Payback Time (19 page)

I don't know what I expected. That his face would turn red, that he'd start spluttering, denying everything, or maybe that he'd reach across the table and grab me by the throat and start choking me. Instead, he slumped back in his chair, a look of disgust on his face. "That's what you think this is about? Me using Angel to cheat my way to a state title?"

I nodded. "That's exactly what I think this is about."

"And this person you talked to at Aramingo High. Did you tell him that Angel was going to school here?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't I?"

He shook his head. "You have no idea what you've done."

"Explain it to me," I said, coolly.

"First, tell me this. Who was this person at Aramingo? A teacher or a student?"

"A student."

"What was his name?"

Kimi nudged me, and I knew why. McNulty was taking control of the interview. "Look, Mr. McNulty," I said, putting strength into my voice. "His name doesn't matter. If I've missed something, tell me. If not, I'm going to take my story and Kimi's pictures to the
Times.
"

He laughed mockingly. "If you missed something? You missed everything."

"You said that before, but you still haven't told me what it is I missed. If you've got some new facts, I'm listening. Otherwise..." I opened my hands, palms to the ceiling.

He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. From it, he pulled a newspaper clipping. He carefully unfolded the clipping and then slid it between Kimi and me. "Read this," he said.

It was an old op-ed article from the
Philadelphia Inquirer
detailing all the school-age kids who'd been killed during the school year. There'd been twenty-three total. Most were homicides that happened in neighborhoods or in homes. Guns, drugs, gangs.

When I finished reading the article, I looked to Kimi. She nodded that she'd finished it too, so I slid it back to McNulty. "Okay, Philadelphia has some terrible neighborhoods, worse than anything around here. I don't blame Angel for leaving. But just because Philadelphia has problems doesn't make him eligible to play here."

McNulty turned the paper around and slid it back to me. "Read these two paragraphs again," he said. "From here to the end."

I shrugged and then reread the paragraphs.

There were at least two dozen witnesses on Aramingo Avenue when ten-year-old Thomas Childress was shot during a battle between two gangs. One of the witnesses actually braved gunfire to pick young Thomas up from the street and carry him to the sidewalk, but Thomas died before medics reached him. After the shootout, none of the witnesses would speak to police investigators, because—well, we all know why. These thugs carry guns, and it's bad for your health to snitch on them.

But the wall of silence in the terrorized neighborhood has crumbled. The same young man who picked up the bleeding boy from the street has now picked the boy's killers from a lineup. Because of his courage Assistant Attorney General Lynne Fox will be able to prosecute the case. "To come
forward, to step up and speak up—it's the moral thing to do, the right thing to do," Ms. Fox told assembled media. "Now we have someone who has had the courage to do it. I wish I had a dozen willing witnesses in a dozen other cases, but at least I have one, and one's a start.
"

I slid the paper back to him. "All right, I read it twice. I still don't get it."

"Who do you think picked the boy up from the street? Who do you think testified against the killers in court?"

I could feel beads of sweat on my forehead, but I forced myself to smile. "Come on. You're not trying to tell me it was Angel Marichal, are you? You think I'm going to believe that?"

McNulty kept staring at me, and my head started spinning so fast, I grabbed hold of the tabletop to keep from falling to the floor.

O
UR WAITRESS RETURNED.
"Your tea, sweetie," she said, placing a stainless steel pitcher of boiling water, a mug, and a Lipton tea bag in front of Kimi.

"Thank you," Kimi said, without looking up.

The waitress looked at me. "More coffee?"

I nodded and she refilled my cup and then McNulty's.

Once the waitress had moved to another table, Kimi tapped the article with her finger. "If the person in this story is Angel, how did he end up in Seattle?" She was trying to sound professional, but her voice quavered.

McNulty leaned forward, so close that I could feel his anger. "The person you saw with him the first day of practice—that's a cousin. When the trial ended, Angel moved in with him to get out of harm's way in Philly. Angel needs two more credits to get a diploma. When he graduates, there's a college that'll give him a football scholarship. I'm not telling you which college, so don't ask, but it's a safe place, a place where guys from Philly would never think to look.

