A Shawn Barton Adventure
The Beginning
A Boy Named Shawn
By Robert W. Beard
Published by CyPress Publications
Tallahassee, Florida
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009 Robert W. Beard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.
A Shawn Barton Adventure, Book 1, The Beginning
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Inquiries should be addressed to:
CyPress Publications
P.O. Box 2636
Tallahassee, Florida 32316-2636
http://cypresspublications.com lraymond@nettally.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Beard, Robert W., 1930A boy named Shawn : a Shawn Barton adventure / Robert W. Beard. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After finding a new family in Tallahassee, Florida, orphaned Shawn Barton becomes a college football player, a successful inventor, and a teen idol—all at the age of thirteen.
ISBN 978-1-935083-07-8 (trade paper)
[1. Gifted children—Fiction. 2. Orphans—Fiction. 3. Florida State University— Fiction. 4. Tallahassee (Fla.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B38023Bo 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2009013695
ISBN: 978-1-935083-22-1 First Edition
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Smashwords Edition License Notes
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* * * * *
Dedication
To our son, Robert Lenwood Beard, for whom life was an adventure.
v
Acknowledgments
For helpful comments from Anne H. Holt and others, and the editorial expertise of Leland F. Raymond, I am deeply grateful.
* * * * *
Preface
"Sir, I want you to become my legal guardian," he announced firmly.
Mr. Langston dropped the document he was reading, and looked up suddenly at the young man standing in front of his massive desk. He had not noticed anyone entering his office through the imposing oak door.
A distraught young woman appeared in the doorway, glaring at the boy. "I'm sorry, sir. He was in the waiting room, and I stepped away from my desk for a moment."
"That's alright, Ms. Peabody. I'll see him." She hesitated a moment, then returned to her desk, closing the door behind her.
"Young man, this is the firm of Langston, Langston, and Lowry—Attorneys at Law. We occasionally represent clients in custody cases. But we do not adopt people. If you need assistance in finding a guardian, that's a matter for a social services agency."
"No, sir. What I want is for either you or your firm to become my guardian. Do you need a retainer?"
The distinguished man behind the desk stared intently at the boy before settling back in his chair. "Have a seat," he said, "and tell me what this is all about. First off, how old are you?"
"Thirteen-and-a-half, or at least I will be in two more months. My name is Shawn Barton. You may have known my mother when she was a student at Florida State."
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Shawn was exhausted. The flight originated in Anchorage, Alaska, early that morning. A change of planes in Seattle was not without incident—his flight to Atlanta was canceled, and he waited anxiously for almost three hours on standby. Fortunately, a seat became available on the next flight. Atlanta went somewhat better— he was able to grab a bite to eat before boarding the last leg of his trip. The pizza he ordered arrived cold and tasted like cardboard, but it was better than nothing.
At 11:33 p.m., his plane settled on the runway at the Tallahassee Regional Airport. As he exited the plane, he smiled at the pretty stewardess who had kindly brought him a soda. Since all his worldly possessions were in the backpack he carried, there was no need to seek out the baggage area. But he had nowhere to go. Shawn hesitated about trying to catch a cab at that time of night in an unfamiliar city, looking for a motel where he might stay. Few motels would rent a room to someone his age, even if he paid cash. And if they did, the desk clerk might believe him to be a runaway and contact police. Though he had nothing to hide, Shawn did not relish the prospect of spending half the night explaining that to a uniformed officer.
So he did the next best thing. He found a reasonably comfortable seat in the airport lounge area, held his backpack tightly next to him, and drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke, the lounge was filled with business people frantically trying to catch early flights. Wiping sleep from his eyes, he made his way to a restroom where he could wash his face and comb his hair. As he saw his image in a mirror, he decided he desperately needed a haircut. But first things first—his stomach told him it was time for breakfast.
Since he was in Florida, orange juice seemed appropriate. Eggs, bacon, and that Southern delicacy, grits, rounded out the selection. It may seem a young man growing up in Alaska would never hear of grits—he could thank his mother for that. She graduated from Florida State University, and took both her degree and acquired taste for Southern food with her to the outer reaches of the frozen north. Shawn smiled as he recalled an incident when a neighboring lady visited his mother. The lady had never before heard of grits, and asked his mother in all seriousness whether she might try just one!
Breakfast finished, Shawn made his way to the front of the airport, hailed a cab, and asked the driver to take him to the largest shopping mall in town. The stores in the Governors Square mall were just opening when they arrived a half hour later. Although the driver was curious about why someone his age would be traveling alone, he didn't press the matter. Actually, Shawn had been asked that question several times since he embarked on his journey. He decided it was easier to tell that he was on his way to visit an uncle. That wasn't true, of course, but it saved a lengthy explanation.
The mall was similar to one in Anchorage. Most stores bore the same names as those he had occasionally visited, but the window displays were quite different. The mannequins in Alaska wore heavy, lined jackets; those in Tallahassee showed short pants and sleeveless cotton shirts.
