Brothers and Bones (12 page)

The conductor said, “Who is—?”

Lippincott turned back to the group, pretended he hadn’t heard the conductor begin a question, and launched into an anecdote about a defendant—a formerly respected CEO of a Fortune 500 company—suddenly dropping his Brooks Brothers suit pants and mooning the jurors at his trial.

As the congressman and the conductor laughed politely, and my fellow attorneys laughed uncomfortably, Jessica leaned toward me and whispered, “Who are those men who just came in?”

I almost didn’t hear her. I was staring hard at the heavy guy by the door. I heard a soft rumble and realized I was grinding my teeth.

“Charlie?” Jess whispered.

I whispered back, “The fat guy’s Carmen Siracuse, head of the Italian Mafia in Boston. Likes to be called Uncle Carmen, as if he’s
not
the kind of guy who’ll have one of his thugs take a tire iron to you if you look at him wrong. The other guys are just muscle, I think.” I looked around for Big Frank D’Amico—Siracuse’s childhood friend, current underboss, and closest confidant—but didn’t see him.

Jessica hesitated, then said quietly, “That guy with the great big smile is the head of a Mafia family?”

I glared at the mob boss. “Don’t let that fool you. He smiles a lot. Why shouldn’t he? He’s got everything he wants, people to do everything he wants done, no matter how illegal or violent.”

Jessica leaned even closer, put a hand on my arm, and whispered even more quietly, “Is he the one?”

I nodded. “I don’t know if it was him personally, but I still believe he’s responsible.”

“I wonder if he knew that Daddy is speaking tonight?”

“Giving impromptu remarks,” I corrected, “and that’s probably the reason he’s here. He probably found out about it and he’s playing games. Making a statement of some kind. Something like that. Stop looking at him, Jess.”

The congressman and the conductor soon drifted away and the rest of us, Lippincott, Kidder, my fellow AUSAs, Jessica, and I, continued our conversation, all of us deliberately not talking about the elephant in the room—which was a more apt idiom than usual—all of us resisting the urge to even glance at Carmen Siracuse. None of us wanted to give him the satisfaction.

That’s the way it went for most of the night anyway.

A little while later people started making their ways to their tables. Because he was one of the night’s speakers—that is, impromptu remarks givers—Lippincott sat at the table right next to the podium, along with the formally scheduled speakers for the evening, as well as the head of the arts-saving organization that was taking in five hundred dollars a plate that night.

Our assigned table was a few tables away from Lippincott’s. Jessica and I had the pleasure of Kidder’s company, along with that of his remarkably nondescript wife, and a couple of other AUSAs and their wives. I looked around for Angel Medina, but I guess he didn’t care enough about the arts to spend five hundred bucks for dinner. Either that, or he didn’t care enough about kissing up to Lippincott, telling him how terrific his impromptu remarks were.

Though we all pretended not to notice, we all noticed that Carmen Siracuse and his muscle-bound thugs were sitting on the other side of the room. We all refrained, by unspoken mutual consent, from mentioning him. Again, perhaps we sensed that he wanted us to be uncomfortable, to talk about him. Screw him.

I had prime rib and Jessica had salmon. There were other things on the plate, but I ignored those. Any chance that I’d be hungry was lost the moment Siracuse entered the ballroom. I choked down a few bites of very expensive meat I didn’t taste and tried not to think about him. The others, even Kidder, seemed to be more successful at that than I was. Then again, they didn’t have the history I believed I had with Siracuse.

After dinner the director of the charity took the podium, said a few words, and introduced the first speaker, a curator for one of the local museums, who told us how important the arts are. Fifteen minutes later, the second speaker, a local arts historian, took the stage and reiterated how important the arts are. I don’t think they said much more than that, but I can’t be sure, because I kept tuning in and out while they spoke, my thoughts returning to Jake, and Bonz, and that piece of shit Siracuse sitting smugly across the room.

