Maybe I had watched too many old movies, because court wasn’t at all what I expected.
There was a metal detector we had to pass through when we entered the building, just like at school, but after that we just sat in a packed room with all kinds of people coming and going, waiting and waiting for my name to be called. Nobody sat in a witness chair and there was no dramatic testimony or lawyers jumping up to yell “Objection!” like I thought there would be. Instead, everybody just stood right in front of the judge and talked so softly I could barely hear what was being said. And even though there were a lot of cases to be heard, they didn’t last very long. People went up, kind of whispered back and forth with the judge, and then either left the court immediately or stopped to pay a fine. That was it.
Mr. Turner sat next to me, my dad on the other side. Dad had contemplated wearing his old Navy dress whites to impress the court—which I thought could backfire badly—but fortunately decided at the last minute to wear a suit instead. I didn’t own a suit, so I just wore a dress shirt with my nicest tie.
Dad said I not only looked fine, I looked Not Guilty. I wished I had the same confidence, but I didn’t.
I leaned over to whisper to Mr. Turner. “It’s not as exciting as I thought it would be.”
He laughed quietly. “This court is for misdemeanors like yours,” he whispered in return. “All the excitement is in felony court across the hall where the stakes are a lot higher. Believe me, you don’t want that kind of excitement. I know this judge well, by the way. He’s a fair one, so I think you’ll do fine.”
And then my name was called.
After all that waiting, I was more nervous than I thought I would be as the three of us strode up the aisle. It’s one thing to watch people stand before a judge; it’s another to stand there yourself.
Up close, the judge looked almost as disinterested as the young police officer who had arrested me. Someone handed him a thin manila file folder; he opened it and scanned the top sheet.
“George Wells,” he said, and looked at me through his really thick glasses. “Is that you, young man?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” My voice sounded dry. I tried to swallow but didn’t have enough spit.
He set the folder down and looked on either side of me. “So. Are these two old guys your bodyguards, or is one your father and the other your attorney? ” He winked at Mr. Turner. “Hello, Harold,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor,” Mr. Turner said.
“Yes, I’m George’s father,” Dad said. “You guessed right, Your Honor.”
The judge grinned and picked up the folder again.
I was shocked that a judge would actually joke around in court like that and decided I liked him already. All my nervousness disappeared, which might have been his intent.
The judge picked up the folder and scanned it again.
“So. A single charge of damage to school property. Any additional information for the court, Prosecutor?”
“No, Your Honor. Nothing further to add. Vandalism to the athletic field grass.”
It was only then I noticed her. A young woman, she stood off to the side with a bored expression as if yearning to be across the hall in the felony court where “all the excitement” was, as Mr. Turner described it. She gave an impatient sigh as she brushed back her long blonde hair, like she wanted the trial over with already.
“I see transcripts from two oral depositions here. David and . . . Nancy. Are these friends of yours?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge grunted. “Apparently, both indicated they were involved in a ‘heated argument’ and didn’t witness exactly what happened. They further claim no one else was present at the time. Is that your recollection, Mr. Wells?”
“Yes, Your Honor. It is.”
The judge gave a weak smile as he closed the file and set it aside.
“All right, then. How do you plead to the charge, Mr. Wells?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” I said, as instructed by my attorney.
I remembered what Dave had said—“You see any other cars around here?”—and felt nervous again.
The judge nodded. “Very well.” He gave the open folder back to the man who had given it to him. “Bailiff, see if there’s anyone here from the school district.”
The bailiff stood up, open folder in hand. “Is there anyone present representing the school district versus Wells? The school district versus Wells?”
No one answered. As Mr. Turner had anticipated, the school district had sent no one to contest my plea. And without anyone to contest my plea, there would be no choice but to dismiss the case and I would go free.
It didn’t feel quite right to me to do things that way, but I guess that’s why you hire attorneys, to follow their advice.
Just as the judge leaned forward and was about to speak, I heard the courtroom door bang open on my right and glanced to see who was coming in.
I felt my heart jump.
Coach Steener flew into the room, looking flustered as if annoyed for arriving so late. When he saw me standing before the judge, he marched straight toward us, his right hand raised as if ready to be sworn in.
So much for that plan, I thought with a sinking feeling, wondering if I should immediately plead insanity or something like that.
“Your Honor, I’m here to represent the school district,” Coach Steener said, breathing hard.
“Please remove your hat in the courtroom,” the bailiff loudly announced.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Couch Steener yanked his cap off. To my surprise, not only did the cap come off easily, I saw he had a glorious, full head of hair. I guess I had always assumed he was bald or balding, and I knew I wasn’t the only one who assumed that.
The judge didn’t look too happy to see him. I knew exactly how he felt.