He stepped into a hair salon and found an attractive lady who claimed she could cut boys' hair. Shawn was skeptical, but he didn't have much choice. It turned out well, however, and he was quite pleased. As he was leaving the salon, he heard a woman speak softly to another. When the second could not make out what she said, she said it again, this time shouting in a voice Shawn thought could be heard in the next county: "That's an exceptionally handsome young man." Embarrassed, he beat a hasty exit through the door.
As he walked through the mall, he passed another boy, one whose arms bore tattoos up to his shoulder, rings protruding from his lip and ears. Shawn wondered why anyone, save primitive native tribesmen, would do that to themselves. Perhaps girls liked it. Raised in a sparsely populated region of Alaska, Shawn had not known many girls his own age. But he knew enough to recognize that some of them held very strange notions about what made boys attractive.
He sought out a clothing store catering to boys his age. He entered one that looked likely, but when approached by a saleslady with long black hair, a black dress that dragged the floor, and dark eye shadow covering much of her face, Shawn wondered whether he had stepped onto a set where a vampire movie was being filmed. He quickly left, finally settling on JCPenney.
A kindly clerk waited on him. A pair of gray slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt, a belt and tie—he left the store wearing them. He wanted to look presentable for the meeting he hoped to have later that day.
Shawn had never met Samuel Langston. All he knew was what his mother told him a couple of years before. She said she had, while a student at Florida State, occasionally dated a very nice fellow student named Sam Langston, who later became an attorney in Tallahassee. Leafing through a thick phone book, he found the firm of Langston, Langston, and Lowry.
Their office was located in a renovated antebellum home not far from the state capitol. Its architecture was in the classical Greek tradition—graceful two-story white columns, a wide porch on the second story, and an elegant entry door with an arched fanlight of windows above it. Once inside, Shawn found himself in a wide hallway stretching straight through to the back of the house, interrupted only by a freestanding winding stairway to the second floor. On his right was a large door bearing an antique brass placard,
"Samuel C. Langston, Sr., Attorney at Law." Shawn cautiously opened the door and entered.
He found himself in a waiting room furnished with several comfortable brown leather chairs and a coffee table on which stood a large vase of flowers. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling; walls were decked in raised walnut paneling. Portraits of Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis stared down at him from one of the walls. Two French doors opened onto the front porch of the building. Except for a few lamps on tables, the only other notable furnishing was a small walnut desk behind which an attractive young lady was sitting. And on the desk rested a small sign: "Janet Peabody."
"I'm Janet. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Langston?"
"I'm Shawn Barton. No, I don't have an appointment, but I need to see him."
"He's in conference at the moment, but perhaps I can schedule you later today."
"Thanks. I'll wait. I've come a long way."
"As you wish," she said, as she turned to answer an incoming phone call.
Shawn settled into one of the comfortable leather chairs, placing his backpack next to him, contemplating what he would tell Mr. Langston if he finally got to see him. He was consumed by self-doubt. There was no assurance the man would be willing to hear him out.
Minutes later Ms. Peabody briefly left the room, and Shawn seized the opportunity. He quickly stood up, grabbed his backpack, and walked resolutely into the office of a startled Mr. Samuel Langston.
Shawn expected a much younger man than the one who sat behind the massive desk. After a brief exchange, the man said, "I think there's been a mistake. The person you want to see is my son Chad."
Punching a button on the intercom on his desk, Mr. Langston said, "Chad, please step into my office. There's someone here to see you."
Moments later, a man of about forty stood in the doorway. "Chad, I want you to meet Shawn Barton. He thinks you may know his mother."
As Shawn turned toward him, Chad stared and suddenly grew pale. It was as though he had seen a ghost. In a sense, he had. After managing to gather his composure and saying only, "Come with me," he stepped back through the door and across the hallway to his own office.
Shawn followed. No words were exchanged.
* * * * *
Chapter 2
They passed through a reception area similar to though somewhat smaller than the one in his father's office. The secretary's desk was unoccupied.
The younger Langston's office was slightly less elegant than his father's. It had the same walnut paneling, similar wing-backed chairs, shelves of law books along one wall, an impressive candelabra hanging from its high ceiling, and French doors opening onto the front porch. The centerpiece of the room was, of course, the large ornately carved desk, behind which Mr. Langston, Jr., seated himself.
"Have a seat," he said abruptly. Shawn settled into one of the oversized leather chairs, almost dwarfed by it.
"I was looking for someone named Samuel Langston," said Shawn.
"I'm Samuel C. Langston, Jr. 'C' stands for 'Chadwick,' my grandfather's name. Everyone calls me Chad.
"You told Dad I may have known your mother. Her name would not have been Ryda Svendson by any chance, would it?"
"That was her maiden name," Shawn replied. "How did you know she was my mother?"
Chad leaned back slowly in his high-backed swivel chair, looking intently at Shawn. "How's she doing?" he asked, almost whispering.
"She and Dad died in a plane crash almost two years ago."
Chad hung his head, staring vacantly at a spot on his desk, and after a few moments said simply, "I'm very sorry to hear that."
"She told me that you and she dated a few times," said Shawn.
"True," he replied, hesitating awhile, still looking down. Shawn thought his eyes became moist, before he raised his head and asked quietly, "Did she tell you any more than that?"
"No, but I suspected there was more."
