The Simple Truth by David Baldacci

comment about his brother had been close to the mark despite her protests. At the very first instant she had seen John Fiske, something had clicked in all the important conduits of her heart, brain and soul that she simply had no way to explain. She did not believe that significant emotions could be aroused to such an intensity that quickly. It just didn’t happen. But that was why she was so confused, because, in a way, that’s exactly what had occurred to her. Every movement John Fiske made, every word he spoke, every time he made eye contact with someone, or simply laughed, smiled or frowned, she felt as though she could watch him forever and never grow tired of it. She almost laughed at the absurdity. But then again, how crazy could it be when it was how she felt?
    And that wasn’t her only observation of the man. Unknown to Michael, she had checked with a friend at the courthouse in Richmond and found out Fiske’s trial schedule for a two-week period. She had been amazed at how often the man was in court. She had gone down once more during the summer when things were slower at the Supreme Court, and watched John Fiske argue at a sentencing hearing. She had worn a scarf and glasses, just in case she was ever introduced to him later on, or in case he had seen her the first time she had come to watch him with Michael.
    She had listened to him argue forcefully for his client. As soon as he had finished, the judge had put the man away for life. His client led away to begin his prison term, Fiske packed his briefcase and left the courtroom. Outside, Sara had watched as Fiske had attempted to comfort the man’s family. The wife was thin and sickly, her face covered with bruises and welts.
    Fiske spoke a few words to the wife, hugged her and then turned to the oldest son, a young man of fourteen who already looked to be a committed slave of the street.
    “You’re the man of the house now, Lucas. You have to look after your family,”
said Fiske.
    Sara studied the teenager. The anger in his face was painful to see. How could someone so young have all that hostility inside him?
    “Uh-huh,”
Lucas said, staring at the wall. He was dressed for gang work, a bandanna covered his head. He wore clothes one could not afford flipping burgers at McDonald’s.
    Fiske knelt down and looked at the other son. Enis was six years old, cute as the devil and usually bubbly.
    “Hey, Enis, how you doing?”
Fiske asked, holding out his hand.
    Enis warily shook Fiske’s hand.
“Where’s my daddy?”
    “He had to go away for a while.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Cause he kill — ”
Lucas started to say before Fiske cut him off with the sharpest of looks. Lucas muttered an expletive, threw off his mother’s shaky hand and stalked away.
    Fiske looked back at Enis.
“Your daddy did something he’s not too proud of. Now he’s going away to make up for it.”
    “Jail?”
Enis asked. Fiske nodded.
    As Sara observed this exchange it occurred to her that today Fiske, and adults in general, probably felt foolish and inadequate in these situations, like sitcom characters from the 1950s trying to deal with a second millennium child. Even at six years old Enis probably knew a great deal about the criminal justice system. In fact, the little boy probably knew far more about the evil parts of life than many adults ever would.
    “When’s he getting out?”
Enis asked.
    Fiske looked up at the wife and then back at the little boy.
“Not for a real long time, Enis. But your mom’s going to be here.”
    “Okay, then,”
Enis said with little emotion. He took his mom’s hand and they left.
    Sara watched as Fiske looked after the pair for a moment. Again, she could almost feel what he was thinking. One son perhaps lost forever, the other casually leaving his father behind, like a stray dog on the street.
    Finally, Fiske had loosened his tie and walked off.
    Sara wasn’t exactly sure why, but she decided to follow him. Fiske kept a slow pace, and