From the Archive

Kids In Jail

Written by as told to Juliana Marin
Illustrated by Zach Shuta

Wow, cool! Hey, Lucas, let me see that!"

I reached out to touch the toy gun my younger cousin Lucas was holding. "Man, this is neat. Andres, look at this! A real 09 Multi-Pistol!"

My friend Andres sauntered over and glanced at it. "Huh," he scoffed. "That little toy couldn't hit hard enough to knock a bottle down."

"It can too hit hard!" Lucas said indignantly. "Just watch!" He aimed at Andres and squeezed the trigger.

"Yowch!" Andres yelped. "That pellet hurt!"

I snickered, then turned back to the gun. "Whoa, if only I could show this to the guys at school."

"I'll lend it to you if you let me ride your skateboard," Lucas said eagerly.

"OK," I said.

"Santiago, are you crazy?" Andres asked. "That thing looks awfully real. If you show it at school, someone might think–"

"You worry too much. The only thing we might get in trouble for is getting there late. Those teachers are tough, you know. Come on."

I stuffed the gun into my backpack, said goodbye to Lucas, and set off for school just a few blocks away.

"Ready for the camping trip?" Andres asked.

"Yeah," I said, patting my backpack. "I've got all the clothes right here."

"Me too. I can't wait!"

My uncle Carlos, Lucas's dad, was taking me, Andres, and some cousins on a camping trip in the mountains. Colombia, where we live, has some awesome peaks. We'd leave that afternoon.

The classroom clock seemed to be broken. When the bell finally rang, I dashed out the door.

"Hey, Jorge," I called to one of the guys. "Come see what I've got."

"Santiago," Andres whispered nervously, "are you sure? Maybe you should wait until we get off the school grounds."

I elbowed Andres to keep quiet and pulled the gun out. Pretty soon there was a crowd of boys around us.

"Santiago," Andres hissed, "one of the teachers is watching us. We might–"

"Cut it out," I said, annoyed, but I put the gun away. "Let's go." I waved to the other guys, and we headed for home.

Andres seemed relieved now that we were away from school. "Wanna stop for a soda?" he asked as we passed by the corner store. "We have time."

"Sure," I said.

We paid for the soda and leaned against the counter. Suddenly Andres froze.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Santiago, did you see that guy?"

"What guy?"

"The same one who was watching us at the school."

I started to get mad. "Andres, you're paranoid. If you keep thinking that everybody is after us . . ."

Just then a police car zipped around the corner and stopped right in front of the store.

Andres' eyes bugged out. I rolled my eyes.

"They're not after us. That's just . . ."

But two police officers got out of the car and walked up to us.

"Excuse me, boys," one of them said gravely. "We got a report concerning two juveniles with a dangerous weapon, and we need to do a search."

"Sure," I said calmly, holding up my arms. I wasn't worried about the gun. It was a toy; anyone could see that. No problem.

The police searched us, then opened the backpacks. Slowly one of them pulled out the toy gun. Andres turned white.

"That's my little cousin's," I said casually. "It's an 09."

The officers glanced at each other. One of them pulled out a two-way radio. "Two youths caught in attempted robbery. Reporting to headquarters."

"What?" I yelped. Suddenly one of the officers whipped me around, handcuffing my wrists behind me. "Hey!" I shouted. "Wait a minute! That's a toy gun! How could we commit a robbery with a toy gun?"

"Most robberies by juveniles are committed with toy guns," the officer said dryly. "The victim is usually too scared to see the difference, so the kids can get away with anything."

"But there's no proof!"

The officer raised an eyebrow. "There are clothes in your backpacks. It looks as though you were planning to change afterward so you wouldn't be recognized. You may be innocent, but it doesn't seem likely."

I started to panic. The officer shoved me into the patrol car next to Andres, also handcuffed and looking sick.

"Please, mister, we're just kids. We wouldn't rob anyone!"

One of the police officers snorted.

I stared wildly out the window as we traveled farther away from home. At the police station we were ushered through a long hallway and down the stairs to a dimly lit room. There one of the officers unhandcuffed us. I rubbed my wrists.

"Your identification papers."

Miserably I pulled them out of my wallet and handed them over. Andres did the same.

"This way."

We followed him to the end of the room, to a large metal door with a small barred window.

The color drained from my face. "Please," I croaked, "let us call home. They–"

"No talking," the officer said sharply. He shoved us into the cell, slammed the door, and locked it. I grabbed the bars.

"Wait!" I shouted.

Silence.

"Santiago," Andres said through clenched teeth, "if we ever get out of here, I'm going to kill you."

I didn't doubt it.

Andres started pacing the floor. "We've got to get out of here! Nobody will know where we are."

I nodded. Our parents might think we were with Uncle Carlos on the camping trip, and he might think we were with them. Nobody would know. We could stay in here and rot. God, help us, I prayed. Time passed, maybe hours, maybe minutes.

Suddenly the door burst open. "Come on out, boys," an officer barked.

We stumbled out and followed him up the stairs, squinting in the light.

He handed us our backpacks and papers.

"May we go now?" I asked in a small voice. He nodded, and we both took off, not stopping to ask questions.

Once away from the station, Andres lost his fear and got mad. "How could they?" he shouted. "Just throw us in jail for no reason! Injustice!"

I didn't care. I was just glad to get away.

We walked for 20 minutes, Andres ranting and raving the whole way. Stopping in front of Uncle Carlos' house, Andres asked, "Do you think he'll be mad?"

I didn't have time to answer, because just then the door flew open and my uncle stormed out. "Where have you been?" he thundered. "Your parents have been worried sick, and I've driven around the neighborhood for two hours looking for you!"

"Well," I gulped, "it's a long story."

"It had better be a good one," he growled. "Go sit while I call your parents."

Soon they arrived, and after a hug from everybody, we told our story.

Everyone found portions of our adventure hilarious, except for Lucas, who was mad because the police didn't return his gun.

"I'm never lending you a gun again," Lucas told me.

"Don't worry; I don't want one!" I exclaimed. I'd had enough with guns. Sure, it was just a toy, but guns are made for killing people. Why play with something like that? Too many of us kids are getting too used to violence. We've got to stop. Even though it took a jail cell to teach me that, I'm glad I learned.