Sins of Our Fathers

by A. Rose Mathieu

  “You got the goods?” her father asked, interrupting Grace’s thoughts.

  She opened her coat, pulled out a grease-stained brown paper bag, and held it out. He eagerly grabbed it and peered inside, inhaling deeply. “Now this is worth living for.” He pulled out a chili-covered French fry and savored it. “Did those old biddies see you?”

  She knew he was referring to the trio of gossipers. “No, our smuggling operation is still in business.”

  Grace pulled up a chair next to her father, reached into the bag, and snatched a fry. “So, who’s winning?”

  Chapter Three

  “Where are you going?” Dan asked as Elizabeth strode toward the reception area with her leather messenger bag perched on her shoulder.

  “Road trip. I’m heading upstate to the penitentiary.”

  “I suppose it was only a matter of time before you ended up there.”

  She smiled, more for Dan’s attempt at humor than the joke itself.

  “So what’s at the penitentiary?” he asked.

  “I’m going to visit Raymond Miller.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s one of the cases you gave me as part of our PR for the mayor.”

  “A few days ago, you were protesting this. Now you’re going on a two-hour drive? What gives?”

  “Something doesn’t quite fit, and I just need to check it out for my own peace of mind. Humor me.”

  He released a sigh like a man carrying a burden and couldn’t be bothered with another. “Just don’t forget that the motion is due in the Sheryl Davies case. The hearing is in less than two weeks.”

  “No worries. I have it covered.”

  “I hope so,” Dan muttered as he walked away.

  As Elizabeth settled into the Roadster and melted into the black and tan leather trim seats, she pushed the ignition and brought the beast to life. She navigated the congestion of the city with ease, earning a few fingers of disapproval as she maneuvered between cars. As the city faded into a two-lane highway, she keyed up a 70s mix from her MP3 player and sang at full volume.

  An hour and a half and a close call with a speeding ticket later, she parked in the “employees only” lot of the penitentiary, snuggling her car in between two police cars for safekeeping. Elizabeth entered the small lobby area and signed in, passing over her identification and bar card, for which she was awarded a plastic visitor’s badge that she clipped to the lapel of her red suit jacket. After being successfully scanned and prodded by security, she was escorted through a corridor to a heavy metal door. As the door ground open, she looked back to the world she would be leaving.

  She followed her escort, who was armed with clubs and other nearly lethal devices on his belt, and rounded several corners before being led to the belly of the building. The echo of her clicking heels on the concrete ground filled the small space. She stared straight ahead to avoid watching the gray concrete brick walls pass, as they only reminded her that there were no windows or doors to the outside. The fluorescent lighting did nothing to dispel the sense of bleakness and desperation that blanketed the inside of the institution. The officer stopped at a steel door with a small viewing window made of thick glass and pulled a large key from a ring attached to his belt. She heard the click of the lock before the door was pulled open.

  “Have a seat. The inmate will be here shortly.” Those were the first words the officer spoke to her since they started their journey, and with that, the officer turned and closed the door. She sat in a green plastic chair behind a small round table that rocked when she rested her elbows on it and looked around, taking in the decor of the room, or lack thereof. The windowless room wasn’t any larger than a prison cell and displayed the same concrete brick walls. A sign painted in red on the wall next to the door reminded the inmates that no contact was allowed; there was also a black button that was strategically placed by the door to alert the officer when she was ready to make her exit.

  She sat back in the chair and took several shallow breaths to squash a bit of panic that was rising within her. She had never considered herself to be claustrophobic, but a mixture of the closed space combined with the despair that oozed from the pores of the structure unsettled her deeply.

  As the officer promised, she heard the click of the lock, and the door was pulled open. The officer stood behind a man dressed in a matching orange pullover shirt and drawstring pants. Black lettering announcing the institution’s name was printed on the pocket of the shirt, as if the owner would forget where he should return the clothes should he get the chance.

  “Turn to me,” the officer said. Raymond Miller complied, and the officer unshackled his wrists. He nudged Raymond toward a matching green chair across from Elizabeth. “Sit down.” The officer kept his hand on Raymond’s shoulder until he was fully seated. As the officer exited, he pointed to the black button. “Ring the bell if you need me,” he said, and once again, she heard the click of the lock as she was being sealed in.

  Raymond sat with his head bowed, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been removed, and Elizabeth briefly studied him. He had scruffy brown hair that stuck out in multiple directions. The back of his hair was long enough to touch the collar of his shirt, and his face, covered in stubble, was round with a small nose and red cheeks.

  She broke the silence. “I’m Elizabeth Campbell. I’m an attorney. I was hoping I could talk to you about a few things. Is that okay?” She slowly slid a business card across the table.

  Raymond followed her hand as it moved closer to him, and when she pulled her hand back, he picked up the card and stared at it with interest. It was then that she noticed the bruising on the left side of his face near his temple and under his eye. “What happened to your face, Raymond?” He shrugged and looked around the room. “Did someone hurt you?”

  He settled his eyes on her. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a big fall.”