"There was, at least for me." Chad turned his chair slightly and focused his eyes on a place in the room only he could see. He began to speak softly, dredging up memories long dormant, and, perhaps, best left that way. But he recognized that the time was overdue for a measure of catharsis. Shawn's unanticipated appearance provided the catalyst.
"I've never spoken of this to anyone," he said. "I first saw her when she walked into an English class. I say 'walked,' but Ryda never really walked. When she moved, she glided as though her feet never touched the floor. Her hair was like golden silk; her skin was as smooth and perfect as porcelain. When she smiled, her pale blue eyes sparkled. Everyone in the room was awed by her. It was as if a goddess had stepped down from Mount Olympus.
"But she remained in that class only a couple of days before she exempted the course. I decided there and then that I would try to meet her. Less than a week later, I saw her pass through the Student Union building. I managed to bump into her, knocking several books loose from her arm. I picked them up from the floor and, by way of apology, introduced myself and invited her to have lunch with me. To my surprise, she accepted. Frankly, I was scared to death. Anyway, that's how I met your mother."
"Well, whatever works," said Shawn with a wry smile. "While I was growing up, I thought she was beautiful."
"I confess, I was totally smitten. She was all I could think about day and night—nothing else mattered. We met for lunch several times on campus, and she had dinner with me a couple of times at local restaurants. We went to a half dozen football games, and a couple of dances sponsored by local fraternities. I never even kissed her goodnight. I recognized then that I was hopelessly outclassed. She could have any boy she wanted. I wasn't good looking; I wasn't a glib conversationalist; I wasn't a talented athlete; there was no reason to think I would ever amount to anything in life. I'm amazed she even remembered my name."
"She not only remembered you," said Shawn, "she spoke very highly."
"You're very kind, young man. She may have mentioned my name—obviously she did—but she couldn't have remembered much about me.
"But there was also something else. On one occasion, I was a few minutes late meeting her for lunch. When I walked up, she was flipping through the pages of one of her textbooks. I watched her for a moment. Her assignment was about forty pages long. She would flip a page, stare for about two seconds at the two open pages before her, and flip to the next. The forty-page assignment took less than a minute.
"I sat down with her and jokingly asked whether she was looking for pictures. 'No,' she said. 'Philosophers are good with words, but have little talent for artwork.'
"She was reading Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, one of the most difficult books ever written. I asked if she really understood that stuff. She replied by quoting verbatim the first few paragraphs, followed by an explanation worthy of the best of university scholars.
"I realized then that Ryda was one of those rare people gifted with a photographic memory. But with Ryda, it was more than just that. Persons with photographic memory recall images they saw, and then proceed to read them aloud. Ryda, on the other hand, digested information instantly. She not only recalled every detail of what she read, she understood it thoroughly.
"When I asked her about this talent, she didn't think it exceptional. Everyone, she thought, has that ability, differing only in degree. I suggested that she have herself tested by someone in the Psychology Department, but she said no. She didn't want to become a creature in somebody's lab.
"Shawn," Chad said sadly, "with her incredible beauty and genius, I knew it was just a matter of time before she recognized me as dull and boorish. I couldn't deal with the rejection. So I avoided her from that point on. With great effort, I have through the years managed to think of her less often. But when I saw you a few minutes ago in Dad's office, all the old memories burst forth. It was as if I were seeing Ryda sitting in that chair—the same silken blonde hair, the same flawless complexion, the same pale blue eyes, the same delicate neck and hands. All bound together in a very boyish package!" he added laughingly.
"Mom didn't think of you as dull, not at all," said Shawn. "Or if she did, she never told me. She said that if I ever visited Tallahassee, I should try to meet you."
"Who have you been staying with since your mother and dad died?"
"Several years ago, my grandmother moved in with us. Ours was a large house with lots of rooms. So with Mom and Dad gone, Grandma and I continued living in the same house. I was home-schooled by Mom, but since Grandma had very little formal education, I've been on my own, so far as education goes, for the past couple of years. Several months ago, Grandma suffered a serious stroke. It was then she made her wishes known to a local attorney, Mr. Bradshaw, and shortly after that, she had another stroke. She's now in a nursing home—she doesn't know who I am."
"Your life hasn't been easy, has it, Shawn?"
"It hasn't been easy lately, but I wouldn't trade anything for the years when Mom and Dad were alive. Or for that matter, the first year with Grandma."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"Mr. Bradshaw sold our house and settled the estate. Part of it went to care for Grandma for the rest of her life, and the remainder was given to me. We have no other relatives I know about. One of the reasons I left Alaska was I didn't want to be placed in a foster home.
"So here I am. I want to apply for admission to Florida State, and I need somewhere to stay. But unless I have an adult sign papers, I can't do either. That's why I'm asking your firm to become my guardian."
Shawn reached into his backpack, drawing out a sheaf of papers—his birth certificate, the death certificates for his parents, and a notarized letter from Mr. Bradshaw stating that his grandmother was no longer able to care for him.
"You've come prepared, young man. But in Florida, a law firm can't become anyone's guardian. Only an individual or state agency can assume that responsibility. I need to talk with my father about this, but before I do, I have to ask you a couple of questions. First off, do you really believe you'll be admitted to Florida State? You're pretty young, and you haven't graduated from a regular school."
