Crime

150

He was spirited, he was cocky, he was nonchalant. It was the Dirty Thirties, and some kids turned to crime in order to survive. Eight year old Lorne was one of them.

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                                 Chapter XI
                      King Sized Pain in the Butt

A couple of weeks later I missed school again to go to a circus that had just come to town. The next day, instead of the principal calling me into his office, he came right into the classroom carrying a heavy strap. He asked if I had a note from one of my parents excusing me for being absent the day before. When I said that I didn’t he began swinging the strap. He swung it until he was out of breath. Every inch of my body from the neck down was on fire with pain. When I stopped crying I determined to get even with the school, somehow.
I didn’t tell my parents what had happened, and I hoped they would not find out through some other source.
That evening, after supper, I wandered back up Prince Edward Street, to Centennial School. I hung around the schoolyard until it began to get dark. When I thought it was safe I wandered cautiously to the back door. I looked in every direction to make sure that I wasn’t seen. I had brought a heavy rock with me. I got it out of my pocket and smashed it into the window of the door. The glass broke. I reached in and turned the lock. My eyes were scanning every direction as I let myself into the school. I closed the door, and then without further ado, went from classroom to classroom gathering up all the straps. When I got to the principal’s room, I took his strap, and then totally destroyed all of the paperwork that I found there. When that was done I went back out into the corridor and made my way to his office. I intended to mess that up, too. When I got there the door was locked. There was no other way in, and I didn’t have the tools to break the door in with, so I decided it was time to leave with the straps. I had them wrapped in my jacket, which I carried casually over my shoulder.
I exited the school and property without a problem. To complete my plan I would have to go by the C.N.R. Train Station. Across from the station there was a deep hole by the tracks just before they crossed the pavement. I had slipped into it once and had sunk up to my armpits in water. When I reached the spot I looked around furtively, making sure that I would not be seen, and then opened my jacket and let the straps fall into the water-filled hole. I watched as they sank out of sight.
Satisfied that they would not be found I headed home.

The next day when I got to school it was in an uproar! “Someone broke in and stole all the straps!” was being whispered back and forth. When I entered my classroom all noise stopped. Every eye in the room turned and gazed at me. Some of the kids had big smiles on their faces.
The teacher slapped her desk with a ruler, calling for attention. Things returned to normal with a rustle of movement. I fully expected to be called into the principal’s office, or classroom, but it didn’t happen. When it was lunchtime, kids in the corridor grinned at me. Some of them slapped me on the back, and one or two said,"Way to go, Lorne!”
I neither admitted to it, nor denied it. I simply kept my mouth shut.
That night I struck again. This time I went to Dufferin School in the north end of town.
Getting into the school was easy. I found an open window. It was a bigger school than Centennial. It took  longer to gather all the straps, but at least I had come prepared with a folded paper shopping bag stuffed down the back of my pants. I placed them in the bag, one by one, as I gathered them. I did no damage to the school property this time. I did what I had gone there to do, and then left hurriedly. I was sure no one had seen me go in or leave.
Finding a place to hide the straps was a bit of a problem this time, though. I didn’t want to carry them all the way down Main Street in case Barrows was cruising, saw me, and decided to check me out. I had taken the chance the night before from the opposite end of town, but two nights in a row was too risky. I finally decided to cross over Main Street and turn right on the first street that I came to. It would take me down by a railroad trestle and the Bay of Fundy. The sand was soft on the shore there, and I could bury them easily.
Suiting action to thought I crossed over to Acadia Street and followed it down to the trestle. However, burying the straps in the sand wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I had nothing to dig with, and my bare hands were inadequate. Finally, seeing an old cement cylinder big enough for kids my size to sit and hide in, I made my way to it and checked it out back and front. Nodding to myself, I removed one strap at a time from the bag and threw it against, and under, the outside edge of the cylinder. I then kicked it in as close as it would go to the cement, burying it under the sand with my foot. I did the same with each of the others. When I was finished there were straps buried on both sides of the huge pipe, and well hidden from view.
I left the area feeling completely satisfied with myself. As far as I was concerned I had done no wrong. Guilt was never a part of the equation.|
Police suspicion was, though.

