The Terrorist

By Howard A. Losness

Ever since Chester Witherspoon was a child, he had been picked on by older, larger boys. One day he got hold of his fathers revolver and, in an attempt to even the odds, shot at the town bully. He missed, but that single action earned him a reputation that would serve as the basis of The Terrorist. He would learn at an early age that killing was not only exhilarating, but infectious. It wasnt long before he had every lawman on the West Coat searching for him. To add insult to injury, he managed to get on the mobs hit list as well. And they knew where he lived!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462052080

Howard A. Losness

HOWARD LOSNESS is the author of twenty novels and seven self illustrated children books. He has retired after forty years of commercial real estate business. He plays tennis, enjoys golf, and enjoys reading in his spare time. He is an accomplished artist, painting everything from landscape scenes to wild African animals.

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Thanks

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

chapter 30

chapter 31

chapter 32

chapter 33

chapter 34

chapter 35

chapter 36

chapter 37

chapter 38

chapter 39

Chapter 40

chapter 41

chapter 42

chapter 43

chapter 44

chapter 45

chapter 46

chapter 47

chapter 48

chapter 49

chapter 50

chapter 51

chapter 52

chapter 53

chapter 54

chapter 55

chapter 56

chapter 57

chapter 58

chapter 59

chapter 60

chapter 61

chapter 62

chapter 64

chapter 65

chapter 66

chapter 67

chapter 68

chapter 69

chapter 70

chapter 71

chapter 72

chapter 73

chapter 74

chapter 75

chapter 76

chapter 77

chapter 78

chapter 79

chapter 80

chapter 81

chapter 82

chapter 83

chapter 84

chapter 85

chapter 86

chapter 87

chapter 88

chapter 89

chapter 90

chapter 91

chapter 92

chapter 93

chapter 94

chapter 95

chapter 96

chapter 97

chapter 98

chapter 99

chapter 100

chapter 101

chapter 102

chapter 103

chapter 104

chapter 105

chapter 106

chapter 107

chapter 108

chapter 109

chapter 110

chapter 111

chapter 112

chapter 113

chapter 114

chapter 115

chapter 116

chapter 117

chapter 118

chapter 119

chapter 120

chapter 121

chapter 122

chapter 123

chapter 124

chapter 125

chapter 126

chapter 127

chapter 128

chapter 129

chapter 130

chapter 131

chapter 132

chapter 133

chapter 134

chapter 135

chapter 136

chapter 137

chapter 138

chapter 139

chapter 140

chapter 141

chapter 142

chapter 143

chapter 144

chapter 145

chapter 146

chapter 147

chapter 148

chapter 149

chapter 150

chapter 151

chapter 153

chapter 154

chapter 155

chapter 156

chapter 157

Epilog

Other Books by Howard A. Losness

The Terrorist

My Journey (Biography)

The Mark

A Dangerous Mind

Honor Thy Father

Betrayal

The Messenger

In Between

Betrayal

Escaped!

The Colombian

The Trick

Damaged Goods

Suicide Cliff

Cross Check

Once I was Lost

The Plot

Lost Woman

Short Stories

A Pocket Full of Pebbles

Young Adult Books

Little Eagle and the Sacred Waterfall

The Secret

Illustrated Children’s Books

It’s Fun to be Small

The Boy Who Lived Beneath the Sea

Zachary’s Wild Balloon Ride

The Scarecrow and Farmer Rabbit

Humphrey Gets Lost

Sparrow’s Vacation

Water Boy

Illustrated children’s book for Zachary Losness

Land of Black Lightning

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my three sons, Larry, Aaron and Christian, who have brought me immeasurable pride and joy.

Thanks

Many thanks to Aaron Losness for assisting me in editing the manuscript.

chapter 1

Chester Witherspoon turned his worn and tattered Giant’s baseball cap around backwards as he lowered his thin body close to the ground and grabbed a handful of foliage as he peeked around the hedge at Wilson’s house. He bit his lower lip in anticipation. Beads of perspiration formed at his temples. His eyes were wide open with fear. He had a pasty, white complexion that contrasted against the backdrop of his unruly jet black hair that perpetually fell over his eyes, hence the need for the baseball cap.