"I think so. I have perfect scores on my G.E.D. tests, and I believe I can do well on any placement exams they give."
"My second question is a bit more delicate. I'm sorry to have to ask it, but do you have a police record of any kind? Boys can get into all kinds of mischief."
Shawn laughed. "No, I haven't. But that only means I haven't been caught!"
Chad smiled. "I came close myself a few times when I was your age."
Chad looked down a few moments, deep in thought. Finally he said, "Stay here. I'll be back in a little while. I need to ask my father's advice on a couple of matters." He walked out of his office, closing the door behind him.
Shawn stood and stretched his arms. He strolled over to the bookshelves and took down a large, thick volume, Wigmore's Principles of Judicial Proof. He sat down again, and began flipping pages as his mother taught him to do.
Chad returned in about a quarter of an hour. As he strolled over to his desk, he saw the book Shawn was holding. "What's that?"
"Wigmore's Principles."
"It's a fascinating book. Took me a month to get through it."
"I only got through half of it myself," Shawn said.
Chad stared at him a few moments. "That book is over fifteen hundred pages, if I recall correctly. Do you mean to tell me that you read the first seven hundred fifty after I left the office?"
"I read kinda fast when I try."
"Hand it to me," said Chad. When Shawn did so, Chad allowed the pages to fall open before him.
"I don't suppose you can tell me what's on page 300."
Shawn recited verbatim the first nine lines, adding, "There are lots of typos. On page 37, line 14, the word 'evidence' is misspelled; on page 41, line 7, the word 'then' should be 'than.' And there are others."
"My God! You inherited your mother's gift!"
"Maybe, but she was better at it."
Chad paused thoughtfully for a few moments before looking at Shawn. "Dad and I talked it over, and I am offering to become your guardian. You don't have to answer now. After discussing some details with Mr. Bradshaw, I think I can have the papers drawn up in a couple of weeks. There may be a court hearing after that, but I don't foresee any special difficulties. It's up to you.
"As for where to stay, I have an apartment in Claymore Plaza only two blocks from here. There are two unoccupied bedrooms. You're welcome to stay until you make permanent arrangements. Or longer if the guardianship comes through. It's within walking distance of the university."
Tears welled up in Shawn's eyes. "Mom would be grateful for what you are doing, and so am I."
Trying desperately to control his own feelings, Chad asked, "Is there anything else you need?"
"Yes, but I hate to ask for anything else."
"Name it. I can always say no."
"I need to transfer my portion of the estate to a trust of some kind."
"How much are we talking about?"
"Eight hundred thousand dollars or so. That came from the sale of our home, Dad's business, and some investments of theirs. I have another five thousand in cash with me. I want one hundred thousand of that deposited into an account with MB Trading Company. And I need the trust to cover ownership of patent rights and things of that sort."
"Isn't MB Trading a brokerage for trading stocks and options?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's a fast way to lose your money, young man."
"It's also a good way to make money, though there are no guarantees. Mom and Dad had a brokerage account, and they let me make many of the trading decisions. Most of the value of my parents' estate came from stock trading. They were pretty good at it."
"Fair enough," Chad laughed, "but the day I get a margin call from your broker, your adventure in trading will come to a screeching halt. And what's this business about patents? Did your parents own some?"
"No, but I have ideas for a couple of things," said Shawn, "and if they work out, they may be worth a lot of money. Since I'm underage, all dealings will have to be with a trust, not with me. In fact, I prefer to remain anonymous. Can that be arranged?"
"Sure. It's called a custodial account, and in this case, a blind one. If necessary, we can assign a pseudonym. Our firm has not handled a situation quite like yours, but there's no reason we can't. Are there any other exotic requests you can think of?"
"Not at the moment," Shawn said, before adding softly, "but I believe that by this time next year, managing that trust may be a major part of Langston, Langston, and Lowry's business."
Chad looked at him seriously. "Somehow that wouldn't surprise me."
* * * * *
Chapter 3
When Shawn awoke, the sun's rays were illuminating the room. He stretched, yawned, and tried to gather his wits, feeling dwarfed by the enormous tester bed on which he lay. The ceiling in his room was as high as those in the attorneys' office. The building, before conversion into apartments, had once been the grandest hotel in the city.
He thought back on events of the previous afternoon. Chad's schedule showed he had a court appearance, but at the last moment that was postponed until the coming week. Since he had no other appointments, he took Shawn to the registrar's office at the university to pick up application forms for admission. They then went to Verizon to get Shawn a cell phone, and to a computer store where he bought a laptop, printer, and other necessary supplies.
Today, however, Shawn would be on his own. He placed his legs over the edge of the bed, gingerly feeling for the step. The bed was an antique, and so high it required a stool to climb onto.
And then to the shower. That presented a challenge. There were five showerheads, two above and three on one wall. It took Shawn a couple of minutes to figure out how to regulate the temperature. He did not relish the prospect of boiling water spewing from some orifices and freezing cold from others.
After dressing, he made his way to the kitchen where he found Chad's note saying he would probably be tied up until six. He would call Shawn on his cell phone if plans changed.
