Atty at Law Page 4

  He was imprisoned for life.

  Not that it was bad, as prisons go. Megg’s husband, who died years ago, once raised a dozen beagles in a big, broad pen behind their house. Later Megg turned the whole thing into a chicken run, adding a layer of chicken wire to the chain-link fence and even running chicken wire over the top. Over time, she’d added boards at the bottom, half-buried in the dirt, to keep foxes out. Now the big pen was occupied by Easy, who had his own little mini-yard to himself, with a doghouse and chew toys and dirt to run around in.

  “Christmas will be hard,” I said to Megg. “It could get cold, and Easy will have to be in here.”

  Megg nodded. “I agree. But a cold day on earth is better than a grave. And just think of all the strays that are out there every Christmas.”

  Megg let us come up to her house for lunch on our first day of work at the shelter. Martinez wanted to get a picture of Easy in his new home. It’s hard, but if you hold your phone right up to the wire you can get a shot of a caged animal without any bars in the way. When Martinez finally got a good shot of Easy, his face lit up with joy, like he only just then realized we’d saved his life. I think that for Martinez, things aren’t really real until you see them on a screen.

  I’m not like that. Pictures make me sad. Before Megg sat us down to lunch, she showed us around her house, which was full of photos of her family. Megg and her long-gone husband, both in their Navy uniforms. Their daughter, who was in the Coast Guard in Galveston. Countless beloved dogs that were now in doggie heaven.

  “Don’t they make you sad, all those pictures?” I asked over lunch. I realized almost immediately that maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing to say, but Megg didn’t seem to mind.

  “Taking care of others is the cure for all sadness,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Changing diapers, cleaning cages, even fixing lunch for you two.” She reached over the table and poured more tea into my sweating glass.

  “I have pictures of my mom, but I never look at them,” I blurted out. Why was I talking about this, I wondered? “Not Taleesa, but my mom who died.”

  Megg nodded. “Well, pictures can be sad,” she said. “I bet she was pretty. Would you mind showing me one of those photos sometime?”

  I was about to say that I didn’t have any on with me, when Martinez butted in. “I’ve got one in my phone. I asked Dad to text it to me.” He looked at me. “What? She’s my mom, too. She’s my mom as much as my mom is your mom.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. Martinez pulled up the photo. A tall, pale woman with limp, strawberry-blonde hair.

  “What’s that uniform she’s wearing?” Megg asked.

  “Starfleet,” I said. “She made it herself. She was a huge science fiction fan. She was writing a book about the history of science fiction, for her PhD, when she died.”

  “Beautiful,” Megg said. “What was her name?”

  “Ilia Woodley,” I said. “Her parents named her Magnolia, but she didn’t like that, so she had it changed to Ilia. Ilia’s the name of the bald chick in the first Star Trek movie.”

  Megg just smiled warmly. Not a condescending smile. I knew right then that I liked her a whole lot. Life is hard when you live in a small town where most people think your dead mom was crazy.

  “I take after her,” Martinez said. “I’m the science fiction fan in the family.”

  I shook my head. “Martinez, you can’t take after her because she’s not . . .” I looked down into my little brother’s earnest face. “Oh, never mind. She can be your mom, too.”

  “You know,” Megg said. “In Tibet, they believe that everybody comes back after death as something else. Some other animal. And since everybody’s constantly coming back, it’s a safe assumption that everyone you meet was once your mother in some past life. Even the spider crawling across the floor.”

  Martinez laughed. “I’m your mother, Miz Megg.”

  “And I thank you for mothering me,” Megg said. “Now, let’s get back to work.”

  I learned a lot about poop during that first week. If Animal Shelter were a video game on your phone, you’d see a dozen dogs on a screen and you’d rush back and forth trying to feed each one of them when they’re hungry and play with them when they’re sad. When you make them happy, a little heart would appear over their heads.

