S is for Suspect

“What!” the Judge yelled “You thieving bastards!”

Spud ran like hell while I froze, the letterbox still in hand. It had been my idea to steal the Judge’s letterbox but I still felt stitched up by the fast diminishing body that was Spud – disappearing around a corner. On the other hand– he did get away. Good. I wonder if the Judge even saw his face. He may have gotten away with it altogether.

“You stay right there boy!” The Judge growled as he grumbled his way down his stairs. An orchestra of complaints squeaked out from both the old fart and his weather-beaten porch steps. They were both so old.

My brain was going mental.

“Run!” screamed one part

“I can’t. My legs don’t move” replied the other.

“What?! Of course they work… RUN! He’s nearly here RUNRUNRUN!!!!”

My legs agitated. Unfrozen I nearly ran but the Judge was in front of me. No doubt I could out run him. But he’d seen my face. His body was betraying him but his mind was still whippet quick.

He hadn’t served for about 5 years now but he was often called upon by lawyers, grad students and journalists for advice, sound-bites and just the privilege of being near him. He was smart and he knew the law. But he was also a prick and a terrible driver. And he’d smashed Spud’s mum’s letterbox and driven on.

Because there were no witnesses except Spud, no-one had believed him that it was the Judge who had veered off the road, onto the pavement, smashing a letterbox and mutilating an agapanthus bush. Or they had believed, but weighed up the battle of going against one of the sharpest legal minds for the sake of a letterbox. It was easier for everyone to believe that Spud had tried driving his mother’s car and he had caused the damage. The police let him off with a warning.

Spud’s mum – Cat – believed Spud and pointed out that she had always hated the bush so there was no harm there. But it was a bother about the letterbox. Especially as they are expensive – more than you’d think they should be. So that night while watching Rob Zombie music videos, we had bitched about how screwed up the world was and decided that vigilante justice was the only way forward.

So there I stood, letterbox in hand with a slightly overweight, elderly, liver-spotted legal shark shuffling towards me. I could see he was sizing me up and that’s when I realised my secret weapon.

I look good.

I’m not good looking. I certainly wouldn’t say that. The other gay boys at school would also attest to that, I think. BUT – I look “good”. I am that boy that parents sigh with relief when their children bring them home. Slightly tall, clean haircut, mostly clean skin, tidy well-fitting clothes that don’t hide or show off my body. My easy smile and large brown eyes – adults can’t help but trust me.

“Ok don’t run” my brain had reached a solution.

The Judge finally stopped in front of me.

“Do you have a hammer sir?” I asked. Obviously cutting him off from some well-rehearsed speech he had formulated on his long walk down his 4-metre driveway. The Judge blinked in confusion.

“Hi, my name is Alex” I shifted the letterbox and held out my hand. My name is not Alex. The Judge shook it maintaining his confused knitted brows. “I found this lying on the ground here and I’ve just helped my Dad put his letterbox up so I thought I could hone my new skills”

I maintained the eye contact and smile but the Judge was calculating the situation.

“What happened to your friend?” he snarled

“Friend?” I hoped I looked properly bewildered and wasn’t overdoing it.

“The one that ran off. Where’s he? Why did he run hmmm?” The Judge leaned in and peered deep into my eyes. These eyes had looked into the dark souls of some true scumbags. I wondered how I stacked up against them.

“Friend?” I repeated “Run away?” I looked down the street, the opposite way to where Spud had run. I shrugged. “It’s really just me. I’m walking back from my friends’ just a couple of blocks that way,” I waved my hand behind me “then I found your letterbox like this…” and held it up for the Judge to see.

Spud and I had only just pulled the letterbox and post it was attached to out of the ground. The plan had been to carry the entire thing back to Spuds then set it into his front yard with some quick dry cement we had found in his shed. Paint it a different colour and there you have it – justice.

That had been the plan at least.

Now instead I was holding the letterbox up to the Judge’s face. He barely looked at the hardware and just maintained his scrutiny on my face. I looked away – it was getting too much having him look at me like that.

“…anyway…I was going to put it back up for you…but sorry…it’s your yard. I don’t want to step on your toes. Here” In a flash of brilliance I bodily shoved the letterbox at the Judge who inhaled sharply in surprise. He kept his balance but only just. I stood there watching him feebly struggling to hold the letterbox with one hand and keep himself upright with his walking stick in the other hand. He had a sharp terror in his eyes.

This was his life.

Holding a 4kg letterbox and post was a mighty battle. One he was about to lose. Just as he was about to topple over, I grabbed back the letterbox and steadied him easily. The relief on his face was tangible.

“I’ve got it” I assured him and gave him a wink. Shit I hope it wasn’t too much. Ah well, he didn’t seem to notice.

I jammed the letterbox back into the hole I had only just pulled it out of.

“A hammer would really drive it home” I said and could see he was still a bit shaken from his near fall. “Are your tools in here?” I asked motioning at the garage door at the end of the driveway, next to the porch. Without waiting for a reply, I put the letterbox down and strode down to the garage. Pulling at the handle, I was not surprised to feel it immediately give. Turtle Bay residents were crazy in how much they trusted each other. Hardly any doors were locked. Didn’t they know that psychopaths could literally be anywhere?!

“Now what are you up to young man?” The Judge had not moved but his wits were back and his voice as strong as ever. I pretended not to hear him and walked down his workbench. Not a lot of tools, just the essentials. And a lot of dust. Definitely the workspace of a man who used his brains more than his hands.

Why not use both I thought to myself as I picked up the hammer.