Signs of Life (9 page)

A sudden thought struck him, and Jeremy looked over to where his stack of firewood was covered by a sturdy green tarp, tacked down around the edges with thick tent pegs. He found that when he had really bad days, chopping firewood was one of the most therapeutic things he could do, hard, vicious swings of a sharp axe, the satisfying splinter of wood, the physical exertion that exhausted him like not even running could. Consequently he was out by his woodpile often, even during summer months, and he knew he hadn’t left his tarp that way, two pegs out of the ground and the whole thing askew. And where was his axe? He usually kept it in its sheath underneath the tarp….

As he drew closer, Jeremy noticed the neat stack of firewood underneath the tarp had collapsed somewhat, like someone had pulled some logs out from the very bottom, causing the top tier to crumble down. What on earth could someone want with his firewood? Hard winter was still a few months away and—winter!

Suddenly Jeremy thought of something he hadn’t checked, and he broke into a run as he headed toward the detached guesthouse-turned-gym that was about twenty yards away from the main house, set back amongst the trees and almost hidden from view. When he bought the property, he saw no need for a guesthouse, and so had converted it into a state-of-the-art gym he could use when the weather was too inclement for running, such as during blizzards and ice storms, the only two things that could keep him indoors.

Jeremy’s breath sawed in and out as he crunched through the leaves, and when the guesthouse came into view, he skidded to a stop and felt his knees weaken almost to the point of collapse. Several logs from his firewood stash lay scattered around the small porch after having been clearly used to smash the windows of the guesthouse in. The front door was kicked open, hanging from one hinge, huge gouges from his missing axe marring the wood. Obscenities and gang graffiti were spray-painted on almost every available outside surface, and as Jeremy staggered closer and got a look inside his gym, rage and a sickening sense of violation overwhelmed him, and he doubled over and vomited on the ground.

Over the next several hours, Jeremy dealt with city police and property crimes detectives, along with crime scene investigators who dusted for fingerprints, took an exhaustive amount of photos, and bagged up bits of evidence, including what appeared to be a student ID that was lodged in the rubble.

“At least we have a starting point,” one of the detectives said to Jeremy as they finally wrapped things up. “I can’t imagine it was the work of just this one kid, so hopefully we can get him to talk and roll on his buddies.”

The man pulled out one of his cards and wrote something on the back of it. “This is the number that will be assigned to your case, so if you want to keep abreast of any developments, call me any time and reference this number.”

Jeremy took the card numbly, then watched as the various police and city vehicles backed carefully down the driveway and left him standing there alone.

“ALL RISE!”

The packed courtroom rose desultorily to its feet as the black-robed man swept into the room.

“Juvenile Court of the State of Oregon is in session. Referee Michael Slater presiding.”

As the security officer’s voice died away, the court referee took his seat at the bench, the cue for everyone else to sit down as well.

“A
referee
?”

Jeremy heard the sotto voce mutter from a man next to him, his wife shushing him. Suddenly the back doors of the courtroom opened and the in-custody juveniles were shuffled in, their legs shackled and their arms handcuffed, hooked together in a line by waist chains. They took seats in the jury box, slumping down in the chairs, some looking bored and disinterested, others eagerly scanning the room for familiar faces in the crowded gallery.

“We will take care of the in-custody arraignments and changes of plea first, and then we’ll move on to other matters.” The referee’s voice was deep and smooth, and he called the first arraignment case on the calendar.

As the juvenile stood up and the prosecutor began to speak, the man next to Jeremy said, a little more loudly this time, “I want a
judge
to hear my son’s case, not someone called a
referee
. What is this, a friggin’ soccer game?”

Jeremy, not knowing why he even cared, leaned in toward the man and said quietly, “They’re called referees, but they are experienced lawyers. They just haven’t been formally appointed as state judges. He knows the law, and he knows what he’s doing; don’t worry.”

The man didn’t look convinced, slumping back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, but his wife threw Jeremy a grateful look. Jeremy could see the lines of worry and tension on her face, and he followed her gaze to the jury box to see a thin blond boy looking back at her with desperation. His eyes were reddened like he’d been crying, and even from across the room, Jeremy could see his lips trembling as he tried to hold back more tears.

