Woody did as instructed. He blew a second time, then a third, and when the sergeant was finally satisfied he grabbed the tube and hit another switch.
“How’d I do?” Woody asked, breathing heavily as his heart pounded away.
“Great, kid. Point zero six. Not legally drunk but enough to nail you for underage drinking. Now stand up and turn around.”
Woody got to his feet and the sergeant slapped the handcuffs onto his wrists. He was led from the room and down a hallway where the two detectives were waiting. The sergeant said, “He’s all yours. Point zero six.”
The detectives took him down some stairs to a small windowless room where he was told to sit in a chair and say nothing. They just left him there. He had not seen Tony or Garth since they had driven away from the street. He waited and waited and had no idea of the time. He wanted to call his mother because she would be worried, and he really needed her at that awful moment.
There was no one to help him. A thirteen-year-old kid locked away in the basement of the police station and no one to help.
Tony was in a similar room two doors down, though neither knew where his brother was at the moment. Garth was also in the basement, just down the hall.
Two detectives in plainclothes walked into Garth’s room, closed the door, and pulled chairs up to the narrow table. The first one said, “You’re eighteen years old so we’re treating you like an adult. You ever been arrested before?”
Garth knew it was all a misunderstanding and his father would have it cleared up by sunrise. So, he had nothing to worry about. “Couple of times,” he said without concern. “But nothing serious. Youth Court stuff.”
“This ain’t Youth Court, son. This is the real thing. We need to ask you some questions.”
“Okay, but don’t you have to read me my rights, like they always do on television?”
“Sure. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. And you have the right to an attorney. Understand?”
“Don’t I get a phone call? I really want to call my dad.”
“Later. Where did you get the pistol?”
“What pistol?”
The second detective pulled out a clear plastic bag and laid it on the table. He said, “Looks just like a nine millimeter Ruger. Could’ve fooled me. Certainly fooled the guy at the convenience store.”
“Where’d you get it?” the first detective asked again.
“The kid gave it to me. It’s his. What—you think I go around shooting water pistols? It’s the kid’s.”
“Woody’s?”
“Sure. Not mine.”
Garth believed that if he and Tony stuck together and blamed it all on Woody, a thirteen-year-old kid, then they could walk away free as birds and nothing much would happen to Woody. Anyway, it was just a little fun and games and his father would handle it soon enough.
“Who planned the robbery?” the second detective asked.
“I really want to talk to my dad. He’ll get a lawyer. If that’s okay?”
“Whose idea was it to rob the convenience store?”
“No one’s. You see, it really wasn’t a robbery because it was just a water pistol. It was sort of a joke, you know? This is all one big misunderstanding and my dad and his lawyer will clear up everything. You guys need to relax a little.”
“So it was your idea?”
“Look, you said I could remain silent, right? And that I can have a lawyer. Okay, I want to call my dad and he’ll bring in a lawyer.”
“How much money did you take?”
“I’m not talking anymore.”
The detectives finally left the room. They chatted briefly in the hallway, then entered the room where young Woody was waiting, terrified by now.
They sat down, both scowling as if they were about to interrogate a serial killer, and the first one said, “We’ve talked to your brother Tony and your pal Garth. Both of them swear that the pistol belongs to you.”
Woody felt like he’d been hit in the head with a brick. “What?” he managed to say, in shock. His jaw dropped and his eyes watered, and he looked at the first detective in total disbelief. Why would Tony say something like that? Why would both of them lie to the police and try to pin the blame on him?
“You heard me, kid,” the first detective said. “Your buddies are saying it’s your gun.”
“It’s just a water pistol.”
“The guy at the store didn’t think so. Under our law it’s armed robbery. Twenty plus years for your two buddies, off to the juvenile joint for you. But if you tell us the truth, we’ll lean on the judge to cut you some slack. Know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“We know the judge, he knows us. If you tell us everything, we can put in a good word with him and you’ll get off light.”
“What do you want to know?” Woody asked slowly. Something told him not to say too much to the police, but then he was terrified at the moment and wanted to help.
