PART 1

My one hundred and one year old neighbor was completely prepared to go behind bars for stealing more than two thousand dollars worth of essential supplies from our local general grocer in Mapleton.

He stubbornly refused to give any explanation to the bench, even when the presiding magistrate repeatedly pressed him for a motive, yet I knew the secret he carried in silence, and the harsh reality was far more heartbreaking than anyone sitting in that room could ever imagine.

“Mr.

Callahan, do you truly comprehend that you could be sent to an adult correctional facility for these offenses?” Judge Thomas Lawson asked from his elevated bench.

“I understand completely, Your Honor,” the frail man replied while balancing his shaking frame on an old wooden walking stick.

“Then why on earth will you not provide this court with a single explanation for your actions?” the magistrate inquired with a furrowed brow.

Clarence Callahan gripped the polished handle of his cane with both of his weathered hands and kept his chin lowered toward his chest.

“I took those items without paying for them, and I stand before you guilty as charged,” Clarence said in a dry, raspy whisper.

Judge Lawson examined the elderly man through thick wire spectacles, leaning forward over his wooden bench as if searching for something hidden behind the wrinkles.

“At one hundred and one years of age, you ought to be relaxing on a front porch enjoying your retirement years rather than answering criminal charges inside my courtroom,” Judge Lawson pointed out gently.

“I am truly sorry for taking up your time and causing trouble for this town, sir,” Clarence murmured without raising his eyes.

The judge shifted his attention toward several glossy surveillance printouts neatly arranged across the middle of his mahogany desk.

“Baby clothes, canned vegetables, infant diapers, notebooks, and boxes of colored pencils,” Judge Lawson read aloud while tapping a finger against the paper.

He lifted a second photograph that showed the tall, hunched silhouette of the centenarian stepping past the sliding glass exit doors with stuffed canvas bags.

“The shop clerks at the Mapleton General Market let you walk away with simple warnings several times because they respected your extreme age,” the magistrate noted.

“Yet you returned repeatedly even after the store manager warned you that corporate policy would force them to file formal police reports, so why did you keep doing it?”

Clarence stood completely motionless beside the public defense counsel, keeping his pale lips pressed into a tight, quiet line.