“Don’t tell me she did it?” I said.
Portland nodded. “Rena says she cried, but she drank it.”
For a moment, I thought I was going to throw up and I saw my own horror and disgust mirrored on the faces of my friends.
“Dear Lord!” said Jamie. “Does he make her wear a veil and walk three paces behind him?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know it finished Rena with that church. She put her pride in her pocket and moved her membership back to Jensen Memorial.”
“Good for her.”
“But isn’t it appalling?” said Portland. “Next thing you know he’ll be telling her to drink the Kool-Aid.”
“Been me,” said Betty Ann, “I’d have put a little more spit in the glass and thrown it right back in his arrogant face.”
Someone at the next table shushed us and we turned our attention to the podium as Elaine Marshall rose to speak. She was her usual witty and intelligent self and she wore a beautifully cut dark red pantsuit.
But then she was never going to get any votes from any Reverend Mr. McKinneys anyhow.
Judge Luther Parker, who was supposed to hold juvenile court that afternoon, had been called away at noon on a family emergency, and because my afternoon load was light enough to shift to the others, I volunteered to sit in for him. His calendar included the type of case that is becoming more and more common these days as town and country keep bumping up against each other. If we were totally suburban, there would be one set of problems with common perceptions, experiences, and assumptions. All country would present a different set, but again, most everyone would be on the same page.
But when you slap a closely built, hundred-house development down in the middle of farming country, neither side completely understands the other.
Today’s case in point: trespass and malicious damage to real property.
Three twelve-and thirteen-year-old boys had been arrested after roaring over a farmer’s field of young soybean plants on four-wheel ATVs, chasing one another in circles. They had torn up so many plants that the whole six acres would have to be disked under and replanted.
The farm was posted with NO TRESPASSING signs and yes, the kids could read and yes, it was thoughtless of them to do that much damage. No farm kid would have dreamed of wrecking a crop—
Several Christmases ago, I chipped in for a couple of ATVs for the nieces and nephews out on the farm. They’ve mostly graduated to cars, and the four-wheelers stay parked at our house these days for Cal and Mary Pat to use; but even at eight, they know to stick to the lanes or they’ll lose their ticket to ride.
After lecturing the kids about respect for private property, I turned to their parents.
“Your houses sit on quarter-acre lots,” I said. “When you bought your sons these four-wheelers, where did you think they were going to ride them? It’s illegal for them to be on the road and you don’t have any land. What were you thinking?”
All I got were indifferent shrugs.
“I see by their records that this is the second time these three boys have been cited, which means that you had notice of their prior misuse of the ATVs.”
Again, looks of indifference.
“In other words, Mom and Dad, your failure to supervise is negligence and makes you liable for all the damages and leaves you open to the possibility of being prosecuted for contributing to their delinquency.”
Now I had their attention.
I leafed through their case folders and read over Luther Parker’s notes. It took me a few minutes to process what he’d planned to do and when I next glanced up, two of the parents appeared distinctly worried.
“Last time, your sons got a very light slap on the wrist and there was no inconvenience to you. This time, I’m ordering that they be sent for a mental health evaluation, for which you will be billed.”
I glanced over at the farmer whose beans had been destroyed. “Mr. Bell estimates the damage at fifteen hundred dollars, which is extremely reasonable, if not downright generous of him.”
I then put the boys under the supervision of a juvenile court counselor, and ordered them to pay damages, to stay off Mr. Bell’s property, and not to ride their ATVs anywhere that wasn’t legally sanctioned.
Some of the parents were huffing by this time, but I warned them that if their sons came back to court again for misuse of their ATVs, they themselves would also face charges. “And penalties in adult courts are a lot tougher than here.”
“Don’t worry, Your Honor,” said one of the mothers. “His four-wheeling days are over. There’s going to be a FOR SALE sign on it this afternoon.”
“Aw, Mo-om!” the twelve-year-old whined.
“You heard her,” his father said sternly. “And your part of that fifteen hundred is coming out of
Juvenile court can be a real downer at times and that afternoon, I dealt with a bully who’s well on his way to spending his life in prison if someone doesn’t shoot him first. I signed an order that would return a rebellious fourteen-year-old runaway to her family in Virginia, sent three repeat teenagers to a minimum security youth center, and arranged protective custody for two little girls whose foster dad was waiting trial for raping them.
At least I hoped I was giving them protection.
