Framed

“Griffin looked up, too horrified to read on. The article was about him and his friends!

The principal fixed his piercing eyes on Griffin. ‘You’re regular celebrities around here, you and your buddies.’

‘It’s not true!’ Griffin managed in a strangled voice. ‘I mean, it all sort of happened—but not like it’s written there!’”

Egan derides Griffin and his group of friends in this passage, but it’s only the first occasion in the novel when an adult makes a judgment about a young person based upon hearsay. In this case, the principal is relying on the reporting of Celia White, whom the storyline reveals to be completely biased, having decided that Griffin and his friends are troublemakers. To his credit, Egan ultimately observes the actions of Griffin and his friends, determines them to be worthy, and condemns the judgmentalism of White.

“The bell rang, and the bustle in the hall grew louder. Tony melted into the crowd, and Darren took his leave with a cheerful ‘Later losers.’

Pitch shook her head in amazement. ‘Is it just me, or is this place even weirder than our last school?’

‘I have a prescription ferret,’ Ben said with a sigh. ‘I’m not a good judge of weird.’”

Korman’s Swindle series follows Griffin and his friends through their school years. Framed deals with their entry into seventh grade, which for these children is the first year of middle school. Rather than focusing on the shift in schools and the movement from being the oldest students to being the youngest students, Korman marks the transition with passages such as this, in which the group affirms their togetherness and notes that they stand apart even within the strangeness of middle school.

“‘Dr. Evil’s so convinced we’re dirty that he’s going to pin some rap on us sooner or later, even if we’re totally innocent.’

‘Yeah, but if he finds out what we’re doing, everything Celia White put in that article will be true,’ Logan reminded him.”

Korman focuses on a common experience of early adolescents—that adults have prejudged them and that they are powerless defend themselves. Griffin, though, is unwilling to accept injustice. Rather, he remains proactive—if ineffective—throughout. As is often the case in middle school, the children have assigned a nickname, Dr. Evil, to Egan.

“She did not share his smile. ‘He really is Dr. Evil, Griffin—and it has nothing to do with morning calisthenics or Celia White. The first game starts in a few hours, and it kills me that I won’t be in it. I’ve always believed there was no cliff I couldn’t scale, no crag I couldn’t beat. But being a girl—that isn’t something you overcome with second effort.’”

Pitch, the tall, athletic girl, has failed to convince Egan, who is also the football coach, to allow her to join the team. Korman demonstrates the extent of the principal’s prejudice: Egan not only assumes the worst about students because of rumors he has heard about them but also categorically rejects the idea of gender equality. As the dialogue reveals, this cause Pitch to question her self-worth.

“A 12-year-old who’s already made a lot of so-called experts look like clowns. Me, for instance. Considering Griffin’s past pattern of behavior can you honestly rule out the possibility that he’s responsible?

You’re a resourceful kid, Griffin Bing. I underestimate you at my peril. And believe me, that’s not a compliment.”

These comments from Detective Sergeant Vizzini refer to previous books in Korman’s Swindle series in which Griffin doggedly pursues clues and create plans that reveal that adults have mistakenly fallen for False Evidence Appearing Real, which is a constantly reality throughout the novel. The cautious officer expresses his reluctance to believe Griffin because he knows how clever Griffin is. Just because he has been on “the right side” in the past, correcting the mistakes of adults, does not mean Griffin has not gone over to the criminal side in an effort to exploit his insights and talents.

“‘In the meantime,’ Judge Koretsky went on, ‘I’m notifying the school district that you are being removed from Cedarville Middle School. Until this matter is resolved, you will be attending the JFK Alternative Education Center.’

Griffin was aghast. ‘You mean Jail For Kids?’

Mr. Bing stood up. ‘What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’”

Throughout the narrative, Korman uses many examples of adults not only judging young people based on faulty assumptions but also punishing them based on these assumptions without proof or due process. Though Griffin’s attorney points out that he has never been found guilty of a crime, and in this case has not officially been accused of any crime, his past mischievous behavior causes the judge to move him out of the public school into an alternative disciplinary setting, JFK, that the students have accordingly nicknamed “Jail for Kids.” The judge’s decision further cements the opinion held by Griffin and his friends that adults do not understand young people and cannot be trusted.

“‘You know what’s the weirdest part of all this? How your lost retainer ended up where the ring was supposed to be. Have you thought about that?’

‘Are you kidding? I’ve thought about nothing but. That’s why nobody believes me—because they can’t understand how it could have happened if I didn’t do it.’

‘Well, how could it have happened?’

‘I was framed.’”

