No Show of Remorse (24 page)

“Hey, great idea!” Not even a hint of hesitation. “Let's go get your stuff.” He stood up, but when I didn't move he sat back down. “What else?”

“Nothing really.” I got up from the table to get more coffee.

“What
else,
dammit?”

“I just wanted to tell you … tell somebody.” I took the carafe from the coffee maker and turned back toward him. “I shot a man a couple of days ago.”

“Damn.” He stared at me, his eyes squinting beneath bushy eyebrows going gray. “Is he … I mean did he…”

I sat down and refilled both our cups. “He's dead.”

“Holy crap. Lord have mercy on him.” He slapped at his empty shirt pocket again. “Is that why … I mean, are you hiding out?”

“No. Well, yes. But not from the police. Or maybe from
some
police.”

“That certainly clarifies things,” he said.

“I don't think anyone knows I shot the man. I don't even know if I killed him.”

“You said he was dead.”

“I know. I shot him and his friends dragged him into a car and drove off, and someone had put a bomb in the car and … and the car blew up.”

“Holy Christ! I mean, Lord have mercy on his friends, too. So someone else had it in for this guy, too. Besides you.”

“I didn't even know him. Mine was self-defense.”

“Thank God. That is, I knew that, of course. That's the only reason you'd—”

“Whoever planted the bomb in the car didn't have it in for him, either. He and his buddies were
stealing
the car, and…”

“And what?”

“And it was my car.”

“Jeez, Mal.”

“And that's why I need a place to stay.”

*   *   *

J
UST SHORT OF SEVEN-THIRTY
Casey left for his meeting and I got on the phone again. First I confirmed my meeting later that night with Jimmy Coletta. He was coaching at his west side site, which made it convenient for both of us. Then I called for my messages. Bingo! Maura Flanagan. She wanted to see me. Tonight, if possible. At her place.

I called the number she left, but got her answering machine. “I'll be there tonight,” I said, “but I have another committment first. I'll call when I'm on my way.”

Casey had given me a remote control for the garage, which was attached to the rectory and opened onto the alley out back. The rectory was built to house as many as six priests, but he was the only priest there now.

“I finally got a janitor, though,” he'd told me. “Him and his wife and baby are living here. Until they can find an apartment. It's been about six months and they've … well … they've kinda taken over the third floor.”

“Uh-huh,” I'd said.

“But they're real quiet, and they never have any visitors. He speaks a little English, but she only speaks Nigerian.
Ibo,
I think. I'm pretty sure they're in the country illegally. But what the hell, it's nice to hear a baby cry once in a while.”

I'd be staying in the housekeeper's room, on the first floor behind the kitchen. The place hadn't had a live-in housekeeper since long before Casey was pastor, but the room was there, complete with a telephone, a sofa bed, a TV set, and a tiny bathroom. I pulled around to the alley and parked in the garage and brought in the gym bag I leave in the trunk with my stuff for emergency exile from home.

I rummaged around in the refrigerator, and had a supper of hot dogs and decaf and chocolate-mint ice cream. After that I made a few more phone calls, but mostly I just sat. I tried taking a nap, but that was no use. Awake or asleep, I kept seeing the same man. He sat on the ground and turned his frightened face up to me under his black Zorro hat. Blood kept bubbling out of his mouth … and tears ran down his pockmarked cheeks.

*   *   *

A
T NINE O'CLOCK
Casey came back home. He said he was going up to bed, and I told him he was expecting company at nine-thirty.

“I am? Hell, I don't have to stay down here and
talk
to whoever it is, do I?”

“Only a little. You're his excuse for stopping by, but … what do you do if you have a visitor in a wheelchair?”

“Well, the church is wheelchair accessible, but not the rectory. I think, though, that the two of us could carry just about anyone up those front steps.”

“Except that I can't afford to be seen, and it's possible someone's following him.”

“Well, then, I'll meet him out front and wheel him between the buildings to the stairs down to the basement entrance. It's only five or six steps down and you can help me. We'd be out of sight there.”