Shawn leisurely strolled the eight blocks from Chad's apartment to the registrar's office, taking note of the buildings he passed on the way. He carried in his backpack the application he and Chad had filled out the night before, and all of the supporting documents he thought he might need.
The young lady behind the desk smiled as he approached. When he laid the application down, she glanced quickly at it.
"You're applying for the fall class. This is March; all of the slots were filled weeks ago."
"Won't you have some withdrawals?" he asked timidly.
"Yes, I'm sure we will. But there's a long waiting list, and you'll be too far down to make the cutoff. There is one open slot at the moment that's being saved for the Athletic Department, but I don't think you're qualified."
"What sport?"
"Football."
"Where do I sign up?" Shawn asked in all seriousness.
"The Athletic Department, just on the other side of the stadium. But I really don't think you're big enough," she said, laughing.
"No harm in trying," Shawn replied, as he picked up his papers and returned them to his backpack.
With the aid of a campus map, he made his way to the offices of the football program. As he walked in, an attractive secretary greeted him. "May I help you?"
"Yes, I would like to see Coach Bobby Bowden."
"He's in at the moment. May I tell him what this is about?"
"I want to play football."
"In a few years?" she asked.
"No, this coming fall."
She stared at Shawn as if this was some sort of joke, but his expression was serious. She decided Coach Bowden would be amused by the situation. "Wait just a moment," she said, as she stepped into the coach's office.
A moment later she returned. "Coach Bowden will see you," she said, pointing to his office.
The famous coach stood and extended his hand to Shawn when he came in. "Ms. Harrison tells me you want to play football," he said, trying with great difficulty to keep a straight face. "I think it would be better, young man, if you came back after adding another hundred-fifty pounds and growing a foot-and-a-half taller.
"First off, how old are you?" asked the coach as he seated himself, indicating to Shawn that he should do the same.
"Thirteen years, four months."
"Are you in high school?"
"No, sir. I'm applying to FSU. I just took my application to the registrar's office, and I was told there are no more openings for the fall term. Except one for a football player. So I came to see you."
"Son, the competition for football scholarships is intense. We choose only those who have proved their talent. Besides, you're simply not big enough. One hit by a three-hundred-pound lineman, you'd be hardly more than a collection of broken bones."
"I appreciate that, sir, but he would have to catch me first. I can run pretty fast, especially if someone is chasing me. And I'm not looking for a scholarship. You have an unfilled admission slot for this coming fall. I would like to use that even if I don't get to play."
Coach Bowden sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. "Do you have good enough grades to be admitted?"
"I was home-schooled, but I completed my G.E.D., and I think I can pass any placement tests."
"Well, what you say is tempting. We saved a slot for an incoming player who, unfortunately, failed to meet grade requirements. If we don't fill it, we lose that opening for both this year and the next two. You say you can run fast. How fast?"
"I'm not sure, sir, but I am much faster than my friends back home."
Coach Bowden picked up the phone and punched numbers. "Jimmy, there's a young man in my office. Please take him out to the field and see how well he does in the forty."
Moments later, a man in his late twenties appeared in the doorway. "Jimmy, this is Shawn Barton. Check him out and come back when you're finished. I'll be around for another hour."
Jimmy turned to leave. Shawn followed, saying nothing.
When they returned a half hour later, Jimmy was excited as he and Shawn stepped into Coach Bowden's office. At first, he couldn't speak.
"Well, what was the time?"
When Jimmy finally replied, Bowden said, "There must be some mistake. Nobody can run that fast."
"Coach, there's no mistake. He did it three times."
"Dadgum!" said Bowden, staring in amazement.
Chad returned home shortly after six, finding Shawn crawling out of bed.
"Did you sleep all day?" Chad asked.
"No, sir. I lay down a few minutes ago when I got back."
Chad placed his briefcase on the floor. "How about Mexican for supper?"
"I've never tried it, but I'm game."
Seated in a booth in the On the Border restaurant, Shawn enjoyed the tortillas, but the salsa burned his tongue. "You'll have to order for me," he said. "I don't understand a word of the menu. And please ask them not to make it so hot."
Chad laughed and, turning to the waiter, said, "A burrito, beef enchilada, rice and refried beans, please. Two orders, and ask the cook to make one of them mild."
"How did your day go?" Shawn asked.
"Oh, the usual stuff. I filed a motion with Judge Hamlin, moved for dismissal of another case, and met with a client who is suing over a construction contract."
"Did the judge agree to dismiss the case?"
"No, that seldom happens. But he did issue a continuance."
"Do you mind if I go to court with you sometimes? I'd like to watch."
"I'd be happy to have you, but most of what goes on is pretty dull. Incidentally, did you turn in the admission application?"
Shawn related what happened with the registrar and his trip to Coach Bowden's office.
"How tall are you?" Chad asked.
"Five foot one."
"And how much do you weigh?"
"About one hundred two."
As the waiter arrived, Chad asked, "You didn't really think they'd let you on the team, did you? Florida State has one of the best football programs in the nation."
Shawn tasted the burrito, and as he looked up said, "This is good. And by the way, Coach Bowden gave me some papers for you to sign . . . allowing me to join the team."