When the second speaker finished, the director took the podium again, thanked both scheduled speakers for their entertaining and thought-provoking speeches, then appeared ready to release us to our own devices. His eyes casually swept the room as he spoke, then fell on Lippincott. The director looked as though he’d been struck by an inspiration as he wondered aloud whether the esteemed U.S. Attorney for Massachusetts would care to make a few impromptu remarks. He apologized for putting Lippincott on the spot like that but, as polite, encouraging applause spread through the room, Lippincott graciously and humbly made his way up to the podium. He cleared his throat, smiled, and began speaking, seemingly off-the-cuff, in that pleasant and always surprisingly deep voice of his. He noted that, earlier in the year, our office had successfully prosecuted a high-profile case against a ring of art thieves who had stolen more than ninety million dollars’ worth of paintings from two Boston-area art museums. The case had made national news and Lippincott had been quoted extensively. Lippincott spoke about local and nationwide efforts to keep historic works of art where they belonged—in museums. He was articulate and brief. I think it was the latter that invested the applause he received with extra enthusiasm. I could see that Jessica was proud of her father. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Carmen Siracuse smiling, clapping politely.

As Lippincott walked back to his table, someone with a microphone told everyone to dance and have a good time. On cue, a soft drum riff sounded in the back of the room and the other members of the jazz combo soon joined in as one. A few couples hit the floor and started dancing badly.

I looked at my watch. Jessica had spent almost three hundred dollars on her dress. We probably had to stay another two hours at least. I looked at her sitting beside me, smiling at me, looking like she might ask me to take a spin on the dance floor. But she surprised me by instead asking, “Where did you go?”

“Huh?”

“You weren’t here for most of the speeches. Your mind was elsewhere. Seems like it has been since you picked me up tonight.”

She was right. My mind was combing the streets of Boston, peering into doorways and alleys, under bridges and behind Dumpsters. Where was Bonz now? Could I find him again? What did he know about Jake?

“Are you thinking about Siracuse?” she asked.

“A little, I guess.” And I was, too. Jake and Bonz and Siracuse.

“You okay? You did have a rough night last night. Maybe I shouldn’t have made you come tonight.”

I shook my head. “Really, Jess, I’m fine. I feel okay.”

She nodded and smiled, then looked around the room. While a few people danced, most had begun mingling—important people rubbing important elbows. I could sense that Jessica wanted to rub some of those elbows—especially those of a few of the most senior partners of her law firm who were in attendance—but I wasn’t interested. Though I’d tried to keep my mind anchored in the moment, it slipped its moorings and drifted back to Bonz. So I excused myself and went out into the lobby and paged Dr. Fielding. He gave me his pager number when I first started seeing him, telling me to use it only in the event of an emergency. I wasn’t certain this qualified, but the guy had made enough money off me and my insurance company over the years that I figured he could return a page and answer a few questions for me.

I had no idea if Fielding would call me any time soon, but I didn’t want to be in the middle of a crowded room when he did, so I walked around the lobby for a while, admiring all the fancy stuff. I paced in a big oval over the ornate area rug. A concierge with incredibly neat hair nodded politely to me each time I passed him. On my fourth pass my cell phone rang and the concierge and I exchanged a final nod as I flipped open the phone. I walked over to a corner and stood with my back to the room.

“Dr. Fielding?” I said in a low voice.

“Yes, this is Patrick Fielding. I was paged.”

“Thanks for calling, Dr. Fielding. It’s Charlie Beckham. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Are you okay, Charlie?” He sounded concerned and irritated in equal parts, like he did actually care that I was all right, but if I was, I’d better have a good reason for calling him on a Sunday night.

“I’m fine, thanks. I’m sorry to make you call me like this but I have a question for you. One that couldn’t wait until morning.”

“A question?” The scale was starting to tip away from concerned and toward irritated.

“Yes. I know this is unusual but I didn’t know where else to turn. And this really is right up your alley.”

“Well, why don’t you ask me your question then and we’ll see if you’re right.” I couldn’t detect a trace of concern in his voice any longer. He still managed to sound professional, though.

“Okay. Let’s say a person suffers through a terrible ordeal, like torture, for instance…I assume that could damage the person’s memory, right?”

Fielding hesitated. “Torture? Charlie, what are you —”

“Just hypothetically speaking, Dr. Fielding.”

