Sleepers

  “Yes,” Michael said with a smile. “Any enemies other than the two who killed him?”

  “No,” Ralph Ferguson said. “Sean Nokes had no enemies.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ferguson,” Michael said, turning his back to the stand. “I have no further questions, your honor.”

  “Mr. O’Connor,” Judge Weisman said. “He’s your witness.”

  “Can you tell us how you and Sean Nokes first met, Mr. Ferguson?” O’Connor asked, sitting in his chair, elbows on the defense table.

  “We worked on a job together upstate,” Ferguson said.

  “As what?”

  “We were guards at the Wilkinson Home for Boys,” Ferguson said.

  “What is that?” O’Connor asked. “A prison?”

  “No,” Ferguson said. “It’s a juvenile facility for young boys.”

  “Young boys who have broken the law,” O’Connor said. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Ferguson said.

  “And your function was what?”

  “Standard stuff,” Ferguson said. “Keep the boys in line, see they got to their classes on time, keep an eye out for trouble, put them down for the night. Nothing exciting.”

  “As guards, were you and Mr. Nokes allowed to use force to, as you say, keep the boys in line?” O’Connor asked, pushing his chair back and standing by the side of his desk.

  “What do you mean, force?” Ferguson asked, looking over at Michael.

  “I mean, were you allowed to hit them?”

  “No, of course not,” Ferguson said.

  “Were any of the boys hit by any of the guards?” O’Connor asked, walking around his desk, arms folded at his chest. “At any time?”

  “I’m sure something like that may have happened,” Ferguson said, sweat starting to form around his neck. “It was a big place. But it wasn’t a common practice.”

  “Let’s narrow the place down, then,” O’Connor said. “Did you or Mr. Nokes ever hit any of the boys under your care at the Wilkinson Home?”

  Both Judge Weisman and Ferguson stared at Michael, waiting for the obvious objection to the question.

  Michael sat at his desk and kept his eyes on Ferguson, not moving.

  John and Tommy turned and gave Michael a quick glance, one filled with curiosity and confusion.

  “Would you like me to repeat the question, Mr. Ferguson?” O’Connor asked, walking toward the witness stand.

  “No,” Ferguson said.

  “Then answer it,” O’Connor said. “And remember, you’re under oath.”

  “Yes,” Ferguson said. “A few of the boys we considered to be discipline problems were hit. On occasion.”

  “And these discipline problems, how were they hit?” O’Connor asked.

  “What do you mean, how?” Ferguson asked.

  “Fist, open hand, a kick,” O’Connor said. “A baton, maybe. What was the best way, Mr. Ferguson, to calm a discipline problem?”

  “It depended on what the situation called for,” Ferguson said.

  “And who determined that?”

  “The guard on the scene,” Ferguson said.

  “So you and Sean Nokes would decide in what way a discipline problem would be dealt with,” O’Connor said. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson said. “That’s correct.”

  “That’s a lot of power to have over a boy,” O’Connor said. “Isn’t it?”

  “It came with the job,” Ferguson said.

  “Did torture come with the job?” O’Connor asked.

  “No, it did not,” Ferguson said.

  “But boys were tortured, weren’t they?” O’Connor said, his face turning a shade of red. “Weren’t they, Mr. Ferguson?”

  The spectators all leaned forward, waiting for Ferguson’s answer. Judge Weisman poured himself a glass of water and rolled his chair back, his angry eyes focused on Michael.

  “On occasion,” Ferguson said, looking as if he were about to faint.

  “Who tortured them?” O’Connor asked.

  “The guards,” Ferguson said.

  “Which guards?” O’Connor asked.

  “I can’t remember all of them,” Ferguson said.

  “Remember one,” O’Connor said.

  Ferguson wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He looked over at Michael, who sat in his chair, hands folded before him. He looked at John and Tommy, who stared back impassively. He put his head back and took a deep breath.

  “Sean Nokes,” Ferguson said.

  O’Connor waited for the courtroom murmurs to quiet. He watched as Judge Weisman lifted his gavel and then placed it back down, as troubled as everyone else by the testimony he was hearing.

