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That scared me. Our lawyer had taken us on at a single price with the understanding that Benjamin and I would be doing everything in full agreement. We’d accept the same plea agreement—which we still hadn’t seen, despite repeated requests—and say “Guilty” in tandem. We’d be good little citizens and respectful of the court. Now I wondered what actions Benjamin was considering as he worked himself into a slow broiling rage.

We read Red Mars in adjacent seats on the flight, rather wishing that we were headed to that rust-dusted planet instead of Phoenix. Before we landed, the people behind us started talking about the election with their seatmates. They were all set on John McCain. One of them mentioned the “very informative” book on Obama by Jerome Corsi, the same guy who’d started the Swift Boat slander against Kerry. As we touched down in Arizona, McCain’s home state, Benjamin whispered, “Enemy territory, dude. I have a bad feeling about how this is gonna go down.”

The drive north to Flagstaff had a different temper from our original westward approach. Storm clouds closed in on both sides, as if preparing to slam together and make our compact car more so. Especially in the east the darkness neared, exhaling twisting winds that sent the dust up in swirls, suggesting tornadoes would burst forth at any moment. Still, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the dark majesty of the whole landscape, and a rainbow wedged itself between gray cloud and barren hills. We checked into a shabby hotel upon arrival. At least this time in Flagstaff, Benjamin wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor. We unpacked our suits, then collapsed. Even with the time change and the exhausting trip, sleep eluded me. Were they seriously going to brand me a criminal tomorrow? Was this all TEAL would be remembered by?

In the morning we had breakfast at the diner where we’d corrected a set of typos. They had asked us if we charged for our services. We were glad to see the sign still in the window, all its spellings correct. Benjamin left a 30-percent tip. Whatever happened next, I was proud of what the League had done in that window. We returned to the hotel room, got into our suits, and went to court, where our lawyer had asked us to meet her an hour before the proceedings. We waited for half an hour in the lobby before she appeared. I’d thought we would go over the details of the plea agreement, but she informed us that the prosecuting attorney would be bringing the copies. In the meantime, she told us what a great job she had done on our behalf. For one thing, she’d persuaded them not to seek jail time as part of the punishment. Yes, a federal misdemeanor can earn someone up to six months in the clink. Our lawyer had also ensured we’d be charged “only” restitution. Benjamin shot me a glance. The prosecutor hadn’t mentioned either jail time or fines beyond restitution when we’d first spoken with her on the phone.

The prosecutor arrived and handed over the finalized plea agreement. I restrained myself from pointing out the typos—“resitution” for restitution and “vandlaizing” for vandalizing—not out of discretion but because the document offered plenty more to upset us. Its aim was to ensure that we not vandalize National Park property, but they’d used broad strokes. In effect, it asked us to refrain from correcting typos, writing descriptions of correcting typos, or even encouraging others to correct typos. The contest I’d run to inspire others to take up the cause had gained the ire of our prosecutor, and she specifically referenced typo contests as a no-no. “This is way worse than we thought,” I whispered to Benjamin as we sat on a back bench in the diminutive courtroom.

Our lawyer limped over. When we pointed out the offending passages, those barring us from typo correction and running the website, she took a better look, as if she hadn’t quite known what was in our plea agreement. The two of us conferenced without her. “There’s nothing we can do at this point,” Benjamin said angrily.