The very next day after I had broken into Dufferin School the police showed up in my class. I was taken out for questioning. It was detective George Barrows, and Blanchard again. They escorted me off the school property and into their car. Not a word was spoken on the way to the police station. It wasn't until we were in a small office at police headquarters that Barrows spoke.
“Sit down!” he ordered, pointing to a chair in front of a small desk that he went behind. When he was seated he placed his hands flat on the desk, as if he was about to vault over it, and glared at me.
Blanchard had not come into the office.
“So, you want to make me work, do you?” he barked.
“ What are you talking about?” I asked, nervously.
“You know,” he growled. “The schools you broke into? The straps you stole? The mess you made of your principal’s room?” he finished, raising a hand and slapping it down on the desk.
“Not me,” I said, meekly. I was nervous and scared at the same time.
“You’re a liar!” he yelled, shaking a fist at me.
I said nothing. I just looked frightened.
“You’re scaring the hell out of the kid,” Blanchard chided, coming into the office.“Why don’t you let me talk to Lorne?”
Barrows glared at him, then at me. Then he gave his head a short nod and stomped out of the room.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
The detective took Barrows place behind the desk, sat down, and lit a cigarette. He took a deep puff, exhaled a blue stream of smoke toward the ceiling, and then turned to me.
“He gets mean sometimes,” he confided. “Especially when he knows someone did something but won’t admit it, and he has to work to prove it.”
“I didn’t do nothing,” I lied.
“Don’t lie to me, Lorne! We know you broke into those schools and stole the straps. We know that Mr. Stuart punished you severely on several occasions. Doing what you did was getting even. I might have done the same thing myself if I had been in your place, and I had your guts. Still, we have to close the books on it, so you have to tell us about it. Okay?”
It was nice to be thought of as having guts. It was also nice to know that they knew I was getting even. However, I had heard of ‘nice cop, bad cop’ in reform school, and had no intention of admitting to anything.
“It wasn’t me,” I mumbled.
Blanchard hit the desk with his fist. “Damn it, kid. I can see why my partner got mad at you!” he said, gritting his teeth. “Now, tell the truth! You did it, didn’t you?”
“No. And I want my father!” I said, loudly. I purposely began to cry.
The detective threw his hands in the air, and then got up and left the office.
“He’s all yours, George,” I heard him say in disgust.
There was laughter heard from some of the men, and then Barrows was back in the office. He grabbed my arm and lifted me from the seat. I thought he was going to hit me, but all he did was stand me up, and then ordered me to follow him. We left the building and went to his car. He unlocked the door, told me to get in, then went to the other side and unlocked his door. Once we were both seated, and the doors were closed, he started the motor and pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires.
After a brief silence he spoke. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, kid?”
I said nothing.
“Well, you’re not. We’ll be watchin’ you from now on.” He turned and looked at me speculatively for a moment. “You know, you’re gettin’ to be a king sized pain in the butt! I’d watch my ass from now on if I were you.” With that he turned away. He never spoke another word until we got to where I lived, and then it was only to tell my mother and father what they believed I had done, and why they thought I had done it. The bad recent beating from Mr. Stuart was not a secret any more and, sure enough, after Barrows had left dad grabbed me, yanked down my pants, and mom came at me with one of dad’s belts.

In retrospect I feel very bad for my parents. They didn’t have a clue as to what to do with me. They could only follow their own parent’s example and hope for the best. And to be honest, I don’t think any measure taken could have stopped my speedy downhill ride to self-destruction. Maybe if I had been caught stealing my nanny’s streetcar pass when I was four, or chocolate bars from dad’s barber shop, or the Depression had never happened, I might have turned out different, but who knows if it would have made any difference.
I don’t.

 

Professional Review 
ROB VOGT, Reporter, CLARESHOLM LOCAL PRESS

Do circumstances make people or do people make their own circumstances? In Victor Farrell's book, The Juvenile Delinquent, he shows the reader it can be a little bit of both.

We are introduced to eight-year old Lorne Bradford living in Saint John, New Brunswick in the Dirty Thirties. Survival is the number one priority. People do whatever it takes...collecting bones for soup, picking bottles, battling rats. Some people resort to crime and young Lorne is one of them.

Sometimes the victim of circumstance, sometimes the author of his own demise, from the ages of eight to fifteen Lorne finds himself in a vicious cycle. Petty thefts, vandalism, mischief and truancy lead him to reform school, then jail. Fuelled by a sense of rebellion, restlessness and impulsive action, Lorne winds up back in trouble as soon as he gets out. He plays a never-ending game of cat and mouse with Detective Barrows and Judge Tilly, his chief antagonists, but reveals he loves the risk and even gets a high from it.

Through it all we see Lorne grow from a boy into a young man, experiencing the flowering of youth, and the need for independence from his parents. Yet the story always returns to Lorne's next crime. There seems to be no hope for him. No chance to right the ship or change his ways...but the end has a startling twist!

Just as in all of his books, author Victor Farrell's style is simple and clear. He reveals character with a keen eye for detail and makes you want to get to know Lorne Bradford and see what makes him tick...but maybe not invite him to your house just yet. 

 

Reader Review

Although, The Juvenile Delinquent, is fiction based on a true story, it makes one wonder just how much of it is true, and how much isn't! From the age of eight to the age of fifteen the main character spends much of his young life in reform school, and in jail. He is a thief, a liar, and a pain in the butt to the city's police force. Reading the book one wants to take the young hellion by the scruff of the neck and hustle him into the nearest woodshed where he can be shaken until his teeth rattle, hopefully awakening some kind of sense in him! And then, the story takes a turn that adds a whole new twist to the life of this juvenile delinquent...and makes the reader sit up and wonder.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book, but it has me wondering about other things, which I can't divulge, because it would give the very unexpected, and shocking, ending away.



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