Sleepers

'I'll always be here,' he said. 'Doing what I always do.'

'What do you do here?' I asked, a smile at the center of my tears.

King Be

'I make coffee,' he said.

THIRTEEN

My friends and I stood behind a scarred oak table in the middle of a high-ceilinged, airless room, hands at our sides, staring straight ahead. We were dressed in the only good clothes we owned, our communion suits, the dark jackets, dark slacks, white shirts and sky grey ties standing out against the cream-colored courtroom walls of New York State's Division of Family Justice.

John and I were on the right side of the table, next to our lawyer, a short, doe-eyed man who had trouble breathing through his nose. His hair was slicked down with gel and the tail of his white shirt was popping out the back of his brown pants.

Michael and Tommy stood to his left.

None of us looked at him and none bothered to listen to a word he uttered.

Our families were behind us, held apart by a wooden barrier and two court officers. My father sat in the first row of benches, directly behind me, his sad, angry presence like hot air on my neck. We had talked very little on the subway ride downtown. He assured me all would go well, that no one beyond the neighborhood would know where I was and that, maybe, just maybe, all this was for the good, that it was a lesson waiting to be learned.

'Be like goin' to camp,' my father said as the train careened toward Chambers Street. 'Plenty of fresh air, lots of ru

'I'm go

'Save that shit,' my father said. 'You can't think like that. You gotta be like a stone. Can't think about anybody. Can't worry about anybody. Except yourself. It's the only way, kid. Believe me, I know what I'm talkin' about here.'

We rode the rest of the way in silence, wrapped in the noisy company of the rattling car.

I was two months shy of my thirteenth birthday and about to leave home for the first time in my life.

'Have the defendants been made aware of the charges against them?' the Judge asked.

'Yes they have, your Honor,' our lawyer responded, sounding as low-rent as he looked.

'Do they understand those charges?'

'Yes they do, your Honor.'

In truth we didn't understand. We were told the night before our appearance that the charges against us would be lumped together under the umbrella tag of assault one, which constituted reckless endangerment. The petty theft charge would be dropped in everyone's case but mine, since my action was what precipitated all that followed.

'It's the best I could do,' our lawyer told us, sitting behind a cluttered desk in his one-room office. 'You have to admit, it's better than getting hit with attempted murder. Which is what the other side wanted.'

'You're a regular Perry Mason,' John told him, seconds before his mother cuffed the side of his face.

'What does it mean for the boys?' Father Bobby asked, ignoring the slap and the comment.

'They'll do a year,' the lawyer said. 'Minimum. Lorenzo may get a few months more tacked on since he initiated the action. But then, he may get less time since he was last on the scene. That's the only open question.'

'It wasn't his idea,' Michael said. 'It was mine.'

'The idea doesn't matter as much as the act,' the lawyer said. 'Anyway, I should be able to convince the Judge not to tack on any extra time given how young Lorenzo is.'

'They're all young,' Father Bobby said.

'And they're all guilty,' the lawyer said, closing a yellow folder on his desk and reaching for a pack of cigarettes.

'Where?' Father Bobby asked.

'Where what?' the lawyer said, a menthol cigarette in his mouth, his hands coiled around a lit match.

'Where will they be sent?' Father Bobby asked, his face red, his hands gripping his knees. 'Which home? Which prison? Which hole are you going to drop them in? That clear enough for you?'

'Wilkinson's,' the lawyer said. 'It's a home for boys in upstate New York.'

'I know where it is,' Father Bobby said.

'Then you know what it's like,' the lawyer said.

'Yes,' Father Bobby said, the color drained from his face. 'I know what it's like.'

I looked over my shoulder, to the left, for a quick glance at the members of the Caldwell family, sitting in a group in the first two rows behind the prosecutor's table. Old man Caldwell was home, recuperating from his numerous wounds. According to a medical statement filed with the court, he would never again gain full use of his left leg and would suffer from dizziness and numbness in his other limbs for the rest of his life. His hearing and vision had also been affected.

Each of us had written him a note, delivered by Father Bobby, telling Mr. Caldwell and his family how sorry we were.

Each note went unanswered.

'Do any of you wish to say anything before sentence is passed?' the Judge asked, moving aside a sweaty glass of ice water.

'No, sir,' each of us said in turn.

The Judge nodded, looking at his notes one last time. He was in his late fifties, a short, stout man with a head full of thick white hair and brown eyes that revealed little. He lived in a Manhattan housing complex with his second wife and two dogs. He had no children, was an avid poker player and spent his summer vacations fishing off the dock of his Cape Cod home.

He cleared his throat, sipped some water and closed the folder before him.

'I'm sure by now, you boys have been made aware of the severity of the crime you committed,' the Judge began. 'It was a crime which combined a careless disregard for one man's place of business, in this case a hot dog stand, with a criminal attitude toward another man's safety and well-being. The end result left one man ruined and another nearly dead. All for the price of a hot dog.'

It was hot in the room and I was sweating through my shirt and jacket. I kept my hands clasped in front of me while staring straight ahead. I heard the mumblings of those behind me, the people on my right fearful of the Judge's words, the people on the left anticipating the punishment to come. John's mother, sitting next to my father, whispered the prayers of the rosary, her fingers moving slowly down the row of beads.

'Mr. Kratrous has been forced to give up his business and his dream of building a home here. He returns to his native Greece, his belief in our way of life torn apart by the wanton and remorseless act of four boys intent on thievery. Mr. Caldwell is an even more tragic case. Left for dead by a prank gone asunder, his life will never be what it was prior to that fateful day. He will suffer each and every single moment he has left on this earth, drugged with medications to numb the pain, walking with the aid of a cane, fearful of leaving his house. And all this for what? So four boys could sit back and share a laugh, enjoy a joke caused by the pain of others. Well, the joke backfired didn't it?'

It was nine-forty in the morning when the Judge pushed back the sleeves of his robe, took another drink of water and sent us to what he called a home for boys and what everyone else called a prison.

He took us on one at a time, starting with the Count.

'John Reilly,' the Judge said. 'The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In prior agreement with the attorneys for both parties, the term is to begin effective September 1 of this year.'

Behind me, John's mother let out a low scream.