Sophomores

by Sean Desmond

  A couple of minutes after Father Dallanach left, Mr. Taliaferro said quietly: “Well, point taken about the powers of the Blaireric. Mr. O’Donnell has proven it to be a fake. I vote for Proleteria.”

  As Sticky was wheeled out, receiving sympathy high fives along the steps out of the auditorium, the jury of sophomores voted for communist revolution. On his way to Medical City, Chairman O’Donnell had won the Game.

  * * *

  Anne was still picking at her tuna sub with uncertainty when the foreman abruptly decided the lunch break was over and it was time to resume the debate. Dr. Ferris cleared his throat with a gulp of Diet Dr Pepper and addressed his fellow jurors.

  “I can sum up this case in one line: Show me the evidence.”

  Ferris placed his palm on a written reminder of the jury instructions. Caruthers was nodding like a parakeet. Anne had noticed that the two of them had taken their bathroom break together. Definitely in cahoots now.

  “I agree with a lot that Mrs. Malone is saying. This doesn’t look good. Doesn’t sit right.”

  Ferris kept oozing this serene Arnold Palmer sincerity. A couple of the female jurors turned to Anne, who warily gnawed on the heel of her sub.

  “But here’s the deal, folks. Judge Samuels has given us a very specific charge. We have to answer one important question: Is there enough evidence to convict the Reverend Raleigh of this crime?

  “Direct. Physical. Evidence.” Ferris tapped the table with each word. “Let’s for a minute agree with everything Mrs. Malone has put forth. Let’s say Raleigh typed the death-threat letters, let’s say he was having an affair and wanted to kill Mrs. Raleigh. Let’s say he disappeared that night and all the phone calls and notes to librarians were alibis. Fine. Oh, and the suicide note? Just further incrimination.

  “Then all I have to say is . . .” Ferris searched the faces of the other eleven jurors for eye-to-eye connections. “Prove it.”

  Anne loudly balled up the butcher paper and napkins for her sandwich and shot them into the trash. Literal minded, reductive, and certain.

  “Show me the evidence. Show me the blood on his hands,” Caruthers chimed in, a bit too eagerly, and Ferris gave him that friendly fairway wave again.

  “Now, it’s especially troubling that an ordained minister could lie and commit sin like this, and that can bias our judgment, but we are here to render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. And there is no evidence in Reverend Raleigh’s car, in the driveway, the garage, the house, or on his body or on Peggy’s body, that he committed this crime. But . . .”

  What do you want? A signed confession? Oh, wait . . . we have that. Anne had enough. “If I commit a murder and lie about it and then clean up all the evidence and cover up my crime, am I not still guilty of murder? Can a reasonable person not find me culpable?”

  “Yes, but where is the proof?” Ferris smiled like sugar. “That’s conjecture.”

  “Yeah, we don’t know,” Keller said, practically growling at Anne. He had a pig face as he rooted through the last bites of his roast beef.

  What these men don’t know could fill a goddamn airplane hangar. Anne knew they were ganging up on her. The direct evidence is weak. My only shot is motive, opportunity, and the cover-up.

  “Find me one eyewitness who has him in the neighborhood during the window of time Peggy was strangled,” Ferris calmly added. “There is plenty of evidence that Raleigh was a philanderer and a liar, but there’s zero evidence that he’s a killer.”

  Three loud knocks at the door. Sergeant Redman, the Muscle Beach court bailiff, bounded in with pen and paper. Anne glanced up at the clock. Already three thirty p.m. That late lunch killed the afternoon.

  “I need to check everyone’s personal contacts from their jury forms and then I’ll let y’all deliberate for another hour or so. At that time, Judge Sam is going to call you back to the courtroom and end the proceedings for the day and give you instructions about the sequestration.”

  As everyone processed what was to come, Tamara Robbins piped up: “Wait, we’re not going home?”

  “No, you will be sequestered at a hotel over the weekend and until you reach a verdict.”

  Donna Passerine: “But my kids . . .”