This passage, part of a conversation between Griffin and Ben as Griffin waits to ride the bus to JFK for the first time, is ironic. Griffin criticizes all the adults for blaming him for stealing the Super Bowl ring when they cannot imagine a scenario in which his retainer would appear in place of the ring. As soon as he expresses this idea, he makes a similar unsupported assumption—that he was framed—because he cannot imagine a scenario other than someone trying to make him appear to be a criminal. Framed is replete with false assumptions and the consequences of acting on faulty assumptions, as when Griffin attempts a sting operation to corner the actual thief and there is no actual thief.

“‘It’s Dr. Evil!’ Ben rasped. ‘And he’s got to have the merchandise! He’s the only one left!’

[…] There had been reason to suspect the others, but Dr. Egan was his true enemy—the man who had targeted him from the beginning and banished him to Jail For Kids.

[…] If there were any question as to why he’d come, he clutched a printout of the untraceable email in his hand.”

Unlike other child detective serials, Korman’s Swindle series does not feature heroes who are smarter than the befuddled adults they manipulate. In that he repeatedly makes plans that get himself and his friends into trouble, Griffin’s singular quality that leads to success is his persistence: He makes new plans until one of them works, and even then, the success is typically accidental. In the case of “Operation Justice,” Griffin and his friends deduce who might be interested in stealing the Super Bowl ring and invite them to sell it at a certain time and location. What Griffin does not consider is the obvious possibility that everyone interested in the ring would show up to see who had it. When all the “suspects” arrive, Griffin assumes Egan is the thief primarily because Griffin hates him most.

“Slammed with house arrest, unable to prove his innocence, Griffin was at the mercy of the justice system. And everybody knew that the justice system didn’t always work. There were guiltless people rotting in prison, and even on death row, because they’ve been framed, just like him.

The Man With The Plan believed in planning, but mostly he believed in action. To stand idle while his entire future went down the drain was the ultimate torture for a guy like Griffin Bing.”

Riding home after being sanctioned by the judge to house arrest, while his mother lectures him about his disobedience and his father heads home from New York City to chastise him, Griffin is already thinking of his next plan. The greater the restraints placed upon him, the more intent Griffin is on devising a new plan that will solve his problems by bringing justice to the true perpetrator. Korman portrays Griffin as the living embodiment of persistence in his resolve to Never Give Up.

“Shank was not the type to be driven off. ‘Okay, give it up. What’s wrong?’

[…] Still, Griffin was in no mood to bare his soul to a Hummer with size-fourteen construction boots. ‘What do you care?’ he muttered.

‘What are you talking about? We’re friends!’”

In Chapter 11, Griffin broods about having lost his longtime friends, about how they have deserted him now that he is under house arrest. Even as he feels sorry for himself, Shank—who insists on being Griffin’s friend despite their having nothing in common—demands to know why Griffin is upset. When he arrives home from school, Griffin discovers that his friends are hiding outside his house, waiting for him to let them into the basement, where they show him a new plan they devised to prove his innocence. Korman uses Griffin’s despair—transformed into grateful joy—to emphasize The Necessity of Loyal Friends.

“Ben squinted out the window. ‘Anybody know the daughter? Does she go to our school?’

‘I think she’s a sixth grader at the elementary,’ Savannah replied. ‘Why?’

Ben looked uncomfortable. ‘I guess I never thought Dr. Evil could have a daughter who looks—you know—nice.”

A hallmark of adolescent development is the ability to step away from black-and-white, all-or-nothing thinking and realize that no individual or group is entirely good or entirely bad. Ben shows evidence of this growing awareness when he recognizes that Lindsay’s connection to Egan, her unworthy father, does not make Lindsay herself unworthy. Griffin takes this recognition a step further when Egan rescues him in the final chapters: While the principal will never be Griffin’s favorite person, he does possess certain worthy qualities. Ironically, Egan and many of the adults in the story do not grasp this truth and they continually judge Griffin’s friends negatively because they associate with Griffin.

“Logan allowed himself to be guided down the road, passing right under the attic dormer, where he knew the rest of the team was watching with great interest.

Ben was squinting out the window in consternation. ‘Why is she holding his hand?’

Savannah, who was looking through the telephoto lens of the camera, had a better view. ‘I think he’s bleeding.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Pitch put in sarcastically. ‘Good actors can bleed on queue.’”

Korman draws each of the tween characters consistently, each with distinct characteristics, foibles, anxieties, and intentions. Each of the characters experiences growth, challenges, and personal glories during the narrative. Thus, while the storyline may seem outlandish and unrealistic, the characters ring true. This brief passage reveals the inner qualities of four of Griffin’s friends: Logan, the actor, does not reveal his awareness that others are watching him; Ben, the diminutive person, is extremely jealous of Logan for holding hands with a sixth grade girl to whom Ben has never spoken; Savannah, the most tenderhearted of the group, expresses concern for Logan’s injuries after he scootered into a thorny bush; and tomboy Pitch mocks Logan’s insincerity.

