNutters, which is high-pitched and stuffy.

  “If you’re going to take this brief to a judge, you need to read it again and correct your errors,” he said. “That’s always part of writing.”

  I sighed. “I’m having a martini.”

  “It’s your case,” he said. “If you want to win, you revise. Or you can leave it as it is and risk losing.”

  So of course I left McNutters with his martini and opened the laptop again. And was shocked at what I read:

  Comes now Aticus tutwiler Peale and Cinque Martinez Peale, acting their own behalf, and asking this court . . .

  I screamed and Taleesa flung the door open. I thrust the laptop at her.

  “Taleesa, somebody got into my computer and put in a bunch of typos! It looks awful. Who would do that?”

  Taleesa laughed. “It’s the gremlins. It happens to me, too. Every time I write something, and then let it sit for a while, when I come back to read it the gremlins have messed it up.”

  I sighed. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice all those errors yesterday. How can I misspell my own name?”

  Taleesa bent down and looked at the screen. “A-T-I-C-U-S. That’s how. And there’s only one cure for the gremlins. Sit down and read it three times, twice from front to back and once from back to front. And fix every error you see.”

  And that’s how I spent a second day at the computer. Reading, fixing, rereading, looking stuff up in those musty old law books. By the time I was done, I felt like I knew Code of Alabama Title 3, Chapters 2 and 7, by heart. And I was sick to death of them. And I was hungry.

  “I’m an idiot,” I said at the dinner table. “The only thing I’ve proved is that a kid can’t write a legal brief. I’ve spent my whole weekend at this, and I feel like I know less about law than when I started. It’s hopeless.”

  Martinez gasped. “Don’t say that. If you don’t go to court, Easy will die. You’re the opposite of hopeless. You’re the only hope.”

  I tell you, sometimes I can’t stand my brother. He’s snide and selfish and immature. But when he said this, looking at me with big honest eyes I hadn’t seen on him since kindergarten, I felt like I was about to burst with—I don’t know, some sort of bursting emotion.

  “This brief is actually pretty good,” Dad said, flipping over pages on the table next to his plate. “You’ve got a chance.”

  That just made the bursting emotion bigger. Pride, I think it was.

  “You should go to bed early tonight,” Dad said. “You’ll need your rest if you’re going before the judge on Monday.”

  All through the writing, I’d never thought much about where this would end up—with me, in the courtroom, explaining my case to some grumpy old judge. It would be like going to the principal’s office.

  All of a sudden, my pride turned to fear.

  4

  “Okay. Steckley!” Judge Charles Grover said. “Is anybody here for Steckley? Paul Peale, is Steckley your client?”

  Dad stood up.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” he said. “Steckley’s not mine.”

  “Well, he should be,” the judge said. “Mr. Steckley’s facing an assault charge, and his attorney isn’t even here. I guess he’ll sit in jail until somebody starts doing their job. Somebody find out who Mr. Steckley’s attorney is and set him another court date. Who’s next?”

  Going to court isn’t at all like what most people expect. On TV, there’s a wise old judge in a courtroom with dark wood paneling, and people sit quietly watching while one witness after another takes the stand.

  Strudwick County’s courthouse looks more like someplace where old men get their hair cut. Green tile on the floors and halfway up the walls, a wall clock in every courtroom with no numbers, just hands. I hate those. Reading old clocks is hard enough as it is. And forget looking at your phone to see the time. A sign on every door read: “CELLULAR PHONES ARE NOT ALLOWED ANYWHERE IN THE COURTHOUSE BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDING JUDGE.”

  There was nothing quiet or orderly about the place. There were rows of pews, like in a church, where about a dozen people just lounged around; an old guy in a Hawaiian shirt, a lady scribbling in a notebook, and a bunch of young guys with hunched shoulders, looking depressed. In the back of the room, men and women in business suits milled around, checking their watches, worriedly looking over big stacks of paper. Lawyers.

  And there I was with them, in a black dress with big white flowers on it. The thing fit like a tent and it looked like something a woman would wear when she’s about to have a baby. But I guess that’s a grown-up look. It’s hard for a twelve-year-old girl to find a dress that’s right to wear in front of a judge.

  “I feel like I’m wearing the living room curtains,” I whispered to Dad.

  “It’s the best we could do,” he whispered back. “It needs to be black. It doesn’t need to be frilly.”

  “All right,” said the judge. “Who’s here for Barnett? Does Barnett have anybody here? Who’s here for the state who can talk about the case?”

  A lawyer standing near me raised his hand. “I am, Judge Grover.”

  “Well, get down here, prosecutor, and stop wasting this court’s time,” Grover barked.

