Late 1960s, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

By Lawrence Kessenich

One morning, when I was in college, I needed to read a short book, “The Red Pony” by John Steinbeck, before class, but all of the reserve copies in the library were out. So, I hurried over to the university bookstore, found the book, and headed for the checkout counter. I reached into my jeans pocket for money and found two quarters. That was it. The sum total of my cash.

I swore to myself. There was no other bookstore nearby and I didn’t know anybody in the class who might have finished the novel and could lend it to me. In short, I was out of luck. Then I though, maybe I could just take the book. Could I justify it? I thought about the ridiculous prices the store charged for textbooks and decided I could. Besides, it was a desperate situation; I didn’t see any other choice.

I went behind a bookshelf, bent over as if I were looking at something on the lowest shelf, pulled my shirt out, slipped the book inside the waistband of my jeans, and pulled my shirt down over it. Then I sauntered toward the front, trying to look casual, past the checkout counters, and out the front door. Home free. Then I felt a heavy hand slap onto my shoulder.

“Hold it right there, son.”

My stomach went to my throat. I whirled around. It was a middle-aged security guard in uniform, with the name Schumacher on a black tag above the pocket. I don’t know how I’d missed seeing him on the way out.

“I know you’ve got a book under your shirt. Let’s have it.”

People were walking by as we stood there, but Schumacher’s posture was so unthreatening that no one seemed to notice what was going down. I saw a trash barrel not far away and fantasized about running to it and dropping the book in before Schumacher could actually see it on me. Then I realized it was a hopeless scheme. I pulled the book out of my pants and handed it to him. He looked at it closely and shook his head.

“This is it? For a 95 cent paperback you risk getting arrested? I’ll never understand you kids.”

“I have to read it for a class this morning, and I didn’t have enough cash on me. I know it was stupid.”

“You can say that again.”

He looked at the book again and shook his head.

“Come with me. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Meekly, I followed him into the store and all the way to the back. He kept slapping the book against his thigh as he walked along in front of me. A few people looked at us curiously, but most didn’t even notice us, since Schumacher was thoughtful enough not to lead me by the wrist and make it obvious what was going on. Still, my face was burning with humiliation.

The security “office” was a tiny bookstore file room, filled up with three-drawer filing cabinets, a gray metal desk, and two thick wooden chairs crammed into the back. I can still see the desk with its torn blotter, old black rotary telephone, pad of paper, and a few manila file folders.

Schumacher directed me to the chair beside the desk, sat down himself, tossed the offending book onto the blotter and picked up the phone receiver. He dialed a few numbers and waited, picking up the book and shaking his head as he did.

“One lousy buck,” he mumbled.

I felt like an idiot. But, most of all, I was scared. I’d never been arrested. The worst thing I’d ever faced was a speeding ticket. I had little doubt that the consequences for theft – even petty theft – were more serious.

“George? This is Art Schumacher. I caught a kid lifting a 95 cent paperback here. He says he was supposed to read it for a class and didn’t have enough cash on him to buy it. He looks pretty scared, so I doubt he’s ever pulled anything like this before. How about we let him off the hook this time?”

He listened for a moment and got a disgusted look on his face.

“Aw, come on, George. He can’t mean anybody. Let’s give the kid a break.”

He listened again. His face didn’t change.

“OK, OK. But I think it’s stupid. See you later.”

He hung up the receiver, took off his hat, and set it on the desk.

“I’m sorry, kid. The manager of the bookstore insists that we prosecute shoplifters, no matter what they take. We’re going to have to book you.”

My stomach dropped. How was I going to explain this one to my parents? I could only hope I wouldn’t have to.

“Have you got your student ID?”

I pulled out my wallet. My hand was shaking, but I managed to get out the ID and hand it to him. He took a cheap ballpoint pen from his pocket and started writing on the little pad in front of him.

“OK, Lawrence,” he said, “I’m going to write down your name and student number, then send you over to the campus police office. They’ll take your fingerprints and a couple of photos and check you for priors.”

I felt like I was on a TV police procedural. It seemed unreal. Schumacher handed the card back to me.

“Now, don’t get any funny ideas about skipping out, instead of going over there. With this information, we’ll just come and find you. You know where the campus police office is located?”

“It’s just up the street on Maryland, isn’t it?”

“That’s correct. You go ahead, now.”

“One more thing, Mr. Schumacher. Do my parents have to find out about this?”

“How old are you, son?”

“Nineteen.”

“Then it’s up to you. But, if you want my advice, tell ‘em. They’ll probably find out, sooner or later, and then they’ll be twice as mad.”

I appreciated his candor, but I was willing to take my chances. I didn’t relish the confrontation that would occur if my Dad found out I’d been arrested.