“Whose gun is it?”
“Garth’s. Tony and I never saw it until he came back to the car. We didn’t go into the store. Look at the security cameras. We had no idea what Garth was doing. He just wanted some more beer, and so he drove to the store, told us to wait for a minute, went inside, came back with a case of beer, and after we were driving away he pulled out the pistol and laughed about robbing the guy. That’s what happened. I swear. Tony and I knew nothing.”
“How long had you guys been drinking beer?”
“I don’t know. Tony and I delivered pizza, then bumped into Garth. I knew it was a mistake to go cruising with him. He had some beer and really wanted me to drink some. I can’t stand the stuff, but I was trying to, you know, be cool, like the big guys.”
Woody’s voice cracked and his lip quivered.
The detectives exchanged looks. The first one said, “Cool like the big guys. We see it all the time. That’ll get you some jail time.”
Daisy Lambert turned into her driveway at 11:15, and she immediately noticed that Tony’s little blue truck was not parked where it was supposed to be. It wasn’t there. The house was completely dark, not a single light in any window. The boys always waited for her to get home from work before they went to bed.
For a moment, she sat in her car and prayed that nothing was wrong, then got out. Inside the house, she found nothing—not a note, not a sign of either son. She had called and texted both of them driving home. Neither responded, but that was not that unusual. Often, late at night, the boys ignored their phones.
She turned on lights, called them again, and fixed a pot of coffee. It was probably going to be a long night.
She called her husband, who was two hours away with his work crew, woke him up, and told him the boys were not home. They were not his boys, but rather his stepsons, and there was nothing he could do at that moment. He suggested she call the police.
The minutes passed slowly, and Daisy sat in the den with a cup of coffee and watched the front yard. She prayed that any minute the little blue truck would arrive and her boys would be safe. She wanted to see headlights. It was midnight now and there was no traffic on their narrow street at the edge of Strattenburg. The next lights would be her boys, she just knew it.
At midnight, she called the police station but no one there had ever heard of the Lambert boys. She tried to sit in the den again but was too anxious. She poured another cup and went for a drive around town, looking for Tony’s truck, looking for red and blue lights at the scene of some terrible car wreck, looking for any sign of them, and waiting for her phone to ring. She stopped by Santo’s but it was closed.
After roaming through the empty streets for an hour, she saw two police cars in the parking lot of a motel. Their lights were on, their engines running, the policemen sharing some late night gossip. She parked nearby and nervously approached the two cars. She asked for their help. She explained her situation, and, in tears, asked if they could do anything. The policemen said sure and
called the dispatcher on his radio. Within minutes word came back that the Lambert boys were in custody.
And charged with armed robbery.
When Daisy arrived at the city jail she found her way to the night desk where the dispatcher was drinking coffee while waiting on 911 calls and radio reports from the patrol cars. A night clerk sat at a nearby table and asked what she wanted. She identified herself and said that her two sons were in jail, and she was there to take them home. The night clerk frowned and asked her to have a seat across the room in a row of old plastic chairs. There was no one else around at that hour. She sat down and began chewing her nails, a nervous habit that kept her from crying, though she had cried all the way to the station.
Armed robbery? There must be some mistake. Random thoughts raced through her mind and she couldn’t control them. None were good. Smoking pot, drinking beer, driving while drunk, fighting, maybe shoplifting or petty theft—these were the small crimes that she might have expected. Sure, they were bad enough, but a lot of kids got in trouble for them and most survived.
But armed robbery? To her knowledge, Tony did not own a gun. He was only seventeen! Her husband—the boys’ stepfather—was not a hunter and did not keep rifles in the house. He owned two pistols that she knew of. One he kept hidden in their closet for self-defense and the other he kept in the glove box in his truck. The boys had never touched either weapon. How would Tony get a gun? Then, why would he use it to rob someone? And why would he involve his little brother?
The thought of Woody sitting in a jail cell broke her heart again and she began to cry, as softly as possible.