......................................................Just Driving Around

Time for my cross examination. I stood.

"Mr. Smith, why were you on the east side of Tulsa in the early morning hours of October 15?"

"I was with my friends. We were just driving around,"

"You were just driving around?"

"Yes,"

"Why did you stop at the park with the fountain?"

"The greas, I mean we saw the kid that picked up Bob's girl at the drive in,"

"You saw him at the park?"

"Yes,"

"And what had Robert Sheldon intended to do?"

"Objection!" The prosecutor rose.

"Speculation, your honor,"

The judge glanced at me and gave a slight nod, "sustained,"

"I'll rephrase. When you saw the boy who had picked up Mr. Sheldon's girlfriend at the drive in, what did you intend to do?"

David swallowed and looked down.

"Rough him up a little," he said.

"Did Mr. Cade, to your knowledge, pick up a girl at the movies?"

"He might have,"

"You don't know?"

"No,"

"So the intended target of the "roughing up" was the other boy and not Mr. Cade?"

"Yes,"

"I see. And at no time was he touched or threatened?"

"No,"

"He wasn't punched in the stomach?"

"No,"

"He wasn't thrown to the ground?"

"No,"

"The other boy, Ponyboy Curtis, was he touched or threatened?"

"Well..." he trailed off.

"Yes or no, Mr. Smith,"

"Yes,"

"No further questions,"

........................................................Saturday

I was in my hotel room, cup of coffee by my left hand, pen in my right. I had the list of witnesses, going over and over what I would say and how I would say it.

Looked outside, it was that almost unbearably bright October sunshine, clear blue sky. I closed my eyes, still able to see the white building outside against my closed lids.

'Please God let me save him,' I mouthed the words and saw Johnny's face, so drawn and serious.

"Damn it!" Saturdays were the worst, when all the fears came home to roost. I shoved all the papers off the desk and they fluttered, flew sideways like sinking planes, the coffee spilled, running in black streams to the floor. Phone rang. The jarring sound seemed to compliment the chaos I had created. I ran a hand through my hair, closed my eyes, and answered the phone.

"Will you accept a collect call from the Tulsa Jail?" The cool, impersonal voice of an operator. I could see her in her cat's eye glasses, twirling gum around her finger.

"Yes,"

I was almost not breathing. Why was the Tulsa Jail calling me? There was only one reason I could think of. My client had killed himself.

"Hi, Mr. Williams?" I began to breathe. It was unmistakably Johnny.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, uh, do you think you could come down here? There's, well, I think we should talk,"

"Alright,"

I headed over, not sure what to expect. I had trouble predicting Johnny.

I walked over because it was a nice day and, the truth be told, I was somewhat of a celebrity here now. This trial was being followed very closely. The rich wanted Johnny to hang for what he did to that "poor Sheldon boy", the poor felt it was self defense and marveled at how early those who have start to hassle those who don't. Teenagers were interested because it involved teenagers.

There were even "groupies", young girls who came to the courtroom after school swearing they were "in love" with Johnny.

"He had to do it!" they'd say, forgiving him all his sins, looking at him with glazed, dreamy eyes. Clutching newspaper photos of him to their chests.

It was in the paper today. "Updates of the Cade trial", "Teenage boy on trial for his life", "Juvenile delinquent faces death", all articles inevitably accompanied by a picture of Johnny, his tragic aspect not dimmed one bit by grainy newsprint.

I caught a glimse of two old women whispering about me behind their hands, gray heads leaning together. I tried not to smile.

At the jail Johnny sat slumped in the chair, a letter in his hand.

"This girl wants to marry me," he said with a wry smile. He let the letter fall from his hand, it wasn't important to him.

He still looked like shit, dark circles under his eyes, that hollow look. I wondered why he had called me here but I didn't want to push him.

"O.K., look, I don't think this is a good idea," he said. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What?"

"This, this, this whole thing!"

"What whole thing?"

He sighed, picked up the letter and fiddled with the corner.

"This whole defense you have planned. It was my parents' fault, it was the socs' fault. Well, it wasn't. It wasn't their fault! It was mine. I did it. Don't you get that? I fucking did it, and it was self defense and they were killing Pony but I did it. I killed that kid,"

It was quite a speech. Not since that first day I met him have I heard him say so much at once.

"We could play it straight self defense," I said slowly, measuring my words. He wasn't looking at me.

"We could do that but I think, things don't happen in a vacuum, it wasn't an isolated incident. There were other factors, and those factors should be taken into account and presented to the jury,"

I looked at him, hoping for some eye contact, a nod, anything. He stared at the table, unreachable. And I felt like I was talking in a vacuum, my words swirling away. Maybe he was right, maybe...

It was easy to doubt myself, to doubt the course that once seemed so shining and true, so sure fire. Nothing was sure fire.

I looked at him, that dark head, eyes downcast, fingernails all bitten ragged. I wanted so much to protect him, to save him. I just didn't know how anymore.