Sleepers. Part 18

"I'm gonna miss you, Dad," I said.

"Save that s.h.i.+t," my father said. "You can't think like that. You gotta be like a stone. Can't think about anybody. Can't worry about anybody. Except yourself. It's the only way, kid. Believe me, I know what I'm talkin' about here."

We rode the rest of the way in silence, wrapped in the noisy company of the rattling car.

I was two months shy of my thirteenth birthday and about to leave home for the first time in my life.

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"HAVE THE DEFENDANTS been made aware of the charges against them?" the judge asked. been made aware of the charges against them?" the judge asked.

"Yes, they have, your honor," our lawyer responded, sounding as low-rent as he looked.

"Do they understand those charges?"

"Yes, they do, your honor."

In truth we didn't understand. We were told the night before our appearance that the charges against us would be lumped together under the umbrella tag of a.s.sault one, which const.i.tuted reckless endangerment. The petty theft charge would be dropped in everyone's case but mine, since my action was what precipitated all that followed.

"It's the best I could do," our lawyer told us, sitting behind a cluttered desk in his one-room office. "You have to admit, it's better than getting hit with attempted murder. Which is what the other side wanted."

"You're a regular Perry Mason," John told him seconds before his mother cuffed the side of his face.

"What does it mean mean for the boys?" Father Bobby asked, ignoring the slap and the comment. for the boys?" Father Bobby asked, ignoring the slap and the comment.

"They'll do a year," the lawyer said. "Minimum. Lorenzo may get a few months more tacked on since he initiated the action. But then, he may get less time since he was last on the scene. That's the only open question."

"It wasn't his idea," Michael said. "It was mine."

"The idea doesn't matter as much as the act," the lawyer said. "Anyway, I should be able to convince the judge not to tack on any extra time given how young Lorenzo is."

"They're all all young," Father Bobby said. young," Father Bobby said.

"And they're all all guilty," the lawyer said, closing a yellow folder on his desk and reaching for a pack of cigarettes. guilty," the lawyer said, closing a yellow folder on his desk and reaching for a pack of cigarettes.

"Where?" Father Bobby asked.

"Where what?" the lawyer said, a menthol cigarette in his mouth, his hands coiled around a lit match.

"Where will they be sent?" Father Bobby asked, his face red, his hands gripping his knees. "Which home? Which prison? Which hole are you going to drop them in? That clear enough for you?"

"Wilkinson's," the lawyer said. "It's a home for boys in upstate New York."

"I know where it is," Father Bobby said.

"Then you know what it's like," the lawyer said.

"Yes," Father Bobby said, the color drained from his face. "I know what it's like."

I looked over my shoulder, to the left, for a quick glance at the members of the Caldwell family, sitting in a group in the first two rows behind the prosecutor's table. Old man Caldwell was home, recuperating from his numerous wounds. According to a medical statement filed with the court, he would never again gain full use of his left leg and would suffer from dizziness and numbness in his other limbs for the rest of his life. His hearing and vision had also been affected.

Each of us had written him a note, delivered by Father Bobby, telling Mr. Caldwell and his family how sorry we were.

Each note went unanswered.

"Do any of you wish to say anything before sentence is pa.s.sed?" the judge asked, moving aside a sweaty gla.s.s of ice water.

"No, sir," each of us said in turn.

The judge nodded, looking at his notes one last time. He was in his late fifties, a short, stout man with a head full of thick white hair and brown eyes that revealed little. He lived in a Manhattan housing complex with his second wife and two dogs. He had no children, was an avid poker player, and spent his summer vacations fis.h.i.+ng off the dock of his Cape Cod home.

He cleared his throat, sipped some water, and closed the folder before him.

"I'm sure by now you boys have been made aware of the severity of the crime you committed," the judge began. "It was a crime which combined a careless disregard for one man's place of business, in this case a hot dog stand, with a criminal att.i.tude toward another man's safety and well-being. The result left one man ruined and another nearly dead. All for the price of a hot dog."

It was hot in the room and I was sweating through my s.h.i.+rt and jacket. I kept my hands clasped in front of me while staring straight ahead. I heard the mumblings of those behind me, the people on my right fearful of the judge's words, the people on the left antic.i.p.ating the punishment to come. John's mother, sitting next to my father, whispered the prayers of the rosary, her fingers moving slowly down the row of beads.

"Mr. Kratrous has been forced to give up his business and his dream of building a home here. He returns to his native Greece, his belief in our way of life torn apart by the wanton and remorseless act of four boys intent on thievery. Mr. Caldwell is an even more tragic case. Left for dead by a prank gone asunder, his life will never be what it was prior to that fateful day. He will suffer each and every single moment he has left on this earth, drugged with medications to numb the pain, walking with the aid of a cane, fearful of leaving his house. And all this for what? So four boys could sit back and share a laugh, enjoy a joke caused by the pain of others. Well, the joke backfired, didn't it?"

It was nine-forty in the morning when the judge pushed back the sleeves of his robe, took another drink of water, and sent us to what he called a home for boys and what everyone else called a prison.

He took us one at a time, starting with the Count.