  Carla Mirlo: “I have to go back to work . . .”

  Helen Klais: “My mother-in-law has a heart condition and I take care—”

  “I know, folks, but y’all just got to be patient while we make arrangements.” Sergeant Redman got a static call on his radio, which he ignored by reaching on his belt to turn down the volume. “There is, however, a shortage of hotel rooms in downtown Dallas so we may be heading out toward the airport. Not sure, but once I reach everyone on this contact list, I’ll give them instructions for bringing you fresh clothes and toiletries. Any questions?”

  Anne realized this was partly a ploy by Judge Sam. He wants a verdict. The case has gone on long enough. Lord knows Pat and Dan will return to a feral state in one weekend without me. I just have to ride this out for the next vote. Get to nine to three or ten to two, and then the room will tip.

  Sergeant Redman checked off the names on the contact list and moved toward the door.

  “Thank you, folks. Officer Lippett is still posted outside the door. If you reach a decision or need to hear testimony reread, just knock three times. Otherwise expect me around five p.m. to bring you back into court.”

  When the bailiff left the room, Caruthers sighed with annoyance. “This trial has been a huge ordeal for me and my business.”

  “Me too,” Keller added, all the men nodding whether it was true or not for them.

  Yes, all that vital time away from your port-a-john empire in Mesquite.

  “Frankly we need to get this thing done.” Caruthers folded his arms and leaned back.

  The good Dr. Ferris stopped him there. “I think we all feel the same way. So listen, let’s get to our assignment here. The law requires the district attorney to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. You probably know what I think, but let me be clear. I’m not voting for Standing Raleigh as man of the year. And I do have my suspicions, but I sure as heck don’t think we have the evidence to convict.”

  The jurors turned to Anne for rebuttal.

  “He confessed. The suicide note is a confession. We don’t need perfect evidence if—”

  “But he doesn’t admit it.”

  “He says everything without saying it.” Because even in confession, he’s a coward.

  “I so get what you’re after, Mizz Malone.” Ferris was aw-shucksing Anne to death with his Andy Griffith routine. “I agree he has feet of clay.”

  “He’s not some wayward sheep.” I’m being too shrill, too Yankee, too angry . . . , Anne thought, but why does he keep quoting the Bible? Is that code? Why am I doing it now in kind? “His wife is comatose in a hospital. Peggy’s the victim, not him.”

  “Mrs. Malone . . .” Keller tried to corral her.

  “It’s not Peggy’s fault that her husband has demons. It’s not her fault that the Dallas police can’t collect evidence—”

  And there. Anne had let it slip. Keller jumped on it.

  “So you admit there’s not enough evidence.”

  Shit. She had to backtrack. “We know he had the opportunity—”

  Caruthers blurted, “No, ma’am, we’re talking about direct evidence.” He was shaking his head like she wasn’t getting it. Silly, stupid woman. Anne was enraged.

  “Dale is right,” Ferris said. “That’s our charge here. We have to stick with—”

  “The Dallas police just want this to go—” Anne stopped. She could sense the room shifting on her gaffe. They don’t want to hear my theories. They don’t want to think about how awful this is. They want to go home.

  Desperate, Anne tried again. “Think about it. If not him, then who? There’s no one else who could have done this
. They didn’t even try to explain how . . .” But she trailed off when this was met with looks of confusion.

  “We can only judge the case that was made.” Ferris stared Anne down, uncoiling his serpent smile. He had her. “I think we should try voting again.”

  Anne started to cry but tried her hardest not to. Why am I so goddamn alone on this? “What about Peggy? Where’s her justice?”

  * * *

  It was a quarter to five. Ferris tore out twelve pieces of paper. The men wrote their answers to the first charge quickly, folded ballots, and then affirmed each other with side-eye looks. Anne watched down the line. Please. Please just think about it. Tamara Robbins glanced nervously up at the clock. Donna Passerine rubbed the anguish on her forehead. Carla Mirlo scratched out her vote and smiled at Pilar Golondrina, who took some sort of cue from that. Helen Klais folded her piece of paper more times than necessary, as if to diminish her decision. And Mary Crane tented her long, pale fingers over her ballot to pray.