My nervousness grew when I glanced at Mr. Turner and saw his mouth drooping as if not only surprised, but totally unprepared for this turn of events. Even my dad was looking at him, puzzled.
“Please state your name for the record,” the judge said.
“I’m Coach Steener, Your Honor. Stanley Steener. The head football coach.”
“And you are currently employed by the school?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I was asked by Principal Morgan to give my testimony.”
“Will counsel from the school district be arriving soon?”
Coach Steener’s face was a blank. “Excuse me, Your Honor?”
“Will an attorney from the school district be joining us today?”
“Oh! No, sir. Just me. You know, budget cuts and all that. Principal Morgan thought I could handle things just fine since I’m in charge of the football field too.”
“Very well.”
The judge scribbled something down. It might have been just my imagination, but he seemed to avoid looking at me after Steener arrived, as if he knew like I did that the jig might be up. He opened up the file again.
“Were you a witness to what happened in this case?” the judge asked. “I don’t see that you gave any prior testimony. Just Mr. Morgan, the school principal, and he arrived after the damage was done.”
That seemed like a question my attorney should have asked. Instead, Mr. Turner just stood there, flipping back and forth through the meager papers in his hands as if searching for a clue as to what to do next.
“I saw the damage Mr. Wells caused to the field, so yes, Your Honor.”
“So you actually saw it happen?” the judge persisted.
“Yes, I did. I was informed of the vandalism by Principal Morgan and went out immediately to see it for myself.”
The judge took a deep breath. “I’ll ask you again. Did you actually see the damage occur?”
Coach Steener frowned as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “Your Honor, the damage I saw was fresh. Mr. Wells was standing right by the car.”
“So you didn’t actually see it happen, did you?”
“I saw it.”
“You saw it happen?”
“Yes, sir. Right afterwards, like I just said.” He beamed as if the judge should finally be satisfied with that answer.
The judge leaned forward and took off his glasses, tossing them on the bench. His beady eyes looked out of focus and out of patience.
“I’m going to give you just one more chance to answer my question, Mr. Steener. It’s a simple question, really. A one-word answer will suffice. Did you or did you not witness what happened as it was happening?”
Coach Steener looked thoughtful. “Well, if you put it that way, then no, Your Honor, but what diff—”
“Thank you, Mr. Steener. That will be all.”
The judge slipped his glasses back on and wrote something down.
I opened my mouth to confirm that Coach Steener didn’t see me in the car, figuring that might help my cause.
“Don’t speak,” the judge warned, jabbing his pen in my direction. “Counsel, please advise your client to remain silent.”
“Be quiet, George,” Mr. Turner said softly.
At least my attorney finally said something useful. I realized then that the judge didn’t want me to say anything that might get me in trouble, which seemed awfully nice of him.
“Your Honor,” Coach Steener said, “it should be obvious that Mr. Wells here is guilty, whether I saw it happen or not. Neither of his two friends claimed responsibility. Who else could have done it?”
“Do you have written confession from him by any chance?”
“Well, no, but he didn’t deny it either.”
The judge sat back. “Mr. Steener. Unless you can produce a witness who actually saw Mr. Wells drive the car onto the field, or a signed, written confession from him that was witnessed and signed by others, then nothing is ‘obvious.’”
Coach Steener reddened. “Your Honor, all I know is that the field was vandalized and that the damage is considerable. Considerable!”
The judge slowly shook his head. “The amount of damage is immaterial to the outcome of this trial if you have no evidence that Mr. Wells is responsible for that damage.”
Coach Steener looked almost frantic. “But Your Honor! It must be in the thousands of dollars! Didn’t you see the pictures we gave as evidence?”
The judge’s eyebrows went up.
“Pictures? No, I didn’t.” He held up the file folder and shook it. Several photographs slid out in front of him. “Oh! Here they are.”
Mr. Turner stirred uneasily. So did my dad.
The judge held the pictures at arm’s length, flipping through them one at a time.
He set them down. “So that’s it? A pair of tire ruts? Is that what we’re talking about here?”
Coach Steener looked aghast. “Is that it? I mean, yes, Your Honor. Tire ruts. Two of them, both about a hundred and twenty feet long. I paced them off myself.” He seemed oddly pleased about that.
“And that’s your ‘thousands of dollars’ worth of damage?”
Coach Steener wavered. “Well, yes, Your Honor. I mean, it could be.”
“Do you have any written repair estimates stating such an exorbitant amount?”
Coach Steener seemed to shrink a bit. “No, sir. I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” He put the pictures back in the folder, closed it and slid it aside as if he had seen enough. “So how do you intend to repair the damage?”