"John Reilly," the judge said. "The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In prior agreement with the attorneys for both parties, the term is to begin effective September one of this year."

Behind me, John's mother let out a low scream.

"Thomas Marcano," the judge said, s.h.i.+fting his attention to b.u.t.ter. "The court hereby sentences you to be remanded for a period of no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September one of this year."

"Michael Sullivan," the judge said, his tone turning harsher, convinced he was addressing the group ringleader. "The court hereby sentences you to no more than eighteen months and no less than one year to the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, your sentence is to begin on September one of this year. I might add, were it not for the intervention of Father Robert Carillo of your local parish, who spoke in glowing terms on your behalf, I would have sentenced you to a much stiffer punishment. I still have my doubts as to your inherent goodness. Only time will serve to prove me wrong."

I wiped at my upper lip and forehead, waiting for my name to be called. I turned around and saw my father sitting with his eyes closed, his arms folded, the top of his bald head wet with sweat.

"Lorenzo Carcaterra," the judge said, the contempt in his voice no less than it had been for my friends. "In your case, the court will take into account the fact that you are the youngest of the four and arrived on the scene after the theft of the cart had already occurred. With that in mind, the court hereby sentences you to serve no more than one year and no less than six months at the Wilkinson Home for Boys. In terms agreed upon by counsel, you will begin your sentence on September one of this year."

The judge rested his head on his high-backed chair and stared out at us in silence. He tapped the edge of a case folder with the fingers of his right hand, his face an empty canyon, a small, nondescript man made large by the weight of judicial power.

"I hope," he said in conclusion, "you make good use of your time at Wilkinson. Learn a trade, perhaps, or further your education. If not, if you turn the other way and ignore the possibilities available to you, then I can guarantee you will stand before me again, guilty of another violent act. And I a.s.sure you, next time I won't be as kind as I was today."

"Thank you, your honor," our lawyer said, sweat lines streaking the sides of his face.

"Look at the sc.u.mbag," my father said to Father Bobby, sitting in the row behind him, his voice loud enough to reach the bench, watching the judge head back to his chambers. "Look at him smile. Puts four kids away for a year and he smiles. I oughta break his f.u.c.kin' jaw."

Father Bobby leaned over and put a hand on my father's shoulder.

"Easy, Mario," Father Bobby said. "This isn't the place and now's not the time."

"It's never the place," my father said. "And it sure as s.h.i.+t ain't never never the time." the time."

Our lawyer reached over the barrier and put out a hand toward Father Bobby, his low voice barely audible over the din coming from the Caldwell family side of the courtroom.

"It went as well as could be expected," the lawyer said.

"For you, maybe," Father Bobby said.

"They could have gotten a lot more time," the lawyer said. "For what they did, a lot more time."

Father Bobby stood and leaned on the barrier, his Roman collar off his neck and in his right hand.

"This isn't a game," Father Bobby said. "It's not about deals or less time or more time. It's about four boys. Four boys whose names you didn't even bother to learn. So don't be so quick to pat yourself on the back."

"I did my job," the lawyer said.

"The sworn oath of the mediocre," Father Bobby said.

"You could have done better with them yourself, Father," the lawyer said. "Then you wouldn't have needed the services of a s.h.i.+t like me."

Father Bobby sat back down, his eyes catching mine, his face ashen and pained.

"It won't be so bad," the lawyer told him. "After all, it's not like everybody who spends time at Wilkinson ends up a criminal."

The lawyer turned away and cleared off the top of the defense table, shoving a handful of manila folders inside his tattered brown bag and snapping it closed.

"Some of them even find G.o.d and become priests," the lawyer said, turning again to face Father Bobby. "Don't they?"

"Go to h.e.l.l," Father Bobby said.

Outside, a light summer rain began to fall.

BOOK TWO.

"Live then, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day G.o.d deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope."-The Count of Monte Cristo

1.

I HAD BEEN HAD BEEN in my cell for less than an hour when the panic set in. To fight it, I closed my eyes and thought of home, of the neighborhood, of the streets where I played and of the people I knew. I imagined a hydrant spreading its cold spray over my face, felt the st.i.tches of a baseball in my hand, heard soft music floating off a rooftop. I wasn't yet thirteen years old and I wanted to be in those places, back where I belonged. I wanted everything to be the way it was before the hot dog cart. I wanted to be in h.e.l.l's Kitchen and not in a place with cold walls and a tiny cot. A place where I was too afraid to move. in my cell for less than an hour when the panic set in. To fight it, I closed my eyes and thought of home, of the neighborhood, of the streets where I played and of the people I knew. I imagined a hydrant spreading its cold spray over my face, felt the st.i.tches of a baseball in my hand, heard soft music floating off a rooftop. I wasn't yet thirteen years old and I wanted to be in those places, back where I belonged. I wanted everything to be the way it was before the hot dog cart. I wanted to be in h.e.l.l's Kitchen and not in a place with cold walls and a tiny cot. A place where I was too afraid to move.