  In real life, something else appears, something that you don’t usually see in a video game. And you have to clean it up. If the dog poops outside in the play yard, you have to scoop it up and throw it away. If they poop in the cage, you have to go in and get it. By the end of the first week, I was cleaning poop in my dreams. Of course, I was also seeing dog faces: Labradors, Brittanies, beagles all looking up at me expectantly, tails wagging.

  I didn’t do cat poop. On our first day, Megg told us about something called toxoplasma, a germ that gets transmitted through cat poop. Some people worry that it can make you crazy; mice who’ve been infected with it will stand up and fight cats instead of running away. As soon as he heard about that, Martinez demanded to work in the cat room. “I want to get the supermouse germ,” he said.

  So this was our work. Scooping poop, pouring food, taking dogs out of cages one at a time to go to the play yard, cleaning up with bleach. After a while, bleach, poop, and dog all kind of smelled the same to me. And I could sit right there among the dog cages, odor and all, and eat the brown-bag lunch Taleesa packed for me.

  “I feel like a guy in a hard hat,” I said. “Sitting on a girder and eating out of a metal lunch box. So much work. So hungry.”

  Martinez, sitting beside me, just nodded. Then, through a mouthful of baloney sandwich: “Hey look.” He showed me his phone. “We’re in the newspaper.”

  I grabbed the phone. It was a story in the Houmahatchee Herald.

  KID LAWYERS DEFEND DOG

  Two young people from Houmahatchee came to the rescue of a canine defendant in Strudwick County Circuit Court Monday, court documents show.

  Atticus Peale, 12, and her nine-year-old brother Cinque filed an emergency legal brief Monday morning appealing for a stay of execution for Easy, a stray dog accused of biting a man.

  Easy was picked up by county animal control officers last week, court records show. Later that afternoon, a man showed up at the county animal shelter claiming the dog bit him. A police report says the man wouldn’t tell shelter workers his name, acted in a belligerent manner, and was carrying a handgun.

  The Peale children, acting as their own lawyers, filed a motion arguing that as potential adopters of the dog, they had a right to demand more time before Easy is put to sleep. Dogs that bite are typically put down as soon as drugs are available to do so. The children also argued that Easy had wounds that showed the dog may have been provoked.

  Judge Charles Grover said he doesn’t comment on cases he’s heard, though he remarked that Atticus Peale, known by the nickname “Atty,” was able to hold her own against County Attorney Backsley Graddoch in courtroom debate.

  “She’ll make a fine lawyer someday, I’m sure,” he said.

  The case was settled when an animal shelter employee promised to take the dog in and keep it locked in a secure pen for life.

  Attempts to reach the Peales for comment were unsuccessful.

  —Rickie Braxton, Herald staff reporter

  “Oh my lands,” I said. Which is something I never say. The story made me nervous, but I laughed. “Martinez, how on earth did you find this?”

  “I have Google News set up to give me an alert when I’m mentioned in the news,” he said. “That way, when I become famous, I’ll know what they’re saying about me.”

  Ah, Martinez. I just shook my head. Then I had a thought, and dug my own phone out of my pocket. Yes, there was a missed call from a 251 number that must have been the Houmahatchee Herald. And a voice mail from a lady named Rickie.

  “Hey,” Martinez said. “I just d
id a search for you. And here’s another story. This one’s from London.”

  “What? There’s a London, Alabama?”

  “London, England, dummy.” He handed me the phone.

  This one was from a newspaper called the Daily Royal Post.

  ATTY AT LAW: Twelve-year-old flouts Alabama statute, becomes lawyer for dogs

  A preteen girl with an auspicious name is defying the law in the U.S. state of Alabama to defend dogs in court.

  Atticus Peale, 12, went to court in the tiny town of Houmahatchee to defend a dog named Easy from death.

  The dog stood accused of biting a local resident, but young Atticus faced off in court against a veteran barrister, Strudwick County Attorney Backsley Graddoch, to defend the animal. Her advocacy got Easy a sentence of life in a cage, instead of death.