  “Did you fall down? Did someone push you?” she persisted, feeling a sense of protectiveness that she didn’t understand. The man was a convicted killer.

  He resumed staring at the wall behind her, and she recognized that he was ending the conversation on his bruises. “All right, Raymond, as I said, I’m an attorney, and I work with the Southern Indigent Legal Center. I’ve been asked to review your case. Is it okay if we talk about it a bit?”

  She removed the photographs from the file and placed the picture of the rosary beads in front of him. “Raymond, do you recognize this?” He gave a nod. “Where did you get it?” He remained silent. “Raymond, where did you get it?” she repeated.

  She then placed the photos taken of Raymond’s shed in front of him. He focused on the picture of the Bible and placed his hand on top of it, as though he were ready to swear an oath. “Raymond, where did you get these things?” she asked, gesturing to the rosary beads and Bible. He stared at her. “Raymond, answer me. Where did you get these things? Did you find them somewhere, in the trash maybe?”

  He shook his head. “They were a gift from God,” he said without taking his eyes off the Bible.

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  He looked her in the eyes. “God led them to me. It’s what God wanted. Pappy is happy.”

  “What does God want, Raymond? Tell me.”

  “He said he was a sinner.”

  “Who is a sinner?”

  “Him.” Raymond pointed to the rest of photographs that Elizabeth held back that depicted the body of Father Francis Portillo.

  “Did you kill him, Raymond?”

  “He said he was supposed to die. He said I could have an eternal life in His kingdom.” His eyes glassed over, as though he were reliving the conversation in his head.

  “Raymond, why this carving on his body?” She removed the sketch of the circle with the three triangles inside and placed it halfway between them.

  Raymond reached for the sketch and began turning the paper in circles. He quickened his pace, and the circle appeared as though it we
re spinning. Elizabeth stared at it and, feeling dizzy, slapped her hand on the paper to stop its movement. “Enough, Raymond.”

  He withdrew and sat back in his chair. His fun had been ruined.

  After a long silence, she repeated her question pointing to the circle. “Raymond, what is this?”

  Instead of answering, he reached over and grabbed Elizabeth’s pen resting on the table and looked at her to see if she would protest, but she nodded in approval. He flipped over the business card that she had given him and started drawing. Elizabeth waited patiently, and when he finished, he held up his creation for display. She took the card for a better view, but it was nothing more than a rendition of the circle with three triangles. “I see, Raymond, but what is it?”

  “I gave you a falling star of your own.” He looked at her, his eyes full of hope, waiting for praise for the gift.

  Elizabeth jammed the card into an outside pocket of her leather bag, and Raymond sank back into his chair, bowed his head, and resumed rubbing his wrists. “I want to go home now.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Home? Where’s that?”

  “Where I sleep.”

  “Raymond, can we talk about your drawings on your wall? The ones that you drew with the crayons. Do you remember those?” She pointed to the pictures from the shed.

  He refused to look up and acknowledge her.

  “Raymond, can you answer me?” The silence continued. “Raymond, will you talk to me?”

  After several unresponsive requests, Elizabeth realized that he had shut down, so she gathered her documents and shoved them into the file. “Thank you for seeing me today, Raymond.” And with that, she rose and pushed the black button.

  Chapter Four

  Mayor Anton Reynosa bent down to accept the crafted picture with sparkles and extra glue. “Thank you. What is it?”

  “It’s a picture of the city. See the buildings? I put pink glitter to make it sparkle.” The girl beamed proudly.

  “Oh yes, it’s lovely.”

  Reynosa proceeded down the line of children, collecting their handcrafted gifts. The field trip to city hall was the highlight of the school year, and he did what he could to appear a gracious host. As the festivities came to an end, he bid his farewell and walked through the hall at a clipped pace, and his assistant, Simon Fisher, trailed behind, having to skip a few steps to keep up. Reynosa thrust out the pile of the children’s pictures. “Take these damn things.”

  Simon reached for the stack, and Reynosa released them before he had a hold. Several pictures floated to the floor, and Simon quickly bent to scoop them up.

  While looking down at his hands with disgust, Reynosa snapped, “I have glue on my hands,” and without waiting for Simon, he moved down the hallway. “What’s my next appointment?”

  Simon ran to catch up. “Your advisors on the gubernatorial campaign are in the library. You have a meeting with the journalist from the Times in the South Room in twenty minutes.”

  “Oh yes,” Reynosa responded, rubbing his hands.

  Reynosa was in his fourth term as mayor. He rose from deputy mayor to the coveted seat when scandal forced Reynosa’s predecessor from office. An anonymous source revealed the former mayor’s long-term affair with a prostitute, and he stepped down shortly after taking office, citing the need to spend more time with his family. His abrupt departure vacated the seat for Reynosa.

  As he strode through the door in the library, Reynosa began speaking. “Gentlemen, sorry to keep you waiting.” He took a seat across from his two advisors, and he noted their nearly identical attire, dark suits, white shirts, and striped ties. “Nice suits. I see you got the memo.”

  With his feet propped on a low table that stood between him and his advisors, Reynosa asked, “What do you have for me?”