“We have our own groundskeeper, Your Honor.” Coach Steener’s voice was small. “We’ll probably . . . repair it ourselves.”
The judge gave another weak little smile. “So really, we’re talking about a few wheelbarrows of dirt and some grass seed, now aren’t we, Mr. Steener? That’s maybe what? Thirty dollars? Fifty dollars? Be honest with me now. It’s not ‘thousands of dollars,’ is it?”
Coach Steener shrank a little more. “No, sir. I guess not.”
“Do you have any other evidence to present at this time, Mr. Steener? This is your last chance before I render my verdict.”
“No, Your Honor.” Coach Steener’s voice was smaller still.
“All right. Based upon the evidence presented, or lack thereof, this case is dismissed.”
Both my dad and Mr. Turner shook my shoulders and patted me on the back.
“Just a moment, gentlemen. I didn’t say you were dismissed. I’m going to make a little suggestion for young Mr. Wells here.”
My dad and Mr. Turner both came to attention.
His stare was piercing, and I knew whatever he was going to suggest I was going to go along with it.
“It would be nice if you would show some school spirit, Mr. Wells, and volunteer to help repair the damage to the field, regardless of who was responsible since you seem to have been, shall we say, in the vicinity at the time. Now I can’t order you to do that since you haven’t been found guilty of anything, but I’m sure it would be much appreciated by Coach Steener here as well as the football team. Wouldn’t it, Mr. Steener?”
Coach Steener nodded obediently.
“Good. So, Mr. Wells, are you willing to state now before this court that you’ll help fix the damage that . . . somebody . . . caused?”
From the intensity of his gaze, I almost felt like he had found me guilty after all, or knew I was.
I swallowed hard, out of spit once more.
“It would be an honor, uh, Your Honor. Sir Honor, sir.”
Mr. Turner gave a faint little cry of amusement.
Could I possibly sound any more like an idiot? I thought, hoping the judge didn’t think I was making fun of him. Instead, the judge looked pleased at my response. “Good! Then it’s settled. You’re dismissed.”
He sat back and was handed another file folder for the next case. Turning to leave, I saw the prosecutor stifling a yawn, as if utterly unimpressed.
As we silently headed for the exit, I could tell from Coach Steener’s wide-eyed look of disbelief that the outcome of the trial wasn’t what he had expected at all.
Dad drove me to the football field early on Saturday to help the school groundskeeper repair the damage I had caused. It was comfortably cool and sunny, with only a few wispy clouds in the sky. Of all the things I could be doing on such a beautiful day, this would have been at the very bottom of my list.
“I knew Harold would get you acquitted, especially since it was just an accident.” My dad seemed buoyant and not at all bothered by my having to “volunteer.” “He sure is a good lawyer, isn’t he?”
“Uh, sure, Dad,” was all I could say. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Coach Steener irritating the judge to no end was the real reason why I didn’t now have a criminal record.
When we pulled into the parking lot, I saw the groundskeeper already hard at work filling in one of the ruts, shoveling dirt out of a wheelbarrow.
There was another wheelbarrow full of dirt waiting by the other rut. I could only assume that one was for me. A pile of dirt was right at the edge of the lot, presumably to refill the wheelbarrows. It looked like more dirt than what we would need, but then again, what did I know about groundskeeping?
I winced when my dad pulled into Dave’s usual parking spot, right where I had begun my little prank. The groundskeeper glanced up at me as I got out of the car and then resumed working.
“Call me when you’re ready to be picked up,” my dad said pleasantly enough out his window, then drove away and left me standing there to face the task ahead.
I walked as casually as I could toward the groundskeeper, who seemed to be ignoring me. He was one of those ruddy, always tanned kind of guys who looked like they belonged outdoors.
“Hi! I’m here to help you today.” I tried to look as helpful as possible by grabbing the shovel out of the wheelbarrow waiting for me on the other side.
A few clumps of dirt flew off the end of the shovel blade and landed on the groundskeeper’s boots, hardly the best introduction I could have made.
I winced again as he stopped working and looked up slowly to face me.
“So. You’re the idiot who did this?” His voice was flat, his gaze one of annoyance.
I remembered that Dave had called me that very same word at the far end of the ruts, and I wondered if that was just the default description for someone who pulled this kind of failed prank.
I jabbed the point of the shovel into the ground and held my head up high, knowing there was no point in denying it any longer.
“Yes, sir. I’m the idiot.”
A look of surprise along with the hint of a grin came and went from his face.
“All right.” His voice was softer now. “Get that shovel going. We’ve got our work cut out for us today. Let’s see if you can keep up with me.”