Chad sat back in shock.
"I don't expect to play in a real game," Shawn continued, "but I need your permission to be on the team."
"Shawn, I have the greatest admiration for Coach Bowden—everybody does. I can't believe he would expose you to serious injury."
"Oh, I don't think there's any danger of that. He's just doing me a favor and at the same time protecting an admissions opening for future players. Besides, it'll be great fun to sit on the bench with real players during games. But I did show him I can run fast. He was really impressed."
* * * * *
Chapter 4
"Mr. Langston, is this the young man cited in your motion?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
The judge turned to Shawn. "According to the petition brought before this Court, you are requesting that Samuel C. Langston, Jr., be appointed your legal guardian. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Langston, the Department of Children and Families, after due investigation, has recommended that this court appoint you legal guardian of Shawn Stewart Barton. With full knowledge of the responsibilities of this role, do you accept?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Then so ordered!"
As they were leaving the courthouse, Shawn smiled and said, "That was relatively painless."
"The excruciating part was inflicted by the Department of Children and Families. I thought this would take only a couple of days, but they stretched it out to a full two weeks, and it would have been longer had I not known one of the higher-ups in the bureaucracy."
"Mr. Langston, I'm sorry to put you through all this."
"If you don't start calling me Chad instead of Mr. Langston, we're going to have some serious issues."
"It'll take some getting used to," Shawn laughed. "Incidentally, how are the trust documents coming along?"
"Fine. I brought the final paperwork home last night, but you were busy on your computer when I got there. We can go over them after supper. By the way, what's that new printer for? That's a large piece of equipment."
"It's for engineering-type drawings. I told you I was working on my invention."
"You're serious about that, aren't you?"
"Yeah. In a day or two, the drawings should be complete. I've already finished most of the details and spec sheets."
"How is your stock trading venture coming along? Lost all your money yet?"
"Not so far. I've done a bit of day trading, but I hold most positions for three or four days."
"Don't get in over your head. Remember what I told you about margin calls," laughed Chad.
Three days later, Shawn walked into the waiting room of Chad's office, carrying in his arms a box and three long mailing tubes. Rita González, Chad's secretary, looked up from her desk and smiled. She was becoming quite fond of Shawn, partly because her own son was only a year younger.
"Good morning, Shawn," she said cheerily. "Go on in. Mr. Langston's next appointment will be here in a half hour."
"Thanks. It won't take long; I just need to give him some stuff."
Chad was on the phone. When he finished a couple of minutes later, he looked up at Shawn and asked, "What's all this?"
"It's my project. I want it put in a safe or wherever attorneys hide things. I need to have it protected against patent infringement. And I need you to draw up some confidentiality agreements." Shawn placed the box and tubes on Chad's desk, and handed him a separate sheet of paper. "These are the companies we need to get bids from for components of the prototype."
Chad held the paper and read aloud, "Goodwin Laboratories. What do they do?"
"They have equipment to embed some very fine zinc oxide wires into sheets of a porous gelatin-like material, about as thick as a piece of twenty-four-pound paper. I need three thousand sheets to begin with."
"And what about Abbott Plastic Fabricators?"
"They make heavy-duty, reinforced containers. I need a dozen about the size of an automobile battery."
"Chalmers Laboratories?"
"More plates. These are a kind of mesh screen made of a catalytic material. I need three thousand."
"Why don't you ask Goodwin to produce them?"
"Because I don't want any single supplier to produce more than one component."
"You're really protective about this, aren't you, Shawn?"
"Protective, yes. But I don't think I'm paranoid yet," Shawn laughed. "I'll also need a few off-the-shelf hardware items, and a five-gallon jug of a chemical."
"And when you put all this stuff together, Shawn, what do you have? What is it?"
"A sort of battery, but not like any you've ever seen."
"Are you sure it'll work?"
"I'm as certain as one can be until the time it's actually built and tested."
Three days later, Chad had set up appointments with the prospective suppliers.
"Mr. Langston, your flight to Atlanta leaves at 7:00 a.m. on Monday. You have an appointment with Jim Walker at Abbott Plastic Fabricators at 11:00, and Edwin Chalmers at Chalmers Laboratories at 3:15. You can pick up the rental car at Avis when you get to Atlanta. I made a reservation for you at the Hartsfield Hilton.
"Your flight from Atlanta to Houston leaves at 9:30 a.m. on Tuesday, and arrives at 10:45, Central Time. Jim Gibson of Goodwin Laboratories offered to meet you in the restaurant at the Airport Ramada for lunch. That should give you time to catch the 4:45 p.m. back to Tallahassee."
"Rita, you're a jewel. All I'm going to do is get these guys to sign confidentiality agreements, and to give them the plans and specs. I'm an attorney, not an engineer. I'll tell them that when they have questions, they can call Robin Howard."
"Who's he?"
"It's a pseudonym Shawn came up with," laughed Chad. "He doesn't want his real name to become known, and that's probably a wise decision. So if you get any calls for Robin Howard, tell them he'll return the call, and then notify Shawn."
"So that's why he's not going with you?"
"Right. And for obvious reasons, he doesn't want these guys to suspect they're dealing with a kid."
