Sleepers

Michael had both hands in his pockets now as he walked past the court stenographer, his head raised, his back to the jury. The spectators in the crowded courtroom were, with a handful of exceptions, all from Hell's Kitchen.

'You heard testimony that painted the two defendants as less than ideal citizens. Does that make them killers! Then you heard testimony that described Sean Nokes as a man with an ugly past. Does that make it less than a crime to kill him? You heard from an eyewitness who saw the two defendants walk out of the Shamrock Pub moments after shooting Sean Nokes dead. Then you heard from a priest who said the two defendants were with him at a Knicks game, eating hot dogs and drinking beer at the same time Sean Nokes was sitting up dead in a back booth. So, who do you believe? Who's lying? Who's telling the truth?'

Michael ambled past the defense table, inches away from John and Tommy, hands still in his pockets, his eyes back on the jury.

'It's not going to be easy for you to decide,' Michael said. 'It's not supposed to be. Decisions where people's lives are at stake should be hard. They should take time.

They should take a great deal of search and thought. You have to look at the facts, and then beyond them. You have to listen to the testimony, and then read through it. You have to weigh the witnesses and then go past their words and search out their motives. You have to go beyond the one victim and the two defendants. You must look to the lines that co

Michael stopped at his desk and sipped from a cup of cold coffee. He put the cup down, unbuttoned his jacket and moved back toward the jury box.

'With this case, I'm asking you to do what few juries are asked to do,' Michael said. 'I'm asking you to look at the facts and then look at the reasons for those facts. I'm asking you to find the truth in what you've heard, in what you've seen and in what you believe. It might be the only way for you to come up with a decision you can live with. A decision that will not cause you doubt. A decision that you will know is the right one.'

Michael had both hands spread across the jury rail, his body leaning against it, his eyes focused on the men and women before him.

'You have to make your decision based on the guilt of two men and the i

'I have confidence in those hands. I believe in those hands. And I believe those hands will find a verdict that will be filled with truth. And filled with justice. An honest truth and an honorable justice.'

Michael Sullivan then thanked a jury for the last time, walked back to his seat and put his legal pads into his black briefcase.

'Do you have anything to add, counselor?' Judge Weisman asked.

'No, your Honor,' Michael Sullivan said. 'There's nothing else. I've said it all.'

TWENTY

'Let me have a hot dog with mustard, sauerkraut and onions,' Michael told a chubby vendor in a leather flap cap, standing on the sidewalk outside the courthouse. 'And let me have a Coke, too.'

'No ketchup?' I asked.

'I'm on a diet,' he said without turning around.

It was a snowy, windy Monday afternoon and the jury had been in deliberation since the previous Thursday night. The courthouse rumor mill was working on overdrive, with most of the gossip predicting a verdict of guilty.

'You got a place to eat that?' I asked Michael, pointing to his hot dog.

'Behind you,' Michael said, lifting the bun toward a park bench over my shoulder.

'Okay if I join you?'

'What can they do?' Michael asked. 'Arrest us?'

'You did good in there, counselor,' I said to Michael, sitting on the bench, taking a bite out of a pretzel.

'How I did won't matter until they come back in and hand me a win,' Michael said.

'Will you settle for a loss?' I asked, smiling over at him.

'I can live with it,' Michael said, finishing his hot dog and snapping open his soda can.

'What happens to you now?' I asked. 'After this ends?'

'I walk away,' Michael said. 'Wait a few weeks and then hand in my notice. After the way I handled this case, there won't be a rush to keep me from the door.'

'You can switch to the other side,' I said. 'Work as a defense lawyer. More money in it, probably, and you'll never be short on clients. There are always going to be more bad guys than good. The work from John and Tommy's crew alone will get you a house with a pool.'

'Not for me,' Michael said. 'I've seen all the law I want to see. It's time for something else.'

'Like what?'

'I'll let you know when I know,' Michael said.

'You're too old to play for the Yankees,' I said. 'And you're too young to take up golf.'

'You're shooting holes all through my plans,' Michael said, smiling. 'I'm starting to panic.'

'You'll work things out,' I said, finishing the last of my soda. 'You always have.'

'It's time for quiet, Shakes,' Michael said, staring down at the ground. 'That I do know. Give things a rest. Find a spot where I can shut my eyes and not have to see the places I've been. Maybe I'll even get lucky and forget I was ever there.'

'It took pieces out of us, where we were,' I said. 'What we had to do to get out. Big pieces we didn't even know we had. Pieces we gotta learn to do without or find again. All that takes time. Lots of time.'

'I can wait,' Michael said.

'You always seemed to know how,' I said. 'The rest of us didn't have the patience.'

'I've got to get back in there,' Michael said, standing up and moving toward the courthouse building. 'The jury may be coming in.'

'Don't disappear on me, counselor,' I said, my eyes meeting his. 'I may need a good lawyer someday.'

'You can't afford a good lawyer,' Michael said. 'Not on your salary.'

'I may need a good friend,' I said.

'I'll find you when you do,' Michael said. 'Count on it.'

'I always have,' I said, watching Michael walk through the revolving doors of the courthouse to the elevators and up nine floors to face a jury's verdict.

TWENTY-ONE

The area outside Part forty-seven was crowded with the familiar faces of Hell's Kitchen. They stood against stained walls, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, or sat on long wooden benches, reading the Daily News and Post. Others jammed the phone banks, calling in their bets and checking in on either an angry parole officer or an impatient loan shark.

They were waiting for the verdict.

Walking past them, I shook a few hands and nodded to a few faces before finding an empty spot in a corner near the black double doors.

After fifteen minutes, the doors swung open. A court officer, tall and muscular, his gun buckle hanging at an angle, held the knob in one hand, his body halfway in the hall.

'They're coming in,' he said in a listless voice. 'In about five minutes. You wa

I stood to the side and watched as the crowd slowly trooped in. Then I moved away, and walked over to a bench and sat down. I leaned over, my head in my hands, eyes closed, sweating, shaking, praying that we could finish this the way we pla