“You can’t run that story, Amy,” I said. “It’s ridiculous. That’s an unsubstantiated, one-sided account of a conversation that may never have even happened.”
This time her eyebrows arched so high they almost joined her hairline. “Excuse me? I can’t run that story? Like you’re my editor or something? This story is huge, Lincoln, and it’s good journalism. I’m the first person to provide any sort of account of a relationship between Sentalar and Gradduk. It’s the biggest scoop I’ve had in months.”
“Biggest since I gave you the story of your life, you mean?”
Now the eyebrows lowered and her eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean? That because you gave me a good opportunity once, you’re allowed to dictate what I do and do not report?”
“You can’t run that story,” I said. “It’ll make Ed look like some sort of a psycho stalker, and that’s absurd. If you’d ever known the guy—”
“Known him when he was twelve, like you did? Give me a break, Lincoln! You don’t even know who he was anymore. Think about it: The last two times you even spoke to Gradduk, he was in the process of being arrested. And justifiably so.”
I shoved off the chair and walked back into the kitchen, wanting to get away from her, the hostility building so quickly that I was afraid of losing my composure. I stood in the kitchen with my back to her for a few minutes, cleaning already-clean dishes, taking slow breaths, and keeping silent. Eventually, she stood up and gathered her things. She left the living room but did not follow me into the kitchen, walking instead to the door.
“It’s been a long time since you knew him, Lincoln,” she said.
“I knew him well during a time when boys become men, Amy,” I said, stepping out of the kitchen so I could see her. “I think a person’s character is pretty well established by then.”
“You arrested him, Lincoln! What sort of character assessment were you making then?”
“There’s a difference between a guy being willing to move some drugs when he’s broke and a guy who’s a sexual predator and a murderer, Amy.” My voice was rising now, the towel I’d been drying the dishes with clenched tightly in my hands.
“You hadn’t seen him in eight years.”
We stood there facing each other with cold stares, a pair of gunslingers in a dusty street.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” she said eventually, turning and putting her hand on the doorknob. “I didn’t want to run the story without telling you what I had first. But it’s running, Lincoln. And it’s the right thing for me to do.”
“Obviously. It’ll strengthen your résumé for the tabloids.”
She jerked the door open so hard I was surprised she didn’t dislocate her shoulder, stepped through it, and slammed it shut. I threw the dish towel at the door; it hit with a splat and left a smear on the paint as it slid to the ground. Count on me to come through with the childish gesture.
After a minute, I sighed, walked over, and picked up the towel. I cleaned up the rest of the mess in the living room, washed the rest of the dishes, turned the lights off, and stood at the window. I stared through it without seeing anything. Worlds collided, I’d told Amy. They certainly had.
The interrogation room is about the size of a bedroom closet in Shaker Heights or Pepper Pike. They got a table in here somehow, and it seems to take up the entire space. If you attempt to walk around the table, you have to flatten yourself against the wall. This spoils any hope of a pacing-and-shouting routine like on TV cop shows, but that’s probably just as well.
Sitting across from my oldest friend, the room and the table could not feel smaller to me. I’m not in uniform and he’s not handcuffed, thankfully, but even so the scenario feels wrong in a way I couldn’t have imagined before I found myself here, wrong in a way that makes my stomach roil and my hands tremble so much that I jam them under the table so he can’t see.
“Ed,” I say, “I can’t delay things anymore. If you don’t talk now, there won’t be a plea bargain. You’ll do jail time. A few years of it.”
His eyes are locked on mine, cold and unwavering. He has several days of beard on his face, but he still looks so young he could have just come from having a high school yearbook photograph taken instead of a mug shot. I don’t want to know what I look like.
“Dammit, Ed,” I say after a few minutes of silence. “There’s nobody listening right now. No recorders, nobody behind a mirror, none of that shit. Its just you and me. Tell me something. Anything. Anything that I can take out of this room and use to get you protection.”
He leans back, folds his hands neatly, and rests them on the table. His face is serene, his eyes indicting. His mouth shut.
“You’re going to go to jail,” I repeat. “They’ve got you with possession of cocaine and intent to distribute. Got your conviction boxed and sealed and wrapped with a ribbon. Any leeway you might have had is going to be thrown aside to make you regret not talking. They’re going to go after you hard because you spoiled their plans.”
No response.
“You want to see Allison through a piece of glass, Ed?”
Not a word.
“Come on, Ed,” I say, and I hope the sense of desperate pleading isn’t as clear in my voice as it is in my heart.
His eyes still on mine, he shakes his head slowly.
“What are you worried about? You think Childers will kill you? He’s not that powerful of a force. We’ll protect you and Allison while we put him in jail. Once he’s in jail, the rest of his boys won’t be a threat. They aren’t loyal to Antonio; they’re scared of him.”
I’m hoping the reference to fear will get through to him. Surely, this is the reason he isn’t talking—he’s afraid of Antonio’s retaliation. But for two full weeks I’ve had cop after cop and attorney after attorney promising Ed he’ll have total protection if he talks, and he has not.
I look at my watch. Ten minutes late for my meeting with Pritchard and the deputy prosecutor already. This is it. My last chance in the box with Ed Gradduk. My last chance to produce what I have promised—testimony that will put Antonio Childers behind bars. My last chance to save Ed from prison, from Childers, from the potentially deadly impact at the bottom of the slope that his life has become.
Ed has not spoken, nor has he removed his eyes from mine. They bore into me with all the intensity of a butane torch. He wants me to feel them. Wants me to feel what he has refused to say with words. I have betrayed him, my oldest friend. He wants to surround me with that knowledge, drown me with it.
“I’m trying to help you here,” I say. “Damn you for not accepting that. You’ve gotten in over your head, brother, and you have got to get out. I’m offering you a hand here. But you’ve got to reach out and take it.”
Silence that settles over me like a lead cloak.
“I just want to help you get your life back to where it needs to be, Ed. Try to understand that, could you?”
He speaks then for the first and only time.
“You, Lincoln, should have tried to understand. Before you brought the rest of these cops and prosecutors and judges into it. Before you took away any room I might have had to maneuver. To breathe. That’s when you should have tried to understand.”