Sleepers

'The day after the arrest,' I said, jabbing a fork into a cut of grilled salmon. 'For a few minutes.'

'What did they have to say?' Michael asked.

'The usual small talk,' I said. 'Nothing with any weight. They know enough not to say anything in a visitor's room.'

'What about Nokes?' Michael said. 'They talk about him?'

'John did,' I said. 'But not by name.'

'What'd he say?'

'All he said was, "One down, Shakes." Then he tapped the glass with his finger and handed me that shit-eatin' grin of his.'

'How do they look?' Michael asked.

'Pretty relaxed,' I told him. 'Especially for two guys facing twenty-five-to-life.'

'I hear they hired Da

'That's temporary,' I said. 'King Be

'No,' Michael said. 'O'Co

'Perfect!' I said. 'The guy's a fall-down drunk. Probably hasn't won a case since LaGuardia was mayor. Maybe not even then.'

'I know,' Michael said. 'That's why he's perfect.'

'What are you talking about?'

'You covering this story for the paper?' Michael asked, lifting his beer mug and ignoring my question.

'I'm a timetable clerk, Mikey,' I said. 'I'm lucky they let me in the building.'

'Anybody at work know you're friends with John and Butter?'

'No,' I said. 'Why would they?'

'You didn't finish your fish,' Michael said. 'You usually eat everything but the plate.'

'I'm still used to my old hours,' I said. 'Eating di

'You should have had eggs.'

'I will have a cup of coffee.'

'Order it to go,' Michael said, waving to a waiter for the check. 'We've got to take a walk.'

'It's pouring out,' I said.

'We'll find a spot where it's not. Down by the piers.'

'There are rats down by the piers,' I pointed out.

'There are rats everywhere.'

The rain was falling in soft drops, loud blasts of thunder echoing in the distance. We were standing in an empty lot along the gates of Pier sixty-two, West Side Highway traffic rushing by behind us. Michael had thrown his raincoat on over his suit. His hands were stuffed inside the side pockets and his briefcase was wedged between his ankles.

'I'm going in to see my boss in the morning,' Michael said, the words rushing out. 'I'm going to ask him to give me the case against John and Tommy.'

'What?' I looked at his eyes, searching for signs that this was nothing more than the begi

'I'm going to prosecute John and Tommy in open court.' His voice was filled with confidence, his eyes looked square at me.

'Are you fuckin' nuts?' I shouted, grabbing his arms. 'They're your friends! Your friends, you heartless fuck!'

A smile curled the sides of Michael's lips. 'Before you take a swing, Shakes, hear me out.'

'I should shoot you just for talking about shit like this,' I said, easing my grip, taking in deep gulps of air. 'And if anybody else hears it, I'll have to open a freezer door to shake your hand.'

'You decide who else knows,' Michael said. 'Just you. You'll know who to tell.'

'You take this case, everybody's go

'You'll take care of all that,' Michael said. 'That'll be part of your end.'

'Do something smart,' I said. 'Call in sick tomorrow. It might save your life.'

'I'm not taking the case to win,' Michael said. 'I'm taking it to lose.'

I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything.

'I've got a plan,' Michael said. 'But I can't do it without you. I can only work the legal end. I need you to do the rest.'

I took two steps forward and held my friend's face in my hands.

'Are you serious?' I asked. 'You crazy bastard, are you really serious?'

'It's payback time, Shakes,' Michael said, water streaming down his face and mixing with tears. 'We can get back at them now. John and Tommy started it. You and I can finish it.'

I let go of Michael's face and put my hands in my pockets.

'Let's walk for awhile,' I said. 'We stand here much longer; we'll get arrested for soliciting.'

'Where to?'

'The neighborhood,' I said. 'Where it's safe.'

We huddled in the doorway of my old apartment building, rain now lashing across 10th Avenue. Down the street, two old rummies argued over a pint of raspberry brandy. Michael's plan was as simple as it was bold. At nine in the morning, he would walk into the office of the Manhattan District Attorney and ask for the murder case against John Reilly and Thomas Marcano. He would explain that he was from the same neighborhood as the two shooters and that he understood the mentality of the area better than anyone else in the office. He would tell the D.A. he knew how to keep the witnesses from ru

There was also no need to worry about the link with Wilkinson. Like all juvenile records in the state, ours had been destroyed after seven years. In addition, he would have someone alter the Sacred Heart School records to eliminate the evidence of our one-year absence. Besides, for the D.A., it was a can't-miss proposition. There were four eyewitnesses and two shooters with murderous reputations. The perfect case to hand an ambitious young attorney like Michael Sullivan.

Michael took a deep breath and wiped the water from his face. There was more to this, a lot more. I knew Michael well enough to know that Nokes wasn't it for him and that freeing John and Tommy wouldn't do. He needed to go after the other guards. He needed to go after Wilkinson. I felt nervous watching him, waiting for him to continue, fearful that we would all be caught and once again be brought to such a place.

He crouched down and laid his briefcase across his knees. Inside were four thick yellow folders, each double-wrapped with rubber bands. He handed all four to me. I looked at them and read the names of the guards who tormented us all those months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys stenciled across the fronts. The first folder belonged to Tommy's chief abuser, Adam Styler, now thirty-four, who had scotched his dreams of being a lawyer and, instead, worked as a plainclothes cop.

Styler was assigned to a narcotics unit in a Queens precinct. It didn't surprise me to learn that he was also dirty, shaking down dealers for dope and cash. He had a major coke problem that was supported by $3000 a month in bribe money. The rest of the folder contained personal information – daily routines; women he dated; food he liked; bars he frequented. There were lists of trusted friends and hated enemies. A man's life bound inside a yellow folder.

The second bundle belonged to my tormentor, Henry Addison, thirty-two. I felt nauseous as I read that Addison now worked for the Mayor of the City of New York as a community outreach director in Brooklyn. He was good at his job, honest and diligent. But, his sexual habits hadn't changed much since our time at Wilkinson. Addison still liked sex with young boys. The younger they were, the more he was willing to pay. Addison belonged to a group of well-heeled pedophiles who would party together three times a month, paying out big dollars for all-nighters with the boys they bought. The parties were usually taped, the kids and the equipment supplied by an East Side pimp with the street name of Radio.

The third folder belonged to Ralph Ferguson, thirty-three, the man who helped give John Reilly a killer's heart. He wasn't a cop, though I'd expected him to be. He was a clerk, working for a social service agency on Long Island. Ferguson was married and had one child. His wife taught preschool during the week and they both taught Catholic Sunday school. He sounded as clean as he was boring. Which is exactly how Michael wanted him to be. Ralph Ferguson was going to be called as a character witness, to talk about his best friend, Sean Nokes. Once he was on the stand, Michael could finally open the door to the Wilkinson Home for Boys.