Wanted: dead or alive.

How am I ever going to explain this to my mother? Me - going to court! I might even go to jail. I can see it now:

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE - J.J. JAMISON.

I'll just have to tell her the truth. She'll understand, once I explain how it happened.

There I was, riding my bicycle down Newton Street, just like I have a million times before on my way home from school. Then I heard a commotion behind me. Sharon Matthews, that creepy girl from fifth grade, was yelling, "Stop! Help! Catch him, J.J.! Help! Catch Mugsy!"

Just then her silly old mutt, Mugsy, went flying past me, running full speed ahead after a big black-and-white cat. Mugsy raced to the other side of the street, close on the tail of that cat.

I didn't stop to think. I pedaled as fast as I could after Mugsy. My bike was too much for that mutt. I caught up to her, jumped off my bike, and snatched her up, just as the cat disappeared around the comer.

I guess I'm a hero now, I thought.

I turned around to display my catch to Sharon. From that point on, it's kind of a fog. All I could see were flashing blue lights. Walking toward me was - a police officer!

"Son, I'm going to have to write you a ticket," he said, looking serious. "A ticket! What for?" I asked. "You were riding your bike on the wrong side of the street."

"But, officer, I was chasing this dog for Sharon Matthews. Right, Sharon?"

I looked around. Sharon was nowhere in sight. That little chicken. I'd get her!

"You could have had a serious accident, son. Maybe next time you'll stop and think. Here you go," he said, handing me a ticket.

A real live traffic ticket! I couldn't believe it.

"But I didn't think you could give tickets to little kids," I said.

"That's where you're wrong, son. I'm only doing it for your own good - to help you learn the safe way to ride your bike," he said. "You'll have to go to court next Monday to take care of this."

So here I am. Waiting for Mom to get home from work. Wait till she hears this one, I thought.

As soon as she got home I told her the whole story. I was right. She was pretty understanding. Unfortunately, she wouldn't help me get out of it.

"Come on, Mom," I begged. "Can't you write them a letter saying I won't do it again? Or how about if I get sick? Pneumonia! That's it - I'll get pneumonia!"

"Nothing doing," she said. "You're just going to have to pay the price. Maybe you'll ride more safely from now on. Besides, it will probably be a very educational experience."

Just what I need, I thought, an educational experience.

The rest of the week was awful. I felt as if I were waiting for doomsday. Each day seemed like a year. I sure wanted to get pneumonia, but no such luck.

Monday finally came. I had to wear my best clothes to school, since we were going to court straight from there. My mom had to work, so my grandmother was going to take me. She picked me up at school, and we headed downtown to the courthouse. She tried to cheer me up as we drove there, but nothing worked. Since I would probably be in jail that night, nothing really mattered anymore. I was doomed.

I was hoping it would take a long time to get there, but it didn't. We parked, and Grandmother held my hand as we walked in. I don't usually let her do that, since that's only for babies, but I figured since I was going to jail, I'd let her this one time. She might never see me again.

We walked down a long hall to a door marked "Traffic Court."

"Excuse me, sir," Grandmother said to a police officer outside the door. "Are we in the right place?" She showed him the ticket.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "That's the courtroom for traffic offenders."

I guess that's what I am - a traffic offender.

We went inside and sat down with about ten other traffic offenders. After a few minutes, the judge came in. He was wearing a long, black robe. He looked just like in the pictures in our government textbook at school. He began calling people up to the bench. (That's what his big desk is called in court.) My grandmother kept squeezing my hand and smiling at me, but it sure didn't help much.

"Jeffrey Jamison, Jr.," called the judge.

That's me. Everyone calls me J.J., but Jeffrey is my real name.

I walked up to the bench and waited, staring at the floor. I wanted to just disappear.

"Are you Jeffrey Jamison, Jr.?" the judge asked.

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"How old are you, son?"

"Ten, going on eleven."

"Well, son, you have the right to have an attorney," he said.

I heard several people behind me laughing, but it sure didn't seem funny to me. "What for?" I asked.

"In case you need help," he said.

"Oh. No, thank you. My grandmother can help me if I need it. She's over there," I said, pointing at Grandmother.

"It says here you were riding your bike on the wrong side of the street, facing traffic. Is that right?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, but..."

"No buts, Jeffrey. There's no excuse. That's a very dangerous thing to do. You must always ride in the same direction as the traffic. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, hanging my head.

"Very well. Consider this a warning. Next time you'll have to pay a fine."

"How much?" I asked.

"Twenty dollars," he said.

"There won't be a next time, sir."

"You know, Jeffrey, I think you're right," he said, and smiled a very warm and friendly smile.

I knew I was right. There won't be a next time, I thought. And this really has been an educational experience!