“Deal,” I said.

I told him it was Jimmy Coletta who was coming and that, in case anyone ever asked, the reason was so Jimmy could look over the facilities, to see whether they were appropriate and available for a handicapped youth program he was trying to expand.

“Is that true?” Casey wanted to know. He didn't like to lie.

“That's the only reason you know of,” I said. “And he'll be back someday to follow up on his visit … if I can keep him out of jail.”

It wasn't long before the van pulled up in front, with Suzanne driving. We got Jimmy down the side steps and into a basement meeting room, where a long, battered table took up most of one wall. A large coffeemaker stood on the table, and beside it a carton of paper cups. An ancient refrigerator whirred noisily in the corner, and there were ten or fifteen old metal folding chairs scattered around. The floor was clean, but the room smelled like roach spray and cigarette smoke and old coffee.

“Not exactly elegant,” Casey said, clearing the way for Jimmy's wheelchair, “but at least it's not being used tonight. Two nights a week they have AA meetings in—” He stopped. “Oh, can I get you something to drink? Pepsi or something? Don't have any beer or booze around.”

“That's okay, Father,” Suzanne said. “We don't drink alcohol.”

“Really?”

“We're evangelical,” she said. “It's against our relig—” She stopped and looked embarrassed. “We don't practice Catholicism anymore, Father.”

“Not to worry. You got lots of company,” Casey said, obviously trying to put her at ease.

“I never went to church anyway,” Jimmy said, “but I sure used to drink, way too much. Before I was born again in the Holy Spirit and accepted the Lord into my life.” He said it matter-of-factly, neither ashamed of it nor pushing it.

“You drank too much?” Casey laughed. “Well, join the club. I'm a recovering alcoholic. What I call a fallen-away drunk. But back when I was a
practicing
drunk I was a full-blown, pee-down-my-leg, crap-in-my-pants, fall-on-my-face drunk. Pardon my French, but it's God's truth. And I don't wanna ever forget it. 'Cause I could be one again, dammit, any day of the week.”

There was a long, embarrassed silence, until Jimmy finally spoke up. “It's okay,” he said, and he looked right at me. “Sometimes the truth isn't pretty.”

Casey got drinks out of the refrigerator—three cans of Pepsi-Cola—and handed them out. “I'll be upstairs,” he said. “Just holler when you're ready to go.”

CHAPTER

38

T
HE THREE OF US
sat there in the rectory basement and waited. Suzanne pulled her chair up closer to Jimmy. She looked at the unopened Pepsi can in her hand as though wondering where it came from, then set it on the table.

We heard Casey close the upstairs door, and then Jimmy spoke up. “You keep telling me you'll protect me,” he said, “but I keep wondering why I should trust you. I don't know why you would care what happens to me.”

“I told Marlon Shades I wouldn't talk,” I said, “and I went to jail to keep my word. That's why you should trust me.” I leaned in toward him a little. “But I never said I'll protect you. What I keep telling you is I'll do my best to keep you out of this if I can. And that's what I'll do … my best.” I popped the top of my own Pepsi. “Why do I care? I guess it's really why I
don't
care. I know what you were doing that night and I still don't see any reason for you to go to jail—not now—or lose your disability benefits because of a conviction. For what purpose? Justice? The law? Maybe protecting you is illegal. Some might even say it's immoral. I don't much care about what people say.”

“So then why are you stirring up trouble?” Suzanne asked. “If you don't care, why not just let things be?”

“I have my own interests, other promises I've made; some of them to myself. And I like to keep my promises. Besides, sooner or later it's not going to work to ‘just let things be.' The case is still an open case. People are working on it.”

“Working on it?” she asked. “What are you—”

“Wait, Suzanne,” Jimmy said. “What he means is it's a homicide case. A man got away—a cop killer—and the case will stay open forever. Or until they catch him. And if they do,” he added, “then all the other … circumstances will come out.”