  The lawyer walked down the aisle and started explaining that Barnett was a guy awaiting trial on a drug charge, and that he was out on bail, and that the state wanted to keep custody of Barnett’s cash and weapons until the trial.

  “How’s a guy going to get by in the world without his cash and his guns?” Grover said to the lawyer. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or joking. “Give me one reason why a man who hasn’t been convicted of anything shouldn’t have his guns back.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat, “Well, Your Honor—”

  “Quick now, I don’t have all day,” Grover snapped. “Oh, hell, since nobody’s here for Barnett, I’ll let you keep his guns. Next.”

  It was like that all morning. Grover called out for lawyers. Half of them weren’t there. The other half got totally abused by Grover, who interrupted them, asked bizarre questions and
then sent them off, telling them they needed to work harder and be smarter.

  Soon I’d be up there myself.

  “This guy is crazy,” I whispered.

  “He’s being ornery on purpose,” Dad whispered back. “He’s just testing them to see how smart they are.”

  “He’s mean.”

  “Don’t let him scare you,” Dad said. “Simple rules. Talk loud and slow. Say ‘Your Honor’ a lot. If you’re angry when you say something, start out with ‘with all due respect.’”

  Loud and slow. Your Honor. All due respect. I repeated the rules to myself.

  “Peale!” Judge Grover shouted. “Atticus T. Peale, representing himself? Paul Peale, is this a relative of yours? Why aren’t you representing him?”

  I took a step forward and raised my hand.

  “I’m Atticus Peale,” I said, loud and slow. “With all due respect, Your Honor, I am representing myself, and I can speak for myself.”

  Grover sat back, his eyebrows raised, as if I’d called him a name. Oh no, I thought. I’ve lost him already. But then I thought of what was at stake. The life of a sweet dog. I decided I’d just plow on, loud and slow.

  As I marched down the aisle, I could feel every eye on me. When I got close to the judge’s bench, Grover seemed to loom over me like a scary mall Santa.

  “Atticus Tutwiler Peale,” Grover said, peering at papers on his desk. “And this other character, Cinque Martinez Peale. Where is he?”

  “Here, Your Honor,” Martinez mumbled from the back of the room.

  “Well, come on down here, Mr. Cinque.” Turning to me, Grover said, “And you two are related how?”

  “Brother and sister,” I said. “It’s in my brief.”

  “And Paul Peale is your father,” Grover said. “Did he put you up to this? Paul Peale, is this some kind of a joke?”

  Dad shrugged. “Believe me, Your Honor, I couldn’t stop her from coming out here,” he said. ”She’s very strong-willed.”

  That was a lie, of course. Dad was delighted that I was here. Why do parents lie to other grown-ups like that? It made me mad.

  “Your Honor,” I said. Loud and slow isn’t hard when you’re mad. “Your Honor, this is my case. This is my case, and I can speak for it.”

  Grover’s eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. “All right then, young lady, speak. I’ve read your brief. Tell me why this court should meddle in the affairs of the county animal shelter to save one dog. One dog that’s already bitten someone.”

  I took a deep breath. Loud and slow. Especially important when you want to blurt something out.

  “Your Honor,” I said. “The law is pretty clear that a dog is considered dangerous only if it bites someone without being provoked. We don’t know that Easy was unprovoked. Our only evidence of a bite came from a man who walked into the animal shelter with a gun, a man who refused to leave his name. A man who was rude to the point that I think we all were intimidated.”

  Grover grimaced at me, then leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. “The county!” he shouted. “Is there anybody here on behalf of Strudwick County? Someone to counter Miss Peale’s claim?”

  A gray-haired white guy strolled up the aisle with a briefcase in hand. He wore a pinstriped suit and had a deep, almost orange tan.

  “The county’s not contesting at this point, Your Honor,” the man said. “I’m not convinced this little girl’s claim is really going anywhere.” Then he looked down at me with a big smile like a grandpa touring a kindergarten. “This is cute, honey,” he said. “But you should wrap it up.”

  Honey, really! I stuck my hand out at him like a sudden karate chop. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Backsley Graddoch,” he said, as if it was some famous name. “County attorney for Strudwick County.”

  “Atticus T. Peale, attorney for myself.”

  “That’s a pretty little dress you’ve got on there, young lady,” Graddoch said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I like your hands. They’re really soft.”

  The crowd—lawyers, cops, guys from the jailhouse wearing orange jumpsuits—burst into laughter. Graddoch’s big fake smile vanished and he glared down at me as if to say, “Okay, now it’s really on.”

  Fine, I thought. It’s on.

  “Social hour’s over,” Judge Grover said. “Let’s get back to the case. Miz Peale, tell me something. If an owner shows up at a shelter and says that’s my dog, it bit me, go ahead and put it to sleep, why would the animal shelter not be within its rights to put the animal to sleep?”