Fielding hesitated again, then said, “Well, of course, sufficiently traumatic events can cause memory loss. People often build a wall around memories related to the cause of the trauma—say, sexual abuse or, in your hypothetical, torture. It’s a self-preservation mechanism. Keep the memories locked away and the person doesn’t have to deal with them. They can block out those discrete memories but in all other respects their memories—and here I’m speaking of their ability to remember—can be as good as anyone else’s.”

“How about more severe memory loss?” I asked. “Not just relating to the trauma, but practically complete memory loss.”

“Could torture cause that? Yes, I suppose. If it were severe enough, it could cause any level of damage to the subject’s memory. Now, Charlie, you really must tell me—”

“One more question, Dr. Fielding.” I rushed on before he could object. “Could something—say, seeing a familiar face—trigger a return of that memory?”

Fielding was silent for a few moments. He clearly wondered where all this was coming from. Finally, he said, “Yes, I would think so. Sometimes all the memory needs is a little push. I suppose if our hypothetical torture victim experienced nearly total memory loss, and something he sees or hears completes a connection in his mind, a connection to his past, the wall he built could come tumbling down.”

“How would that affect the person?”

“Well, it could affect him any number of ways. He might be relieved, happy to have his memory back. Conversely, he might be severely traumatized all over again, reliving the events that caused the memory block in the first place. If the memory returned slowly, over time, it would be easier on the person, I would imagine. It’s possible, though, that once the wall comes down, it could be like…like a…”

“Dam bursting?” I offered.

“Exactly. And that could be very scary for our hypothetical subject.” A pause. “This is a hypothetical person we’re talking about, isn’t it, Charlie?”

This certainly could have explained a lot about Bonz’s behavior. Seeing my face—not once, but several times now—and talking to me, as well, might have taken a wrecking ball to walls Bonz had built in his mind to protect himself from the memories of whatever happened to him, whatever had caused those scars, maimed that hand, broken that nose. Originally, I had thought that his strange behavior was the result of dementia caused by whatever the heck causes some homeless people to act crazy. Now I wasn’t so sure. Someone had put him through hell and I had set up a slide projector in his mind so he could relive his trip there.

“Dr. Fielding, what I need to know is, how would this person react after his memory returns? How would I deal with him? Would he be violent? Fragile? If I needed information from him, how should I go about getting it?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Charlie. I don’t really think we’re talking hypothetically, are we?”

“Please, Dr. Fielding.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then, “A person like you’re describing could certainly become violent. It would depend on the circumstances and his underlying nature. Would he be fragile? Maybe. Again, it would depend on him. If you were to question someone like that, you’d want to be careful. Ask the wrong thing and you could set him off in a rage, if he’s given to such things, or into a panic as he remembers what was done to him, or even back into his protective shell, causing him to rebuild the walls around the bad memories.”

“You’re saying he could lose his memory again?”

“It’s possible. I really have no way of saying with more certainty, not without meeting the man, talking to him.”

“I see.” If I ever saw Bonz again, I’d have to take care with my questions. I didn’t want him losing his memory again, of course. And I definitely didn’t want him getting violent with me. I’d seen what he could do.

“Now, Charlie, I’ve answered all your questions. I must now ask that you tell me—”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Fielding, but this is something confidential. A witness for one of my cases, which you know I can’t talk about for ethical reasons.”

“You don’t sound like this is merely—”

“Thank you very much for your help. I’m sorry to have disturbed you on the weekend.” I snapped my cell phone shut.

“What was that all about?” It was Jessica’s voice. I turned to find her right behind me.

“Why aren’t you inside schmoozing with the big shots?”

“I began to wonder where you’d run off to.”

How much had she heard?

“Who was tortured, Charlie? My God, was it you? Is that what those bruises really are?”

I hesitated. But she was so genuinely concerned, so truly caring, that I had to share the truth with her. So I sat her down on a small sofa off to one side of the lobby, swore her to secrecy, and after taking a big breath, told her about Bonz. I told her how he called me Wiley, and what that meant—because even Jess never knew my brother’s secret nickname for me. I told her how I chased him, how I wondered if he was Jake, how it turned out that he wasn’t Jake, how he threatened to break my neck, how he ate like an entire football team. And I told her that he must have known my brother. That he must know
something
about what happened to Jake.