  Both men straightened in their chairs, and Sam, his senior advisor, spoke up. “We’ve been through Senator Johan’s financial records, interviewed former employees, college acquaintances, neighbors. We found nothing.”

  “That is not what I want to hear.”

  State Senator Johan’s bid for the governor’s seat threatened Reynosa’s chances at the soon-to-be vacated position.

  “Everyone has skeletons. Find his. Marijuana in college, a little piece on the side, ran over his neighbor’s dog. I don’t care how you find it, just find it.” Reynosa slapped his hands on his knees and pushed himself up.

  “There’s one other thing.” Sam spoke again.

  Reynosa acknowledged him with a hand gesture encouraging him to continue.

  “The investigation into the closed criminal cases.”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “Well, one of the cases has been…” Sam briefly paused, looking for the words, “getting attention lately.”

  “What case has been getting attention lately?” Reynosa asked slowly and deliberately.

  Sam looked to the black leather folder in his lap and opened it. “It’s, um, Raymond Miller, convicted of murdering a priest.”

  The muscle in Reynosa’s jaw vibrated, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You are mistaken. I know the name of every case that was sent out for review. I looked it over myself. That was not on the list.”

  Sam flinched. “Well, sir, a woman lawyer from one of the legal clinics has been looking into the case. She’s talked to the police about the investigation, and she’s gone to the prison to see him.”

  As Reynosa’s senior advisor on the gubernatorial campaign, he had advised against the review of the criminal cases. He believed that it was an unwarranted risk because it couldn’t be controlled and opened up the door for scrutiny, unnecessary scrutiny. However, Reynosa was not persuaded. He believed it showed candor at a time when confidence in elected officials had been waning, and with the cases handpicked by the mayor and the district attorney for review, the possibility of any negative outcome was eliminated.

  “It was not on the fucking list!” Reynosa reached down and slapped the black folder from Sam’s hands, sending it skittering across the floor. He turned and exited without another word.

  Reynosa resumed his brisk walk down the hall, until he came to an abrupt stop in front of the double doors of the South Room and straightened his tie. He turned to Simon. “How do I look?”

  “You look fine, sir.”

  Reynosa twitched his nose and scratched, removing a strip of pink glitter that was stretched across his nose, and glared at Simon.

  “Pull me out of there in twenty minutes,” he said and confidently strode into the room, extending his hand to the seated journalist who rose to greet him.

  “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mayor Reynosa.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Ms…”

  “Shepard, Kathleen Shepard.”

  “Please be seated, Ms. Shepard.” He gestured to the seat behind the journalist that she just vacated.

  He took the seat next to her and turned his body to face her in hopes of setting an inviting tone; a seat opposite her might appear confrontational. A positive profile from the Times would only boost his support.

  “I don’t want to take much of your time, so I’ll jump right in.” The journalist clicked on a small recorder. “The itinerary your office sent out to commemorate the city’s one hundredth anniversary has been generating a lot of excitement.”

  Reynosa hid his disappointment with the lead-in question through a fictitious smile. “We have planned an array of events. Something for everyone, as they say. We anticipate an increase in tourism and advertising over the next year. It should prove to be a prosperous year for the city.” He wanted to skip past the frivolities and get to the issues that would get him elected and did his best to turn his answer in that direction.

  The journalist shuffled a few cards. “With the upcoming state elections, there’s been a lot of concern about fraud and government kickbacks in light of the scandal in Brewster. If you were governor, how would you address this problem?”

  “Transpa
rency is the key. My office and this city are an open book. I encourage people to ask questions and conduct reviews. To prove this, our city, along with the help of private nonpartisan legal entities, are conducting a review of criminal convictions over the last several years to show our great citizens that our system is fair and just. If I were governor, I would do the same.”

  “In your time as mayor, the unemployment rate in this city has dropped nearly three percent, whereas the unemployment rate for the rest of the state has continued to rise. What’s your secret?”

  “Jobs. This great city of ours has a lot to offer companies, and I have worked hard to bring these companies to our city. If elected governor, I would continue to focus on incentives to bring companies to us.”

  “It seems you focus on smaller and start-up companies.”

  “I believe that these smaller companies are the backbone of our economy. By providing them financial incentives on city taxes and licenses, they will come. These incentives might seem inconsequential to larger companies, but to the smaller companies and the start-ups, it’s what they need to get business growing. By growing their business in our city, we all reap the benefit.”

  “Like the start-up pharmaceutical company, IPR, which has now generated nearly one hundred new jobs?”

  “Exactly.”

  Reynosa was pleased with how the interview proceeded. He was confident that he would get the positive coverage he was expecting and graciously answered the remaining questions, until Simon entered the room in twenty minutes on the dot to discreetly inform him of his next appointment.

  The journalist understood the cue and stood, extended her hand in gratitude, and allowed him to make a speedy exit.

  Reynosa walked toward his office. “Simon, where’s the latest budget report?”

  “It’s on your desk, sir.”

  He took his seat behind a dark glossy desk and snatched up the bound report and flipped it open. “Christ, this is from last week. I want this week’s, you moron.”