Bobby has no feelings. He will laugh at others’ pain, and cause pain for the laughs. He has dark hair that will shake with every chuckle, and a moustache that will mock you as you crumple to the floor. Bobby’s eyes will deceive you, for they are as merry as Saint Nick’s but will taunt you as you crumple to the fetal position.
      Bobby grabbed Tom with a huge hand and shoved him up on a locker. Tom’s face was filled with fear as he failed to breathe. His dark hair swayed with every shake from Bobby. Tom’s blue eyes pleaded for help in every direction. When no one came to his aid, he gave in and reached for the money kept in his pocket.
      “Here! Take it, it’s all I’ve got,” Tom pleaded, holding out the cash.
      “Good choice, punk,” Bobby replied with one last shove for effect.
      That’s how days started at Barkley Middle School. This happened so frequently there began a rotation of kids who gave their money freely. However when they were absent, kids like Tom took the beating. If a kid was absent the first person Bobby saw was the one who gave their lunch money.
      Tom got up and turned to the classroom nearest him. The door happened to be on the left, just past the bulletin board that Bobby vandalized every day. In front of the bulletin board was Tom’s locker, the one that he had been shoved against. On the right were another classroom and some more lockers.
      Tom stepped into Mrs. Thompson’s room. It was a big, square room; Tom knew it was exactly square because of a project for math. On the left wall was a blackboard that Mrs. Thompson was erasing for her next class. In front of Tom was a set of windows that were big enough to illuminate the whole room. On the right was a set of posters with example math problems on them. On the wall that Tom was standing near was a set of couches, beat up from the fights over them. In the center there were about 5 rows of benches and desks.
      Tom walked to the couch and sat down. He wondered if he should tell Mrs. Thompson about Bobby. He was still pondering when the bell rang. Tom’s hands went directly for his ears. His aching ears could barely handle noise. All the kids ran into the room.
      Mrs. Thompson turned, and, for what had to be the fiftieth time, Tom examined her. She had straight blonde hair that flowed down her shoulders. She had glasses that added a twinkle to her sea blue eyes. Her smile showed teeth that were as white as snow, and lips as red as roses. It was obvious why every boy had a crush on Mrs. Thompson.
      In Mrs. Thompson’s class everyone got an “A” because everyone paid attention to her, even Bobby. Half the kids in the school had asked Mrs. Thompson out; the other half were girls. Mrs. Thompson, of course, turned down all those offers.
      As soon as Mrs. Thompson started to talk, the P.A. system turned on and the principal’s voice was heard.
      “Bobby Sloan, please come to the office,“ the principal said, “And don't try to run; you’re surrounded,”
      Bobby didn’t do anything; he just sat there until Mrs. Thompson yelled at him.
      “Bobby, when the principal calls you to the office, you go,” she said. Bobby reluctantly got up and walked out. Class continued as if that hadn’t happened at all.
      
      The next morning Bobby wasn’t at school. The next day was the same story, and the next. After about a week without Bobby, Tom started to wonder what had happened. Tom decided that if Bobby weren’t there the next day he would talk to the principal and find out if he would be free from Bobby’s grasp forever.
      It just happened that there was no need for Tom to go to the principal for the answer; he heard this on the radio instead:  
      “Bill, have you been following the Bobby Sloan story?” The first announcer asked.
      “No, John, I haven’t. I’ve been so caught up in everything else,” Bill answered.
      “Well, an eighth grader was arrested for murder and was taken into custody and is going to be on trial next Friday,” John said.
      “Really,” Bill said, “That’s amazing.”
      
      Tom heard this as he was washing the dishes in his green kitchen. As Tom finished, he saw his dad out of the corner of his eye. He walked over to him. His dad was sitting on the green couch, set up against the green wall. Tom stepped across the green carpet.
      Tom walked up to his dad.
      “Dad, I’m going to go to court tomorrow,” Tom said, “I want to see the kid who bullied me at school get thrown in jail.”
      Tom didn’t even ask to go, because ever since a car hit his mom five years ago Tom’s dad had let him do whatever he wanted. Tom had had no broken bones before his mom died, now the total was about five.
      “Alright. But act like you’re hoping he is innocent, otherwise he’ll hurt you even more at school.” His dad’s reply shook Tom back to the real world.
      “Oh, yeah, okay, sure.”
      