Chad's meetings came off without incident. Jim Gibson, Goodwin Laboratories, was curious about what his component would be used for, but when Chad declined to answer, Jim didn't press the matter.
When he arrived back at his apartment Tuesday night, he found Shawn hard at work on the computer. "Well, that job's done. We'll have to wait for their bids."
"Did they say how long it would take?"
"Two of them promised they would try to be back with us in ten days; the guy from Chalmers Laboratories wouldn't commit, but he thought it would take a couple of weeks. So it's a waiting game."
"Sir, I appreciate all that you're doing for me."
"Hey, kid! This isn't charity. When you make zillions on this invention, Langston, Langston, and Lowery will make a bundle warding off lawsuits and suing people. What are you up to now? I hate to ask."
"I'm trying to find an electric motor with the right speed range and torque to power a large-size car up to one hundred miles an hour."
Chad looked at the floor and shook his head. "I knew I shouldn't have asked. I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
The next morning, Chad joined his father for breakfast in the dining room of the prestigious Governors Inn.
"How did your trip go?"
"It went well, I suppose. When I met with those engineering-type guys, I felt like a duck out of water. I don't know anything about engineering, and I really don't know anything about this project."
"Don't worry. You've represented clients in construction and medical malpractice lawsuits. You don't have to be an expert in those fields in order to represent someone effectively. They're as lost in a courtroom as you would be in a hospital operating room. But seriously, in trying to help this kid, are you neglecting your other clients?"
"No, Dad. I'm in court tomorrow on the Richardson case, and I'm thoroughly prepared. We'll win. I may lose the Allison judgment on Friday, but it won't be because I'm not prepared. It's just that we have a very weak case."
"Chad, do you really believe that something will come of Shawn's project?"
"I really don't know. Getting from drawing board to marketplace is chancy at best, even with a good idea. And this one hasn't been tested yet. But in spite of all that, Dad, I believe that Shawn is on to something big, and if it is, it will mean a lot to both him and our firm."
"And to you? You've become quite fond of the boy."
"Well, after all, I'm his legal guardian. That's part of my job!"
As days passed, Shawn responded to several queries directed to Mr. Robin Howard. Some callers may have wondered, from the sound of his voice, whether they were talking to a kid—they were! But he answered even the most technical of questions knowledgeably and with authority. All of them seemed pleased with the clarity of his drawings and specs. What questions they had concerned their ideas about substituting one detail for another. With few exceptions, Shawn insisted upon their following the drawings and specs precisely.
Almost a month passed before all the bids came in. Chad was shocked when the total came to two hundred twenty-three thousand dollars. He immediately called Shawn.
"That's about what I expected."
"How are we going to pay for it?" Chad asked. "I certainly can't afford that much."
"I don't want you to pay anything! Part of it should come from my trading account, and about fifty thousand from the trust."
"Trading account? How much is in it?"
"At the moment, about three hundred fifteen thousand."
"Do you mean that you made two hundred fifteen thousand trading stocks just in the past two months?"
"I was lucky," Shawn replied in all seriousness. "I happened to be in several long positions when the market suddenly turned strongly bullish. As each appeared to top out, I closed."
"Shawn, if you decide to abandon your battery project, I'll give you a job managing my portfolio! In any case, I'll bring the bids home tonight, and if you're satisfied, I'll send letters out to these guys tomorrow telling them to go ahead."
For the next two months, Shawn busied himself with taking academic placement examinations and working on the used Chrysler Town Car he bought. It was the last of the classic models that had a hood and grill resembling a Rolls Royce. Inside and out, it was in mint condition. Or at least it appeared that way.
Chad, of course, joined him in the search for a suitable vehicle. Used car salesmen are rarely thought to be especially honest and trustworthy. "Smiling Larry" was no exception. He was both surprised and pleased when Chad and Shawn expressed no interest in driving the vehicle, for he knew that the engine and radiator were shot. While feigning distress, he was actually delighted to accept Chad's offer of $3,000 less than he was asking. But he was even more surprised when Chad insisted that, before closing the transaction, the dealer would have to remove the car's engine, radiator, battery, and exhaust system. What good would a car be to anyone without those? he wondered. But he didn't ask; he had been trying to get rid of that junker for months.
A boy's first car is very special, no matter what its condition. Since Shawn was underage, driving wasn't an option. But he wanted to modify the car to try out some of his new ideas. First, he measured the engine compartment—sans engine—to see what fittings and mountings would be required to install an electric motor. And he went through the car's service manual, focusing on the transmission and drive train, and trying to figure out how his new electric system could drive the air conditioning compressor.
Chad rented one of the three double garages available in the apartment complex. He kept his own car on one side, while Shawn worked on the Chrysler on the other. Chad would have preferred to postpone buying the car, at least until Shawn's battery proved successful. But the boy was so convinced it would work, his enthusiasm was contagious.
Now the waiting game, both for the battery components and the powerful electric motor. The latter, the one that Shawn ordered from a catalog, did not possess all the properties he wanted, but it might work and he could then tell what features his ideal motor should have. Still, at least a month would drag by before he could expect the reinforced plastic cases, and at least three for the remaining components. The electric motor should arrive in a week or two. It cost him a bit over seven hundred dollars.