I watched how he took a few shovelfuls of dirt to fill in about a foot of the rut and then tamped it down with the backside of the blade, crowning it slightly in the middle since—as he explained it—the dirt would eventually settle. Then he would repeat the process. Working fast, I caught up to where he was.
We didn’t talk again for several minutes. When he saw I was keeping pace, he finally spoke.
“Tell me something. What made you think it was a good idea to drive a heavy car across a wet football field?” He didn’t pause with the shovel.
I took as deep breath. “I just wanted to play a prank on a friend,” I said for the umpteenth time. I kept working too. “I wanted to see how far away I could drive his car before he noticed it was gone.”
He grunted and dropped another shovelful of dirt into the rut and tamped it down. “Too bad he didn’t notice right away. That would have saved us all this work, and you a bunch of trouble.”
“I know.” I paused to rub my neck, which was already feeling a little hot and stiff. “It was a stupid idea.”
He grunted again. “Glad you think so.”
We fell silent again for a while as we worked.
I caught a whiff of something awful and realized the smell was coming from the wheelbarrow. “You know, this dirt smells funny.”
He laughed once. “That’s because it has compost in it.”
“Sure stinks.”
“Well, manure usually does.”
I paused. “You mean we’re shoveling . . .” I didn’t say the word.
He laughed again. “You bet! Best thing in the world to make seed sprout and grow fast.”
More silence followed. After that revelation, I tried not to touch the compost or spill any on me.
“As you probably know, my name is George,” I said to break the silence. “What’s yours?”
“Frank,” he said. “Mr. Franklin Meadows, but you can call me Frank. Nobody calls me by my last name.”
I wondered if he was upset about that or just preferred his first name.
“Okay . . . Frank.” It still seemed a bit awkward to me to call an adult I just met by his first name. “You have any hobbies or anything you like to do when you’re not groundskeeping?”
The question made him break his work rhythm.
“Hobbies? No, not really. I like to watch old movies, but that’s about it.”
“You do?” I struggled to move my wheelbarrow closer to where I was working so I didn’t have to walk so far for more dirt. “So do I. What’s your favorite movie?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Guess I don’t really have a favorite. What’s yours?”
I didn’t hesitate. “The 1960 version of The Time Machine.” I stuck the shovel into the wheelbarrow and pulled out another shovelful.
He nodded. “Great old Metro Goldwyn Mayer film. Rod Taylor, Alan Young, Yvette Mimieux. Sebastian Cabot too. George Pal’s second full-length movie after Tom Thumb. Won an Oscar for special effects. I’ve seen it several times. Wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”
It took me a few moments for me to realize I was staring at him with my mouth open. I closed my mouth and finally dumped the dirt waiting on my shovel into the rut.
“But how . . . I mean, you know it that well?”
His grin reappeared, and this time stayed awhile.
“I know lots of old movies from that era. They’re the best, if you ask me. That was back when Hollywood really knew how to tell a great story.”
“Like The Time Machine?”
He looked up at me, nodding in agreement. “You bet.”
We worked and talked about movies for the next two hours until the ruts were filled. Frank knew a lot about George Pal’s career, something I hadn’t really looked into and now wondered why I hadn’t. Then Frank showed me how to top dress the dirt-filled ruts with grass seed, working it lightly into the soil with a rake. Finally, we watered both ruts gently so as not to wash the seed away, and the job was done. After calling my dad to come and get me, I helped Frank put everything away back in the storage shed near the gym.
I had always wondered what was in that shed since we drove past it every day. Now I knew—all of Frank’s gardening stuff.
Frank turned toward me when my dad arrived to pick me up.
“Hope you learned a lesson today, George.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Instead, he spoke the words as if he wanted to, not because he felt he had to.
“Yeah, I learned a lot. Especially about George Pal.”
Frank laughed. “Well, take care of yourself,” he said, and walked away before I could even offer to shake his hand.
I never talked to Frank again, although I saw him on occasion. We would wave at each other from a distance, but that was all. Still, I was grateful I had met him. It was rare to meet someone who appreciated the great old movies, especially The Movie.
As for school punishment, I had to serve a boatload of detention with other miscreants who came and went, but I wasn’t suspended or expelled, and even Morgan seemed to treat me with something approaching respect for having taken my medicine like a man, even if my dad still said that Morgan was full of . . . compost.
For quite a while after that, every time we parked by the football field, I took a few seconds to see how well the grass was growing in the two filled-in ruts, especially the one I had filled. In a few weeks’ time, you could no longer tell exactly where the ruts were, as if they never existed and the prank was all just a bad dream. My failed prank and its aftermath never achieved the kind of notoriety other events our senior year did, but it was one of those experiences you cherish if only because it was an adventure you never would have had otherwise, a path you would have rather avoided if you could but came out stronger in the end for having traveled.