“Maybe someday they'll put it all together,” I said. “If that happens, and if you go to jail, it'll be because of your own actions. I can't change what you did. But I have no interest in taking you down. None. If you fill me in on the details, maybe I can wrap up what I need to do, and keep you out of it.
Maybe.
That's the best I can offer.” And maybe I had no business holding out even that much hope. “Otherwise, I just keep flailing around and whatever I churn up goes public.”

“I don't know, Jimmy,” Suzanne said. “Maybe we shouldn't have come. Maybe—”

“No,” he said. “We agreed. I can't just sit and wait any longer. It's eating away at me. I don't want to go to jail, or lose my disability. But we both know that someday that might happen, whether this man has anything to do with it or not. Maybe he can help; maybe he can't. But I need to take some action that
might
protect us.”

“But…” She paused, then let it go. “You're right,” she said. “We agreed, and we're together in this.” She was strong and smart, and she loved this man in his wheelchair.

Jimmy turned to me, took a deep breath, and began. “One of the hardest things for these poor kids I work with is to face reality. As for me, I've already faced my paralysis, and now I've got to start facing the rest of it.” The words came out in a rush, as though he'd rehearsed them so he'd be able to get started. “On the night—”

“Wait,” I said. “Let me go first, all right? Then you can fill in the blank spaces.”

He looked at me. “Okay,” he finally said. Suzanne just stared down at her hands in her lap.

“When a suspended lawyer files a petition for reinstatement to the bar, the disciplinary commission notifies lots of people,” I said, “people who might have something to say about it. So the cops who were there that night at Lonnie Bright's—and their friends and relatives—they all heard about my petition. Right?”

Jimmy nodded.

“And everybody expects them to object. After all, I lost my license because I wouldn't reveal what Marlon Shades told me, so why should I get it back again until I tell? I make it clear, though, that I still won't tell, and I insist on a hearing. The cops and their relatives are notified that if there's a hearing they'll be subpoenaed to testify against me, to describe the damage that's been caused to so many families, and how I could help bring them some closure, if I'd just obey the supreme court's order. Maybe my information would help catch someone who participated in shooting three police officers, murdering one of them and putting another…” I sipped some Pepsi.

“In a wheelchair,” Jimmy said, but he didn't look at me.

“The thing is, though, for the three living cops—and let's assume it's all of them—for these three cops maybe the truth is the one thing they're afraid
will
come out.” I paused. “Stop me if I get too far off base, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Jimmy's voice was barely audible.

“Of course, these cops don't know for sure what Marlon told me. But if I didn't reveal it before, they ask themselves, why should I now? And if I don't tell, and if they all stick together, they're in the clear. They have a meeting, maybe, to talk it over. And then there's a new problem. If there's a hearing, and if they have to testify, maybe they
won't
all stick together. In fact, one of them says he
won't
lie, says he's different now. Or he
doesn't
say it and they know it anyway. He won't lie, and he especially won't lie under oath. Jesus wouldn't lie—even to save himself—and neither will this born-again Christian. He doesn't want to go to jail, but he's a man who lives by what he sees as God's commandments. He'll tell the truth.”

“If he's
asked,
” Suzanne said. “Remember that.” She looked like she might cry.

“That's what I figured,” I said. “Anyway, the truth these police officers don't want known is that they were selling cocaine to Lonnie Bright. And worse than that, that they murdered him. They figured why give the coke they had to Lonnie Bright, when they could take his money and keep the stuff and sell it to someone else.”

“Wait a minute,” Jimmy said. “I—”

“Well, let's say everyone didn't know what everyone else was thinking. But anyway, who'd care if Lonnie was shot down? Decent citizens would be glad to be rid of one more middleman in the delivery of death to kids. Lonnie's competitors would be happy. The cops who could sell the same coke twice would be happy. Of course they couldn't do this very often, or who'd deal with them? But this time, hey, why not?”

Jimmy cleared his throat. “You—”