His father had previously been laid off from the paper mill where he had worked in Longview, Washington as a security guard. When the mill shut down after Mount Saint Helens blew, the company had kept him on as a security guard for six more months until the plant had totally shut down, the building locked up and the grounds had been secured with a locked eight foot barbed wire fence. After that, he was out of work.

Six months ago the family had moved to Harrisburg where his father had been hired on at a construction company, again as a security guard. His work day started at eight o’clock in the evening and he worked until six the following morning. Because of the danger of theft of building materials, especially copper wiring, the job required that he carry a gun, which he had previously purchased and had a permit to carry, a condition of his previous job as a security guard in Longview.

Due to his working hours, he usually arrived home before his son, Chester, went off to school, and was usually asleep when he arrived home, awaking just in time for dinner where he was able to spend a couple hours with the family before going off to work again.

As a child, Chester’s father, William, had been raised on a farm. He was the smallest and youngest of a family of seven children, five of which were boys. He soon learned that in order to survive, he had to fight tooth and nail for his position not only in life, but in his own family as well. He learned to rely on no one, a lesson he now tried to instill in his own son’s life. So, when Chester came home from school with signs of being in a fight, his father had one thing to say to him, and only one.

Go back out there and fight your own battles, and learn to gain respect as man and learn to stand on your own two feet.

His mother, June, a slight built, subservient timid woman, born in Mexico City, had long since learned not to backtalk or disagree with her husband when it came to raising Chester, but it was clear from the look in her eyes that she felt sorry for her son.

The first day at school after moving to Harrisburg, on the way home, Chester had been met by nasty Martin Stanhope and Tom and Kenneth Wardsmen, sidekick brothers of ‘Nasty’ as they called their leader. Martin Stanhope, aka Nasty, Chester later learned from one of the boys in his class, had been the class bully ever since he had entered school after moving to Harrisburg in the fifth grade. He loved singling out smaller boys, mostly those who stood out like Ronald Rolland, a semi-retarded boy who spoke with a lisp, and Bobby Molderskin, a roundish built boy who looked and walked like a penguin. When Chester moved to town it gave them new fodder.

It started out as simple taunting. Chester, fester, we’re going to pester you until you move away, they would sing, dancing around him, and pushing him in the process.

What kind of a name is that? Witherspoon? Why not Witherfork or Witherknife? They would laugh and punch one another on the arm and point fingers at the smaller, thin boy.

Witherspoon. How dorkey of a name is that? Chester, fester, you are going to get no rester. They would laugh and then push him down, and then stand over him, taunting him, just daring him to try to get up. Chester tried hard to fight back the tears that would eventually roll down his cheeks, but he was too embarrassed and scared to control his emotions.

Oh, lookie. The spoon’s gonna cry. Boo hoo! They would taunt him, faint rubbing their eyes with their knuckles and then laugh.

Eventually, they would either tire of their game and leave him lying there on the ground, but not before giving his butt one last kick, or sometimes, they would concede just enough room for him to scramble up and make a run for it.

Lookie the scarred rabbit run! they would call after him, faking running after him, just to hear him squeal. Then they would laugh and taunt him with, See you tomorrow, Spoonie. And then laugh some more.

Chester Witherspoon hated those three boys. He would lay awake at night, dreaming of what he would like to do to them if he only had the chance – and the nerve. What he really wanted to do was to kill them. All three of them, one at a time. Slow and painful. Especially, Martin.

Then watch them beg for mercy.

chapter 2

He was only two blocks from home now, and seeing no one to intercept him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Throwing his shoulders back he turned his baseball cap around as he rounded the hedge.

At first he strolled confidently, but then something inside told him not to meander, but to hot-foot it home. He was at the middle of the hedge now. He could see his house just a block and a half away. With a smile on his face, he broke out in a slow trot which turned into a full scale hundred yard dash. He was Chester Witherspoon, the world’s fastest man, running the final leg of the mile in the Olympics. He could hear the crowd roar as they knew he was about to break the world record one more time. Then, suddenly he found himself flying through the air.

Fantasy turned into reality as he fell face first down into the dirt. What had he hit, or more correctly stated, what had hit him?

What’s the matter Witherface? Nasty Martin Stanhope taunted as he put his dirty tennis shoe on Chester’s neck. Thought you had seen the last of me, did you? Well, here’s the deal, Witherface. He bent down and grabbed Chester’s hair, pulling his head up.

