The Lemonade Crime (6 page)

Outside, Jessie could hear the steady bouncing of a basketball in the driveway. Evan. Shooting hoops. Did he even know how hard she was working—for
him?

Then the bouncing stopped, and she heard a car pull into the driveway. Megan heard it, too. "That's my mom," she said. "Gotta go." Megan had a dentist appointment at four o'clock.

For the first time ever, Jessie was glad to see Megan go.

defense
(
),
n.
The argument presented in a court of law to prove the innocence of the accused; (in sports) the act of protecting your goal against the opposing team.

It wasn't hot enough to sweat, but Evan was sweating. Two wide rivers ran down the sides of his face, and every time he spun he could feel droplets flying off the tips of his hair.

He was going to get this shot right even if it killed him.

He'd been working on it all afternoon. Actually, he'd been working on it all month. It was a turnaround jumper from the top of the key. A good fifteen feet from the basket, and he was shooting with his left hand. That's what all the greats could do—shoot with their weak hand and still make the basket. Evan's dad used to say to him: "Work from your weak side, and no one will be able to defend against you."

Evan turned his back to the basket and planted his feet on the painted lines of the driveway. He dribbled once, dribbled twice, dribbled three times, then—like a rocket shooting off its launching pad, he sprang into the air and pivoted his whole body around. Even as his body was falling back to the ground, he got off the shot, falling away from the basket as the ball sailed toward the pole and—

missed.

Sometimes he made it; sometimes he didn't. About one time out of every ten he made the shot. Evan wanted to flip that around so that only one time out of every ten he
missed.
It was a killer shot. If he had that kind of shot in his pocket, he could beat anyone on the court.

Dribble once, dribble twice, dribble three times...

"Hey, Evan."

Evan straightened up and looked toward the street. Megan was riding her bike toward him. She came to a sliding stop, then hopped off her bike before walking it across. Evan shook to get some of the sweat out of his eyes. Then he ducked his head and wiped his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Girls do not like sweat.

"I thought you had a dentist appointment," he said as she pushed her bike onto the driveway.

"It was short. Just a checkup," she said. "Is Jessie still in there?" Megan nodded her head in the direction of the house.

"Yeah. Still getting ready for The Big Day." Evan was dreading the trial. Every fourth-grader was going to be there—on the playground after school tomorrow—and what if Jessie couldn't prove that Scott Spencer was guilty? She wasn't a real lawyer. And could Evan really count on his friends? It seemed like every day this week Paul and Ryan had gone to Scott's house after school. Maybe by the time of the trial, all the guys would be on Scott's side. Evan imagined standing up in front of the whole class and apologizing to Scott. He dribbled the ball, as if he could drum that idea out of his head.

"Wow," said Megan. "She gets kind of like..."

"Obsessed," said Evan. Then again, he thought about what
he'd
been doing all afternoon. How many times had he practiced that shot? One hundred? Two hundred? And he planned to keep going until it got too dark to see the basket. So maybe it ran in the family.

As if she was reading his thoughts, Megan asked, "You been out here the whole time?"

"I'm working on a shot. You want to see?"

Megan shrugged and smiled, and Evan decided that meant yes. He set his feet and started his dribbling rhythm.
Please let it fall, please let it fall, please let it fall,
he said in his head as he bounced the ball on the blacktop.

But it didn't. It
ka-thunked
off the backboard and ricocheted toward the street. Evan had to run fast to save it from rolling into the road.

"That was close," said Megan. "You're really good."

Evan shook his head as he dribbled the ball back to the center of the paint. "Close doesn't count in basketball. You either make the shot or you don't."

"Well, it was better than I could have done," she said. "And I'm the best shooter on my team."

Evan raised his eyebrows. "You play basketball?"

"And soccer," she said. "But I'm better at basketball."

"Really? Can you make a three-pointer?"

Megan laughed. "Sometimes."

"So, let's see," said Evan. He tossed the ball to her, and she dribbled across the driveway so that her feet were just outside the three-point line.

Evan watched as Megan handled the ball, watched the way her ponytail bounced back and forth and her bracelets danced up and down her arm.

"Okay, here goes," she said. "Don't hold your breath, though." She lifted the ball over her head, then sent it sailing through the air like water shooting out of a garden hose. It landed right in the basket.

"Awesome!" said Evan. He scooped up the bouncing ball and made an easy lay-up. "You want to shoot some? We could play HORSE. Or one-on-one, if..." Evan thought about defending against a girl, and his stomach turned over on itself. How did you defend against someone without ever touching them?

"Can't," said Megan, looking down the road. "I'm going over to someone's house."

"Whose?" asked Evan, bouncing the ball back and forth between his legs. He was a pretty good shooter, but he was a great ball handler. When he made it to the pros, he'd probably be a point guard. Sure, they didn't get all the glory, but point guards ruled the court.

Megan waved her hand up the street, but didn't say a name as she strapped on her bike helmet.

Evan stopped dribbling. "Whose house?"

Megan kicked the pedal on her bike so that it spun backwards, the gears making a whirring sound like insects on a summer night. "Scott's. He said I could try out his 20/20."

