Lost Boy (12 page)

Joe Girardi gave each of the guards the flat empty stare of someone who was used to being obeyed.

Ryder held his breath and wondered if this was the miracle he needed.

“Of course, Mr. Girardi.” The guard's concrete face softened. She smiled and nodded her head, but kept a tight grip on Ryder. “I'll have to see him out, though. Hey, good luck today.”

Joe Girardi looked at Ryder again and gave him half a smile along with a wink before he disappeared, walking down, deeper into the tunnel until his pin-striped uniform got swallowed by the gloom.

“Let's go.” The woman guard's voice became harsh again, and she didn't stop being rough with Ryder, even when they stood on the loading dock together with her fist wrapped up tight in his coat collar.

He thought about telling her that he'd let Mr. Girardi know if she didn't cut it out and get her hands off of him, but decided to keep quiet.

“Can I have my ball back?” Ryder was emboldened by the
power of the Yankees manager.

The guard who had the ball shrugged and handed it to him. He stuffed it deep in his jacket pocket, trying not to grin at the woman who still held him.

The cop car pulled up and the other guards along with the cop loaded Orange carefully into the backseat along with Attack Dog. The cop stood and turned to the woman guard.

“What about him?”

“Mr. Girardi said to let me go.” Ryder couldn't help blurting it out because he didn't like the look he saw on the woman's face.

“Get in there.” The woman shoved Ryder toward the car door as if the whole thing with the manager had never happened. “Joe Girardi. Get a load of this kid. I bet Santa Claus put in a good word, too, huh?”

The other security guards snickered along with her, making it seem like he was simply a liar, and the cop put him in, telling him he better keep his hands to himself or he'd be wearing cuffs like the other two. Ryder couldn't even speak. It was so wrong.

“But . . . but . . .” He could only sputter and stutter as the cop got in behind the wheel and began to pull away. The laughter of the stadium security guards roared through the glass of the police car's window.

The police unloaded them outside a faceless brick government building. Ryder was separated from the others and taken down an empty hall to a small windowless room with a bench screwed into the floor.

“You need the bathroom?” the policeman said.

Ryder shook his head no.

“Okay. Wait here,” the police officer said, closing the door.

Ryder sat in silence. All he could think about was his mom. The moment she fell into the street wouldn't stop repeating itself in his head. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to be brave, but ragged sobs escaped him when the torment was too great. Finally, he was too tired to cry, but the image of her in that moment—annoyed with his resistance—kept at him.

It was a long, agonizing time before a guard came and took him out of his holding cell. Orange and Attack Dog stood there in the hallway outside, waiting, and scowling at a guard of their
own. They were all marched down a series of hallways, up an elevator, through a back room, and into the courtroom before the judge. Lights from above glimmered off the judge's bald head. Big angry eyes stared out at the boys over the tops of his black-rimmed reading glasses. Rolls of fat cascaded below his ears, piling up on his shoulders like fallen cake dough so that he had no neck at all, and the rolls seemed to flow right into the billows of his black robe.

The judge's hands poking out from the drooping sleeves seemed small for the rest of his bulk, the hands of a puppeteer maybe, standing in the tent of clothes and making motions with stubby fingers that bore no rings. The fingers scooped up some papers and the judge studied them through his glasses before returning his gaze to the boys.

“All right. The Bridge is full, so you two . . .” The judge looked back at the papers. “You're sixteen, so you'll go to Rikers Island. And you.”

The judge whipped off his glasses and the dark furry caterpillar eyebrows sloped and met above his nose in a V. “I am sick of seeing twelve-year-olds in here committing crimes with
deadly weapons.
Do you know that a child is injured or killed by a gun in this country every
thirty seconds
!
Well? Did you know?”

Ryder couldn't speak, could barely shake his head. He couldn't believe any of this was happening.

The judge pounded his bench with a mini fist. “Well,
I
know, and I'm done with it. This is armed robbery, gentlemen, and I don't care that one of you is twelve and I don't care that you've got some sob story about mama in the hospital.”

The judge stared hard, and Ryder could barely breathe. The judge waved the glasses back on his face and looked down at the papers again. He began sifting through some others. “No room here. No room there. I tell you where I got room. I got room at Tryon Residential. How about that, son? Maybe you go see some hard-timers and you get it figured out before you come back here for your trial.”

