“Dad's just got to work on his self-control,” I added.

“Are you ever afraid of him?”

I burst out laughing, it was such a lame question.

“Afraid of my dad? You serious?”

“Well, Noah, you've got to admit,” Miles Umlatt said, “his behavior has been erratic. Unpredictable, I mean.”

I knew perfectly well what “erratic” meant.

“Dad wouldn't hurt a flea,” I said firmly.

“But would he hurt a human who would hurt a flea?”

That's when Mom breezed in to refill Miles Umlatt's coffee cup, or at least that was her excuse.

“How's it going, fellas?” she asked.

“Just fine, Mrs. Underwood,” said Miles Umlatt. “Noah's a bright young man.”

I felt like sticking my finger down my throat. Mom flashed her fake-polite smile and said, “Yes, we're very proud of him.”

She hung around for a while, making small talk, until the phone rang in the kitchen. As soon as we were alone again, Miles Umlatt leaned forward and said, “Noah, what can you tell me about the incident with Derek Mays?”

“Not much.” I was sure he already knew the whole story. Everybody in the Upper Keys did. And what he didn't know he could have found out from the Coast Guard files.

“Derek says he was afraid for his life,” Miles Umlatt said.

“Maybe he was just afraid of getting busted.”

Here's what my dad said had happened: He was out bonefishing with two doctors from New Jersey when he spotted Derek Mays stringing a gill net near Little Rabbit Key. Gill nets were outlawed years ago in Florida because they kill everything that gets tangled, not just the baitfish but sharks, reds, snook, tarpon, turtles-you name it, it dies. To make things worse, the island where Derek Mays was poaching was deep in Everglades National Park, which is totally protected. Or supposed to be.

When he spotted my father, Derek hauled in the gill net and made a run for it. Dad's skiff is super quick, and it didn't take long for him to catch up. Derek refused to stop, so my father leaped right into his boat. Then it turned into a wrestling match and things got ugly. By the time the park rangers arrived, Dad had wrapped up Derek in his own net, like a big dumb mullet.

But here's the part that really got to me: Not a darn thing happened to Derek because none of the rangers actually witnessed what he was doing at Little Rabbit. Meanwhile, Dad gets accused of, like, assault, and then the government takes away his captain's license because (they said) he “endangered” the lives of his customers by chasing after Derek at high speed. Of course, the two doctors on Dad's boat said they'd never had so much fun, but that didn't count for squat with the Coast Guard.

Which is why my father had to start driving a cab.

Miles Umlatt said, “There seems to be a pattern to these episodes, wouldn't you say?”

“It's not like it happens every day,” I said.

The guy was definitely getting on my nerves. I was sort of annoyed at my father for choosing me to be the one for the interview. The only reason, I knew, was that Mom had refused to do it.

“Let's talk about what happened to the Coral Queen,” said Miles Umlatt, and he droned through that whole story. He told me that Dusty Muleman denied flushing polluted water from his gambling boat, which was no big surprise. Why would he ever admit to the crime?

“He threatened to sue your father for slander,” Miles Umlatt said.

“What's that?”

“Saying something bad about a person that isn't true.”

“Dad doesn't lie,” I said. “He might do some crazy stuff, but he always tells the truth.”

“Are you proud of him, Noah?”

That was a tricky one. I wasn't proud that my dad was sitting in jail, but I knew he was a good person. Even when he flies off the handle, at least he's fighting for something close to his heart. Too many people these days, they just turn their backs or close their eyes, pretending everything is wonderful in the world. Well, it's not.

“I am proud of my father,” I said to Miles Umlatt, “for standing up for what he believes. But, like I said, once in a while he goes too far.”

Miles Umlatt jotted down every word. “Your dad said he considers himself a political prisoner. Would you agree with that?”

Political prisoner? I thought. Give me a break. I knew Mom wasn't eavesdropping, because she would have blown a fuse.

“I don't know much about politics,” I said carefully, “but he's definitely a prisoner.”

Miles Umlatt seemed to think that was very funny. He wrote it down, closed his notebook, and switched off his tape recorder.

“Thank you, Noah. That was perfect,” he said. Then he shook my hand and skittered out the front door.

My mother was still on the phone in the kitchen. She gave me a thumbs-up signal when I came in to grab some cookies. On the way to my room I stopped outside Abbey's doorway and listened. She was crying, which got me worried because my sister hardly ever cries.

I opened the door to check on her. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with a box of Kleenex on her lap and a pile of pink crumpled-up tissues on the floor. I could tell she was really upset because she didn't holler at me for barging in without knocking.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“It's Mom,” she sniffled.

“But I just saw her. She seemed okay.”

Abbey shook her head. “That lawyer. Sh-Sh-Shine.” She was trying to catch her breath between sobs.

“What about him? He won't take Dad's case?”

“W-w-worse,” Abbey stammered. “I heard Mom ask him…”

Here she paused to snatch another tissue and dab at her eyes.

“Ask him what?” I said impatiently.

“She d-d-didn't know I was standing by the d-d-door.”

“Abbey, it's all right. Calm down, okay?”

“Okay.” She straightened up and swallowed hard, and for a moment she looked like her old brave self.

“Now tell me,” I said, “what was Mom asking Mr. Shine about?”

“The d-word,” my sister whispered.

“Divorce?”

Abbey nodded. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her shoulders went kind of slack, so I sat on the bed and put one arm around her and tried to act stronger than I felt.

Everybody was quiet at breakfast the next morning. Mom said she was taking Abbey shopping. I told her I was going fishing again, which was a possibility.

First, though, I had to have another talk with my father. I wanted him to know that Mom had mentioned the d-word-surely that would shake him up enough to come home.

As soon as Mom and Abbey left, I got on my bike and headed up the highway toward the jail. I wasn't sure they'd let me in without Mom calling to arrange it, so I brought along a letter that had arrived for my father at the house. It was from the U.S. State Department, and the seal on the envelope made it look very important.

I already knew what the letter said because my mother had opened it. The government was telling us (for about the fifteenth time) that the body of Robert Lee Underwood, my Grandpa Bobby, was still down in Colombia. They couldn't bring him home because there was a problem with the paperwork, and the police in the village “were not responding to inquiries from the United States Embassy.” The news wasn't going to cheer up Dad, but at least it gave me an excuse to see him again.

When I showed the envelope to the deputy at the desk, he didn't seem very impressed. He peeked inside to make sure that it was only a letter, and he said he'd give it to my father later.

“Can't I give it to him myself?” I asked.

“No, he's busy this morning,” the deputy said.

Busy? I thought. Doing what-pretending to play chess?

“Is he all right?” I said.

The deputy chuckled. “Yeah, he's fine. There's a TV crew that drove down from Miami to see him.”

“TV?”

“Yeah, Channel 10. They said they'll need at least an hour.”