  I looked over at Carol and saw tears streaming down her face. I put my arm around her and moved her closer.

  “Let me ask you, Mr. Ferguson,” O’Connor said, standing next to him, one hand in his pocket. “Was there any sexual abuse at the Wilkinson Home for Boys?”

  “Counselor,” Judge Weisman said to O’Connor. “This line of questioning better lead someplace having to do with this case.”

  “It will, your honor,” O’Connor said, keeping his eyes on Ferguson.

  “For your sake,” Judge Weisman said.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Ferguson,” O’Connor said. “Was there any sexual abuse at the Wilkinson Home for Boys?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson said. “I heard that there was.”

  “I’m not asking if you heard,” O’Connor said. “I’m asking if you saw.”

  “Yes, I saw,” Ferguson said in a low voice.

  “Did you and Sean Nokes ever force yourselves on any of the boys?” O’Connor asked, taking two steps back, his voice hitting full range. “Did you and Sean Nokes rape any of the boys at the Wilkinson Home? And again, I remind you that you are under oath.”

  The courtroom held the silence of the moment, no moving, no coughing, no crumpling of paper. All eyes were on the witness stand. The twelve heads of the jury were turned at an angle. John and Tommy sat at attention. Carol gripped my hand as Michael looked above the bench at the painting of blind justice gripping her sword.

  “Counselors,” Judge Weisman said, breaking the silence. “Approach the bench. Now.”

  Michael and O’Connor moved to the sidebar, on the end farthest from the witness stand.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Judge Weisman asked Michael, temper flashing above his calm demeanor.

  “Well, your honor,” Michael said, glancing over at Ferguson. “It looks like I called the wrong character witness.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” Judge Weisman asked.

  “Nothing, your honor,” Michael said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Or maybe, counselor,” Judge Weisman said, “you’ve already done enough.”

  The lawyers returned to their positions.

  “Please answer the question, Mr. Ferguson,” Judge Weisman ordered.

  “Yes,” Ferguson said in a choked voice, tears lining his face.

  “Yes what?” O’Connor asked.

  “Yes, boys were raped,” Ferguson said.

  “By you and Sean Nokes?” O’Connor said.

  “Not just by us,” Ferguson said.

  “By you and Sean Nokes?” O’Connor said, repeating the question, raising his voice even louder.

  “Yes,” Ferguson said.

  “On more than one occasion?” O’Connor asked.

  “Yes,” Ferguson said.

  “With more than one boy?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson said.

  “Now, do you still think Sean Nokes was a good man, Mr. Ferguson?” O’Connor asked.

  “He was my friend,” Ferguson said.

  “A friend who raped and abused boys he was paid to watch over,” O’Connor said. “Boys who could maybe grow up and become an enemy of such a good man.”

  “Are you finished?” Ferguson asked, his eyes red, his hands shaking.

&nbsp
; “Not just yet,” O’Connor said.

  “I want it to be over,” Ferguson said, wiping his eyes and looking at the judge. “Please, your honor, I want it to be over.”

  “Mr. O’Connor?” the judge asked.

  “This won’t take long, your honor,” O’Connor said.

  “Proceed,” Judge Weisman said.

  “Sean Nokes spent a lot of time at your home, is that right?” O’Connor asked.

  “Yes,” Ferguson said.

  “As much as a week at a time, is that also correct?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson said.

  “And you have a child, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Ferguson said. “A daughter.”

  “In all the time your good friend Sean Nokes spent in your home, all the days, all the hours, did either you or your wife ever allow him to be alone with your daughter?” O’Connor asked. “At any time? For any reason?”

  Ferguson stared at O’Connor, his fear evident, his body leaning toward the judge’s bench for support.

  “No,” he finally said. “No, we never did.”

  “Why was that, Mr. Ferguson?” O’Connor asked. “If he was such a good man.”

  “Objection, your honor,” Michael said for the first time, looking at Ferguson. “Question doesn’t call for an answer.”

  “Counselor’s right, your honor,” O’Connor said. “I withdraw the question.”

  “Witness is excused,” Judge Weisman said.