  I’ve lost them all. Anne dabbed the tears from her eyes with her sleeve. Ferris is right about the evidence and the charge. How can I be so sure? She wrote down her vote and glanced around the room one last time. The women on the jury would not look at her or at each other. Because there’s no killer on the loose. They caught the right guy. He did it. He admitted it. This is fucking insane.

  Ferris gathered the votes in his white Ping golf cap. He then read out each slip as Caruthers tabulated.

  But he didn’t need to bother. The vote came back eleven not guilty with one holdout.

  All the impatient eyes in the room turned now to Anne.

  [ MAY 22 ]

  Pat drove down a broiling Forest Lane, returning alone from early-morning Mass. The index was going to top out at 98 degrees, WBAP reported. A Pentecost heat wave, too soon for summer, even by Texas standards. The cars around him lurched impatiently, heading west, away from the sun. Despite blasting the Cougar’s air-conditioning, the air in the car was barely tolerable, the freon cooling his clutched hands on the steering wheel but little else. The car hadn’t run right since he had it towed out of that ditch by the river. Shockingly, the fucked-up details of that incident had fallen below his wife’s radar. Thank you, AAA, for your utmost discretion for idiots like me. The heat pummeled Pat’s hangover, and he turned off the torment of the A/C as he felt the sweat pool on the small of his back against the fake leather seats. He rolled down the window in hopes for a breeze, but the air was furnaced by the concrete kiln of the six-lane road. Ridiculous, it’s not even nine in the morning. As he signaled onto Cox, he could see far to the west an anvil of purple-gray thunderclouds.

  Maybe this heat will break. Hopefully before I do.

  Pat parked at the top of the driveway, Anne having disappeared in her silver Zephyr to go shopping. Pat peeled himself out of the sweltering Cougar and came into the house. Still no relief. Worried about the air-conditioning bill topping $100 for the month, Anne had adjusted the thermostat a few degrees up past comfort, relying more on weak oscillating fans that creaked back and forth. In the kitchen Pat put on the kettle. Finding the remnants of a bowl of corn flakes in the sink, he hobbled down the hallway and listened at Dan’s door. The muffled twanglings of the Beatles came through, and Pat turned to the hall closet and pulled out the electric typewriter, which he set up on a TV tray in the den. The kettle screamed, and he made his instant Folgers. He then sat in the dark den on one of the burnt-orange chairs they had brought down from the Bronx and tried to ignore the thrum of the Smith Corona. This coffee is not going to cut through. The plan was to redo his résumé for another round of job listings, and he rolled a blank page under the wheel and popped the carriage down. He typed his name and his address, skipped his date of birth for now, and moved down the line to his education, his career, his life.

  I worked for American Airlines for twenty-seven years. What else was there to say, really? Less is more, let the service speak for itself. He adjusted the fan to oscillate more in his direction. Christ, this heat. Like a hammer to my temples and self-defeat its tongs. Where am I even going to send this? None of the airlines are hiring, everyone in the same holding pattern. Pat typed out the lines for his education. BS, MS, and JD from Fordham. I have no contacts or network in Dallas; none of these yahoos down here know or trust Notre Dame, let alone fucking Fordham.

  A gust of wind rattled the patio door, and Pat groaned at his first typo: “maintaince” of the Sabre system. Twenty-seven years—and what expertise did he offer that they didn’t have with a computer or someone half his age and salary? Fuck Bob Crandall, fuck deregulation and the greedy unions, and fuck the fare wars and this fucked-up mediocre industry. Why move the whole goddamn operation to Dallas just to cut everyone loose? My loyalty and service are worth less than the piece of paper I’m typing on. The air-conditioning whirred on. Fleeing the burned-out, shithole Bronx was a mistake. He stretched out his left leg, which had fallen asleep. Pat put his head in his hands and stared down at the beige-brown carpet, which was pilled and stained and worn. Dallas, the Bronx—pick your season in hell.