It was dark and I was hungry, the dank air heavy with the smell of cleaning fluids. I didn't like tight places or dark rooms and my cell was both. Its walls were cracked and peeling, a torn photo of James Dean taped to one. I hated to be alone, to be without books to read or baseball cards to sort through, forced to stare at a thick iron door that was locked from the outside. The steady rumbling sounds that came out of the other cells were difficult to ignore, making me long for those peaceful hours when I would sit in Sacred Heart Church and find solace in its silence.

It doesn't take very long to know how tough a person you are or how strong you can be. I knew from my first day at Wilkinson that I was neither tough nor strong. It takes only a moment for the fear to find its way, to seep through the carefully constructed armor. Once it does, it finds a permanent place. It is as true for a hardened criminal as it is for a young boy.

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THE FIRST GUARD I met inside Wilkinson was Sean Nokes, who was then twenty-five years old. He stood inside my cell, his legs pressed close together, a black baton cupped in both hands. He had a thick, ruddy face and close-cropped blond hair and he wore sharply creased brown slacks, thick-soled black shoes, and a starched white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt with a black name tag clipped to the front pocket. His eyes were cold, his voice deep. I met inside Wilkinson was Sean Nokes, who was then twenty-five years old. He stood inside my cell, his legs pressed close together, a black baton cupped in both hands. He had a thick, ruddy face and close-cropped blond hair and he wore sharply creased brown slacks, thick-soled black shoes, and a starched white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt with a black name tag clipped to the front pocket. His eyes were cold, his voice deep.

"Toss your old clothes to the floor" were the first words he said to me.

"Here?"

"If you're expecting a dressing room, forget it. We don't have any. So lose the clothes."

"In front of you?" I asked.

A smile cracked the side of Nokes's face. "For the time you're here, day or night, you do everything everything in front of in front of someone. someone. p.i.s.s, s.h.i.+t, shower, brush your teeth, play with yourself, write letters home. Whatever. Somebody's gonna be looking. Most times, that somebody's gonna be p.i.s.s, s.h.i.+t, shower, brush your teeth, play with yourself, write letters home. Whatever. Somebody's gonna be looking. Most times, that somebody's gonna be me." me."

I tossed my s.h.i.+rt to the floor, unzipped my pants, and let them drop past my knees. I stepped out of the pants, kicked them aside, and, wearing only my white cotton briefs, white socks with holes in both heels, and a lace-less pair of Keds, looked back up at Nokes.

"Everything," Nokes said, still standing in stiff military posture. "Here on, the only clothes you wear are state issued." Nokes said, still standing in stiff military posture. "Here on, the only clothes you wear are state issued."

"You want me to stand here naked?" I asked.

"Now you're catching on. I knew you h.e.l.l's Kitchen boys couldn't be as dumb as people say."

I took off my underwear, kicked off my sneakers, and balled up the white socks, dropping them all on the pile beside me. I stood there naked and embarra.s.sed.

"Now what?"

"Get dressed," Nokes said, nodding his head toward the clothes that had been left on my cot. "a.s.sembly's in fifteen minutes. That's when you'll meet the other boys."

"Are my friends on this floor?" I asked, taking two steps toward the cot and reaching for a folded green T-s.h.i.+rt.

"Friends?" Nokes said, turning away. "You got a lot to learn, little boy. n.o.body's got friends in this place. That's something you best not forget."

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THE BUS RIDE up to the Wilkinson Home for Boys had taken more than three hours, including two stops for gas and a short bathroom break. Lunch was eaten on board: soggy b.u.t.ter sandwiches on white bread, lukewarm containers of apple juice, and Oh Henry! candy bars. Outside the temperature topped 90 degrees. Inside, it was even hotter. The old air conditioner hissed warm air and half the windows were sealed shut, dust lines smearing their chipped panes. up to the Wilkinson Home for Boys had taken more than three hours, including two stops for gas and a short bathroom break. Lunch was eaten on board: soggy b.u.t.ter sandwiches on white bread, lukewarm containers of apple juice, and Oh Henry! candy bars. Outside the temperature topped 90 degrees. Inside, it was even hotter. The old air conditioner hissed warm air and half the windows were sealed shut, dust lines smearing their chipped panes.

The bus was old, narrow, and dirty, painted slate-gray inside and out. Half the thirty-six seats were taken up by boys younger than I was; none was older than sixteen. There were three guards along for the ride, one in the front next to the driver and two in the back sharing a pack of smokes and a skin magazine. Each guard had a long black nightstick and a can of Mace looped inside his belt. The guard up front had a small handgun shoved inside the front band of his pants.

Four of the boys were black, two looked to be Hispanic, and the rest were white. We sat alone, occupying every other seat, our feet chained to a thin iron bar that stretched the length of the bus. Our hands were free and we were allowed to speak, but most seemed content to stare out at the pa.s.sing countryside. For many, it was their first trip beyond New York City borders.

Michael sat two rows ahead of me and John and Tommy were close behind to my left.

"This is like the bus Doug McClure drove in The Longest Hundred Miles," The Longest Hundred Miles," John said to a pock-marked teen across the aisle. "Don't you think?" John said to a pock-marked teen across the aisle. "Don't you think?"

"Who the f.u.c.k is Doug McClure?" the kid said.