Sleepers

Father Bobby knew that it wasn't the streets that had chilled John Reilly and Thomas Marcano. And it wasn't the allure of drugs or gangs that led them to stray. You couldn't blame their fall on the harsh truth of Hell's Kitchen. There was only one place to blame.

'You did what you could, Father,' I said. 'Helped me. Michael too. We'd all be on trial today, wasn't for you.'

'It's the sheep that strays that you most want back,' Father Bobby said.

'It's not too late, Father,' I said, moving away from the window and closer to his side. 'We still have a chance to bring in a couple of stray sheep. One last chance.'

'Is that one chance legal?' Father Bobby asked.

'Last chances never are,' I said.

'Is King Be

'He's in it,' I said. 'But he's not calling the shots.'

'Who is?'

'Michael,' I said.

Father Bobby took a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair.

'There's a bottle of Dewer's in the middle drawer of my desk,' Father Bobby said. 'I think we're going to need some.'

I told Father Bobby everything. If he was going to be involved, he deserved to know what he was getting into. If he wasn't going to help, I still trusted him enough to know that the truth would move no further than his room.

'I should've smelled it,' Father Bobby said. 'The minute Michael went for the case, I should have figured something was up.'

'It's a good plan,' I said. 'Mikey's got it all covered. Every base you look at, he's got it covered.'

'Not every base, Shakes,' Father Bobby said. 'You're still short something or else you wouldn't be here.'

'Don't shit a shitter,' I said with a smile.

'That's right. So, spill it. Where do you come up short?'

'A witness,' I said. 'Somebody to take the stand and say they were with John and Tommy the night of the murder.'

'And you figured a priest would be perfect?' Father Bobby said.

'Not just any priest,' I said.

'You're asking me to lie,' Father Bobby said. 'Asking me to swear to God and then to lie.'

'I'm asking you to help two of your boys,' I said. 'Help them stay out of jail for the rest of their lives.'

'Did they kill Nokes?' Father Bobby asked. 'Did they walk into the pub and kill him like they say?'

'Yes,' I said. 'They killed him. Exactly like they say.'

Father Bobby stood up and paced about the small room, his hands rubbing against the sides of his legs. He was still dressed in the black street garments of a priest, short-sleeve shirt under his jacket, keys rattling in a side pocket.

'This is some favor you're asking me,' Father Bobby said, stopping in the center of the room, staring at me and Carol.

'We know, Father,' Carol said.

'No,' Father Bobby said. 'I don't think you do.'

'You always said if there was ever anything I needed to come and ask you,' I said.

'I was thinking more along the lines of Yankee tickets,' Father Bobby said.

'I don't need Yankee tickets, Father,' I said. 'I need a witness.'

Father Bobby undid the top button of his shirt and peeled out the Roman collar beneath it. He held the collar in both hands.

'This is my life,' Father Bobby said, holding up the collar. 'It's all I've got. I've given everything to it. Everything. Now, you two come walking in here with some plan that asks me to throw it away. To throw it away so two murderers can walk free. To kill again. And you ask me that as a favor.'

'Two lives should be worth more than a Roman collar,' I said.

'What about the life that was taken, Shakes?' Father Bobby asked, standing inches from my face. 'What's that worth?'

'To me, nothing,' I said.

'Why not, Shakes?' Father Bobby asked. 'Tell me.'

I sat in the chair next to the desk, Father Bobby and Carol on the other end of the room. I stared at the shelves crammed with the books I had read as a child and the many more I wanted to read. I held an empty glass in my hand, struggling to recall the faces and images that had, for so long, been safely buried.

Faces and images I never wanted to believe were real.

I sat in that chair and told Father Bobby what was in my heart. It was the first and only time I've ever told anyone – until now – exactly what the life of Sean Nokes was worth.

I spoke for more than an hour, my words weighed with anger and urgency, letting Father Bobby and Carol know the things I never thought I would be telling anyone. To Father Bobby, it was a shock, a jolt of pain straight to his heart. Carol had been close enough to Michael and John to suspect, but the specifics stu

I told them about the Wilkinson Home for Boys.

I told them about the torture, the beatings, the humiliation.

I told them about the rapes.

I told them about four frightened boys who cried themselves to sleep and who prayed to Father Bobby's God for help that never came. I told them about endless nights spent staring into darkness, rats owning the corners, keys rattling jail cell locks, nightsticks swinging high in the air, a guard's grip, a boy's scream.

I told them everything.

And when I was done, Carol said, quietly, in almost a whisper, 'Now you tell me, Father. What would a good priest do?'

Father Bobby stared straight ahead, as he had for the past hour, only his eyes registering any change. He blew out a mouthful of breath and then looked toward the ceiling, his hands resting on the soft edges of his chair.

'It's getting late,' he finally said. 'You should go. You both look tired.'

He stood up and placed a hand on my arm.

'I've got a decision to make,' Father Bobby said. 'All I can do is pray that it's the right one.'

'It will be, Father,' I said. 'Whichever way you go.'

'The boys were on target about you,' Father Bobby said, reaching out for Carol and holding her in his arms.

'About what?' Carol asked, lifting her head.

'They always said you had balls,' Father Bobby said. 'And they were right.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' Carol said. 'Especially coming from a priest.'

TEN

Michael smiled at the witness, a dark-haired, handsome woman from New Jersey. She had her legs crossed under the chair, her skirt pleated, her white blouse buttoned to the throat. Her hands were folded on her lap.

'Mrs. Salinas how often have you had di

'Just that one night,' she answered, her voice assured, speaking in the ma

'What night would that be?' Michael asked.

'The night of the murder,' she said.

'What time did you get there?'

'Near seven-thirty,' Mrs. Salinas said. 'I met a friend for di

'What's the name of your friend?'

'David,' she said. 'David Carson.'

'Who was the first to arrive?'

'I was,' she said. 'But only by a couple of minutes.'

'You waited for Mr. Carson outside?'

'No,' she said. 'By the coat rack. As I said, it wasn't much of a wait.'

'Okay,' Michael said. 'You and Mr. Carson go in, sit down, order a drink, start catching up on your day. That right?'

'Pretty much,' Mrs. Salinas said. 'We hadn't seen each other for a few weeks. David had been away on a business trip.'

'Who decided to eat at the Shamrock Pub?'

'I did.'

'Why?'

'I read about it in a magazine,' she said. 'They said it was colorful.'

'And was it?'

'Up until the shooting,' Mrs. Salinas said.

I looked over at the defense table and caught a smirk from John and a smile from Tommy. Their lawyer, head down, was furiously scrawling notes on a legal pad.

'What's he taking notes for?' Carol whispered. 'He knows the questions he's supposed to ask.'

'Maybe he forgot them,' I said. 'Left them on a bar stool.'