Al Capone Does My Shirts by Gennifer Choldenko Page B

the great city of San Francisco should suffer the indignity of a maximum security federal penitentiary in its midst without being subject to these sorts of sick and dangerous shenanigans. I am appalled by the extremely poor taste and unseemly behavior of your daughter and her friends. I certainly hope you take greater care in monitoring the activities of your prisoners than you do in watching your own flesh and blood.
    Out of courtesy to you and your long and distinguished association with my brother, Judge Thomas Thornboy, and the San Francisco Rotary Club, I am addressing this letter to you in confidence. But if I should hear anything of this nature again, my next letter will go directly to the San Francisco Chronicle and the mayor’s office, respectively.
    Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.
     
    Sincerely,
Mrs. Del S. Peabody III.
     
    It’s so silent in the room, I can hear the air go in and out of people’s noses. Warden Williams folds his glasses and returns them to his jacket pocket.
    “Let’s start with some explanations. Annie Bomini?”
    Annie’s face is so red, it makes her eyebrows look almost white. Her shoulders are slumped and her leg is twitching. Her homework is still clutched against her chest like her arm is permanently stuck that way. “I didn’t sell the shirts. I put them through with our laundry. It was Piper’s idea.”
    The warden’s eyebrows wag. He rolls his tongue over his teeth. “The one thing I’ve never had patience for is a person who blames someone else to lessen her own culpability. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am to see you behave this way, young lady.” The warden stares Annie down. “Piper speaks so highly of you.”
    “She’s not usually like this, Daddy.” Piper lowers her voice and steps closer to her father.
    “Like what?” I ask. “She said the truth.”
    Jimmy stands up. “Yep,” he says, and sits down again.
    The warden looks like someone has poked a pick in his side. His hand shakes. He steadies himself on the bookshelf and then his eyes go cold and hard like something sealed in ice.
    “Apparently I can’t trust you children any more than I can hardened criminals. Well, fine. I’ll handle this like I would an uprising in the cell house. All of you will be punished without exception.”
    “Even me?” Theresa’s voice is quavering.
    “Theresa didn’t do anything, sir,” Jimmy mumbles.
    “Neither did Moose,” Theresa says.
    “One dollar and six cents. One dollar and six cents. Two pennies left over,” Natalie says.
    “What?” The warden looks from Jimmy to Theresa to Natalie.
    “Shh, Nat,” I say.
    “Two pennies left over. Two pennies left over,” Natalie says like someone is arguing with her math.
    “What is she talking about?” the warden roars.
    “That’s the amount left over,” I say.
    “Left over from what?”
    “From what they earned,” Theresa says in a tiny voice.
    “EARNED?” the warden barks. “Don’t tell me this is about money! Money changed hands in this shenanigan?”
    No one says anything, but the quiet is clearly an answer. The warden looks at each of us. “Let’s have it. Right here.” He pounds his desk. “Every last cent.”
    Annie reaches in her pocket and pulls out her coins. Then Jimmy. Piper doesn’t move.
    Warden Williams looks at me.
    “I didn’t earn any money, sir,” I say.
    He glances at the pile of coins, mostly nickels.
    “Why do you think they’re locked up?” He cocks his head in the direction of the cell house. “Why do you suppose, Mr. Flanagan?”
    “They, uh . . .” I swallow hard. “Broke the laws.”
    The warden ignores me. He waits. “That’s right. Money motivated most of ’em. Is that how you want to end up?”
    “No, sir,” Annie and I say in unison.
    “I wasn’t born yesterday, you aren’t the first kids to break rules, but you will be the last children on this island to ever do anything like this again. There is nothing about this to be