“Oh, my poor baby.” Jeremy could hear the woman’s broken whisper, and her husband snorted derisively.

“Yeah, poor ‘baby.’ Such a fucking pansy that he can’t manage to stand up for himself, letting that punk bully him right into jail.”

“He was just trying to fit in, Joe,” the woman whispered urgently. “He didn’t know what they were going to do, and he was just happy to be invited to go along with those guys. Everyone makes mistakes!”

“Kid has no thought of his own. He’s a spineless wimp. And now he’s paying the price.”

The woman started to retort, but suddenly the referee called out, “In the Matter of Craig Justin LeClaire, charged with trespass in the first degree, criminal mischief in the second degree.”

Jeremy dismissed the people sitting next to him and turned his attention back to the front of the courtroom. Craig LeClaire was the only reason he was here today, so Jeremy could hear him answer to the charges that had been brought against him for what he’d done to Jeremy’s property.

The public defender stood up from her table. “Liliana Moore for the defendant.”

“Ms. Moore.” The referee acknowledged the attorney, then nodded at the court security officer, who unlocked Craig’s waist chain and walked him over to the defense table to stand next to his lawyer. Jeremy clenched his teeth as he realized it was the kid the people next to him were talking about.
Fucking great
, he thought disgustedly.
Just my luck, sitting next to the parents of this little asshole.

“Proceed,” the referee intoned.

“Your Honor, Mr. LeClaire wishes to enter a plea of guilty to the charge of trespass.”

“Is that true, Mr. LeClaire?”

Craig shuffled his feet and nodded his head, blurting out a subdued “yes” when the referee admonished him to make his answers audible.

“For purposes of the record, the charge of trespass in the first degree was entered on August twenty-fourth, alleging that Craig Justin LeClaire did so trespass onto private property at address 1080 F.S. Road NW, Bend, Oregon. Are these the facts that are in evidence, Ms. Moore?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“All right. Mr. LeClaire, to the charge of trespass in the first degree, how do you plead?”

The boy’s voice was inaudible, and the referee admonished him once again to speak up.

“Guilty!” His voice was shaky but clearly heard, and the woman sitting next to Jeremy gave a muffled sob.

“Ms. Moore, to the charge of criminal mischief in the second degree, I understand there will be a plea of
nolo contendere
?”

“Yes, Your Honor, Mr. LeClaire wishes to enter a no-contest plea to these charges.”

“I will hear the State’s proffer.”

“Your Honor, if this case went to trial, the State’s evidence would show that on or around the afternoon of August twentieth, Mr. LeClaire, along with three other juveniles and one adult male, did trespass onto the property of the victim with the intent of committing criminal mischief. While on the property, the evidence will show there was significant and costly damage done to a structure on said property.”

“What sort of damage?” Referee Slater asked.

“Broken windows, door kicked in. This was a home gym and full of very costly equipment that was destroyed, including a springboard floor chopped up with an axe, floor-to-ceiling mirrors that were smashed.”

“What was the total amount of the damages, Mr. Maglio?”

“In excess of fifteen thousand dollars.”

There was a low murmur that passed through the gallery, and Jeremy clenched his jaw. The damages were fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact. Everything in his gym had been obliterated: a state-of-the-art treadmill hacked up into little pieces, his free weight plates thrown into the wall mirrors, even the flat-screen TV mounted from the ceiling knocked down and stomped into oblivion. Not to mention the obscene graffiti spray-painted onto everything. Craig’s mother gave another muffled sob, and Jeremy again cursed his luck at having sat right next to the parents of one of the punks who had violated his peace and quiet, his space.

“Are there fingerprints that place Mr. LeClaire at the scene?”

“No, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor. “We do have other witness statements that place Mr. LeClaire at the scene, along with the discovery of his student ID lodged amongst the debris. Under questioning Mr. LeClaire did admit to being present but denied he took part in any vandalism, that he was an innocent bystander. That confession, mitigated by the lack of fingerprints identified as Mr. LeClaire’s, justifies the State’s acceptance of a no-contest plea.”

“All parties are in agreement?”