"Once Angel enrolled at Lincoln, his football coach from Aramingo High called me. He said reclaiming that stolen season would mean everything to Angel, and he asked me if I could somehow get Angel onto my team. I checked with the Washington State Athletic Association—I'm not a cheater and I never was, in spite of the rumors—and they gave me the go-ahead. I've kept Angel below the radar to be on the safe side. But because of you two, those gang guys back in Philadelphia now know he goes to Lincoln High, and when you get your precious article published, everybody in the country will know."

"That's not fair," Kimi said. "We didn't know any of this. Besides, we haven't published anything."

"Not yet you haven't," McNulty said, looking right at me. "But you can still go to Chet the Jet. It's not the story you thought you had, but it's still one helluva story. You'll make quite a splash, and that's what this is all about, right?"

He was right. It was a great story, and there was nothing to stop us from publishing it. I could rework what I'd written and the
Times
would jump at it:
Hero Makes Most of Second Chance.

I looked to Kimi. How much did making a name for herself matter to her? Our eyes met, and she gave her head a small shake. I turned back to McNulty. "We won't go to Chet the Jet, or to anyone. Not unless Angel says we can."

"That'll never happen," McNulty said.

"Then we'll never publish," I said.

McNulty's eyes shifted to Kimi.

"I won't tell anyone," she said.

He smoothed his napkin with his fingertips. "Now I need to ask you a couple of things. Things that matter for Angel's immediate safety."

"Go ahead," I said.

"The guy in Philadelphia—his name?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

"He knows Angel goes to Lincoln, but what else does he know?"

"Nothing."

"You didn't give him Angel's home address? Angel's cousin told me you've been around his place."

"He wanted Angel's address, but I didn't give it to him."

"You're sure? Because if you did, tell me so I can get Angel out of there."

"I'm positive."

"All right, last thing. This guy—how did he sound to you? Gut feeling."

My heart drummed in my chest. "Dangerous."

McNulty's jaw tightened. He took out his wallet and dropped a five-dollar bill and two ones onto the table. "This is on me," he said, and then he left.

Kimi finished her tea, and I finished my coffee. The waitress picked up our cups along with McNulty's money. "You can keep the change," I said.

"Thanks, honey."

After we trudged back to the car through the snow, I drove Kimi home. The sidewalks and lawns were white, but the heat from the car engines had turned the streets into gray slush. When I pulled up in front of Kimi's house, she stepped out of the car. Instead of closing the door and going inside, she leaned back toward me. "Gang guys don't forget, Mitch. They're all about payback. They'll kill him if they get a chance."

"Kimi, Philadelphia is three thousand miles away. They don't know where Angel lives. It's not like they have an American Express credit card and they're going to use it to fly out here, rent a hotel room, rent a car, and then drive around looking for him."

She stood holding the door for a long time. "We missed something before," she finally said. "What if we're missing something again?"

I
DIDN'T WANT TO GO HOME,
so I drove down to the Ballard Locks and walked out to the fish ladder. The salmon runs had ended, so the underground viewing room was deserted. I sat on one of the benches staring at the green, lifeless water.

My mind circled back to the article McNulty had shown me. I'd read the words and I'd understood what had happened, but only in my brain. Now, as I sat shivering in the cold, the words turned into images. And as the images grew stronger, I started to feel what had happened.

 

I could picture little kids walking to school, dragging their backpacks along the sidewalk, talking to friends. And then, in the street, two cars coming at each other from opposite directions. Both cars slow as they see each other. The closer they get, the slower they go, until they stop, side by side. The drivers roll down their windows. They talk a little, and then the talk turns to shouting and swearing. The little kids look over, scared but interested. That's when a hand holding a gun comes out of the window.
Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!
And now more guns, more
Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!
The little kids start screaming, start hiding behind cars. But one, Thomas Childress, is crossing the street when the guns start firing. He tries to run for cover, but a bullet strikes him and he goes down.

