Sleepers

'Thomas Marcano,' the Judge said, shifting his attention to Butter. '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 terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September 1 of this year.'

'Michael Sullivan,' the Judge said, his tone turning harsher, convinced he was addressing the group ringleader. 'The court hereby sentences you to no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September 1 of this year. I might add, were it not for the intervention of Father Robert Carillo of your local parish, who spoke in glowing terms on your behalf, I would have sentenced you to a much stiffer punishment. I still have my doubts as to your inherent goodness. Only time will serve to prove me wrong.'

I wiped at my upper lip and forehead, waiting for my name to be called. I turned around and saw my father sitting with his eyes closed, his arms folded, the top of his bald head wet with sweat.

'Lorenzo Carcaterra,' the Judge said, the contempt in his voice no less than it had been for my friends. 'In your case, the court will take into account the fact that you are the youngest of the four and arrived on the scene after the theft of the cart had already occurred. With that in mind, the court hereby sentences you to serve no more than one year and no less than six months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, you will begin your sentence on September 1 of this year.'

The Judge rested his head on his high-backed chair and stared out at us in silence. He tapped the edge of a case folder with the fingers of his right hand, his face an empty canyon,.a small, nondescript man made large by the weight of judicial power.

'I hope,' he said in conclusion, 'you make good use of your time at Wilkinson. Learn a trade, perhaps, or further your education. If not, if you turn the other way and ignore the possibilities available to you, then I can guarantee you will stand before me again, guilty of another violent act. And I assure you, next time I won't be as kind as I was today.'

'Thank you, your Honor,' our lawyer said, sweat lines streaking the sides of his face.

'Look at the scumbag,' my father said to Father Bobby, sitting in the row behind him, his voice loud enough to reach the bench, watching the Judge head back to his chambers. 'Look at him smile. Puts four kids away for a year and he smiles. I oughta break his fuckin' jaw.'

Father Bobby leaned over and put a hand on my father's shoulder.

'Easy, Mario,' Father Bobby said. 'This isn't the place and now's not the time.'

'It's never the place,' my father said. 'And it sure as shit ain't never the time.'

Our lawyer reached over the barrier and put out a hand toward Father Bobby, his low voice barely audible over the din coming from the Caldwell family side of the courtroom.

'It went as well as could be expected,' the lawyer said.

'For you, maybe,' Father Bobby said.

'They could have gotten a lot more time,' the lawyer said. 'For what they did, a lot more time.'

Father Bobby stood and leaned on the barrier, his Roman collar off his neck and in his right hand.

'This isn't a game,' Father Bobby said. 'It's not about deals or less time or more time. It's about four boys. Four boys whose names you didn't even bother to learn. So don't be so quick to pat yourself on the back.'

'I did my job,' the lawyer said.

'The sworn oath of the mediocre,' Father Bobby said.

'You could have done better with them yourself, Father,' the lawyer said. 'Then you wouldn't have needed the services of a shit like me.'

Father Bobby sat back down, his eyes catching mine, his face ashen and pained.

'It won't be so bad,' the lawyer told him. 'After all, it's not like everybody who spends time at Wilkinson ends up a criminal.'

The lawyer turned away and cleared off the top of the defense table, shoving a handful of manilla folders inside his tattered brown bag and snapping it closed.

'Some of them even find God and become priests,' the lawyer said, turning again to face Father Bobby. 'Don't they?'

'Go to hell,' Father Bobby said.

Outside, a light summer rain began to fall.

BOOK TWO

''Live then, beloved children of my heart,

and never forget that,

until the day God deigns

to reveal the future to man,

the sum of all human wisdom

will be contained in these two words:

Wait and hope.' -

The Count of Monte Cristo

ONE

I had been in my cell for less than an hour when the panic set in. To fight it, I closed my eyes and thought of home, of the neighborhood, of the streets where I played and of the people I knew. I imagined a hydrant spreading its cold spray over my face, felt the stitches of a baseball in my hand, heard soft music floating off a rooftop. I wasn't yet thirteen years old and I wanted to be in those places, back where I belonged. I wanted everything to be the way it was before the hot dog cart. I wanted to be in Hell's Kitchen and not in a place with cold walls and a tiny cot. A place where I was too afraid to move.

It was dark and I was hungry, the dank air heavy with the smell of cleaning fluids. I didn't like tight places or dark rooms and my cell was both. Its walls were cracked and peeling, a torn photo of James Dean taped to one. I hated to be alone, to be without books to read or baseball cards to sort through, forced to stare at a thick iron door that was locked from the outside. The steady rumbling sounds that came out of the other cells were difficult to ignore, making me long for those peaceful hours when I would sit in Sacred Heart church and find solace in its silence.

It doesn't take very long to know how tough a person you are or how strong you can be. I knew from my first day at Wilkinson that I was neither tough nor strong. It only takes a moment for the fear to find its way, to seep through the carefully constructed armor. Once it does, it finds a permanent place. It is as true for a hardened criminal as it is for a young boy.

The first guard I met inside Wilkinson was Sean Nokes, who was then twenty-five years old. He stood inside my cell, his legs pressed close together, a black baton cupped in both hands. He had a thick ruddy face and close-cropped blond hair and he wore sharply-creased brown slacks, thick-soled black shoes and a starched white button-down shirt with a black name tag clipped to the front pocket. His eyes were cold, his voice deep.

'Toss your old clothes to the floor,' were the first words he said to me.

'Here?'

'If you're expecting a dressing room, forget it. We don't have any. So lose the clothes.'

'In front of you?' I asked.

A smile cracked the side of Nokes's face. 'For the time you're here, day or night, you do everything in front of someone. Piss, shit, shower, brush your teeth, play with yourself, write letters home. Whatever. Somebody's go

I tossed my shirt to the floor, unzipped my pants and let them drop past my knees. I stepped out of the pants, kicked them aside and, wearing only my white cotton briefs, white socks with holes in both heels and a laceless pair of Keds, looked back up at Nokes.

'Everything' Nokes said, still standing in stiff military posture. 'Here on, the only clothes you wear are state issued.'

'You want me to stand here naked?' I asked.