In addition to trading securities, Shawn occupied himself by attending court proceedings. Chad and his father focused mainly on contractual disputes. Shawn had not previously met Bill Lowry, the other partner in the firm, but did so after observing his skillful defense of a client in an assault case. In the courtroom, Bill was articulate and dynamic. Outside, he was just the opposite—quiet and reticent, almost shy. He seldom socialized with the Langstons, or anyone else for that matter. On a typical working day, he rarely emerged from his office except to walk the familiar four blocks to the courthouse.
Since Mr. Lowry hardly ever left his office door open, Shawn had not encountered him. After the assault case was decided in favor of his client, Shawn walked forward and introduced himself.
"I'm Shawn Barton," he said. "I've wanted to meet you."
"I'm Bill Lowry. I've heard a lot about you."
"I hope not too much of it has been bad," Shawn smiled.
Before Bill Lowry could respond, he was engaged by another attorney, who was puzzled by one of the judge's rulings. Not wanting to intrude, Shawn slipped away.
Later, Shawn mentioned to Chad that he had briefly met Mr. Lowry.
"He's a peculiar guy," said Chad. "Keeps to himself. But he has enough clients to carry his weight, and he's very successful in court.
Bill's greatest strength is that he knows the law inside and out. If Dad or I have any question about an obscure point, we call on Bill. He usually provides the answer off the top of his head."
* * * * *
Chapter 5
When Chad returned from the freight depot, Shawn was eagerly awaiting. He tore into the wooden crate as if it were a birthday present. Chad stood by and watched before finally stepping forward and helping the boy lift the motor onto the brackets in the engine compartment of the Chrysler. It fit perfectly, but couldn't be fastened down until Shawn attached a flange to the end of the shaft. A few minutes later, everything was in place and firmly secured.
"Now, if we only had the battery!"
"Be patient, young man. It'll be here. Rome wasn't built in a day."
"No, but it was burned in a single night!"
A couple of weeks later, the plastic cases and gel sheets arrived. Shawn had meantime picked up some off-the-shelf items, including an ingenious device for modifying the frequency of alternating current—he needed to reduce the output from eleven hundred cycles all the way down to sixty. He also acquired five gallons of hydrogen peroxide, thirty-five percent concentration by weight.
When the mesh sheets from Chalmers Laboratories finally arrived, Shawn buried himself in the task of assembling three of the final units. He had spoken by phone with Shinwood Associates, a local testing laboratory. They would determine how well output levels would survive heavy current draws over periods spanning several hours. Shawn spelled out carefully the details of the tests he needed, and as usual, Chad secured a confidentiality agreement.
Shawn decided to coin a new name for his creation. "Battery" wouldn't do, because his new invention was a far cry from what people usually meant by that word. "Power Pack" was appropriate, but a bit too cumbersome to suit him. "P Pack" was shorter, but Shawn didn't think it sounded right when spoken aloud. So he settled on "Pi Pak," substituting a Greek letter for the English "P" and abbreviating "Pack." Chad agreed this was a catchy choice, though he still had not a clue how Shawn's device differed from other batteries.
Shawn accompanied Chad when he picked up the report at the lab.
"Shawn, this is Bob Shinwood," Chad said as the man extended his hand to Shawn. "Shawn is my son."
"Chad, I don't know who your client is, but he's come up with an amazing product. We would very much like to test it in a longer time frame, perhaps until its output drops ten percent. Do you think he'd consent?"
Chad noted a slight nod from Shawn before replying, "I'm sure he would be very grateful. I'll leave the three units with you."
As they walked out of the building, Chad turned to the boy. "I hope you didn't mind being introduced as my son."
Looking up at him, Shawn replied quietly, "Not at all. It seems natural."
"Yes, it does."
On the way home, Shawn glanced quickly through the report before crying out, "Yes! Yes! This is better than I hoped for. If only it holds that load over the long haul, we've got it made. When we get home, I'm going to build another one and put it in the Town Car."
"You've made a believer out of me," laughed Chad. "I'll help you any way I can, but I'll probably just get in the way."
Back at the apartment, they set to work. Chad insisted that Shawn store his materials in the remaining spare bedroom. Actually, they occupied very little space. The largest single items were a box containing the remaining nine casings, and a five-gallon jug of hydrogen peroxide. The main requirements for assembling the unit were patience and steady hands. A mesh sheet had to be carefully inserted between each of two hundred twenty delicate, paper-thin gel sheets. Those were then electrically connected to the controller, and the assembly carefully placed in one of the plastic casings. After the controller outputs were fastened to terminals, hydrogen peroxide was poured in and the lid permanently secured.
They finally completed the unit. "I don't know how you did three of these by yourself," said Chad, shaking his head.
"Determination, pure determination," Shawn laughed.
"Tomorrow's Saturday," said Chad. "I'm hungry. Let's go out for pizza. We'll have the whole day to install and try it out."
"Sounds like a plan."
As morning light intruded into the breakfast area, it found Chad and Shawn quaffing down glasses of orange juice, and diving into scrambled eggs and sausages.