  The local Houmahatchee Herald quoted judge Charles Grover as saying the girl trounced Graddoch in courtroom arguments, calling her a “fine lawyer.”

  The preteen may have defied state law in order to become a lawyer for animals. The state bar association says she’s not licensed as an attorney in Alabama, and that it would likely be impossible for a child to be admitted to law school in the state.

  Graddoch told the Royal Post that he’d call for an investigation into the young barrister’s qualifications.

  “If it’s true, as you say, that she’s holding herself out as a lawyer, that would be a violation of the law,” he said. “Under Section 34-3-1 of the Alabama Code, it’s a misdemeanor to falsely claim that you’re a lawyer.”

  That misdemeanor is punishable by up to six months in jail, Graddoch said. Alabama’s jails are among the most brutal in the United States, and Alabama inmates as young as 14 have been sent to adult prisons.

  A young girl couldn’t pick a tougher lawyer to fight. Graddoch, 62, is a former candidate for the Alabama Supreme Court known for waging one of the nastiest campaigns in recent Alabama history. That campaign included a widely circulated advertisement that seemed to claim that his opponent, Michael Boudreaux, was a convicted murderer. In fact, that murder was committed by another man by the same name.

  Graddoch lost his race by just a few hundred votes.

  Ever climb up a really tall ladder and then realize you’re afraid to climb back down? That’s how I felt, suddenly.

  Six months in grown-up prison! Was that really possible?

  “What are they even talking about?” I said. “I never pretended to be an actual lawyer, and Graddoch knows that! And this paper in London, they didn’t even try to call me for a response.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Martinez said. “You’re in newspapers in two countries, so you’re officially WORLD FAMOUS. You should start printing and selling T-shirts. ‘Atty at Law.’ That would look good on a shirt.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Stop it. You’re looking up T-shirt companies right now, aren’t you? Stop it.”

  Martinez set the phone down, picked up the rest of his sandwich. “You’re no fun.” Then, after a few bites: “Hey, did you know that when you’re smelling cat poop, it’s because microscopic particles of cat poop are going up into your nose and being absorbed into your body?”

  I kept eating. Already a hardened poop veteran.

  Just then, Megg gently opened the door and looked at us like a mom checking on a sick kid. “Atty, Martinez? We have a visitor for you.”

  Out at the front desk stood a cop. A sheriff’s deputy, actually. They’re the ones in the tan uniforms who patrol the country roads. A white guy with a great tan and thick dark hair, cropped short. This guy had real muscles: on the muscle scale, he was somewhere between a high school coach and an action figure.

  “Atticus Peale, Martinez Peale?” he asked. “Chief Deputy Troy Butler. I’d like to have a word with you.”

  His hand, when I shook it, was hard as a rock. The smell of his cologne for some reason had me imagining his wife, straightening his badge for him before he left for work.

  “Miss Peale, we’ve heard reports that you’ve claimed you’re an attorney when you’re not,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you for a bit and get your side of the story.”

  I know you’re supposed to be nice to the police. Taleesa has told Martinez a thousand times that talking back to them can get you in bigger trouble than you ever imagined. But I guess I’m a hothead.

  “There’s no sides to the story, officer,” I said. “There are facts. The fact is, I went to court on my own behalf. There’s nothing illegal about that. Even for a kid.”

  He opened a little pouch on his utility belt and pulled out a printout of the London newspaper story. “This article says otherwise,” he said. “And we’ve had a report from a citizen who’s concerned that you may be defrauding the public by holding yourself out as a licensed attorney.”

  He held the paper out as if he expected me to take it.

  “I’ve read it,” I said. “The story’s wrong. Now this concerned citizen: would his initials happen to be B.G.?”

  The deputy didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal that information, Miss Peale.” Finally, he seemed to relax a bit. “Look, Miss Peale, I’m not . . . Hey, can I call you Atty?”

  “If I can call you . . . whatever your first name is.” I hadn’t forgotten, really.

