technically true because he bought it, the title is in his name, but both mothers know that you drive it, too.
Your mother looks at you, a long, hard glare, but she doesn’t ask the question. So you don’t answer. You don’t know what you’re going to say.
A cop walks out, an athletically built guy in a dress shirt and badge. He takes one look at you and he says your name. Jason Kolarich?
Your legs go weak. Your mother takes hold of your arm. I’m Jason’s mother , she says, defensively.
The cop waves his hand in a dismissive manner. It’s not like that , he says. We just want to talk to him. Sammy wants to talk to him.
It’s okay, Mom , you hear yourself say. And then you are following this man through a door, and then down a hall. He doesn’t speak to you. You’re not sure you’ll be able to find your voice again.
Class of ’78 , he says to you. You don’t catch his meaning. You don’t say anything.
He stops at a door with frosted glass bearing the number 2. When the door opens, you see Coach Fox standing in the room, his back to you. He turns around and stares at you.
What the fuck are you doing, Kolarich? he asks you. Sit the fuck down.
You sit. Coach Fox points to the cop and tells you, Detective Brady here, he was an outside linebacker when we went to sectionals in ’78 . He worked his ass off , he tells you, went to college afterward and became a cop .
I didn’t have the talent you have , the cop says to you. So why the hell are you gonna squander it? Getting messed up with this kid Cutler?
Sammy. It comes back to Sammy. He’s my best friend , you tell the room. This is my fault, too.
They don’t like it. Coach Fox spits out a curse. This year was nothing , he says to you. We’re winning state next year, Kolarich, if you don’t fuck it up for us.
You hear yourself again, saying the words: It was me and Sammy together. It was both of us , you tell them.
Coach Fox goes quiet. He turns away, as if he can pretend he didn’t hear it. The cop, Brady, leans in so he’s close to your face.
That’s not how Sammy tells it , he says.
I LEFT the coffee shop not particularly pleased with myself but happy to have at least one fairly solid witness for Sammy. Tommy Butcher didn’t have the first damn memory of what the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene had been wearing and I’d handed it to him. I was sure, at this point, between his racial leanings and his sense of rough justice, that Butcher would testify very clearly that the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene was, beyond any doubt, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and green stocking cap.
You owe me, Koke . Maybe that truth allowed me so easily to suggest a memory to Butcher. As a prosecutor, I was obsessive about ethics to the point of a rebuke, on more than one occasion, from my division chief. One of my apprehensions upon joining the defense bar was a fear that the standard was diminished on the other side of the aisle—most prosecutors viewed most defense attorneys as corner-cutters, cheaters, sometimes downright liars. I’d been grateful to learn otherwise, under the tutelage of Paul Riley. Paul had been steadfast on the Almundo case, when the senator had suggested how certain witnesses might be cooperative. That’s not how it works, Hector , Paul had told him. At least not with me . And not with me, either.
Maybe it was Talia’s and Emily’s deaths that gave me a more universal perspective, allowing the ends to more liberally justify the means. Either way, I owed Sammy, like he said. But that conversation with Tommy Butcher would stay with me awhile.
I checked my cell phone and found that I had a message. I played it while I drove.
This is Detective Vic Carruthers. I’m sending over copies of the files like you asked. And I wanted you to know, we’re going to do the dig. And if I find that little girl’s bones on the side of that hill, I’m going to rip Perlini out of his grave and beat the ever lovin’ shit out of him.
Good.
Your mother looks at you, a long, hard glare, but she doesn’t ask the question. So you don’t answer. You don’t know what you’re going to say.
A cop walks out, an athletically built guy in a dress shirt and badge. He takes one look at you and he says your name. Jason Kolarich?
Your legs go weak. Your mother takes hold of your arm. I’m Jason’s mother , she says, defensively.
The cop waves his hand in a dismissive manner. It’s not like that , he says. We just want to talk to him. Sammy wants to talk to him.
It’s okay, Mom , you hear yourself say. And then you are following this man through a door, and then down a hall. He doesn’t speak to you. You’re not sure you’ll be able to find your voice again.
Class of ’78 , he says to you. You don’t catch his meaning. You don’t say anything.
He stops at a door with frosted glass bearing the number 2. When the door opens, you see Coach Fox standing in the room, his back to you. He turns around and stares at you.
What the fuck are you doing, Kolarich? he asks you. Sit the fuck down.
You sit. Coach Fox points to the cop and tells you, Detective Brady here, he was an outside linebacker when we went to sectionals in ’78 . He worked his ass off , he tells you, went to college afterward and became a cop .
I didn’t have the talent you have , the cop says to you. So why the hell are you gonna squander it? Getting messed up with this kid Cutler?
Sammy. It comes back to Sammy. He’s my best friend , you tell the room. This is my fault, too.
They don’t like it. Coach Fox spits out a curse. This year was nothing , he says to you. We’re winning state next year, Kolarich, if you don’t fuck it up for us.
You hear yourself again, saying the words: It was me and Sammy together. It was both of us , you tell them.
Coach Fox goes quiet. He turns away, as if he can pretend he didn’t hear it. The cop, Brady, leans in so he’s close to your face.
That’s not how Sammy tells it , he says.
I LEFT the coffee shop not particularly pleased with myself but happy to have at least one fairly solid witness for Sammy. Tommy Butcher didn’t have the first damn memory of what the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene had been wearing and I’d handed it to him. I was sure, at this point, between his racial leanings and his sense of rough justice, that Butcher would testify very clearly that the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene was, beyond any doubt, wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and green stocking cap.
You owe me, Koke . Maybe that truth allowed me so easily to suggest a memory to Butcher. As a prosecutor, I was obsessive about ethics to the point of a rebuke, on more than one occasion, from my division chief. One of my apprehensions upon joining the defense bar was a fear that the standard was diminished on the other side of the aisle—most prosecutors viewed most defense attorneys as corner-cutters, cheaters, sometimes downright liars. I’d been grateful to learn otherwise, under the tutelage of Paul Riley. Paul had been steadfast on the Almundo case, when the senator had suggested how certain witnesses might be cooperative. That’s not how it works, Hector , Paul had told him. At least not with me . And not with me, either.
Maybe it was Talia’s and Emily’s deaths that gave me a more universal perspective, allowing the ends to more liberally justify the means. Either way, I owed Sammy, like he said. But that conversation with Tommy Butcher would stay with me awhile.
I checked my cell phone and found that I had a message. I played it while I drove.
This is Detective Vic Carruthers. I’m sending over copies of the files like you asked. And I wanted you to know, we’re going to do the dig. And if I find that little girl’s bones on the side of that hill, I’m going to rip Perlini out of his grave and beat the ever lovin’ shit out of him.
Good.
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