“Did you or did you not suffer a split lip from this brass-knuckles attack?” Rourke asked, more annoyed now, his annoyance showing in the rise of his voice.
“Well, I got a little cut, yeah,” Gilden said.
“A little cut? Was it or was it not a goddamned split lip?” Rourke shouted.
“Yeah,” Gilden said reluctantly. “I guess it was.”
“And did you or did you not also suffer a black eye?”
“It wasn’t nothing,” Gilden said. “Just a little black and blue, that’s all.”
“Did you get it from the mugger?”
Gilden paused and looked at Carlton. “Yeah,” he said, as if the word were forced out of him by torture.
“What did the mugger get from you?” Rourke asked.
“A buck,” Gilden said softly.
“He stole it from you?”
“I suppose.”
“Did he, or didn’t he?”
“He did,” Gilden said. “I guess.”
“Who?”
“The mugger,” Gilden said.
“Yes, but who? Which boy?”
Gilden was silent.
“Who, Gilden? Who worked you over with brass knucks and stole your dollar? Come on, boy, talk!”
“Sanchez,” Gilden said in a whisper.
“Tell the truth!” Rourke shouted.
“That is the truth,” Gilden said stubbornly. “It was Sanchez. He beat me up and swiped the buck.” He nodded eagerly, wanting his story to be believed, glancing at Carlton for approval.
“Sanchez,” Carlton said. He clucked his tongue and wagged his head. “Such a quiet kid, too.”
“What?” Sanchez asked, puzzled. “Mr. Kemp, I didn’t—”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Rourke said tightly. “Who mugged you, Gilden? Tell the truth.”
“Sanchez,” Gilden said.
“Who?”
“Sanchez. What’s the matter, don’t I speak plain? Sanchez, I said. Sanchez. San—”
“All right, take your seat.”
“Sanchez. How many times I got to—”
“Take your seat!” Rourke said tightly. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. He looked troubled. He wet his lips nervously, and then glanced at his watch.
“This is a waste of time,” Dave whispered. “They’re all scared of Carlton. You shouldn’t have started this, Artie. You—”
“Shut up,” Rourke said.
“Can’t you see you’re not getting anywhere?”
“Shut up,” Rourke said. “Shut the hell up, Kemp!”
He turned abruptly and began pacing the floor. Gilden was already back in his seat, and the kids were asking him hushed questions. Dave watched Rourke’s face, wondering what was going on inside his head. Rourke seemed to be thinking very hard.
“Artie,” Dave said, “let’s call it quits. Let’s just forget all about it.”
“With those little bastards laughing at me?” Rourke whispered. He brought his face close to Dave’s, and his eyes were curiously bright. “With all those little bastards ready to spread this all over the school? Not a chance! Just let me handle it.” He turned from Dave, and Dave stared at his back. Rourke cleared his throat, facing the class.
“The people call on Carlos Sanchez.”
Sanchez grinned uneasily. “Me?”
“Come on, Sanchez,” Rourke said, impatient now. “Get up here.”
Sanchez shook his head and pleaded mutely with the class, trying to explain his innocence with the gesture. He walked to the front of the room and took the chair offered him.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Rourke asked.
“Sí,” Sanchez said. “Yes, sir, yes I do.”
Rourke put his hands on his hips. He was sweating freely now, the perspiration beading his forehead and his lip. He regarded Sanchez in silence for a moment.
Then, very calmly, he asked, “Why’d you beat and rob those boys, Sanchez?”
Sanchez’s brows raised on his forehead. He stammered to get something out, and Dave said, “For Christ’s sake, Artie, this kid didn’t—”
“Shut up!” Rourke shouted. “Why’d you do it, Sanchez?”
“But I didn’t,” Sanchez said. “You know I—”
“They say you did!” Rourke snapped. “Why, Sanchez? Why’d you beat up those kids?”
“Me?” Sanchez asked incredulously. “Me? Mr. Rourke, I swear I didn’t do it. On my mother, I swear it. On my own eyes, I swear it.”
Dave looked at Rourke, and he saw the expression on the other teacher’s face, and he suddenly knew what Rourke was trying to do. Rourke had lost an enormous amount of face in the previous encounters with his witnesses. This had started as a cut-and-dried thing, so far as Rourke was concerned, but it had turned out to be something a little more difficult than that. Carlton had intimidated the witnesses, and Rourke’s case had been shot up the behind.
But Rourke was realizing that more than a few goddamned muggings hinged on the outcome of this trial. Rourke’s entire future at Bernard Vocational might very well be in the balance. Sure, he could back out now, forget the whole thing, admit that Carlton had won the hand. But the kids would know Carlton had won, too, and they’d say Rourke had turned chicken, and so Rourke was trying another tactic.
The tactic was disagreeable when Donato used it. It was abominable when Rourke used it. He knew his audience wasn’t a very bright one, and he knew only two of the boys had been mugged. The remainder actually didn’t know who was doing the mugging, though they sure as hell suspected Carlton. But, not being very bright, they’d be willing to change their minds, provided Rourke played his cards right.
And playing those cards right meant shifting the blame to Sanchez — the same way Donato had done earlier — pretending he was the one Rourke was out to get all along.
The realization struck Dave with the impact of a striking rattler. He digested it, and then he shook his head mutely, wondering what he could do to stop it. Sanchez was innocent, he knew that. But Sanchez was a little guy, a mild guy like himself, and it was the little guys who got stepped on whenever things got really big.
“Come on, Sanchez,” Rourke said, desperately trying to recapture the case now, “stop stalling. Two witnesses have already identified you. Why’d you do it?”
“No,” Sanchez said mildly, his hands fluttering aimlessly. “I did not, Mr. Rourke, I mean it. Well, look, look, I was beat up myself, Mr. Rourke. I had money stolen from me myself. I would not do a thing like that, believe me.”
“You’re lying,” Rourke said. “When were you beat up?”
“A month, two months ago.”
“He’s lying,” Carlton said. “Can’t you see that, teach? Come on, take the crook down to Mr. Hampton!”
“No,” Sanchez said firmly, “I’m not lying. I was beat up. I was robbed.”
“Where?”
“On the first floor,” Sanchez said. “The staircase near the auditorium. I swear it, Mr. Rourke.”
“He’s lying,” Carlton said, and the fever began to spread to the other boys.
“He’s lying,” they chanted. “He’s lying, ly-ing, ly-ing, lying...”
“No!” Sanchez shouted. “Mr. Kemp, you know that. You know I’m not lying.”
Dave didn’t answer. He wet his lips and watched the class, and then he watched Rourke. He could not force himself to look at Sanchez.
“Who beat you up and robbed you?” Rourke shouted, taking a new tack, knowing Sanchez wouldn’t dare defy Carlton. “If you’re not lying, who did it?”
Sanchez hesitated, looking at Carlton. “I...”
“Who did it?” Rourke pounded. “Who?”
Carlton reached into his pocket idly. He put something on the desk top, and Dave studied it for a few moments before he realized what it was. It was the handle of a garbage can lid, skillfully twisted so that it could fit over a clenched fist. The outer metal was gnarled and hard-looking, and it caught the reflecting rays of the morning sunlight. Carlton shoved it before him on the desk top, toying with it.