I thanked Schumacher for trying to get me off, and then headed for the campus police office. It was in one of a row of bungalows that the university had bought for office space. It looked disturbingly like my parents’ house.

The guy who dealt with me inside was not as considerate as Schumacher had been. He didn’t use my name once, and he practically broke my fingers as he rolled them on the ink pad and fingerprint card. But being photographed was the most humiliating part. He hung a small placard with a number on it around my neck and flashed away without saying a word, except for, “Turn sideways.” By the time he gave me the paper with the date and place of my arraignment, I was dying to get out of there.

My friend Tony went with me to my arraignment for the shoplifting charge during the first week of fall classes. He’d been through it before, during a wild period in high school, and he knew how scary it was, especially the first time.

At the courthouse, downtown, we were directed to a large room with wooden benches full of people waiting. In front of the room was a wide, beat-up oak table and chair. The room was windowless. Tony explained that the court clerk would call me forward, read the charges against me out loud, and ask for my plea. Then he would give me my court date. The expression “court date” sent a shiver up my spine. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to face a judge – it just didn’t seem real.

Ten minutes later, the clerk finally appeared. He was a short, balding man with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loose, and a wet cigar stub protruding from his mouth. Clearly, he didn’t feel the need to impress us with his appearance. Almost before he hit the chair, he barked out the first name on a list he’d brought in with him. When no one responded, he went on to the next.

It wasn’t until he read the third name that a thin black woman in a short, tight red dress muttered, “Das me.” She rose languidly and took her time getting up to the desk. Before she got there, the clerk started reading her indictment in a loud voice. She had been arrested for prostitution. His tone was indifferent with a tinge of self-righteousness, communicating that the accused was akin to the dirt under his fingernails. It didn’t make me feel any more comfortable.

She pleaded guilty and was given a court date. As she ambled away, I heard the words “Lawrence Kessenich.” It took a second for me to connect the words with myself. I raised my hand and said, “Here,” as if it was a classroom roll-call. The clerk eyed me, trying to figure out if I was being a wise guy. Apparently, the fear in my eyes convinced him that I wasn’t.

“Step forward, Mr. Kessenich,” he said in his monotone.

Tony whispered “Good luck” as I rose to go. I made the long walk to the big table. Up close, the clerk was not nearly as intimidating. He looked small and round behind the huge slab of oak and his nose had the bulbous, rosy quality of an alcoholic’s. He read the indictment swiftly, not looking up, and then asked for my plea. I pleaded guilty.

“As a first offender pleading guilty, Mr. Kessenich, you are eligible for Judge Duffy’s community service program. This program allows you to work off your debt to the community by doing social service work in Milwaukee County. Are you interested in this program?”

This was a complete surprise. I’d never heard of Duffy’s program, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than a fine or time in jail. I told the man I was interested.

“Then you are to appear in Judge Duffy’s court on Thursday, September 24th, at 9:30 a.m. Failure to appear will render you ineligible for the program. Any questions?”

I said no. Without telling me I was done, the clerk barked out the next name on his list. I walked back to Tony, who was beaming. As soon as we were out of the room, he slapped me on the back.

“Good work, man! You sure picked the right time to get into trouble. I’d heard about Duffy’s program, but I forgot all about it. If all goes well, you won’t even have a police record.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You lucked out, man!”

The session in Judge Duffy’s court, at the end of September, was relatively painless. He lectured me for a few minutes, and then sentenced me to 20 hours of community service. If I did the service and wasn’t arrested for a year afterward, my police record would be wiped clean. The only other thing I had to do was meet with the court chaplain immediately – and for as many sessions afterward as the chaplain deemed necessary.

I thought that meeting with the chaplain would be cinch, but he was the one who convinced me that I wouldn’t truly feel “clean” about the situation until I told my family. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew he was right, so I did it.

My father was a lot more forgiving than I ever thought he would be. And my brother Bill made me realize that shoplifting hurts everybody because it causes prices to go up for things in stores. I’ve never done anything like that since, and though it was a painful lesson, I’m grateful to Judge Duffy that it didn’t leave me with a criminal record that could have haunted me for the rest of my life.

All for a 95 cent paperback.

Lawrence Kessenich writes fiction, essays and poetry. He will soon read an essay about his relationship with his father on NPR’s “This I Believe” radio program. He was once an editor at Houghton Mifflin Company, where he worked with two Houghton Mifflin Literary Fellowship Award-winning novelists as well as many other fiction and nonfiction writers. He studied briefly in the graduate creative writing program at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst. He has two grown children and lives in Watertown, a near suburb of Boston, with his wife of 25 years, making his living as a marketing writer.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Monday, March 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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