This is what Mr Abdini asks me. Do

I'm uneasy enough today, withou

turies of fast-talking and double-dealing. Ricochet Abdini, 'Bing, ping, ping!' He's dressed in white, like the Cuban Ambassador or something. A jury would convict on his fucken shoes alone, not that his shoes are my biggest problem. They're the least of my fucken problems, know why? Because if you take a bunch of flabby white folk, of the kind that

n my cell, getting ready to say 'Therefore' probably. His eyes bo

ll me w

excu

whappen i

ut of class, and wh

p a hand. 'You

, but that

nce,' he hisses, scr

ee, I

hh,' goes Abdini, patting my arm. 'I fine

ile. Anyway, everybody's at the funerals. 'An option holding limited appeal,' as the now-dumbstruck Mr Asshole Nuckles would say. It's bitterly hot today; unusual this early in summer. And quiet like when you hold you

maneuvers me into a small wooden corral, with a fence around it. It's almost possible to be brave in here, if you add up your Nikes, your Calvin Kleins, your youth, and your actual innocence. What shunts you over the edge is the smell. Court smells like your first-grade classroom; you automatically look around for finger-paintings. I don't know if it's on purpose, like to regress you and freak

ow it; the thing of everyone turning the knife just by saying hello, or something equally innocent-sounding. The courts of law would shit their pants laughing if you tried to say somebody was turning the knife just with their calendar-dog whimpers. But here's why they'd laugh: not because they couldn't see the knife, b

h to an ole security guard. 'Oh my, it's a fact. W

d his mouth. That means he's picturing whatever she just said. He shunts some spit ar

act,' says

ustice system ain't set up for folk like me. It's set up for more obvious folk, like you see in movies. Nah, if the facts don't arrive today, if everybody doesn't apologize and send me home, I'll jump bai

e,' says a

es behind the tallest desk. Judge Helen E Gurie says the sign. H

have to be one of your

have a sus

apply pearlymoney h

aw both your attentions to the Texas Family Code - this is a juvenile matter. Vaine, I s

h-

d of interview filed

Sheriff Porkorney scrapes into the room and

ce of evidence would come

ou hoped it would just fly right in? How

to the sheriff. He just stands by

. 'You're seeking indictment?' She removes her glasses, fi

lain, ma'am

p a grand jury on one set of p

han one set,

all from the same exhibit, the sports bag.

came into the public domain l

ou take the pointed end of a stick and wake this whole tangled

, and he ran away from h

e child is not on trial here. Given the particulars before me, I'm inclined to release your suspe

he sheriff's lips tighten. He puts on his hat and creaks back out through the door. I do

ands. 'Ob

e have other attorneys o

'Your honor, this new i

What I know ain't

icer immediately turns to frown my way. 'She ain't seen it yet,' the

e. 'Has this court slipped into a para

ame to light - we're fol

l you can show me some particulars. I also e

justice system to get its shit together? Am I fuck. Buses leave Martirio every two hours for Austin or San Antonio. The automatic teller

to the bench and cups a hand to the judge's ear. Judge Gurie listens,

next report?

to Vaine. The judge reaches for her hamme

am

se,' says

sty ole boys of rough-hewn glory, probably smoke a lonely cigarette in their cell

ave your own room, or did they put you

eyebrows perch high this lunchtime too, as far as her wooden hair allows. I don't kno

clean boys, always getting - you know, you hear about bigger

ome lifer?' That's how pathetic things are. Here's a woman who pulls the drapes and makes up some half-assed conversation if two dogs start

calls me, sings of melted ice-cream on the sidewalk outside, the ghost of little tears nearby. Summer dresses full of fresh air, Me

o much attention, and if it does, why it ain't worn away to no

, then the face of an asshole appears in the far distance, staring

me bones to pick w

e to g

Vern

li

ff his head. The pumpjack squeaks rhythmically under his voice. 'This proud community takes a decisive step from the shadow of Tuesday's

ckin knees,' says Barr

f somewhat awkward teenager, a boy who wouldn't attract att

ckened sky, body-bags punctuating drag-marks of blood, moist ladies ho

igarettes hidden behind the fruit-salad plant on the breakfast bar at home. 'Hi

says Bet

taller for how big the word Gucci is written on

us dive into the laundry pile by the bed. Out comes the lingerie catalog. 'But we find no Steinbeck, no Hemingway in Vernon Little's private library - in fact, his literary tastes run only to this ...' Pages flap across the screen, sassy torsos cut me that once tugged chains of shameful sap through my veins. Th

says Mom. 'I

a sympathetic A-frame. 'As Vernon's mother, would it now

am a victim. I

ntain Vernon

to his mother - well even murderers

but I turn for the blow I know is coming. Things could've been different if I'd learned to spell earlier, if I'd just been a smarter, more regular kid. But as things turned out,

s just a normal little b

the courtroom floor. Mom's panty catalog has a table all to itself. Even my ole finger-painting is here, b

derstands he is being arraigned - I draw your attent

his head. '

to indictment, sir. Might

can be cleared up with a call to m

hisses

o point out that it's not the business of this court to do the sheri

have checked a

Miss Lori-Bethlehem Conner, pa

about the b

on the suspect's whereabouts

ntion, or you

k until the end of March next year. We c

ne. What were th

er fir

ood L

. She can't fucken stop herself

l your honor,

the boy has a history of absconding,

man is part of family home, with plenty

a woman on her own can override the will of a teena

judge. 'Every child needs a man's hand.

resumed dece

s mother couldn't ma

her car is

o turn down your application for bail at this time. But neither am I going to release you. In light of the facts here presented, and commensurate with my responsibility to thi

goes th

e,' says t

sed you a rose gar-den.' Hot weather always brings these fucked ole tunes, always in the background, in fucken mono. Fate. Like, notice h

ico written on it. 'Pssschhh,' the crusty ole driver opens the door of his motor-coach, and smiles like he has a secret, that everything turns out fine. The kid's boot steps out of the dirt. His guitar swings low. A cowgirl with blond hair

death. In the end, I pass the time practicing faces for the psychiatrist. I don't know if it's better to act crazy, or regular, or what. If the shrinks on TV are anything to go by, it'll be fucken hard to find out, because they just repeat every damn thing you say. If you say, 'I'm d

lle of my door, out of sight, just breathing and clinking. He knows I'm waiting for

' he fin

h, B

cher in there are ya? You ain't tossin the ham javelin

one, and I fantasize about ramming his baton up h

eona's careless chuckle over a background of fat ladies discussing other people's money. The weathe

are you a

t me tell you: it's because now I'm not only in jail, but I might be fucken crazy as well. What a bonanza for her if I'm fucken crazy as well. Then her problem would be that she already spent her bes

you do that

Vernon. Anyway young man, how

't do a

paste under their eyes to help

y w

n case you look too impassive. You

t talk to Lally

dge people.' You hear questioning noises in back, about the time of night, then Mo

night

, whispering. 'Vernon - it's probably best

un

best to keep it be

in the public domain. Nuckles must know it's there. Jesus must've used it as a wild card, must've mentioned it to stop him following, to make him think t

h all the wrong fingerprints o