  The front door to the house screeched open and then slammed shut. Dan’s in a mood. Aren’t we all? The boy can’t stand to be in the same room with me. After a few minutes, Pat realized he was alone in the house and what that meant. He stood up and pulled his bum left leg along to the pantry. The weather was changing, and as he walked past the screen door to the patio, a mockingbird swooped from the holly bushes into the screen, crashing with a loud thwack. Pat watched it recover. Drunk off the rotting berries. Jesus. The bird flew off, and Pat stared across the yard in complete despair. Through the blur of heat in the alley, a black car fished past the Peñas’ driveway. There sat this year’s El Dorado, and behind that new ten-foot fence, an in-ground pool. Reshingled roof and new siding last year. And Abe is a fucking janitor at Kimberly-Clark! Pat shook his head. Christ, it was easier when I was poor and knew no better—to have nothing was its own bliss.

  Pat noticed the dark line of thunderclouds had crept farther east. The mockingbird returned to its nest in the holly. Fuck it. Pat lurched toward the pantry. There was the bottle of Wolfschmidt that Anne was blacklining, and then there was the bottle Pat had hidden behind the vinegar. He took two long pulls straight from that bottle in the back, his throat burning. Pat gagged, and it strangely reminded him of his own father. He’ll be here before the bad stuff passes through. Pat felt the anger welling up and took another swig. He was about to start sobbing, as the burn in his throat now scorched his stomach, when a sharp pain ripped through his gut. Fucking MS. He doubled over and staggered back into the den, practically crawling toward a burnt-orange chair to lie down on. The bottle of vodka dropped at his feet. The stabbing pain in his side subsided through shallow breaths, and Pat closed his eyes. He’ll be here. Get out of the storm, Jack. And Pat bolted up from the burnt-orange chair, sheathed in sweat. The phone was ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Pat?”

  It was Joe Halliday, the COO of Eastern Airlines.

  “Colonel Borman is still stuck on a call with the board. Emergency meeting. Bryan and the IAM again. They are in a marathon session, but he passed me a note to call you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Colonel Borman would like to offer you the position of director of employee benefits.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pat, are you all right there?”

  “Yes, sorry. Bad connection.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I did.”

  Halliday then offered him a salary of $85,000 a year.

  “That’s great. Thank you.”

  “Let me be the first to congratulate you and offer my sincere hope that you accept. We sure could use your help and expertise.”

  “Thank you so much. I might need—”

  “No pressure. Take a day or two. Discuss with your family. Tomorrow Miss Blai
ne will call you. Debbie is our executive HR manager, and she can answer any questions you have about the compensation, the stock options, and the transfer.”

  “Transfer?”

  “To South Florida, to Miami.”

  Pat looked up at the ceiling of his mortgaged Dallas house.

  “Of course. That would be great.”

  “Congratulations, and not to speak prematurely, but welcome aboard.”

  They hung up, and Pat ran to the kitchen sink and vomited.

  Pat’s breathing now felt labored, and the pain in his side came back. Just standing there felt impossible. Thank you, God. I get it. I’m done. I’m quitting. Thank you. He had a thousand half thoughts but couldn’t hold on to one. Just need one or two more to settle everything down. He then heard a tapping at the screen door. He thought it was the mockingbird, but then the tapping grew more frequent, and Pat raised his head from the kitchen sink to look outside. Hail the size of quarters pelted the patio. The wind sheared through the trees, and a draft moaned across the attic and the ceiling vents.

  Jesus.

  The front door flew open and then slammed shut.

  “Dan? Pat?”

  Pat stepped into the hallway. Anne was drenched and clutching her purse with her fist.

  “I was at Tom Thumb and they came on the speakers and said Dallas County was under a tornado watch.”

  Pat staggered around the kitchen to find the radio.