Sleepers

'Did you buy the tickets for the game, Father?' Michael asked. 'Or were they given to you?'

'No, I bought them,' Father Bobby said.

'On the day of the game?'

'No,' Father Bobby said. 'I went to the box office about a week before.'

'How did you pay for the tickets?'

'With cash,' Father Bobby said. 'I pay for everything with cash.'

'Did you get a receipt?'

'No,' Father Bobby said. 'I didn't.'

'Did anyone know you were going to the game?' Michael asked, 'Other than the two defendants?'

'I don't think so,' Father Bobby said.

'When did you ask the defendants to go to the game with you?'

'The Sunday before,' Father Bobby said.

'Was anyone else present?'

'No,' Father Bobby said.

'So, no one saw you buy the tickets,' Michael said. 'There's no record of any purchase. And no one else knew you were going with the defendants. Is that right?'

'That's right,' Father Bobby said.

'So how do we know you were there?' Michael asked. 'How do we really know you and the two defendants were at the game on the night of the murder?'

'I'm telling you both as a witness and- as a priest,' Father Bobby said. 'We were at that game.'

'And a priest wouldn't lie,' Michael said. 'Isn't that right?'

'A priest with ticket stubs wouldn't need to lie,' Father Bobby said, putting a hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out three torn tickets. 'And I always keep the stubs.'

'Why's that, Father?' Michael asked, standing next to him. 'Why do you keep them?'

'Because you never know,' Father Bobby said, looking straight at Michael, 'when someone will want more than your word.'

'Has anyone questioned your word before today?'

'No,' Father Bobby said. 'No one ever has. But there's a first time for most things in this world.'

'Yes, Father,' Michael Sullivan said. 'I guess there is.'

Michael turned from Father Bobby and looked up at Judge Weisman.

'I have no further questions at this time,' Michael said. 'Witness is free to go.'

The spectators applauded as Father Robert Carillo, a Catholic priest from Hell's Kitchen, stepped down from the stand.

EIGHTEEN

I put one foot on a rusty mooring, my hands in my pockets as I looked out at the Hudson River. The skies were overcast and the winter air felt heavy with impending snow. Carol had her back to me, staring past the iron legs of the West Side Highway toward the streets of Hell's Kitchen. It was early evening, six hours removed from Father Bobby's testimony.

I still hadn't recovered from seeing him take the stand and lie for us. He didn't just testify for John and Tommy, he testified against Wilkinson and the evil that had lived there for too long. Still, I was sorry he had to do it, to tell the lie that I know must have cost him dearly, just to help us get our ounce of revenge.

I was sorry any of us had to go through this trial. I wondered about Carol, and how these days would affect her. She was smart and attractive, and should have been spending her time meeting men who did more than simply combat the ghosts of their pasts. I prayed that the trial would free Michael of his demons and allow him to go on with his life. As for John and Tommy, I hoped the best for them, but feared only the worst.

It just seemed that no matter how hard we tried, no matter how many of them we got, we could never rid ourselves of the Wilkinson Home for Boys. My friends and I had to live with it. Now, Carol and Father Bobby had to live with it as well.

Carol turned toward me and, sensing my unease, leaned over and hugged me.

'That place is a part of me and a part of Father Bobby too,' Carol said. 'In different ways, maybe. But it's in our lives. And it's going to stay in our lives. No matter what we do now.'

'None of it helps make it even,' I said. 'We've got a long way to go till we get to even.'

'But you've got to admit,' Carol said, 'you're off to a helluva nice start.'

'I was real proud of him up there,' I said, wiping at tears I couldn't control.

'We were all proud of him,' Carol said. 'And Father Bobby did it not because we asked him to. But because it was the only thing he could do. He had no choice either, Shakes.'

'He looked like Cagney up there,' I said. 'Looked everybody square in the eye. Didn't back off for a second.'

'More like Bogart, you mean,' Carol said, smiling, putting an arm around my waist.

'I'll never understand how you could have grown up around here and still think Bogart's better than Cagney,' I said.

'I suppose you think the Three Stooges are better than the Marx Brothers, too.'

'Hands down, porcupine head.'

'And you probably like John Wayne westerns too,' she said.

'There's where you're wrong,' I said. 'I love John Wayne westerns.'

'You're hopeless.' And then Carol Martinez laughed out loud. It was the first time I'd heard real laughter in a very long time.

'We're all hopeless,' I said, walking with her alongside the dock, up toward Pier eighty-two, her arm under my elbow. 'That's why we're still together.'

'But I swear, if you tell me you still think Soupy Sales is fu

'Can Woody Allen do White fang? I asked her.

'Probably not,' she said.

'That's right,' I said. 'Nobody does what Soupy does, because nobody can.'

'No, Shakes,' Carol said. 'It's because nobody wants to.'

The sound of our laughter echoed off the empty steel piers and out into the rough waters of the Hudson.

NINETEEN

At nine-ten a.m., on a rainy Thursday morning in January of 1980, Michael Sullivan stood in the well of a courtroom and addressed a jury for the last time in his career.

That morning, he had carefully chosen his dark grey suit, blue tie and black loafers. Two thin specks of dried blood clung to his right cheek, thanks to a close shave with an old razor. He had a Superman wrist watch on his left hand, an egg-shaped college graduation ring on his right and a cherry Life Saver in his mouth.

'Is counsel ready?' Judge Weisman asked.

'Yes, your Honor,' Michael said. 'I'm ready.'

'Please proceed,' Judge Weisman said.

Michael pushed his chair back and walked toward the jury box, twelve faces studying his every move. He put one hand in his pants pocket, caught the eye of the eldest member of the panel and smiled.

'You have to admit, it's been an interesting couple of weeks,' Michael began, his free hand rubbing the rail of the jury bench. 'And it sure beats deciding a civil court case.'

He waited with his head down for the scattered laughter to fade.

'But now, you have a decision to make. A very difficult decision. A decision whose weight will determine the fate of two young men.

'You've heard the arguments from both sides. My side tells you the defendants, John Reilly and Thomas Marcano, shot and killed the victim, Sean Nokes. The other side tells you they didn't. In fact, if you really want to know the truth, they weren't even there to kill him.'

'So, who to believe? That's what you must now decide.'

Michael moved slowly down the jury box, taking care to look at every member of the panel, looking beyond their faces, beyond their eyes.

'So how do you reach a decision? You start by going over what you know based on the evidence that was presented. You know that Sean Nokes was murdered on November 6, 1979 at eight twenty-five in the evening. You know he was shot to death while sitting in the back booth of the Shamrock Pub. And you know he was gu