  “Thank you, your honor,” Ferguson said, stepping down from the stand.

  “Mr. Ferguson, if I were you, I wouldn’t stray too far from home,” Judge Weisman said. “People will need to talk to you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Ferguson said meekly, his eyes darting from John to Tommy and then to Michael, slowly, finally recoiling in recognition. “I understand.”

  Michael waited until Ferguson walked out of the courtroom and then stood up.

  “The prosecution rests its case, your honor,” he said. “We have no further witnesses.”

  “Thank God for that,” Judge Weisman said.

  16

  FAT MANCHO BOUNCED a spauldeen against the ground, his eyes fixed on the brick wall in front of him. He was wearing a long-sleeve wool shirt, a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, scruffy blue jeans, and hightop PF Flyers.

  I stood five feet to his left, wearing a leather jacket, two black wool gloves, and a pull cap. My jeans felt stiff in the windy cold and my sneakers and thin white socks weren’t enough to prevent the late Sunday afternoon chill from seeping through.

  Carol stood with her back to the chain-link fence separating the open lot from the sidewalk. She was on her third cup of coffee and had two thick winter scarves wrapped around her neck.

  “Most people play handball in the summer,” I said to Fat Mancho, rubbing my hands together. “It’s easier to see the ball without tears in your eyes.”

  “I give a fuck about most people,” Fat Mancho said.

  “What do you have planned for after the game,” I asked. “A swim?”

  “Your balls all twisted up ’cause you gonna lose the game,” Fat Mancho said. “And you one of them fuckers that can’t live with losin’.”

  “Freezing, Fat Man,” I said. “I’m one of those fuckers who can’t live with freezing.”

  Fat Mancho slapped the ball against the wall, a hard shot, aimed low, with a heavy spin to it. I took three steps back and returned the hit. Fat Mancho was ready for the return, crouched down, hands on his knees, not wearing gloves, his eyes on the ball, looking like an overweight third baseman who forgot his Old-Timer’s Day uniform.

  His right hand whipped at the ball, sending it higher than the serve, faster, forcing me to move back, the soles of my sneakers slipping on a thin slab of ice. I watched as the ball bounced over my head.

  “That’s six for me, loser,” Fat Mancho said. “Two for you.”

  “You never play this game,” I said, my breath coming heavy. “How can you be good?”

  “You never seen me play, fool,” Fat Mancho said. “I was your age, I was all-spic. Played the best. Beat the best.”

  I looked over his shoulder and saw Carol walking toward us, a cup of coffee in one hand and a cold beer in the other.

  “Good news,” I said. “It’s halftime.”

  We sat against the handball wall, sitting on top of three copies of the Sunday Daily News, Carol and I sharing the coffee, Fat Mancho slurping gulps of Rheingold.

  “How’s Irish holdin’ up?” Fat Mancho asked about Michael.

  “I only know what I see in court,” I said. “That end seems good. His side of the table’s finished.”

  “He did good,” Fat Mancho said. “I seen lawyers weren’t tossin’ the case look more fucked up. You didn’t know, you won’t know. That kid’s colder than a hit man.”

  “John and Tommy are starting to smell something,” I said. “They just don’t know what.”

  “A spic be livin’ in the White House time it reaches their fuckin’ brain,” Fat Mancho said.

  “O’Connor’s come through big,” Carol said. “He looks like F. Lee Bailey’s twin brother out there.”

  “He was a good one,” Fat Mancho said. “Then he lost a few and he found the bottle. Been chasin’ nothin’ but skid cases since.”

  “He sobered up for this,” I said. “He’s got a shot at a win. Even without a witness.”

  “He’s a drunk, but he ain’t a fool,” Fat Mancho said, putting the can of beer on the ground next to him. “He wins this, every killer both sides of the river have his card in their pocket.”

  “Is that true?” Carol asked, lifting one of the scarves up to where it covered everything but her eyes.

  “Is what true?” I said.

  “Can we win the case without a witness?”

  “You already won,” Fat Mancho said. “You got the taste. Now you’re just lookin’ to get away with it.”