Ow! Chester protested.

Does that hurt? he taunted. Well, here’s what is going to make it go away. You want to know?

Chester was too scared and in too much in pain to respond.

Money! I want money. Not just a nickel or a dime, but paper money with dead presidents picture on it. Like Lincoln, you know?

Chester simply grimaced.

Here’s how we’re going to play it. I know your old man is home sleeping it off. You’re going to go home and slip into his room and like the little bug that you are, quietly lift his wallet out of his pants and relieve him of one measly dollar bill, and then bring it back to me. Right here, right now! Got it meathead?

Nasty shoved Chester’s face down into the dirt. And if you are good and fast, maybe I’ll leave you alone for a while. You mess up and I’ll be on your case like fleas on a junkyard hound dog. Do we understand one another, Fester?

He let go of his hair and stood over him like a towering gladiator who had just defeated his opponent.

Oh, and if you even think of telling your parents about this little deal that we got going, I’ll make sure your life is so miserable that a broken jaw or black eye will seem like a reward. Now git!

Chester pulled himself up off the ground, got to his knees and looked his adversary directly in the eye. Suddenly, there was no fear in his face, only hatred. Without saying a word, he turned and walked away, not even bothering to pick up his hat, or dust himself off. He remembered what his father had said many times, to stand up for himself.

He had a mission and he knew exactly what that was.

Someone was going to pay, and for once, it wasn’t going to be him.

chapter 3

Chester Witherspoon walked purposefully to his house, strolled up the five wooden steps that led to the porch, opened the screen door to the familiar screeee that sounded like a scalded cat, and then strolled into the house. Inside, his mother was busy in the kitchen, as usual, preparing dinner.

Have a nice day at school? she inquired in Spanish, which she always did when only she and Chester were alone. She had been born in Mexico City, grew up dirt poor, living in a shack made out of discarded wooden boxes. The floor had been cardboard. When she reached the age that she needed to find employment, to carry her fair share of household expenses, she managed to get a job at Camp Pendleton, the US Marine base, working in the commissary. It was there that she met Chester’s father. At the time, he was a Marine Sergeant, a DI, drill instructor, stationed there at Camp Pendleton.

He had never learned to speak Spanish and vehemently disliked it when his wife, who had taught Chester the language as a young boy, spoke ‘Mexican’ as he called it, in his presence. So, they, Chester and his mother, limited speaking Spanish to when he was not around.

Great! was Chester’s response to his mother’s question.

Chester quickly walked past the kitchen, fearing that his mother might see his dusty clothes with dirt all over himself and demand to know what had happened to him.

His father’s room was located at the end of the hall. As he approached the room he could hear him snoring, even with the door closed. Chester paused for a moment before quietly turning the glass knob. He opened the door just wide enough to squeeze in, and then, pausing for a moment, assessing the situation, he tip-toed into the room. His father was lying on his side, facing away from Chester, snoring lightly. He had covered himself with a sheet and a light blanket. Somehow he looked smaller, lying there; all covered up like an Egyptian mummy. For a moment, Chester wondered how he would look when he became a grown man, lying in some bed with his son standing there looking down at him.

His father’s pants lay over the back of a wooden chair that had been placed by the bed. Hanging over the side of the chair was his father’s holster with his gun inside. Only once had he ever dared touch the gun and that had resulted in a harsh spanking by his father who admonished him with, "Don’t you ever touch that again. That is not a toy. That, son, is death waiting to happen."

He had looked deep into his son’s eyes, making sure that he had gotten the point. This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you, but I need to implant this in your memory so that you will never forget it.

With that, he had removed his leather belt from around his waist and then grabbed his son and flung him across his knee and gave him such a whipping that he had indeed never forgotten it. It was the single only time in his life that his father had ever laid a hand on him.

Chester stood there for a moment before quietly walking over to the side of his father’s bed. There was no doubt that he was in unchartered territory. He also knew should his father wake up, catching him in the process of going through his things, that he would, in all probability, be beaten to a pulp. The hatred that he felt for Nasty Martin far outweighed the consequences of being caught by his father, however.

It seemed an eternity for him to traverse from the foot of the bed to the chair. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and his hand was shaking beyond belief. With his eyes glued on his father, he held his fingers mid-air for a moment before reaching the handle of his gun. Then, he managed to touch the cold, wooden handle of the weapon.

