Free Juvenile Delinquent by Richard Deming Page A

Him and my Bart was friends since grammar school. How could he do a thing like that to Bart?”
    “You convinced he did, Mrs. Meyers?”
    She turned slightly glazed eyes at me. “He was caught right there, wasn’t he? And I know something even the police don’t know. Bart’s girl friend told me this morning. Stella Quint. Bart and Joe met to have a fight last night.”
    “I knew that too,” I admitted. “But that sounds worse than it is. I’ve gotten a pretty good briefing on the Purple Pelicans from one of its members, and there didn’t seem to be any animosity about these arranged fights for leadership. They were a standard part of club procedure, following definite rules of honor just as duels used to in the old days. The contestants weren’t necessarily mad at each other. Maybe it sounds silly, but I have an idea both boys still regarded the other as a friend when they arranged the fight, and would have continued friends afterward regardless of the outcome.”
    When she made no reply whatever, I said, “If Joe is innocent, you wouldn’t want him punished, would you?”
    She shook her head. “Of course not.”
    “But you would want the real killer punished, wouldn’t you?”
    Her face turned directly toward me. In a suddenly vicious tone she said, “I been a widow fifteen years, Mr. Moon. I was left at only twenty with a two-year-old baby. He’s all I had this whole time. I’ve worked like a dog in hash houses and doing laundry and even scrubbing floors to bring him up and get him through high-school. Twice we was even on relief. Lots of times Bart wanted to quit school and get a job so we could live better, but I made him stick it out. One more year and he’d of graduated and been able to get a start in life. He wasn’t always a good boy, but he was better than some, and of late he’d been getting over some of his wild ideas and starting to settle down. He’d of made a success in life. He’d of gotten a better job than I ever had, or his old man had, or his old man’s father ever had. He’d of married some nice girl like Stella Quint and raised a family in some
nice
part of town. He’d of done everything I’ve dreamed for him, if only he’d had a chance. Somebody ruined all that. They killed a boy who never did nobody any real harm, and they canceled out fifteen years of slaving and starving I did. I might as well of drowned him at two and had a good time for myself and maybe got married again. Whoever did it, I hope he burns. And that includes Joe Brighton, even if he is your friend.”
    “Joe has a parent who loves him too,” I said gently. “And I don’t think Joe killed your son.”
    Her bitterness expired and she said wearily, “I don’t wish no harm to anybody but the killer. I always liked Joe before this happened, and I’d be glad if he was really innocent. I’ll help you any way I can.”
    “Fine,” I said. “It might help if you happened to know of any enemies your son had.”
    Bart didn’t have any enemies, she assured me positively. Everybody liked him. Once on the subject, she seemed to have a compulsion to keep talking about it, and words literally spilled from her. It was like a funeral dirge; all the memories which must have been going through her mind ever since she heard her son was dead gushed forth in a monotonous and hopeless chant. I listened without interrupting to the story of the boy’s life from the time he began to walk until the final evening he left the house.
    As she talked I gradually formed an impression of the boy which was at considerable variance with the previous picture I had had of a tough juvenile gang leader. Granted that it was a mother’s-eye view, and further sugar coated because fresh grief always makes people recall the virtues and forget the vices of loved ones, it was still rather surprising. Even after discounting a good portion of the panegyric, Bart Meyers took shape in my mind as a basically nice kid.
    He had always been an