American Outlaw - Jesse James [24]
One day, during lunch period, I found myself in the Circle K. It was only a couple of blocks away from school. Often I’d go there during a free period to leaf through the bike magazines or the new Penthouse. On this particular afternoon, I felt hungry, so without even thinking about it, I reached out and jammed a Butterfinger in my pants. I didn’t even consider what I was doing. I just kept reading the magazine casually.
“Hold it right there,” came a voice from behind me. “You’re stealing!”
A big, bald guy grabbed my shoulder. He was wearing the orange uniform of the K, and he was glowering at me.
“What are you talking about?”
“This,” he roared, and triumphantly he seized the Butterfinger out of my right front pocket. “I’m calling the cops, fucko.”
“Hell you are,” I said. “I was going to pay for that. You just didn’t give me enough time.”
“Come on, you’re coming with me.” He took my collar roughly and tugged at me.
“Dude,” I said. “It’s a fucking candy bar, man.”
He only yanked harder. He tugged at my collar with as much power as he had in his big arms. “Let’s go, now.”
Without even thinking about it, I decked him in the face. He dropped like a load of scrap, directly to the floor, screaming in agony. “Here’s your Butterfinger,” I said casually, as I threw the candy bar and it bounced off his head. “See ya later.”
Moronically, I thought that was it: I figured, hey, situation taken care of. Apparently, I was very wrong. Half an hour later, in my algebra class, cops came and knocked on the door. They held a quick conference with my teacher, pointed at me, and hitched up their police belts.
“Mr. James? We’d like you to come with us.”
I was hauled into juvenile custody. The Circle K guy had easily figured out who I was—that was the downside of being one of the biggest kids at the school, I guess. He wanted me charged with assault, which is what happened. I got the kids’ version of aggravated assault, and they threatened to send me to the California Youth Authority for a thirty-day period.
“So why don’t you?” I asked, pissed.
“We know you’ve done well for yourself in football. We think you can help this community. So we’re going to give you probation instead.”
I was introduced to my probation officer then, a fairly attractive older woman who wore a gold crucifix around her neck.
“I’m Ms. Torres, Jesse,” she said sternly. “I’d like you to explain to me what happened.”
“Sure,” I said. “A guy grabbed me. So I hit the fucker in his face.”
“He grabbed you without provocation?” Torres said dubiously, glancing down at her paperwork.
“Yes,” I insisted. “In fact, I’d like to request that he be charged for assault. Can we do that here?”
“The gentleman in question says that you were shoplifting from him, Jesse,” she remarked.
“Sure,” I said. “Stands to reason he’d say that. It shifts the blame from the real guilty party: him.”
Ms. Torres folded her arms and stared at me. “Why don’t I believe you, Jesse?”
“I can’t control what you believe, Ms. Torres. I can only speak the truth.” I nodded toward her crucifix. “We’ll have to leave it to the big guy upstairs to decide, right?”
Torres frowned. “Jesus has more pressing matters to attend to, Mr. James, than your tall tales. For now,” she said, “you are under my supervision. Is that understood? Keep out of trouble. No more altercations.”
Whatever. I figured it was all bullshit. It was more fun being a knucklehead. Bobby and I roamed around, sizing up burger stands and electronics stores, fantasizing that we were going to knock off another one when the mood seized us.
“Wouldn’t you love to get a taste of that, James?” Bobby said, leering