the door. We kids were all sitting inside on the benches wearing polite,
respectful expressions. The officer looked at each of us individually, as
if counting us. I clasped my hands in my lap to show I was well behaved.
Dad squatted in front of us, one knee to the floor, his arms folded across
the other knee, cowboy-style. "So what happened here?" he asked.
"It was self-defense," I piped up. Dad had always said that self-defense
was a justifiable reason for shooting someone.
"I see," Dad said.
The policeman told us that some of the neighbors had reported seeing
kids shooting guns at each other, and he wanted to know what had
happened. We tried to explain that Billy had started it, that we'd been
provoked and were defending ourselves and didn't even aim to kill, but
the cop wasn't interested in the nuances of the situation. He told Dad that
the whole family would need to come down to the courthouse the next
morning and see the magistrate. Billy Deel and his dad would be there,
too. The magistrate would get to the bottom of the matter and decide
what measures needed to be taken.
"Are we going to be sent away?" Brian asked the officer.
"That's up to the magistrate," he said.
That night Mom and Dad spent a long time upstairs talking in low voices
while we kids lay in our boxes. Finally, late in the evening, they came
down, their faces still grave.
"We're going to Phoenix," Dad said.
"When?" I asked.
"Tonight."