An elbow to the face, that's how her words felt. Evan squeezed the ball between his hands. "Are you like,
best friends
now?"

Megan gave him a look. "You don't have to be best friends to go to someone's house."

"Yeah, well, it sure looks like everyone is suddenly Scott's best friend." It seemed as if the 20/20 was all anyone talked about anymore. Scott was always the center of attention. And now. Now Megan was going over there, too. Evan scooped up the basketball and threw it hard against the garage door. It made a loud, angry, rattling sound as it hit. He threw it again. "All any of you care about is that stupid 20/20." Suddenly Evan realized that Scott didn't need a lawyer. He already had the best defense in town: the 20/20. Nobody would say Scott was guilty if it meant losing the chance to play with the coolest game system ever invented.

"Oh, c'mon," said Megan. "I bet you're dying to try it out, too."

Evan didn't respond. He just kept banging the ball against the garage door.

Megan pushed off on her bike and called out, "See you in school."

When she was halfway down the street, Evan shouted after her, "See you in
court!
"

bona fide
(
),
adj.
From the Latin, meaning "good faith," genuine, signifying "the real thing."

Jessie was hanging upside down on the Green Machine, her knees hooked over a monkey bar. This, she decided, was going to be the best Friday ever. After school, everyone would gather on the playground for the trial—even Megan, who had talked her mother into leaving later for their trip. Mrs. Overton had already given them permission to use the playground equipment after school. Jessie had her map. She had her note cards. She had practiced her closing argument at least twenty times. Evan had even listened to her practice and had given her some good tips on how to make the speech better.
Today is going to be great,
she thought.

At that moment, Scott Spencer walked over and stuck his face right next to hers.

"My
mom's
going to be my lawyer," he said.

"What?" said Jessie. She grabbed hold of the bar and flipped herself onto the ground. Everybody knew that Scott's mom was a big-time lawyer who worked downtown. Jessie had heard a million times about how fancy her office was. Scott said you could see the whole city from her office window. Sometimes her name was even in the newspaper.

"That's right. My mom. She's going to mop up the floor with you. She's going to bury you alive!"

Jessie squinted her eyes at Scott. "She's taking a day off from work?"

"No," said Scott, sneering at Jessie. "But she said she'd leave early. I told her it was important, and she said she'd be here."

"Well—she—can't," said Jessie, stammering. "It's for kids only. No grownups allowed."

"Are you saying I can't have a lawyer?"

"I didn't say that," said Jessie. But she was stuck, and she knew it. Everybody has the right to legal counsel. It was on page two of "Trial by Jury." It was the law. "Fine," she said, pressing her lips together. "But she'd better not be late."

 

Jessie remembered those words that afternoon as she ran around the playground, madly trying to set up the courtroom so the trial could start on time.

Thank goodness Mrs. Overton had let them use the playground equipment without asking any questions. She had made it clear that it was Evan's responsibility to bring everything back when they were done playing. Even though it was Friday afternoon and school was over for the day, he was still technically the Equipment Manager until Monday morning.

By quarter to three, Jessie had carried all the equipment outside and set up the milk crate under the elm trees, standing it up on end so that it looked like a podium. On top of the crate she placed the pile of index cards that told David Kirkorian
exactly
what he was supposed to say, then she called David over. He was holding a real wooden gavel in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

"Look what I borrowed from my dad," said David, waving the gavel. "It was a gag gift, and he said we could use it."

"What's in there?" asked Jessie, pointing to the bag.

David reached into the bag and pulled out a bunched-up ball of black cloth. He slipped it over his head. The cloth puddled at his feet. "It's my brother's graduation robe," he said. "I know it looks big, but just wait." He stepped behind the podium so that the milk crate covered all the extra fabric dragging on the ground. Jessie had to admit, it made him look like a real judge. And when he banged the gavel on a block of wood he'd brought, Jessie felt maybe she really could count on David Kirkorian to do his part.

In front of the milk crate, Jessie placed two basketballs, one for Evan to sit on and one for Scott. Jessie's "chair" was the dodge ball, and she set it up right next to Evan's. Should she set up the other dodge ball for Scott's mother to sit on? She couldn't imagine a grownup sitting on a ball the way kids did, so she left the second dodge ball in the crate. Off to one side, she stretched out the jump ropes to form a box on the grass where the jurors would sit, and on the other side she put down a squiggly jump rope that marked where the witnesses would stand while they waited to testify. There were only six people in the audience, so Jessie figured that they could just sit behind the three Frisbees that she had carefully placed on the grass.

"It looks great!" said Megan, walking over to Jessie.

Jessie looked around. For the first time, she could actually
see
the courtroom. It wasn't just a picture in her head. It wasn't just a map drawn on a piece of paper. It was a bona fide court. The real deal.

She nodded, a single butterfly tickling the inside of her stomach. "So far, so good."

trial by jury
(
),
n.
A legal proceeding in which the guilt or innocence of a person accused of a crime is decided by a group of his or her peers, rather than by a judge or panel of judges.