That's when Angel runs out, bullets still flying, screaming, "Stop! Stop! Stop!" And the gang guys speed away, tires screeching, heading in opposite directions. Angel carries Thomas to the sidewalk. He lays him down and presses his hand against Thomas's skull to stop the flow of blood. He's waiting to hear the siren of an ambulance. Somebody must have called. Why is it taking so long? But it's no good—there's no stopping the blood. Angel feels the life go out of Thomas.

Everybody in the neighborhood knows the cars, knows who was in the cars. They want to get the thugs off the streets, but they're afraid. The police come around: "I didn't see ... I wasn't there ... I can't be sure."

Only Angel stands up. He points out the killers from a lineup and he points them out again in the courtroom. "It was him and him and him and him."

"We're gonna get you," one of the gang guys shouts as they take him, shackled and wearing an orange jumpsuit, off to prison. "You can't hide from us. You're gonna die. You're gonna die."

 

I stared at the water for a long time, thinking how close I'd come to giving Angel away. Finally the cold was too much. I wanted to go home, lie down on my bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep—but there was something I had to do first.

Angel.

Face-to-face, I had to see him.

I returned to the car and drove through the slushy streets to his house. I parked and looked up the walkway to the front windows. The blinds were drawn, but as I watched, a finger separated them.

I got out, walked to the front door, pulled the screen door open, and knocked. The door opened immediately; Angel was on the other side, his cousin two steps behind him.

"I'm Mitch True."

"I know who you are," Angel answered.

"And I know who you are ... now. I know what you did in Philadelphia. I didn't before. Before today, I thought—" I stopped. What did it matter what I thought?

"Why are you here?"

I took a breath. "I guess to say that I'm sorry." I stopped, but he just stared, his face blank. I felt desperate. "And to let you know that if there's anything I can do, I'll do it. Just tell me and I swear to God, I'll do it."

"You know what you can do?" he said, his voice expressionless. "You can leave me alone."

The door closed in my face.

I returned to the car and sat, my hands on the steering wheel. What had I expected? Did I think he was going to tell me it wasn't my fault, and then toss a football around with me? I started the car and drove away.

I'd gone about three blocks when my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen: Chet the Jet. I let it go to voice mail. When I got home, I did what I'd wanted to do earlier. I went upstairs, closed the door, turned off the light, and slept.

W
HEN
I
AWOKE,
I wondered if I'd slept through the night. I used my cell phone to check the time: 2:30 p.m. I sat up, but still nothing seemed right. Had I really met with McNulty, with Angel? So much had happened.

My cell phone chirped at me. I hit a button and the screen lit up.
Four Missed Calls.
Two were from area code 215—Philadelphia. I wasn't calling that guy back.

The other two were from Chet the Jet. I didn't want to talk to him, but I knew he'd just keep calling. I hit
Call back,
and he answered on the first ring.

"What's going on, Mitch?" he said, his voice edgy.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I got a call from a guy asking for Bob Bernstein, the reporter who covers the Lincoln Mustangs. You have any idea who Bob Bernstein might be?"

"No," I said, fighting to keep my voice level.

"No? That's interesting. Because right after he asked about Bernstein, he asked about Angel Marichal, which made me think that Bob Bernstein just might be Mitch True."

"Did you tell him that?" I asked, fighting down the panic.

"I told him nothing, which is when he started threatening me, saying I had to tell him where Angel lives or else. He did not sound like a nice person. So I'm asking you again, Mitch Bernstein: What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

He laughed, an angry laugh. "I was at the Lakes game; I saw Marichal play. For the first time all year I saw him. I spent this morning watching tapes of Lincoln's games. What you wrote about him—it was on the money. The stat sheets Coach Morris has been sending me are garbage. Now, Morris wouldn't feed me lies unless McNulty told him to, and McNulty wouldn't do that unless he had a reason. Do you know what the reason is?"