He pulled on it, but for some reason, the gun wouldn’t move! Then he realized that the snap that wrapped around the handle was holding it. With unsteady fingers, he unsnapped it with his left hand and slowly slid the gun out of its holster.

For what seemed to be an eternity, he stood there, holding the deadly weapon with both hands. It felt much heavier than he had anticipated. Maybe it was the deadly weight of death that went along with it. Then, least he lose his nerve, he turned and ran out of the room with the gun, not bothering to even shut the door. Now, all he had to do was get out of the house.

He had seen gangster movies where the bad guy wrapped the gun in a towel to hide the weapon. That’s what he should do. He went directly to the bathroom, snatched his mother’s pink matching hand towel with embroidered red roses on the corner from the sink and quickly wrapped it up. Now, all he had to do was get out of the house without getting caught.

Chester ran straight down the hall, out the front door and bound down the steps in a single leap, stumbling briefly as his feet hit the ground. With his left hand he touched the ground to keep himself from falling, clutching the weapon against his body. He never broke stride.

Chester! his mother called after him when she heard the screen door slam shut. Where are you going, honey? Don’t you have homework to do before supper? she asked in Spanish.

Chester didn’t hear a word she said. He was too busy, flying.

At the corner where he knew that Nasty was waiting, he slowed his pace to a deliberate walk. He took a deep breath, not unlike in the olden days when a gunfighter might have responded when anticipating facing a deadly opponent down the street.

And there he was.

Standing confidently at the edge of the hedge.

Nasty!

I see you ain’t as dumb as I thought, he said when Chester was twenty feet away. What’s with the towel? You forget to wash your hands? He laughed. Or, maybe, that’s your crying towel.

Chester responded by dropping the towel.

When Nasty saw Chester holding the gun, his eyes suddenly got large and round and the blood visibly drained from his face.

Wha, what do you think you’re doing? He held up his hands and backed up a step or two. Then, for a brief moment, his confidence returned. That’s not real! That’s a play gun that you’ve got there, Spoon. Hand it over! he demanded, holding out his hand.

Chester held the gun out with both hands, at arm’s length, pointing it directly between Nasty’s eyes. I’ll give it to you, alright. Right between the eyes. You’ve bullied the last person. Prepare to die, scum-bag! He had heard cops and bad guys use that language in TV. Today, he was the bad guy.

Now, there was no denying that the gun that Chester Witherspoon held was real. Even to the untrained eye of Nasty, he knew it was the real thing. No play-thing looked like that.

Wait! he said, holding up his hands, palms facing Chester. You don’t know what you are doing! He looked around for help. There wasn’t any.

Chester closed his eyes and with shaky hands, pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

The trigger wouldn’t move.

He pulled it again.

Nothing!

He opened his eyes and looked at the gun. Then he saw it. The safety was on.

In that brief moment when Chester closed his eyes and then he pulled the trigger and then opening them again to study the gun, Nasty screamed at the top of his lungs. Heeeelp! He’s got a gun. He’s going to shoot me. Heeeelp!

Nasty Martin Stanhope turned and ran as fast as he could, waving his arms in desperation, zigzagging as he put as much space between him and Chester as possible, all the time, screaming at the top of his lungs.

chapter 4

Chester flicked the safety off with his thumb and then pointed the gun at the retreating Nasty who by now was several yards down the sidewalk, screaming and waving his arms in desperation. He held the gun out at arms length, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The report of the gun, coupled with the unexpected recoil took him by surprise, kicking the gun up in the air.

Nasty kept on running.

He had missed.

Chester considered pulling the trigger again, but by this time, Nasty had reached the edge the hedge and had disappeared around it for protection. Chester knew would not get another clear shot. It was then that he heard his father’s voice. It was clear and calm, but very authoritative.

Give me the gun, son.

Chester turned around to face his father who was standing there, barefooted, wearing nothing more that his boxer shorts. He held out his hand, asking his son for the weapon.

It’s okay, son. Just hand me the gun and everything will be alright.

Chester turned to face his father and handed him the gun. He expected to be hit. What he didn’t expect was for his father to take him by the shoulder and say, Why don’t you tell me all about it?

chapter 5

Martin Stanhope aka ‘Nasty’, had been hiding behind Wilson’s hedge, waiting for Chester Witherspoon, smoking a cigarette butt that he had taken from his father’s ashtray earlier that morning, when he spotted Chester Witherspoon returning with what he thought was his dollar bill.