“You know, my dad kind of warned me to stay away from you. He said, ‘If it’s the Logan I think it is, he’s part of that gang Celia White’s always writing about.’

[…] ‘Well—uh—what do you think?’

‘I’m with you, aren’t I? I respect my dad, but he doesn’t pick my friends for me.’”

Because Framed is part of a lengthy series of similar novels, Korman not only uses foreshadowing to set the stage for developments in the narrative itself but also includes new characters in the storyline who likely will appear in upcoming novels. Here, the author presents Lindsay, the principal’s daughter, as being mature and well-differentiated for an 11-year-old. Instantly, Logan and Ben find her so attractive that they fight over her. Along with Shank, readers may surmise that Lindsay will appear in upcoming Swindle series books.

“Not that he didn’t trust his friends. But there were so many things that could go wrong. […]

And if today didn’t pan out, there would be no second chances. The stakeout was in shambles; the command center compromised; and the principal would know they were on to him.

Griffin set his jaw. His friends were great—the best. But a successful plan required a master planner. And none of them was that.”

Korman portrays Griffin as supremely confident in his own hunches and abilities. Trusting in his own judgment, however, repeatedly gets him into trouble. He never completely trusts his friends. When Savannah discovers the thief of the missing ring, Griffin dismisses her idea. Ultimately, his missteps lead him to violate multiple legal orders. He avoids serious repercussions only when his friends, his parents, and the principal all pull together to hide his behind-the-scenes actions.

“There, lined up neatly in the space that had been concealed by the basket, was an array of random objects—a silver Olympic coin, a cufflink, a tiny bell from a Christmas wreath, a gold pen cap, a rhinestone earring, a shard of broken crystal, and a gleaming black sequin from an old Halloween costume. It was the strangest collection of unrelated items she’d ever seen. Why, the only thing this stuff had in common was—

When full understanding came to her, Savannah the animal expert sat down in the middle of the floor, gaping in astonishment.”

While other characters have enlightened moments that enable them to fulfill their commitments to the team, this revelatory experience for Savannah signals the turning point of the narrative. Using skills unique to herself, she puts together several elements: the missing ring, the odd collection of gleaming artifacts, and the invasive pack rat that had suddenly disappeared from her house. When she tries in vain to persuade Griffin to accept the possibility that a pack rat is responsible, he brushes her off. Griffin treats Savannah the same way the adults treat him, as if her ideas are farfetched and ridiculous.

“All eyes were on him—not on his face, but on his ankle. The leg of his pants had crept up, revealing the PEMA bracelet with its solid red warning light. […]

As the period drew to a close, several students exiting the lunchroom—the cream of the JFK crop, toughest of the tough—made a point of passing by his table. Nobody said a word, but their respectful nods were unmistakable.”

Framed may be perceived by readers to be a series of lessons bestowed upon Griffin, many of which he does not grasp. He never understands the significance of obeying the judge’s order despite the continued restrictions on his behavior. He does not understand the resilience of the affection his friends feel for him or the way that they create and carry off plans that often have better results than his. The one lesson he does grasp, which stuns him, is the respect he gains from the thuggish population of the alternative school he attends when he arrives with an ankle monitor. Korman repeatedly demonstrates that the reality Griffin imagines is quite different from the one he occupies.

“We Brickhauses—we’re not exactly a high achieving family. We don’t excel, as the teachers say. In fact, we stink it pretty much everything. But this is what we do. For Bill Gates, it’s computers. For us it’s nuisance wildlife. What are the odds that the skill set you need is going to turn out to be the one I’ve got. A million to one? That’s destiny, Justice. It’s meant to be.”

Among the many intentions Griffin holds but fails to keep is his dogged unwillingness to share his troubles with Shank, a person who has decided to be Griffin’s friend regardless of Griffin’s willingness. After Griffin finally blurts out the problem he is facing and Savannah’s improbably belief that the culprit framing him is a rat, Shank explains he has the ability to clear up the mystery, and that, like Griffin, he is invested in creating detailed plans to address problems.

“They went around the circle. All groundings and punishments would be over by Wednesday, all team members ready and willing. There were nods of agreement and determined grunts of ‘We’re in’ and ‘Let’s do it.’

Shank was impressed. ‘Man, I thought I was in the middle of a dweeb convention! You guys are my kind of people!’ […]

None of them wanted to be Shank’s kind of people.”