  “Okay, Atty, you can call me Troy. Look, I don’t really intend to arrest you or put you in jail or anything, unless the law absolutely requires me to do it. I’ve never seen a case like this. But I have to investigate this complaint. It’s my job.”

  “All you have to do is go to the courthouse and get my brief—our brief—and you’ll see that the charge is false. It’s that simple.”

  “Can you provide me with a copy of the brief, Atty?” he asked.

  I could hardly even hear him. Now that he was talking to me like a human being, I could see that his eyes were a deep, dark brown. He already had some dark stubble growing in even though he’d probably shaved that morning.

  I’ve been told I’m a bit of a late bloomer, when it comes to boys and all that. I think Taleesa is starting to wonder why I don’t show a lot of interest in some of the things other girls my age are interested in.

  I’m not interested in boys. Or in girls, either. Men and women interest me, in that way, but only a little. One time Taleesa and I sat and watched a video of Prince William and Princess Kate saying their wedding vows in this big, beautiful British church, and it gave me this odd feeling of warm yearning. Up to that point, that was the closest I’d ever come to giggling at a boy.

  But here I was, standing in front of this Troy character, and inside, I’m giggling.

  “You’re a despicable human being,” I told him. “You’re here to arrest a little girl, based on something you read in a foreign newspaper. Why don’t you trust what you read in your own town’s newspaper? Why don’t you go to the court and look for yourself?”

  Everybody stood silent and shocked for a moment. “Despicable” was too much, I knew. His stubble threw me off.

  “You know, Miss Peale, you have a point,” he said. “I’ve got your statement, and it’s my job, not yours, to do the investigation. So I thank you for your time, and I’ll get back in touch.”

  Again the handshake. He tipped an invisible hat to Megg and left.

  Megg craned her head to watch him go. Then she turned to me with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Pretty dreamy, huh?” she said.

  I blushed. And crossed my arms.

  “If you like that sort of thing,” I said. “He’s not exactly Prince William.”

  Just then my cell phone quivered in my pocket. A text from Dad.

  TALEESA’S STILL IN ATMORE WORKING ON HER STORY. I’LL PICK YOU UP AT 3.

  I kept up the bluster for the rest of the day, but I can tell you now that inside, I was scared. I
f you’ve ever been in this kind of trouble, threatened with actual jail, you know how scary it can be. How could I tell Dad? Did I break the law and not know it? How would I survive in kids’ jail—a juvenile detention center or whatever—surrounded by a bunch of mean girls and guards and counselors who treat me like I have an illness? My cell phone vibrated again and again—a message from Dad about dinner, some dumb e-mail ads—and I felt a little jolt of fear with each one.

  “No time to fret,” Megg said. “There’s work to do. It’s resupply day. Some volunteers have been down to the co-op to pick up the week’s litter and food. You two will need to help unload the truck. The fifty-pound bags are too big for you, but there are usually smaller bags of cat food.”

  Martinez groaned. “I didn’t realize working was so much work. How do grown-ups do this all day?”

  Megg laughed. “Believe me, there’s tougher work than this. When you’re done, you can play with the cats. I’ve got other work going on, something I didn’t have time to do yesterday because we were in court, and I’ll be out of touch for a while.”

  I guess I’m just too curious. “What other work?” I asked. “Anything fun?”

  Megg sighed. “I was going to try not to bring it up. But you might as well know. You already do know. You know we have to put down some of the animals from time to time. They’ve been here too long, or they’re sick, we need to make room for more. Well, now is the time. It always rips me up. No need for you to have to be involved. Not this early in your work here.”

  Oh god. I knew about the walk down the hall, the white table, the needle they use to put the dogs to sleep. To kill them. But like everybody else in the world, I chose not to think much about it. Now Megg herself was going to kill those dogs.

  “How many?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five this month,” she said. “A small number, for summer.”

  “How can you possibly . . . how do you pick them out?” I said.

  “I’ve done it already,” she said. “The little pink tags that were on some of the cages this morning? They’re the ones.”