What the hell does he have in that towel? he wondered aloud as he watched him approach. Probably, a crying towel, he mused, smiling to himself as he took one last drag on his cigarette before crushing it on the ground beneath his heel like he had seen his father do so many times. If his father ever caught him smoking there would be hell to pay, he knew that for sure. He couldn’t even take a chance in having little measly Chester Witherspoon catching him smoking for fear that he might tell.

I see you ain’t as dumb as I thought, he said when Chester was twenty feet away. What’s with the towel? You forget to wash your hands? He laughed. Or, maybe, that’s your crying towel.

When Chester responded by dropping the towel, Nasty’s eyes suddenly got large and round. Wha, what do you think you’re doing? He held up his hands and backed up a step or two.

Chester held the gun out with both hands, pointing it directly between Nasty’s eyes. You picked the wrong person to bully, he said through gritted teeth. Prepare to die, scum-bag!

Martin’s mind went into overdrove. This guy is nuts! I gotta get the hell outta here!

When Chester attempted to pull the trigger, Martin ducked and turned to run. When the gun finally fired, he was sure that he had been hit, but he kept on running faster than any human boy had ever run before, of that he was sure.

He ducked behind Wilson’s hedge and cut through their lawn, jumping over their back fence as Wilson’s small dog, Fang, ran after him, barking at his heels. He didn’t stop running until he had vaulted up the steps and through the front door of his house. Once inside, he kept on running until he was in his room. It wasn’t until he had closed the door and sank to the floor next to his bed that he realized that he hadn’t been hit.

What you doin’ there, boy? his mother said, standing over her son, looking down at his fatigued body.

He hadn’t heard her come into his room.

You look like you seen a ghost or something. She looked at his pants. They were wet. You peed on yourself! She exclaimed. What happened? she demanded. She was a big woman, weighing in at least two hundred pounds. She ruled the roost with an iron hand and Martin knew it.

The pressure of being shot at came bubbling out of Martin’s mouth like an erupted water pipe. He sobbed, He tried to kill me! He shot at me with a gun! A real live gun, mama!

Who did? Who shot at you? she demanded, shock registering on her face.

That nerd, Chester.

Chester who, boy?

He pointed out the door in the general direction of Chester Witherspoon’s house. Chester Witherspoon, mama. He shot at me. He tried to kill me! He sobbed. For no good reason, he added for good measure.

We’ve got to call the police!

Suddenly, Martin stopped crying. If they call the police, they’ll find out that I’ve been beating him. That I demanded he give me money. He smiled. I’ll just deny it. Who is going to believe that little twerp, anyway?

Yeah! Call the police. They’ll put that little bugger away. Call them, mama. Call ‘em now!

chapter 6

Chester sat on the front steps of their house, his father beside him with his arm around his son’s shoulders. Now, tell me, what’s going on that you felt the need to take my gun.

Don’t you think that you should put some clothes on, papa. I mean, what are people gonna think, what with you sitting outside in the cold with just your shorts on, and all?

In due time, son. In due time.

Chester took a deep breath. Well, there is this kid, I call him Nasty, ‘cause he is, but his real name is Martin. Martin Stanhope. Tears began rolling down his cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away and continued. Ever since we moved here, he and these two brothers, Tom and Ken Wardsmen, have been picking on me.

By picking on you, you mean…?

Every day after school, they lay and wait for me.

And then what?

They pick on me. Sometimes they hit me, knock me down and then when I’m on the ground, they hit and kick me until I cry.

And today?

He wiped the tears from his cheeks. Today, I was almost home. He pointed down the street. Down by Wilson’s. But then, Martin was waiting for me around Wilson’s hedge there, he said, nodding in the direction of the hedge. He pushed me on the ground and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t give him a dollar."

So you thought you would teach him a lesson. You came and got my gun to scare him, is that it? He looked his son in the eye. And then the gun accidentally went off. Which surprised you, because you didn’t know that the gun was loaded. Isn’t that the way that it went, Chester?

Chester hesitated for a moment, his mind racing back. He knew that his father was telling the story like he wanted it to be, so he nodded in agreement. Yes, I guess so.