When Shank joins Griffin’s circle of friends, the posse feels they have to accept someone who doesn’t belong. Shank, though, does share some distinct commonalities with the others. In particular, he is an outcast from typical middle school students, has abilities no one else in the group possesses, and accepts the other group members as quirky equals. This passage also reveals the how far the individuals and the group as a whole will go to support one another—especially their leader, who frequently gets them into trouble and whose “Operation Dirty Rat” is likely to cause them problems again.

“‘I was right all along,’ the reporter went on. ‘Once that awful Griffin Bing was removed from the mix, the rest of you could start to turn your lives around. Sometimes you have to cut off one bad branch to save the whole tree. I only hope your other friends can find such positive outlets for their energy.’”

This judgment from reporter Celia White, who holds a grudge against Griffin from prior novels, is ironic because Logan, to whom she speaks, is a key player in a plan, beginning at that moment, to distract the entire community while the other members of Griffin’s posse hunt down the pack rat who stole the Super Bowl ring. It is ironic as well in that parents, teachers, and other adult authority figures habitually warn tweens that they are judged by their associates and that unworthy friends can lead good people astray. Korman here pictures something much deeper than the surface observations White makes. The bond among the young people and their willingness to sacrifice for one another is profound and unbreakable.

“As the team headed off after Shank, Griffin patted the transmitter on his belt and checked the indicator light on his PEMA anklet. Still green.

So far, so good.”

Korman uses foreshadowing as a literary device throughout the narrative, typically in negative ways. In this case, when Griffin touches the reliable belt transmitter Melissa set up to let him escape house arrest undetected, it unmistakably foreshadows that the transmitter will fail and the police will come after Griffin. Wherever foreshadowing is employed in the novel, it is typically a signal that something unexpected and damaging to different character’s assumptions and plans is about to occur, as in this passage.

“‘Behold the indestructible city we have built together!’

No sooner the were the words past his lips than the giant set poster depicting the Circus Maximus exploded and Sheldon Brickhaus blasted onto the stage, fishing rod in hand, thundering after the rat. He knocked over an aqueduct and flattened the Pantheon before crashing through the background scenery of the Seven Hills of Rome. He was gone so quickly it was almost as if he had never been there—except for the wreckage he left in his wake.”

The passage operates on two levels. First, Korman intends this to be an ironically humorous moment when the stage set of supposedly indestructible Rome collapses just after Logan, as Julius Caesar, pronounces it indestructible. It is also ironic in that readers may perceive it describes Griffin and his plans, which invariably make perfect sense to those participating, before crumbling pathetically. It also foreshadows the immediate search for Griffin Bing. Even though Shank is totally unknown to the audience watching the play Hail Caesar, those who see the rat immediately recognize that Griffin must be responsible for what is happening and begin to search the building for him.

“‘If the punishment fit the crime, you’d be thrown off your newspaper, and I’d lose my job. Our crimes are the same. We railroaded Griffin just because of his past.’ He faced Griffin, his expression open and sincere. ‘I don’t even know what to say to you. I’m so sorry. I was stupid and unfair, and I jumped to the wrong conclusion.’”

Readers may find this apology to be long overdue, well-deserved, and highly unlikely. While the members of Griffin’s posse continue to wrangle Ben safely down from the ceiling, they watch the principal, who speaks here, work his jaw back and forth in rage. They assume the anger is directed at them when, as Egan reveals, he is angry with himself. While such a whole-hearted expression of regret is rare in real life, readers may remember that Framed is a caricature of middle school, a blending of realistic and preposterous happenings that allow for the sort of fulsome apology tweens often desire and deserve but do not receive.

“The principal nodded. ‘With all the excitement in the building, we made an amazing discovery.’ He reached into his pocket and produced Art Blankenship’s Super Bowl ring. ‘It turns out that Griffin did not take it after all. Believe it or not, a pack rat found Griffin’s lost retainer and exchanged it for the ring.’

‘You can’t make this stuff up,’ added Griffin honestly.”

This exchange is rife with irony. It is ironic because Egan—who has detested Griffin throughout—and Griffin’s parents—who rushed home in a fury to confront him after he tricked them—all come to Griffin’s aid to shield him from even worse legal trouble. Ironically, the parents and the principal all give supporting (though partial) explanations of what occurred; by contrast, Griffin habitually gives lengthy, complete explanations that are never accepted at face value. It is ironic in that Griffin reinforces the truth of Egan’s story, after Egan doubted and denied him throughout the narrative. Finally, Griffin’s comment here is the author’s ironic side note: Korman reminds readers that this story, which has drawn the reader along to its intense denouement, is really “made up,” the concoction of a creative mind.