Sleepers (21 page)

“We didn’t go out looking to hurt is what I meant,” I said.

“Few do,” King Benny said.

“How long do you think we’ll get?”

“A year,” King Benny told me, and it made my knees go weak. “Maybe more. Depends on the mood the judge is in.”

“I hear the one we got is tough,” I said. “Likes to set examples.”

“They’re all tough,” King Benny said.

I drank some more coffee and scanned the room, framing it in my mind, not wanting to forget its look, its stench, its feeling of safety. King Benny’s foul-smelling club was a second home to me and, like the library, had become a place to escape the harshness of the life I knew.

It was an escape to the quiet company of the single most dangerous man in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Your father tell you what to expect?” King Benny asked. “Tell you how to handle yourself?”

“He hasn’t talked much,” I said. “He’s pretty upset. Most of the time, he and my mom just sit and cry. Or they fight. One or the other.”

“I can’t help you up there,” King Benny said, leaning closer to me, his eyes tight on my face. “Or your friends. You’re gonna be on your own in that place. It won’t be easy, Shakes. It’s gonna be hard. The hardest thing you and your friends are ever gonna have to do.”

“My father thinks that too,” I said. “That’s why he’s crying.”

“Your father
knows
that,” King Benny said. “Only he don’t think you’re ready for it. Don’t think you can take it.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No,” King Benny said. “I don’t. There’s a part of you that’s a lot like me. A small part. That should be enough to bring you back alive.”

“I better go,” I said, pushing the cup to one side. “I’m not allowed to stay out alone too long.”

“When do you leave?”

“I see the judge on Thursday,” I said, looking at the man I had grown to love as much as my own father. “That’s when we find out where we go and for how long.”

“Your parents be with you?”

“My father,” I said. “I don’t think my mother can handle it. You know how she gets.”

“It’s better that way,” King Benny said. “She shouldn’t see you in a courtroom.”

“Will you still be here when I get back?” I asked, my voice choked, my eyes focusing on the two men outside, trying not to let King Benny see me cry.

“I’ll
always
be here,” he said. “Doing what I always do.”

“What
do
you do here?” I asked, a smile at the center of my tears.

King Benny pointed to the empty espresso pot.

“I make coffee,” he said.

16

M
Y FRIENDS AND
I stood behind a scarred oak table in the middle of a high-ceilinged, airless room, hands at our sides, staring straight ahead. We were dressed in the only good clothes we owned, the dark jackets, dark slacks, white shirts, and sky-gray ties standing out against the cream-colored courtroom walls of New York State’s Division of Family Justice.

John and I were on the right side of the table, next to our lawyer, a short, doe-eyed man who had trouble breathing through his nose. His hair was slicked down with gel and the tail of his white shirt was popping out the back of his brown pants.

Michael and Tommy stood to his left.

None of us looked at him and none bothered to listen to a word he uttered.

Our families were behind us, held apart by a wooden barrier and two court officers. My father sat in the first row of benches, directly behind me, his sad, angry presence like hot air on my neck. We had talked very little on the subway ride downtown. He assured me all would go well, that no one beyond the neighborhood would know where I was, and that maybe, just maybe, all this was for the good, that it was a lesson waiting to be learned.

“Be like goin’ to camp,” my father said as the train careened toward Chambers Street. “Plenty of fresh air, lots of runnin’ around, decent food. And they’ll keep
you in line. Maybe teach you and your friends some discipline. Do what I couldn’t do.”

“I’m gonna miss you, Dad,” I said.

“Save that shit,” 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.

“H
AVE THE DEFENDANTS
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 assault one, which constituted 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
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
young,” Father Bobby said.

“And they’re
all
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 passed?” the judge asked, moving aside a sweaty glass 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 fishing 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 attitude 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 shirt 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 anticipating 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, shifting his attention to Butter. “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 assure 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 scumbag,” 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 fuckin’ 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 shit ain’t
never
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.