      Friday rolled around, and Tom strolled into the courtroom. The first thing he noticed was the wood gate in the middle of the room. The gate separated the people watching from the lawyers and judges. Past the gate, on the left, was a set of wood stands for the jury. The room was almost entirely made of wood.
      Tom sat in one of the wood seats. The trial was about to begin. Tom looked up at the judge. He was blond and muscular. He looked like he was about thirty to thirty-four. He had a pointy chin and a long nose. Tom watched him move a muscular, but shaky hand to the gavel. His hazel eyes spotted the security guards escorting Bobby to his seat.
      The hearing started. First, the prosecutor stood up and presented his opening statement: “Your honor, we believe Bobby Sloan murdered George Whitcomb at 8:30 AM on Monday the 6th.”
      The defense attorney said, in turn: “Your honor, my client is not guilty.”
      “The prosecution may call its first witness,” the judge said.
      “May we call to the stand Mrs. Angelina Whitcomb,” the prosecutor said. Angelina, as it appeared to be, walked up in tears to the witness box.
      “Angelina, please state your relationship with the victim,” the prosecuting lawyer said.
      “I,” she let out a few sniffles, “was his mom.” 
      “And had the defendant contacted your son before the murder?” asked the lawyer.
      “Yes, they were arguing about money. I think George owed Bobby some money,” she answered.
      “Do you think Bobby Sloan could have killed your son?” asked the lawyer.
      “Yes! I know he did,” she said, choking on tears, “He is a murderer.”
      “Your honor I have no more questions,” the lawyer finished.
      “We will take a recess before the defendant responds,” replied the judge.
      
      Tom was amazed at everything that had happened. He loved the drama and sorrow. It was like a book. He wanted to be a part of it, a lawyer. He loved the sound of the gavel that calmed everyone. It was an amazing experience.
      Tom thought about everything, like the opening statements and the witness discussion. Then Tom paused; he thought about the opening statement from the prosecutor: “Your honor, we believe Bobby Sloan murdered George Whitcomb at 8:30 AM on Monday the 6th.” Tom thought something sounded familiar about it. Then Tom remembered: Bobby was beating up Tom at that time; there was no way Bobby could have killed George.
      Tom walked up to the gate and started to talk to Bobby.
      “Bobby, you’re actually innocent,” Tom said.
      “Wait, can you prove it?” Bobby’s lawyer asked.
      “No, not yet, but he is my school’s bully, and he was beating me up at that time,” Tom replied.
      “We need hard evidence to win this case,” the lawyer said. “I think I can bring you on as a legal consultant, if you want,” the lawyer said with a pleading look.
      “This guy bullied me, I’m not sure I want to.”
      “Please, I beg you,” the lawyer asked.
      “Fine, give me your list of witnesses,” Tom said crossing the gate.
      “Here, the name’s Ted by the way.”
      Tom took the witness list and scanned it. He saw one name that interested him.
      “This guy,” he said. Tom chose someone named Terry Johnson. Terry was a tall man, with big round spectacles. His eyes were as brown as chocolate. His nose was soft, and his smile was always shown. Tom chose Terry because he was listed as the one who said he saw Bobby murder George.
      The time for the defendant to present evidence came, and Tom, not Bobby’s lawyer, stood up to speak. Tom called Terry as a witness and started asking questions.
      “So, Terry, you witnessed the murder, correct?” asked Tom.
      “OBJECTION!” called out the prosecutor, “This boy is not of age to ask.”
      “Your honor I am up here because it would be much easier than if I were in the stands whispering the questions to the defendant’s lawyer,” Tom said.
      “Carry on then,” replied the judge. The prosecutor sat down angrily.
      “Now, Terry, answer the question,” Tom continued.
      “Yes, it was near the school. I saw Bobby shoot George with a Smith and Wesson 9mm,” answered Terry.
      “And how would one get a Smith and Wesson 9mm?” Tom asked.
      Terry was getting very excited. “Online, at a special website that isn’t very common,” Terry answered.
      “At what time did you buy the murder weapon?”
      “On Tuesday last fa- wait, crap.” The bodyguard took out his handcuffs and cuffed Terry.
      “Bobby Sloan is found not guilty and is free to go,” the judge said. The crowd stood up and applauded. Tom went to see Bobby after the trial. They had a very long conversation, which would take hours to read about. Bobby agreed never to hurt anyone at school ever again. On the way out, Tom was bombarded by the press and felt extremely proud of himself. He answered some questions, but stopped after he decided he really must get home for dinner.
      
      After the trial, Bobby held his promise to Tom and never hurt anyone again. Tom’s experience was life changing, and he went on to become one of the greatest lawyers in history. Bobby became a bodybuilder, using his massive strength to make a living. Tom is currently retired and living in Boston with his wife, Julia Thompson, and their three kids. Terry is in jail for life.



Tom, 6-8, P.1