  “They’ve got to walk, Fat Man,” I said. “We win only when John and Tommy walk.”

  “Then you gotta get ’em outta the shootin’ hole,” Fat Mancho said. “Put ’em someplace else. Only your witness does that. And he’s doin’ a Claude Rains so far. Nobody’s seen the fucker.”

  “What if he doesn’t show?” Carol said. “What if we go in the way we are?”

  “You got street justice,” Fat Mancho said. “That’s the real. You come up with empty hands on court justice, that’s the bullshit.”

  “They both take your life away, Fat Man,” I said. “The street just does it faster.”

  “Street’s only one matters,” Fat Mancho said. “Court’s for uptown, people with suits, money, lawyers with three names. You got cash, you can buy court justice. On the street, justice got no price. She’s blind where the judge sits. But she ain’t blind out here. Out here, the bitch got eyes.”

  “We need both,” I said.

  “Then you need a witness,” Fat Mancho said, standing up, taking the pink rubber ball out of his pants pocket. “And I need to finish beatin’ your ass. Let’s go, loser. You down to me by four.”

  “Can we finish this later?” I asked, too numb from the cold to stand.

  “When later?” Fat Mancho asked, looking down at me.

  “The middle of July,” I said.

  17

  DANNY O’CONNOR PIECED together a credible defense for the jury to ponder during the course of his first three days on the attack. He called to the stand a limited range of John’s and Tommy’s friends and family, most of them middle-aged to elderly men and women with sweet eyes and trusting faces. All of them testifying that while both boys were sometimes wild, they were not killers.

  None of them had ever seen John Reilly or Tommy Marcano hold a gun.

  The two waitresses on duty the night of the shooting testified that they knew both defendants and found them to be pleasant whenever they entered the pub. Neither remembered seeing John Reilly or Tommy Marcano the night Sean Nokes was killed. The women
said they were in the kitchen at the time of the shooting and did not come out until the police arrived.

  “Were the two shooters in the pub when the police got there?” O’Connor asked one of the waitresses.

  “No,” she said. “I guess they already left.”

  “Why do you guess that?”

  “Killers don’t wait for cops,” she said. “In the neighborhood, nobody waits for cops.”

  “You’re from the neighborhood,” O’Connor said. “And you waited.”

  “I was getting paid to wait,” she said.

  Jerry the bartender testified he served the defendants two drinks and two beers on the afternoon of Nokes’s death. They sat quietly and were gone in less than an hour. They paid the tab and tip with a twenty left on the bar. He was in the back picking up his dinner when the shooting occurred and therefore did not see anyone pump shots into Sean Nokes. Jerry also phoned the police as soon as the gunfire died down.

  Through it all, Michael kept his cross-examinations simple, never venturing beyond where the witnesses wanted to go, never calling into dispute any parts of their accounts. He was always polite, cordial, and relaxed, easily buying into the professed innocence of those called to the stand.

  O’Connor’s intent was to continue to mine the doubts planted in the jury’s mind, doubts that had first taken root with the testimony of the prosecutor’s key eyewitness, Helen Salinas.

  To that end, Dr. George Paltrone, a Bronx general practitioner who also ran a detox clinic, was called to the stand as an expert witness. In Dr. Paltrone’s opinion, if Mrs. Salinas drank as much alcohol as she claimed in the amount of time that she stated, her testimony had to be deemed less than credible.

  “Are you saying Mrs. Salinas was drunk?” O’Connor asked Dr. Paltrone.

  “Not quite drunk,” Dr. Paltrone said. “But she had more than enough drink in her to impair judgment.”

  “Wouldn’t witnessing a shooting sober her up?”

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Paltrone said. “The fear she felt may have made a rational judgment even more difficult.”

  “In other words, doctor, drink and fear don’t always lead to truth?”

  “That’s right,” Dr. Paltrone said. “More often than not they don’t.”

  I sat through the three days of O’Connor’s defense in my usual third-row seat, barely listening, unable to focus on the action before me. My mind was on Father Bobby and what he had decided to do. I knew without him that our best chance was a hung jury, which meant nothing more than another trial and an almost certain conviction.