  “That’s not what happened here, Your Honor,” I said.

  “I’m asking you a question,” he said. “If we knew that was the owner, would the county have the right to put the dog down? Would it be obligated to?”

  “I honestly don’t know if they have to kill the dog, Your Honor,” I said. “But you have to ask the question: Why would a dog bite its owner if it hasn’t been provoked or abused? Especially a dog that comes to us with a bullet wound.”

  Graddoch stepped in front of me. “Really, Your Honor, isn’t this too much trouble to take over one dog? How many dozens of dogs does the county put down every month? What if every one of those cases landed here? How could the shelter function?”

  I stepped around Graddoch. “If every dog had someone on their side, we wouldn’t have to put any of them down.”

  “Enough,” said the judge. “I think I can rule on this right here. Miz Peale, your case has some merit. If everyone is going to be treated equally under the law, then you’ve got as much right as anybody to ask the shelter not to put this dog down, at least for a couple of weeks.”

  My heart fluttered. But the judge kept on talking.

  “But I’m afraid that’s not what an animal shelter is for,” the judge continued. “It’s not a pet store. The right at issue is the public’s right to be free of nuisance animals. Therefore, I’m going to let the shelter go ahead and put the dog down.”

  Oh, no. I thought. I’ve lost already. Easy has lost.

  Graddoch looked down at me with a big gloaty smile. Some people just really like to win.

  “Unless,” the judge continued. “Unless you’re equipped to keep the dog in the manner prescribed by law. There is a provision in law, wherein a dog that is known to bite can be kept alive—if the owner is willing to keep it locked in a cage, with no chance of escape, for the rest of its life. Assuming the owner will promise never to release it. I’d be willing to release the dog into the custody of someone who can secure it in that way. Are you equipped to take on a dog under those circumstances, Miz Peale?”

  I hung my head. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Do you know anyone who is?”

  I felt suddenly sick. So close to saving Easy, and I couldn’t do it.

  “I’ll take the dog, Your Honor,” said a voice behind me.

  It was Miz Megg, standing in the back of the courtroom in her animal shelter uniform. Without waiting for the judge to ask, she walked up the aisle to stand beside me.

  “I do have a pen, at home, that could hold such an animal,” she said. “It would be a hassle—I’d have to move my other dogs—but I could take it.”

  “Now Miz Megg,” said the judge. “You of all people know you can’t take every dog or cat home. You can’t save them all.”

  “Well, I like the passion this young lady brings to this case,” she said. “And I’ll do it on one condition. Miss Peale and her brother have to promise to work for the shelter as volunteers, forty hours per week, for the rest of this summer.”

  I snatched her hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s a deal.”

  “Now wait,” said the judge. “There’s another party to this agreement. Does young Mr. Peale also agree to work at the shelter?”

  I knew the look on my brother’s face. It was the aww
ww, maaan look.

  “The whole summer?” he asked. But then he looked around, and saw everyone in the courtroom looking back. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  “That’s settled then,” the judge said. “I can’t say as I understand it. If you’d broken in and released the dog, you’d probably have gotten a lighter sentence. But if that’s what you want, so be it. Now y’all clear out, so we can move on. Godbey. Is anybody here to represent Godbey?”

  He didn’t even bang the gavel.

  Outside the courtroom, Dad gave me a big hug.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “Of both of you. You stood your ground and you won your case.”

  I shook my head. “We didn’t win. Easy’s imprisoned for life. We just saved him from dying, but he isn’t free.”

  “Trust me, that’s a victory,” Dad said. “Be proud.”

  Miss Megg walked up and patted me on the shoulder, a little too hard.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning. And you, too, Martinez.”

  Martinez groaned. “Why the whole summer? Why forty hours a week?”

  “Look, I can see that you love animals,” Megg said. “There are a lot of people who think they love animals, but they don’t put any work behind it. They think we’re villains, because we put dogs down. Before you go flinging lawsuits around I want you to see what we do. I want you know how hard we work.”

  “I wasn’t suing you, Miss Megg,” I said. “Not personally. I know you love animals. I know you work hard.”

  “You think you know love,” Megg said. “You think you know work. But you don’t really know either until you’ve put in a forty-hour week.” She looked up at Dad. “Eight o’clock.”

  Dad nodded, and Megg was gone.

  5

  I don’t know what’s sadder, a sad dog in a cage or a happy dog in a cage. The first time we visited Easy in his new home, he stood up with an eager look in his eye and wagged his tail as if we were about to throw him a ball. I knew he was expecting us to open the door and pet him. Thanks to the court order, that would never, ever happen.