Sleepers

'I'm not asking if you heard,' O'Connor said. I'm asking if you saw.'

'Yes, I saw,' Ferguson said in a low voice.

'Did you and Sean Nokes ever force yourselves on any of the boys?' O'Connor asked, taking two steps back, his voice hitting full range. 'Did you and Sean Nokes rape any of the boys at the Wilkinson Home? And again, I remind you that you are under oath.'

The courtroom held the silence of the moment, no moving, no coughing, no crumbling of paper. All eyes were on the witness stand. The twelve heads of the jury were turned at an angle. John and Tommy sat at attention. Carol gripped my hand as Michael looked above the bench at the painting of blind justice gripping her sword.

'Counselors,' Judge Weisman said, breaking the silence. 'Approach the bench. Now!'

Michael and O'Connor moved to the sidebar, on the end furthest from the witness stand.

'What the hell is going on here?' Judge Weisman asked Michael, temper flashing above his calm demeanor.

'Well, your Honor,' Michael said, glancing over at Ferguson, 'it looks like I called the wrong character witness.'

'And what are you going to do about it?' Judge Weisman asked.

'Nothing, your Honor,' Michael said. 'There's nothing I can do.'

'Or maybe, counselor,' Judge Weisman said, 'you've already done enough.'

The lawyers returned to their positions.

'Please answer the question, Mr. Ferguson,' Judge Weisman ordered.

'Yes,' Ferguson said in a choked voice, tears lining his face.

'Yes what?' O'Connor asked.

'Yes, boys were raped,' Ferguson said.

'By you and Sean Nokes?' O'Connor said.

'Not just by us,' Ferguson said.

'By you and Sean Nokes?' O'Connor said, repeating the question, raising his voice even louder.

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'On more than one occasion?' O'Connor asked.

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'With more than one boy?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'Now, do you still think Sean Nokes was a good man, Mr. Ferguson?' O'Connor asked.

'He was my friend,' Ferguson said.

'A friend who raped and abused boys he was paid to watch over,' O'Connor said. 'Boys who could maybe grow up and become an enemy of such a good man.'

'Are you finished?' Ferguson asked, his eyes red, his hands shaking.

'Not just yet,' O'Connor said.

'I want it to be over,' Ferguson said. 'Please, your Honor, I want it to be over.'

'Mr. O'Connor?' the Judge asked.

'This won't take long, your Honor,' O'Connor said.

'Proceed,' Judge Weisman said.

'Sean Nokes spent a lot of time at your home, is that right?' O'Connor asked.

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'As much as a week at a time, is that also correct?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said.

'And you have a child, is that correct?'

'Yes,' Ferguson said. 'A daughter.'

'In all the time your good friend Sean Nokes spent in your home, all the days, all the hours, did either you or your wife ever allow him to be alone with your daughter?' O'Connor asked. 'At any time? For any reason?'

Ferguson stared at O'Connor, his fear evident, his body leaning toward the Judge's bench for support. 'No,' he finally said. 'No, we never did.'

'Why was that, Mr. Ferguson?' O'Connor asked. 'If he was such a good, man.'

'Objection, your Honor,' Michael said for the first time, looking at Ferguson. 'Question doesn't call for an answer.'

'Counselor's right, your Honor,' O'Connor said. 'I withdraw the question.'

'Witness is excused,' Judge Weisman said.

'Thank you, your Honor,' Ferguson said, stepping down from the stand.

'Mr. Ferguson, if I were you, I wouldn't stray too far from home,' Judge Weisman said. 'People will need to talk to you. Do you understand?'

'Yes, your Honor,' Ferguson said meekly, his eyes darting from John to Tommy and then to Michael, slowly, finally recoiling in recognition. 'I understand.'

Michael waited until Ferguson walked out of the courtroom and then stood up.

'The prosecution rests its case, your Honor,' he said. 'We have no further witnesses.'

'Thank God for that,' Judge Weisman said.

FIFTEEN

Fat Mancho bounced a spauldeen against the ground, his eyes fixed on the brick wall in front of him. He was wearing a long-sleeve wool shirt, a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, scruffy blue jeans and high-top PF Flyers.

I stood five feet to his left, wearing a leather jacket, two black wool gloves and a pull cap. My jeans felt stiff in the windy cold and my sneakers and thin white socks weren't enough to prevent the late Sunday afternoon chill from seeping through.

Carol stood with her back to the chain fence separating the open lot from the sidewalk. She was on her third cup of coffee and had two thick winter scarves wrapped around her neck.

'Most people play handball in the summer,' I said to Fat Mancho, rubbing my hands together. 'It's easier to see the ball without tears in your eyes.'

'I give a fuck about most people,' Fat Mancho said.

'What do you have planned for after the game?' I asked. 'A swim?'

'Your balls all twisted up 'cause you gonna lose the game,' Fat Mancho said. 'And you one of them fuckers that can't live with losin'.'

'Freezing, Fat Man,' I said. 'I'm one of those fuckers who can't live with freezing.'

Fat Mancho slapped the ball against the wall, a hard shot, aimed low, with a heavy spin to it. I took three steps back and returned the hit. Fat Mancho was ready for the return, crouched down, hands on his knees, not wearing gloves, his eyes on the ball, looking like an overweight third baseman who forgot his Old-Timer's Day uniform.

His right hand whipped at the ball, sending it higher than the serve, faster, forcing me to move back, the soles of my sneakers slipping on a thin slab of ice. I watched as the ball bounced over my head.

'That's six for me, loser,' Fat Mancho said. 'Two for you.'

'You never play this game,' I said, my breath coming heavy. 'How can you be good?'

'You never seen me play, fool,' Fat Mancho said. 'I was your age, I was all-spic. Played the best. Beat the best.'

I looked over his shoulder and saw Carol walking toward us, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cold beer in the other.

'Good news,' I said. 'It's halftime.'

We sat against the handball wall, sitting on top of three copies of the Sunday Daily News, Carol and I sharing the coffee, Fat Mancho slurping gulps of Rheingold.

'How's Irish holdin' up?' Fat Mancho asked about Michael.

'I only know what I see in court,' I said. 'That end seems good. His side of the table's finished.'

'He did good,' Fat Mancho said. 'I seen lawyers weren't tossin' the case look more fucked up. You didn't know, you won't know. That kid's colder than a hit man.'

'John and Tommy are starting to smell something,' I said. 'They just don't know what.'

'A spic be livin' in the White House time it reaches their fuckin' brain,' Fat Mancho said.

'O'Connor's come through big,' Carol said. 'He looks like F. Lee Bailey's twin brother out there.'

'He was a good one,' Fat Mancho said. 'Then he lost a few and he found the bottle. Been chasin' nothin' but skid cases since.'

'He sobered up for this,' I said. 'He's got a shot at a win. Even without a witness.'

'He's a drunk, but he ain't a fool,' Fat Mancho said, putting the can of beer on the ground next to him. 'He wins this, every killer both sides of the river have his card in their pocket.'

'Is that true?' Carol asked, lifting one of the scarves up to where it covered everything but eyes.