You can’t guess, son, you have to be sure, because in a moment or two, a police car is going to arrive here and they are going to ask you what you were doing with my gun. When they ask you, you have to have your answer clear in your mind as to what you are going to say. Now, tell me again, what happened, starting with when this Martin boy demanded that you give him money and threatened to beat you up.

By the time the police car drove up to their residence, Chester’s dad had put his pants and a shirt on and he and Chester were sitting on the top step, waiting for the police to arrive.

There were two policemen in the car. An elderly gentleman with white hair and a white mustache. A young woman was with him. They were both in dressed in blue uniforms with guns on their belts and wore a badge on their chest. The elder man was driving.

Hello, officers, Mr. Witherspoon said, rising to meet them, extending his hand. What can I do for you on this fine day?

That your boy? he asked nodding towards Chester.

That he would be. Name’s Chester. Stand up boy, and give the officer your hand.

Chester did as he was told, and the elder officer took it with a light touch.

We got a report that your son had a hand gun and had taken a shot at another boy, a… he consulted his notes, a Martin Stanhope. Is that true, Chester? he asked, looking directly into Chester’s eyes.

Chester looked up at his father, who nodded and then said, Tell the officer there what happened now, boy. Tell him the truth.

And Chester did, beginning with how he had been harassed by the Wardsmen brothers in general and Martin Stanhope in particular and then in great detail about how Martin had beaten him up earlier that day and then had demanded that he go home and return with a dollar or suffer the consequences. When he had finished telling the officers his story as he and his father had rehearsed, he sat down next to his father.

Where did you get the gun, child? the female officer spoke for the first time.

She was a nice lady, about as tall as his mother, but much prettier and thinner too. Her hair was blond and cut short and she had on a little makeup.

I’m a night watchman over at the Fiber plant, his father explained, and I work the night shift as a security guard. The weapon is mine. I’m licensed to carry it. I have to share part of the blame for the boy getting the gun, I guess. In reality, I should have secured the weapon, but for years now, I just let it in the holster by my bed when I go to sleep. He looked down at his son. Sorry. My fault, he said. I never, in a hundred years thought that something like this would happen. Sorry, he repeated himself.

I’ll have to see your permit, the officer said.

Sure. He reached for his wallet which was in his back pocket. He removed the license and handed it to the senior officer who studied it for a moment before passing it back to Mr. Witherspoon.

So, just to be clear on this issue, you, Chester Witherspoon, admit that you fired the weapon at the Martin Stanhope boy?

Yes, sir. Like I said, I was afraid on account that he and those Wardsmen boys keep beating up on me and I just wanted to teach him a lesson. I didn’t really think that the gun was loaded. He looked down at his feet and shuffled his shoes. I just wanted to scare Martin into not beating me up anymore or demanding that I give him money. That’s not right, is it? I mean for him to demand that I give him money? He looked up at his father who put his arm around his son’s shoulders.

Or for he and those Wardsmen brothers to keep beating me up every day? A tear rolled down his cheeks which he quickly wiped away with the back of his hand.

There is no doubt that they should not be badgering you after school and certainly, not be demanding that you give them money. I’ll be talking to his parent’s about that matter, but that doesn’t justify the fact that you took your father’s weapon and shot at him. Whether or not you meant to hit him is immaterial.

What’s to be done now? His father asked, with his arm around his son’s shoulders. He’s just a boy.

He’s a juvenile, the policeman said. By shooting a weapon at the boy, whether or not he meant to harm him is going to be up to the judge.

The judge? his father exclaimed.

I’m afraid that your son has broken the law and the law dictates that we arrest him and take him down to Juvi.

Juvi?

Juvenile Hall.

Chester immediately got tears in his eyes. I don’t wanna go to jail! he wailed, looking up at his father and clutching at his sleeve with pleading eyes.

How long will he have to stay there? his father asked, squeezing his son’s shoulders.

Usually on first offenses, and considering your son’s age, the judge will most likely be lenient. In your son’s case there are certainly extenuating circumstances that will play in his favor.

His being threatened by the other three boys? Mr. Witherspoon asked.

Yes.

Will he need an attorney?

I really can’t advise you on that. Best you just show up in court first thing tomorrow morning for the hearing.

Does that mean that he’ll have to stay in jail overnight?

"It’s not really a