Slipping Into Darkness by Peter Blauner Page A

go within six months. Instead, most of his free time seemed to go into planning extreme sports vacations. Where other people had family pictures in the office, there were photos of him biking across Russia, hang gliding in the Yucatán, and bodysurfing in Maui. And for reasons he’d never clearly explained to Francis, a harpoon hung on a wall opposite a portrait of General George Armstrong Custer in his Union army uniform.
     
“So, what’s up, Paul?” he said, wanting to focus on something other than his diagnosis or his son for a while.
     
“I guess you heard about Julian Vega.”
     
“What about him?” he said tightly.
     
“Well, you know that he’s been writing letters for years from prison, raising all these side issues about witness statements and whether his lawyer was competent. . . .”
     
Ever since he’d left the doctor’s office this morning, Francis had been having a distracting little subband of dialogue crawling underneath his regular conversation, like a cable news report, but now it suddenly cut off.
     
“Somebody might’ve said something to me,” he allowed.
     
“So Judge Santiago had him brought down for a four-forty hearing on Rikers yesterday. And after he heard the arguments about the competency issues, he decided to grant the motion and vacate the conviction.”
     
The waitress brought his coffee.
     
“Where’s the fucking Sweet ’n Low?” Francis said, looking around. “Didn’t these restaurants always used to have Sweet ’n Low on the tables?”
     
All at once, it seemed very important to him for everything to be in its proper place.
     
“It’s right next to you, Francis.” Paul pointed to the edge of the table, just outside his field of vision. “Look, no one expects you to be happy.”
     
“No shit, Paulie.” He snatched a pink packet. “No one thought of giving me a heads-up?”
     
“What would you have said at the hearing? The issues didn’t have anything to do with you. Almost everybody Ralph Figueroa represented is looking to get their case reopened, because he was a fucking degenerate drug addict who never told anyone they had the right to testify in their own defense. They’ve overturned four of his cases in the last three months.”
     
“And it never occurred to you that I might have a problem with this? Did you forget what happened in Auburn a few years ago?”
     
“The judge was made aware there’d been an incident. I made sure to put a note about it in the case file.”
     
“An incident? ” Francis tore open the packet and poured saccharine on the smoldering black surface. “That little cocksucker tried to take a swing at me in the corridor. Good thing the COs got between us, because I was fucking ready to have a go at him.”
     
That’s some tough talk there, Helen Keller. At the time, he’d been caught totally off guard. Hurrying down the hall on a visit upstate to meet a potential CI when he’d heard a voice just outside the lunchroom, calling out, “Hey, embustero. ” He didn’t see Hoolian stepping out of line and lunging at him until it was almost too late. Not that he would have recognized the kid anyway, after all those years.
     
“I should’ve had a chance to testify about that at the hearing,” Francis fumed, realizing the whole thing should have been an early-warning signal.
     
“The judge took the position that Hoolian already did sixty days in solitary for it and that’s enough.” Paul turned his palms up as the waitress brought his tea and raw carrots. “There was no physical contact, so I don’t know what else you expected.”
     
“So, that’s it? He’s off the hook? Somebody from the office buying him breakfast too?”
     
“C’mon, Francis, don’t do this.”
     
“Don’t do what? ” The waitress put down his eggs and bacon. “Don’t remind you? Is that what you’re telling me?”
     
“No . . .”
     
“Do you even remember what this case was supposed to be about? Did you even look at the fucking file again?”
     
“Yes, I looked at the file, Francis.” Paul picked up