The two attorneys indicated their mutual agreement, and the referee said, “Mr. LeClaire, you understand a plea of nolo contendere carries the same weight as a guilty plea under the law, only you are not admitting guilt in open court?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice was soft but audible.

“Is it your wish to plead nolo contendere, or no contest, to the charges alleged against you?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I accept the State’s proffer and hereby enter a plea of nolo contendere on the charge of criminal mischief in the second degree on behalf of Craig Justin LeClaire.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Ms. Moore murmured.

“All right. Are we prepared to proceed to sentencing, or are you asking for a separate sentencing hearing, Ms. Moore?”

“No, sir, we are prepared to proceed to sentencing.”

Mr. Maglio cleared his throat. “Your Honor, one more matter before the Court. The victim in this case has indicated his intent to seek full restitution against Mr. LeClaire and the other defendants in this case. We would request a restitution hearing before sentencing.”

Jeremy heard Craig’s mother gasp. “They want us to pay back fifteen thousand dollars?”

“Very well,” said Referee Slater, referring to his laptop and the court calendar. “I’ll set a restitution hearing in this case for October first, 8:30 a.m., in this courtroom. The victim will provide all receipts and documentation that will substantiate his claim for restitution.

“Does the defense wish to be heard on remand pending sentencing?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Ms. Moore said. “The defense would request that Mr. LeClaire be released from juvenile detention into the custody of his parents, who will ensure that he appears at any and all hearings that pertain to this case.”

“Mr. Maglio?”

“The State would request the juvenile remain in custody until the restitution hearing. As Your Honor knows, if a finding of full restitution is made and the juvenile is unable to pay, that could mean a lengthy detention sentence.”

“Mr. LeClaire has had no other matters before this Court?”

“No, Your Honor, this is his first offense,” Ms. Moore said quickly.

“I’ll release Mr. LeClaire into the care of his parents, with the admonishment that if he fails to appear at any hearing held in this case, a bench warrant for his arrest will be issued and he will be taken into custody. Is that understood?”

Craig’s mother gasped in relief and clutched her husband’s arm, and Jeremy stood up abruptly and strode out of the courtroom. He’d been expecting the no-contest plea, of course, because as the victim he had been included in all the plea negotiations between the State and the various defendants’ public defenders. There was no fundamental difference between a no-contest plea and a guilty plea, anyway; it was just a matter of semantics and it meant that everyone would avoid lengthy and costly trials and Jeremy could proceed to the restitution phase that much sooner.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew he didn’t have a prayer of getting a cent out of these boys, but that was the point. If a finding of full restitution owing was made, and the little fuckers couldn’t pay, they’d have to trade paying him back for lengthy detention sentences, and Jeremy wanted to see them locked up for what they’d done to him. He flashed back on the thin, scared boy in the courtroom, and his conscience whispered to him, but Jeremy ruthlessly tamped it down and pushed through the courtroom doors into the watery sunshine outside.

WHAT THE
fuck have I done?

An hour or so later, Jeremy leaned against his Land Rover, staring up at Phase Two of his coming-back-to-life plan. Phase One was complete—pass the bar—and now the second phase loomed over him in the late afternoon light. Jeremy felt the sharp bite of metal in his palm as he clenched his fist, and he opened his hand to look at the key resting there. The key the real estate agent had shoved at him at the closing of escrow before picking up her briefcase and hustling out, as if she was afraid Jeremy would change his mind and snatch the paperwork back from her and rip it to shreds.

Pushing off of the SUV, he trudged up the walkway to his new office building, a two-story Victorian formerly known as McMillan House Bed & Breakfast, noticing the riot of weeds and overgrown bushes encroaching everywhere, taking over what must have once been a very pretty front yard. According to the real estate agent, the bed and breakfast closed down about eight years ago after the proprietor’s death, and the heirs didn’t want to continue running the business but were unable to sell when the housing bubble burst. The building had sat vacant all this time, and the current owners were desperate to get rid of it. Jeremy negotiated the price down to thousands below appraisal, and here he was, the proud owner of a dilapidated, run-down old house with “good bones,” as his inspector assured him.