said.
“Who
will?”
“Troy.
You give him a chance and he’ll get better and go to college.”
“You
think he’s sick.”
She
stared at me. “Everyone’s sick. Being alive’s being sick. We got to be
forgiving. Like Jesus.”
I
said nothing.
She
said, “You understand? About forgiving?”
“It’s
a wonderful quality,” I said. “Being able to forgive.”
“I
forgive everyone.”
“Everyone
who hurts you?”
“Yeah,
why not? Who cares what happened before? Same with Troy, what he did is over.
And he didn’t even do it. The retard did.”
She
turned in the seat, bumped her hip against the steering wheel and flinched.
“You gonna help him?”
“I’ll
do my best to be truthful.”
“You
should,” she said. Leaning closer. Her scent was a strange mixture of old
laundry and too-sweet perfume. “You could look like him.”
“Like
who?”
“Jesus.”
She smiled, ran a tongue over her lips. “Yeah, definitely. Put a beard on you,
a little more hair and yeah, sure. You could be a real cute Jesus.”
CHAPTER 9
T om Laskin’s clerk called me a couple of days later to
check on my report. I told her I needed another week, picking the time
arbitrarily, not sure why I was asking for an extension.
I
spent ten more days on the case, interviewing the social workers and the
eligibility officers who covered 415 City, visiting the project and chatting
with neighbors, anyone who claimed to have something to offer. Each time,
Margaret Sieff was out. Jane Hannabee had moved and no one knew where.
I
visited the boys’ school. No one— not the principal or the guidance counselor
or the teachers— had more than a vague remembrance of Troy or Rand. The last
time either boy had been graded was a year ago. C minuses and a couple of D’s
for Rand, which was social promotion; my testing had shown him to be illiterate
with math skills at the second-grade level. B’s and C’s and D’s for Troy. He’d
been judged “bright but disruptive.”
* * *
To
the project workers, the young killers were names on forms. The residents all
agreed that prior to his arrest, Rand Duchay had been viewed as a harmless oaf.
Everyone I spoke to was certain he’d been turned bad by Troy Turner.
No
divided opinions on Troy, either. He was seen as cunning, nasty, mean, “evil.”
Scary despite his small size. Several residents claimed he’d threatened their
children but the details were vague. One woman, young and black and nervous,
stepped forward as I was leaving the project and said, “That boy done nasty
things to my daughter.”
“How
old’s your daughter?”
“Gonna
be six next month.”
“What
happened?”
She
shook her head and hurried away and I didn’t go after her.
* * *
I
asked to reinterview the boys but was blocked from doing so by Montez and
Weider.
“They’re
adamant,” Tom Laskin informed me. “Went so far as to file motions to keep you
away.”
“What’s
the problem?” I said.
“My
feeling is it’s mostly Weider. She’s a manic shark.”
“She
does talk fast.”
“Everything’s
conflict with her, even when it doesn’t need to be,” said Laskin. “She says
you’ve had more than enough time with her client, doesn’t want his head messed
up before she brings her own experts in. Montez is a loafer, takes the path of
least resistance. I could probably push it, Alex, but if I’m reversed I’d
prefer it not be for something picayune. Do you really need more time?”
“Why
would I mess up their clients’ heads?”
“Don’t
take it personally,” he said. “It’s lawyer crap. Their basic premise is that
you’re biased for the prosecution.”
“I
haven’t spoken a word to the D.A.”
“It’s
gamesmanship. They’re setting the stage so if you do say something they don’t
like, they’ve precharacterized it as impeachable.”
“Okay,”
I said.
“Don’t
worry, I’ll protect you when you get up on the stand. So when can I expect your
compiled psychological
“Who
will?”
“Troy.
You give him a chance and he’ll get better and go to college.”
“You
think he’s sick.”
She
stared at me. “Everyone’s sick. Being alive’s being sick. We got to be
forgiving. Like Jesus.”
I
said nothing.
She
said, “You understand? About forgiving?”
“It’s
a wonderful quality,” I said. “Being able to forgive.”
“I
forgive everyone.”
“Everyone
who hurts you?”
“Yeah,
why not? Who cares what happened before? Same with Troy, what he did is over.
And he didn’t even do it. The retard did.”
She
turned in the seat, bumped her hip against the steering wheel and flinched.
“You gonna help him?”
“I’ll
do my best to be truthful.”
“You
should,” she said. Leaning closer. Her scent was a strange mixture of old
laundry and too-sweet perfume. “You could look like him.”
“Like
who?”
“Jesus.”
She smiled, ran a tongue over her lips. “Yeah, definitely. Put a beard on you,
a little more hair and yeah, sure. You could be a real cute Jesus.”
CHAPTER 9
T om Laskin’s clerk called me a couple of days later to
check on my report. I told her I needed another week, picking the time
arbitrarily, not sure why I was asking for an extension.
I
spent ten more days on the case, interviewing the social workers and the
eligibility officers who covered 415 City, visiting the project and chatting
with neighbors, anyone who claimed to have something to offer. Each time,
Margaret Sieff was out. Jane Hannabee had moved and no one knew where.
I
visited the boys’ school. No one— not the principal or the guidance counselor
or the teachers— had more than a vague remembrance of Troy or Rand. The last
time either boy had been graded was a year ago. C minuses and a couple of D’s
for Rand, which was social promotion; my testing had shown him to be illiterate
with math skills at the second-grade level. B’s and C’s and D’s for Troy. He’d
been judged “bright but disruptive.”
* * *
To
the project workers, the young killers were names on forms. The residents all
agreed that prior to his arrest, Rand Duchay had been viewed as a harmless oaf.
Everyone I spoke to was certain he’d been turned bad by Troy Turner.
No
divided opinions on Troy, either. He was seen as cunning, nasty, mean, “evil.”
Scary despite his small size. Several residents claimed he’d threatened their
children but the details were vague. One woman, young and black and nervous,
stepped forward as I was leaving the project and said, “That boy done nasty
things to my daughter.”
“How
old’s your daughter?”
“Gonna
be six next month.”
“What
happened?”
She
shook her head and hurried away and I didn’t go after her.
* * *
I
asked to reinterview the boys but was blocked from doing so by Montez and
Weider.
“They’re
adamant,” Tom Laskin informed me. “Went so far as to file motions to keep you
away.”
“What’s
the problem?” I said.
“My
feeling is it’s mostly Weider. She’s a manic shark.”
“She
does talk fast.”
“Everything’s
conflict with her, even when it doesn’t need to be,” said Laskin. “She says
you’ve had more than enough time with her client, doesn’t want his head messed
up before she brings her own experts in. Montez is a loafer, takes the path of
least resistance. I could probably push it, Alex, but if I’m reversed I’d
prefer it not be for something picayune. Do you really need more time?”
“Why
would I mess up their clients’ heads?”
“Don’t
take it personally,” he said. “It’s lawyer crap. Their basic premise is that
you’re biased for the prosecution.”
“I
haven’t spoken a word to the D.A.”
“It’s
gamesmanship. They’re setting the stage so if you do say something they don’t
like, they’ve precharacterized it as impeachable.”
“Okay,”
I said.
“Don’t
worry, I’ll protect you when you get up on the stand. So when can I expect your
compiled psychological
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