Julio closed his eyes and looked as if he might start crying. Instead, he asked, “Will you talk to him? You have a cell phone.”

The idea terrified Theo. “Not sure that’s a good idea. The judge might think I’m trying to tamper with a witness.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a crime when either side tries to influence a witness. It’s called tampering. It’s okay for the lawyers to prepare their own witnesses for trial, but it’s not okay for someone else to, you know, put the squeeze on them. I’m not sure if it would apply to me, but it just doesn’t feel right.”

“I don’t understand all of this, and neither does Bobby. I guess that’s the problem. This is not our world.”

Theo stared at a wall as his mind raced in circles. Something told him it was important to get Bobby’s phone number. “How’s his English?” he asked.

“Not good. Not at all. Why?”

“Just thinking. Why don’t you send him a text on my phone, in Spanish of course, and tell him things are not as bad as he thinks?”

“Will we get in trouble?”

Fifty-fifty, Theo thought, but then they were not really trying to influence Bobby’s testimony. They were just trying to reassure him. And, Theo would have his number in his phone’s memory.

“No, we won’t get in trouble,” he said, without the slightest trace of confidence.

“I’ve never sent a text,” Julio said.

“Okay, just write a short message in Spanish and I’ll do it.”

Theo handed him a notepad and a pencil.

“What do I say?” Julio asked.

“Try this: ‘Hello Bobby, it’s me, Julio, on Theo’s phone. He says there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll do fine and you’re going to be okay.’”

If given the time, and also a Spanish dictionary, Theo could have prepared the message himself, but now was not the moment to experiment. Julio wrote in Spanish and handed Theo the notepad. “What’s the number?” Theo asked as he pulled out his cell phone.

Julio reached into his pocket for a scrap of paper and read from it: “445-555-8822.”

Theo punched in the number, the message, and hit Send. He placed the phone on his desk and watched it for a few seconds, hoping for an instant reply.

“How long has he been in a motel?” Theo asked.

“They moved him Saturday. His boss was upset, but the police told him to cool it. Bobby is an important person right now, and the police are being very nice to him.”

“I guess so. He’s the star witness. He’s gonna be fine, Julio, stop worrying.”

“Easy for you to say. I need to get home. I’m babysitting Hector and Rita.”

“Tell them I said hello.”

“I will.”

Omar watched Julio get on his bike and speed away. When the kid was out of sight, he removed his earphones, picked up his cell phone, and called Paco. With a nasty grin, he said, “Mr. Julio Pena just left the law office of young Theodore Boone. You’re not going to believe this. Our boy Bobby is now hiding in a motel in an unnamed town, cops all around. Can’t touch him, but he now has a cell phone and we got the number.”

“Beautiful.”

“How’s your Spanish?”

“What do you mean? It’s my native tongue, remember?”

At Robilio’s, the Boones settled around their favorite table and exchanged pleasantries with Mr. Robilio, the owner, who waited on them every Monday night. He bragged about the stuffed ravioli, the evening’s special, said it was perhaps the best ever. But then he said that every week about every special. After he left, Mrs. Boone immediately said, “Okay, Theo, tell us about the trial. I want to hear everything.”

Theo was sick of the trial and didn’t want to talk about anything. However, his parents had been kind enough to allow him to skip school, so he figured he owed them a summary of the day’s events. He started at the beginning, with the opening statements, and was in full stride when Mr. Robilio returned.

“What’ll you have, Theo?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Mr. Boone said loudly. “He’s on a hunger strike.”

“A what?” Mr. Robilio asked in horror.

Mrs. Boone said, “Woods, come on. The hunger strike lasted about ten minutes.”

“Stuffed ravioli,” Theo said quickly. Mrs. Boone ordered a calamari salad, and Mr. Boone went for the spaghetti and veal meatballs. Mr. Robilio seemed to approve and he hustled away. Theo continued his narrative. His parents were shocked at the comments made by Clifford Nance in his opening statement.

“He can’t call Bobby a criminal,” Mrs. Boone said. “He’s never been convicted of anything.”

“Did Hogan object?” Mr. Boone asked. “It was clearly improper.”

“No objection,” Theo said. “Mr. Hogan just sat there.

“It’s gonna be bad for Bobby,” Theo said. “I feel sorry for him. And I feel kinda lousy for myself.”

Mr. Boone chomped on a slice of garlic bread and, with crumbs dropping from his mouth, said, “Well, it seems to me as if Nance might hurt himself if he attacks Bobby for telling the truth.”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Boone. “There is a lot of resentment toward undocumented workers.” Theo could not remember a single time when his parents agreed on anything related to the law. They were soon quibbling over how Bobby might be viewed by the jury. The food arrived and Theo dug in. It was obvious his parents were captivated by the trial, same as everyone else in town. Why, then, couldn’t they simply go to the courthouse and watch some of it? They claimed to be too busy. Theo suspected, though, that they were not willing to admit that another lawyer’s trial might be more important than their own work. Seemed silly to him.

Suddenly, Theo was not hungry and could not enjoy his food. After he choked down the first ravioli, his mother said, “Theo, you’re not eating. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Mom. I’m fine.” Sometimes, when he was starving, she scolded him for eating too fast. Sometimes, when he was worried and had no appetite, she pressed him for details about what was wrong. And when things were perfectly fine, and he was eating at a proper pace, she said nothing.

What his parents needed was another kid or two, somebody else around the house to observe and analyze. When it came to being an only child, he had already decided that the good outweighed the bad. There were times, though, when he needed some company, someone else to get the attention. But then, Chase had a big sister who was thoroughly obnoxious. And Woody’s oldest brother was in Juvenile Detention. And Aaron had a little brother who was mean as a snake.

Perhaps Theo was indeed lucky.

Still no word from Bobby.

In a motel thirty miles from Strattenburg, Bobby Escobar sat on his bed and watched yet another old movie on television. There was no Spanish-language station, and he struggled to understand what was happening. He tried, though. He listened hard and often tried to repeat the rapid English, but it was overwhelming. It was his third night in the motel, and he was tired of the routine.

There was a connecting door to the adjacent room, and he could hear Officer Bard in there laughing at something on his television. Officer Sneed was in the other room next door. Bobby was sandwiched between, thoroughly protected. The two cops were going overboard to make him comfortable. For dinner, they went to a Mexican restaurant with good enchiladas. Lunch so far had been either pizza or burgers. Breakfast was at a waffle house where the locals gathered and wondered who they were. Between meals, they either stayed at the motel playing checkers or roamed around the town killing time. For fun they coaxed Bobby into repeating English words and phrases, but his progress was slow. The cops were getting bored, too, but they were professional and serious about their job.

At 9:07 p.m., his new cell phone vibrated beside him. A text message in Spanish read: Bobby, you are a dead man in court. The lawyers will devour you. You are an idiot if you walk into that courtroom.