my handsuntil they caught. Then I hauled myself up, hand over hand. A man doesn’t need legs for that.
That’s when I started talking. And I didn’t stop until I’d blocked those termites with my sworn promise that the DA would never lose that trial.
I promised him that by the time they held that trial Tory-boy would be a witness, too. Nobody would doubt anything a child like Tory-boy said—they’d know he couldn’t make up a lie if he wanted to.
I even told the DA he could test it for himself. Give me a couple of months to work with my baby brother. Then he could ask Tory-boy anything he wanted. If he didn’t like the answers, he could make whatever deal with the Beast he wanted to.
The DA, he was an important man. Not just a lawyer, the prosecutor over the whole county. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw just what I expected to see.
I think maybe that was the first time I realized the full truth about how having your place in the world was the only thing that could keep you safe.
For as long as people needed you, you were safe from them.
For that long, and no longer.
he DA had Tory-boy tested. They let me be there while they did it—they knew they couldn’t leave him in a room with a bunch of strangers and expect much more out of him than throwing a fit. And even at his age, nobody wanted to be around Tory-boy when he went off.
The social workers and the psychologists wrote reports. They all said the same thing. They sometimes used different terms, but “developmentally delayed” was their clear favorite.
That just means slow, not stupid. No reason in the world why Tory-boy couldn’t do the same things other children did, he’d just always be a little behind his years, and he’d never catch up.
Although he tested out to have a mental age of about five, Tory-boy was almost nine at the time. So first they had to hold this little trial—I think they called it a “hearing” because there was no jury there—to see if he’d be allowed to testify at all.
The judge was real clear about that—it wasn’t the age of the witness that mattered; it was whether he knew the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie. And whether he knew it was wrong to tell a lie.
Some children were so young that, no matter how smart they might turn out to be later in life, they couldn’t do those things. A two-year-old, you wouldn’t expect he could do that.
But a five-year-old, he could. So, even if Tory-boy was behind other kids his own age, he might be allowed to testify. That’s what we were all there to find out.
The Beast’s lawyers only had a couple of hours to break Tory-boy. They’d’ve had a better chance of digging a mine shaft with their bare hands.
Two hours, when I’d had every other hour of his life to teach him what he needed to know. Passing school tests wasn’t my concern; I just had to teach my little brother how to answer the kind of questions that I knew were going to be asked. The DA gave me some transcripts to study first, so it was even easier.
It wasn’t about memorizing. I had Tory-boy’s total, absolute trust. If I told him he had seen something happen, he
had
seen something happen.
He looked so magnificent in court, sitting up straight, handsome and proud. What he was proud of was that he knew the answers I’d taught him—I was the only person in the world he’d ever wanted to please.
“A lie is when you say something that isn’t true,” he spoke right up, clear and confident.
One of the Beast’s lawyers—the older one—tried to trip up Tory-boy by asking a long, complicated question. But Tory-boy was ready for him. He remembered what I’d taught him to say, and he’d die before any old man in a suit could make him say different.
“Well, then,” the Beast’s lawyer asked, “how do you know when something isn’t true?”
“A truth is what is real. If something really happened, and you say what really happened, you’re telling the
That’s when I started talking. And I didn’t stop until I’d blocked those termites with my sworn promise that the DA would never lose that trial.
I promised him that by the time they held that trial Tory-boy would be a witness, too. Nobody would doubt anything a child like Tory-boy said—they’d know he couldn’t make up a lie if he wanted to.
I even told the DA he could test it for himself. Give me a couple of months to work with my baby brother. Then he could ask Tory-boy anything he wanted. If he didn’t like the answers, he could make whatever deal with the Beast he wanted to.
The DA, he was an important man. Not just a lawyer, the prosecutor over the whole county. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw just what I expected to see.
I think maybe that was the first time I realized the full truth about how having your place in the world was the only thing that could keep you safe.
For as long as people needed you, you were safe from them.
For that long, and no longer.
he DA had Tory-boy tested. They let me be there while they did it—they knew they couldn’t leave him in a room with a bunch of strangers and expect much more out of him than throwing a fit. And even at his age, nobody wanted to be around Tory-boy when he went off.
The social workers and the psychologists wrote reports. They all said the same thing. They sometimes used different terms, but “developmentally delayed” was their clear favorite.
That just means slow, not stupid. No reason in the world why Tory-boy couldn’t do the same things other children did, he’d just always be a little behind his years, and he’d never catch up.
Although he tested out to have a mental age of about five, Tory-boy was almost nine at the time. So first they had to hold this little trial—I think they called it a “hearing” because there was no jury there—to see if he’d be allowed to testify at all.
The judge was real clear about that—it wasn’t the age of the witness that mattered; it was whether he knew the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie. And whether he knew it was wrong to tell a lie.
Some children were so young that, no matter how smart they might turn out to be later in life, they couldn’t do those things. A two-year-old, you wouldn’t expect he could do that.
But a five-year-old, he could. So, even if Tory-boy was behind other kids his own age, he might be allowed to testify. That’s what we were all there to find out.
The Beast’s lawyers only had a couple of hours to break Tory-boy. They’d’ve had a better chance of digging a mine shaft with their bare hands.
Two hours, when I’d had every other hour of his life to teach him what he needed to know. Passing school tests wasn’t my concern; I just had to teach my little brother how to answer the kind of questions that I knew were going to be asked. The DA gave me some transcripts to study first, so it was even easier.
It wasn’t about memorizing. I had Tory-boy’s total, absolute trust. If I told him he had seen something happen, he
had
seen something happen.
He looked so magnificent in court, sitting up straight, handsome and proud. What he was proud of was that he knew the answers I’d taught him—I was the only person in the world he’d ever wanted to please.
“A lie is when you say something that isn’t true,” he spoke right up, clear and confident.
One of the Beast’s lawyers—the older one—tried to trip up Tory-boy by asking a long, complicated question. But Tory-boy was ready for him. He remembered what I’d taught him to say, and he’d die before any old man in a suit could make him say different.
“Well, then,” the Beast’s lawyer asked, “how do you know when something isn’t true?”
“A truth is what is real. If something really happened, and you say what really happened, you’re telling the
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