Sleepers

Michael knew that Judge Weisman's initial take on John and Tommy would be one of disdain, a response that would be further fueled by the facts of the case. Michael also knew that the evidence against the two defendants would be so heavy that, combined with their history of violence, it would prod Weisman to try to avoid a trial. He expected Weisman to pressure both sides to work out a plea-bargain agreement.

Three times the Judge privately asked both counsels for such an agreement and three times they refused. John and Tommy stuck to their not-guilty plea and the Judge stuck to holding them without bail. Michael insisted that the people, as represented by his office, would want these men prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. As the case entered the jury selection phase, Judge Weisman did not appear pleased.

At no time during those early weeks in that uncomfortable courtroom did Michael give any indication of what he pla

When mentioning the defendants, Michael always referred to them by their names to establish their identities and so move them beyond a pair of anonymous faces. He insisted that prospective jurors gaze at the two men on trial while he cataloged their reputations and asked anyone fearful of those reputations not to feel compelled to serve. John and Tommy always made a point of looking at Michael, but he carefully averted their gaze, not willing to take the chance that some spectator would notice even a hint of their relationship.

Michael's vision on where he wanted this case to go was very clear.

He was aiming for a guilty.

A charge of guilty against the Wilkinson Home for Boys; a charge of guilty against Sean Nokes, Adam Styler, Henry Addison and Ralph Ferguson.

Michael sat impassively through Da

No one was impressed by O'Co

'He's not exactly Perry Mason,' Carol whispered.

'He got their names right,' I said. 'For him, that's a great start. Besides, if he wins this case, he'll be bigger than Perry Mason.'

Michael stood up, unbuttoned his suit jacket and walked in front of his table, toward the jury box. He had his hands in his pockets and a friendly smile on his face.

'Good morning,' he said to the jurors. 'My name is Michael Sullivan and I am an assistant district attorney for the county of Manhattan. My job, like most jobs I suppose, seems, on the surface, an easy one. I have to prove to you and only to you that the two men who stand accused killed a man named Sean Nokes in cold blood, without any apparent motive. I will present to you evidence and offer into account testimony to prove that. I will place them at the scene of the crime. I will bring witnesses to the stand who will confirm that they were there on that deadly night. I will present to you enough facts that you can then go into the jury room and come out with a clear decision that's beyond a reasonable doubt. Now, I know you all know what that means since you probably watch as much TV as I do.'

Three of the women on the jury smiled and one of the men, a postal employee from the Upper West Side, laughed out loud. 'I hear that,' he said, pointing a finger at Michael.

'Let me remind one and all that this is a courtroom,' Judge Weisman said in a somber tone. 'Not a living room. With that in mind, will the jurors please refrain from making any further comments.'

'My fault, your Honor,' Michael said, turning to face the judge. 'I gave the impression that a response was required. It won't happen again.'

'I'm sure it won't, counselor,' the Judge said, relaxing his tone. 'Proceed.'

'Look at their faces,' I said to Carol, nudging her attention toward the jury box. 'Their eyes. They're falling in love with him.'

'That's not a hard thing to do,' Carol said.

'The past history of these two young men is not important and not an issue in this case,' Michael said, turning back to the jury, his hands on the wood barrier, his eyes moving from face to face. 'Violent or peaceful, criminal or honest, saints or si

NINE

I was twenty minutes late. I had told Carol to meet me in front of the church at six, but had lost track of time kneeling in prayer in one of the back pews in Sacred Heart. I walked out of the church and saw her sitting on the steps, the collar of her leather jacket lifted against the strong winds whipping up from the river.

'Sorry I'm late,' I said. 'I was lighting candles.'

'Now you've got St. Jude in on this too,' Carol said. 'Anybody else?'

'Just one more,' I said.

'We supposed to meet up with him here?' Carol asked.

'No. He's waitin' for us at his place.'

'Which is where?'

'Which is there,' I said, pointing a finger at the red brick building next to the church. 'The rectory.'

'Oh, my God!' Carol said, her eyes opened wide. 'Oh, my God!'

'Not quite,' I said. 'But it's as close as I could come on short notice.'

Father Bobby sat in a recliner in his small, book-lined first floor room, his back to a slightly opened window. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, letting the smoke out his nose. He held a bottle of Pepsi in his right hand. Carol sat across from him, her legs crossed, elbow on her knee, chin in the palm of her hand. I sat on a window sill in the corner of the room that looked down on the school yard, hands in my pockets, my back brushing white lace curtains.

'How was court today?' Father Bobby asked, his voice tired.

'Like the first round of a fight,' I said. 'Everybody just feeling each other out.'

'How do the boys look?'

'Like they wished they were someplace else,' Carol said. 'I think that's how we all felt.'

'I've been in this parish nearly twenty years,' Father Bobby said, flicking cigarette ash into his empty bottle of soda. 'Seen a lot of boys grow into men. And I've seen too many die or end up in jail for most of their lives. I've cried over all of them. But this one, this one's been the hardest. This one's cost me every prayer I know.'