Phoenix Island

THIS IS FOR MY WIFE AND BEST FRIEND, CHRISTINA,
WITH ALL MY LOVE.

Never give in—never, never, never. . . .

—Winston Churchill

Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster. . . .

—Friedrich Nietzsche

W
EARING A STIFF BLUE JUMPSUIT
and handcuffs, Carl sat with no expression on his face and waited to see what they were going to do to him this time.

They were going to come down hard on him. The judge might even dismiss the case straight to adult court, and then Carl would be looking at jail time, as in
real
jail, no more juvie, no more boys. Men. Thieves and rapists and murderers. Shanks and gangs. Everything. He’d be lucky to survive a month.

The Dale County Juvenile Court didn’t look like a courtroom. It was just a narrow room with two folding tables set end to end. No judge’s dais, no jury box, no spectators’ gallery. Just the tables and a dozen or so uncomfortable metal chairs flanking them. Carl smelled new carpet and coffee. Fluorescent lights buzzed in the drop ceiling overhead. A furled American flag leaned in one corner, pinned to the wall by a podium pushed up against it to make room.

He avoided eye contact with his foster parents, who sat at the other end of the table, next to Ms. Snyder, the probation officer, and stared instead at his bruised and swollen hands—the scars on his knuckles reading like a twisted road map of the great lengths he’d traveled to arrive here.

Out in the hall, somebody laughed in passing. Carl heard keys jingle. A cop, probably.

The cop in this room looked bored. His leather gun belt creaked as he shifted his weight, watching the judge shuffle through a tall stack of papers.

Carl’s mouth was dry and sour with the waiting. Directly across the table, the judge picked up a white Styrofoam cup. Then he put it down and set some papers to one side of the others. Then he looked up. He had watery eyes and deep lines in his face. His hair was a gray mess, and he needed a shave. Despite his robe, he looked more like a burned-out math teacher than a judge. Looking again at the white cup, he finally spoke.

“Could somebody please get me another cup of coffee? Velma? Would you mind?”

A tall woman said okay and stood up and left the room.

“You are an orphan,” the judge said, turning his attention to Carl.

“Yes, sir.”

“It says here your father was a police officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what does that make you?”

“Sir?”

“The sheriff?”

Chief Watkins snorted. “
I’m
the damned sheriff.”

“Language, Chief. I’d hate to have to find you in contempt of court.”

Carl read the men’s voices: just a pair of good old boys, having a little fun while they sat one more case together.

Chief Watkins nodded. “Sorry, Your Honor.”

“That’s all right.” Then, looking up at Carl, he said, “You’re kind of a hard-ass, aren’t you, son?”

Chief Watkins cleared his throat.

“It’s all right, Chief. It’s my court. I’ll be in contempt if I see fit. Answer the question, son. You fashion yourself a hard-ass?”

Carl shrugged. “I don’t mean to be.”

“You don’t mean to be.”

“No, sir.”

“And you know what that sounds like to me?”

“No, sir.”

“That sounds like every kid who comes in here.” He looked at the paper. “It says here you’re a boxer?”

Carl nodded. “I was.”

“Chief Watkins used to box a little, didn’t you, Chief?”

“A few smokers back in the navy. Nothing official.”

The judge said, “Our friend here had more than a few fights. How many was it altogether, son?”

“Eighty-seven,” Carl said.

“And out of those eighty-seven matches, how many did you win?”

“Eighty-five.”

The judge raised his shaggy brows. “That is a good record. Were you a champion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What sort of champion?”

“Seventy-five, ninety, and one fourteen.”

The judge tilted his head, then grinned a little. “No, son, I’m not talking weight classes. I meant what level of champion. City? State? National?”

Carl nodded.

“All three?”

“Yes, sir. Junior Golden Gloves, PAL, and AAU.”

Officer Watkins’s gun belt creaked as he leaned back. “That’s pretty good.”

Carl relaxed a little. Talking boxing did that, made him feel like more than just a throwaway kid awaiting sentencing. Still, he could tell this judge viewed himself as a shoot-from-the-hip kind of guy. A judge like this, he might throw you in a dungeon for life or let you go scot-free, either way, just to see the look on your face.

The judge said, “When I asked if you were a boxer, you said ‘was’ rather than ‘is.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. Was.”

“Was, then. Have you retired?”

“It’s just, I keep moving so much. I haven’t been able to fight—box—for a while.”

“Indeed.”

Velma returned and handed the judge his coffee. “Thank you, dear,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Rhoades, are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee? All right, then. Do you all have anything you’d like to say?”

Carl’s new foster parents looked nervous. He wondered if they had ever been in a courtroom before. Probably not. He felt bad, dragging them in. Mr. Rhoades had almost certainly missed work, and Carl could see Mrs. Rhoades had been crying. She told the judge they hadn’t known Carl long, but he’d been a good boy, very respectful, and Mr. Rhoades nodded. Listening to them, Carl felt a renewed pang of loss. Things could have been good here. Really good.

The judge thanked them, riffled through his papers, and said, “Carl, why did you hurt those boys?”

Carl cleared his throat before saying, “They wouldn’t stop.”

“Could you elaborate, please? I’m trying to decide your fate right now, and I’d like to think I gave you a chance to share your side of the story. I don’t know how it is back in Philadelphia, but it’s not every day I deal with a kid who’s beaten up half the football team. Wouldn’t you agree, Chief Watkins?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I’d say this is downright idiosyncratic.”

“Idiosyncratic, yes. So, Carl, do you mind telling me a little more about whatever it was that led up to this unfortunate incident?”

“I was just sitting there, eating my lunch, and then I heard them laughing, and I looked over, and I saw this one kid—I think his name is Brad—picking on this little kid. Eli something.”

“Yes,” the judge said. “Eli Barringer and Brad Templeton. Brad’s home from the hospital now, in case you were wondering. His jaw’s wired shut. He’ll be sipping breakfast, lunch, and dinner through a straw for the next six months, according to his father. Did you know them?”

“Sir?”

This judge asked questions like a slick boxer used a jab. You never saw them coming, and just when you thought you’d found your rhythm, he knocked you off-balance again.

“This boy, Eli, for instance. Was he a friend of yours?”

“No, sir.”

“You just decided to defend him, then. And did you know Brad Templeton?”

“No, sir.”

“What I’m trying to comprehend is why you would do something
like this. No grudge to settle; no attachment to the victim. Why don’t you tell me a little more about how it all happened? Maybe even why.”

“I don’t know.” Carl remembered Eli’s thick glasses, his hunched body, and worst of all, his smile—his braces full of white bread and peanut butter. “I just . . . I don’t like bullies. I mean, I can’t stand them. They were making fun of this kid, and he was sitting there, laughing, because he didn’t know what was going on, and everybody kept laughing at him, so I got up and walked over and told them to stop.”

“By
them
you are referring to Brad Templeton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An interesting choice of words,
them
. This is not the first time something like this has happened.”