“Your Honor, I don't think a boy twelve years old ought to be in Tryon, and there weren't any guns. I grant you, two of the suspects had
knives
, but my client did not.” The woman who'd spoken stood at a table behind Ryder. She had lots of wavy hair and a wide, smooth forehead. She wore a gray business suit with a white blouse and had glasses of her own. Her scowl was just as strong as the judge's. “This boy would be released to his parents under normal circumstances.”

The judge's mouth moved as though he were chewing a bit of paper stuck in his teeth. Then he spoke. “You call three kids with a knife normal, Ms. Angie Diles? Nothing normal about that. Tryon was good enough for Mike Tyson, wasn't it? Where's he now? A movie star, so the place has its merits.”

Angie Diles shook her head and grunted with disgust.

“Well, did you send anyone over to the address he gave?” The judge seemed to be giving in a bit.

She shook her head. “No one there. The school said he skipped today and they confirmed the mother's name. She
is
in the hospital in critical condition.”

Ryder wondered about Mr. Starr and whether they tried talking to him or he scared them off or maybe just gave up on Ryder as a loser.

“And you'd have me do what with this boy, Ms. Diles?” the judge asked.

“A foster home.”

“A foster home.” The judge blew out his cheeks. “Do you know Deshawn Harper? Does that name ring a bell with you?”

Angie Diles frowned and her lips disappeared into the flat line of her mouth, but she didn't give away if she'd heard the name or not.

The judge nodded. “Boys with knives have already crossed a line. I tried to put Deshawn in a foster home and I won't even tell you what he did to another child they had in that household. We all have our jobs to do, and I don't mind you doing yours, but don't push me on this one, Angie.”

The two of them stared each other down. The courtroom went totally silent. Ryder clenched his teeth, sensing something big in the balance.

Suddenly, Ryder heard the courtroom doors burst open behind them, and someone shouted at the judge.

“Wait!”

Ryder turned and didn't think he'd ever been happier to see someone. Doyle McDonald stood tall and straight, his mustache quivering. Behind him was Derek Raymer.

“I'm sorry, Your Honor. My name is Doyle McDonald. I'm with FDNY, but also a close friend of this boy's family.” Doyle spoke as he walked up the center aisle of the courtroom, stopping once he got alongside the table where Angie Diles stood. “There is a neighbor who regularly watches Ryder and lives next door. He doesn't have a phone, so he's hard to get a hold of.”

Angie Diles ruffled her papers. “Would that be a Mr. Starr?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Doyle clapped his hands and nodded vigorously. “So, if Your Honor will agree, I can take Ryder. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner.”

“Well . . .” The judge's face softened and so did his voice. “I
lost a brother on Nine-Eleven. Ladder Three.”

The courtroom went totally silent.

Doyle bowed his head for a moment. “Your Honor. I can vouch for Ryder. I heard what happened and I promise you, when this all gets worked out, the court will see that he's a good kid who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The judge nodded. “Ms. Diles? This works for you?”

“Of course, Your Honor.”

The judge thought for a minute. “Well, Ms. Diles is an officer of the court. Would you agree to check in with her on a daily basis and keep her updated as to the boy's whereabouts?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Doyle said.

The judge thumped his gavel. “Then I remand Ryder Strong to the custody of Mr. McDonald, to be brought to Mr. Starr until Ms. Diles can work out something permanent if that becomes necessary.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Doyle took Ryder by the arm and gently led him toward the door.

They met up with Derek Raymer and left the courtroom, closing the doors behind them. As they marched down the steps, Ryder saw a pickup truck at the curb with its hazard lights flashing. He followed the two firemen and climbed into the front seat between them. Derek got behind the wheel and when the doors were closed, he switched off the hazards and put the truck in gear.

Derek Raymer started, “I don't know about this. You're not a close family friend.” Derek shook his head as he made a turn. “You just met these people. At an accident.”

Doyle waved a hand impatiently. “Derek, there's right and
there's right. Sometimes the rules aren't right, and when that happens, you gotta just trust your gut and do what's
really
right.”

Ryder nodded because he sure understood that, and it was a relief to hear something so sane spoken by an adult.

“Okay, but I just hope your gut doesn't get us fired.” Derek smiled apologetically. “I'm just saying.”

“Don't you get what
I'm
saying?” Doyle looked across at his friend.

“Sure I do, Doyle, but rules are rules. Look at the mess you got into trying to raise money for the kid's mom.”

Doyle shot his partner a hard look.

“What do you mean? What happened with the money?” Hope hung from Ryder's words.