"That's okay," Nathan said agreeably, fulfilling Denise's wish. "I don't mind. Not today, anyway. He was crossing some railroad tracks-not the kind with lights and gates and stuff, but the unmarked kind-when he got hit by the train. The doctor told me he was killed right away."
"So how did you find out?" Frank persisted. "Did the police come to your door or what?" This line of questioning made Denise nervous. Her hand remained poised over the dump button in case she had to get rid of Frank in a hurry.
"No," Nathan explained, "I was staying over at my best friend Jacob Protsky's house that night. They're our next-door neighbors. I guess the police told them, and then Jacob's dad told me. It was pretty sad." Like so many of the images that played on the movie screen of his mind, this one was as vivid as it could be. They waited until he awoke that morning to break the news, and he remembered how Mr. Protsky cried harder than he did. He remembered that he stayed with the Protskys through the funeral, until Uncle Mark finally sobered up enough to come pick him up and take him to his hive.
You remember to give us a call if you need anything, Nathan remembered Mrs. Protsky telling him as she gave him a hug, big tears balanced on her lids.
Then the memories turned bitter as he remembered calling her from a pay phone after the first belt-licking, begging her to take him back as blood trickled down the back of his legs under his jeans. He remembered how cold and flat her voice was as she ordered him to stop calling them. You have a new life now, Nathan, she had said. We can't be a part of it anymore.
"You also implied yesterday that you were abused . . . "
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Nathan said matter-of-factly.
"Good," Denise said, stabbing the dump button. "Neither do I. Sometimes people just don't know when to quit. I think Frank was one of those people."
"My dad was the nicest guy in the world," Nathan announced. "I'm sure he was, honey," Denise said soothingly. "And the reason I'm sure is because I think he raised a pretty nice son." "Thanks," Nathan said warmly, "but there's lots of folks who don't think much of me at all."
"Well, what do they know?"
Nathan smiled and stretched his back. "Um, ma'am? I mean B-Bitch?"
Denise laughed heartily at Nathan's continued discomfort with her name. "Tell you what, Nathan," she said. "Because we're such buddies now, and I want to make you as comfortable as I can, I'm gonna let you call me Denise, okay?"
Nathan sighed audibly, genuinely relieved. "Okay. Thanks."
"Sure. But to my other listeners, I warn you. Unless you're a runaway with as cute a voice as Nathan's, don't you go trying to call me by my real name. Now, sweetie, what can I do for you?"
"If I ask you a question, will you promise to give me an honest answer?"
Denise shot a look to Enrique, who just shrugged, as usual. "Sure," she said.
"Even if you think your honest answer would make me feel bad?"
"Okay."
Nathan took another deep breath. The answer to the question he was about to ask was important to him, but he didn't know why. He was far from certain that he even wanted to hear it. Pushing his doubts aside, he asked, "I know that if I was just some kid, you'd never put me on the radio. But if I did get through, would you still like me, even if I didn't make your ratings go up?"
Denise thought for a moment before answering, then went to commercials so she could think some more. When they came back, she still wasn't ready, but she owed him an answer.
"Nathan, I can't deny that your calls have been good to my show. For example, I know that I'd have never been invited on Good Morning America if it weren't for your phone call. You remember yourself that I didn't believe a word you said at the beginning of yesterday's call. But I've gotta tell you, there is something about your voice and your personality that is really very charming, and your situation is truly heart-wrenching. As a mother, I want to help you, just as most of our listeners would come to your aid however possible. So, yes, Nathan, I think I can honestly say that I would like you even if you made our ratings go down. And if you knew me better, you'd know that that's a whole lot of liking."
Her answer made Nathan smile; made him feel warm in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time. It had been two years since anyone had been kind to him, two years since anyone had clapped him on the back or given him a hug. For the first ten years of his life, he'd never had to worry about being tough or being brave, and the thought of fighting other people for the very essentials of life-food and rest or even a place to sit unmolested-had never entered his mind for even an instant. Ever since that train had sheared away everything that was good and kind, Nathan's life had been one continuous fight, first with Uncle Mark, then with the assholes at the JDC, and now with hundreds of cops. The stakes were always the same, always his very survival. He longed for the times when his biggest worries centered on where he'd be assigned on the soccer field or whether or not he'd get an A on his spelling test.
Nathan refused to believe that those times were gone forever. If he worked hard, told the truth, and stayed lucky, he'd get another chance. To hear someone as hardassed as The Bitch say something nice bolstered his faith in himself, but more importantly, renewed his faith in other people. They weren't all cops and lawyers and judges and supervisors. There were still people out there who were willing to listen. Not everyone made their living by calling you a liar, or gaveling you out of order when you tried to tell the truth. And if The Bitch could think nice things about him, and believe him, then maybe other people could do that, too. Even if he got caught, at least maybe now people would pay attention to what he had to say.
"Are you still there?" Denise prodded.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm sorry." Nathan paused again, gathering his strength to execute the plan that had flashed through his mind just an instant before. "I was just thinking about something. Do you think it would be all right if I asked the people listening to tell their friends that I'm really not a bad kid? And that I might need help? Maybe the news people could stop showing my picture all the time, so that I might be able to start over without everyone recognizing me?"
As Denise replied, her tone was all mother. "Honestly, Nathan, I think it's too late for that. You're already a news item, and I think you're destined to remain that way until this thing is resolved. As far as people are concerned, they've already made up their minds about you, good or bad, but what they think really doesn't matter. What matters to everyone, Nathan, is your safety. Whether they think you're a good guy or a bad guy, I don't think anyone wants harm to come to you.
"What worries me," Denise continued, leaning on the words, "is the thought of you driving cars and running roadblocks, and just being out alone at night. You're in very real danger every minute you're on the run. Sometimes I think the safest thing for you to do would be to turn yourself back in, and let the justice system work for you."
"The justice system got me into this," Nathan snorted.
"It works for an awful lot of people."
"Not for kids. Not for me."
"Listen, Nathan . . . "
"I can't go back, Denise," Nathan said with finality. "I won't go back. Not if they don't catch me first. You don't know what it's like to be in a concrete box. You don't know how it feels to be bent over a chair and held down by five people bigger than you while some asshole pulls down your pants in front of everybody and rams a broom handle up your butt . . . "
"Oh, my God," Denise gasped.
". . or how it makes you feel when the supervisor laughs at you when you report it, or how the other residents beat the crap out of you for squealing on them." Nathan was shouting now. "I killed Ricky Harris because he was trying to kill me! If I go back, somebody else is going to try again, and if I fight back and win, they'll call me the murderer. That's the way the system works, Denise. The grown-ups are always right, and the kids are always wrong, and no matter what you say, you lose. Don't tell me I've got to go back there, because I won't do it!"
Nathan slamm
ed the phone down on its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again. And again, knocking the lamp off the end table and onto the floor. He stood there in the middle of a strange living room breathing heavily, his hands trembling. Suddenly he was alone. And it was quiet, so terribly quiet that he could hear his heart beating. In the silence, he could taste his anger and his shame and his sorrow. He was ready for a new dealer, because whoever was in charge of this game kept handing him piss-poor cards. But most of all, he felt terribly, terribly lonely.
Nathan desperately needed to do violence to something. He needed something to punch or to throw or to kick, but he was barehanded, barefooted, and in the home of a stranger whom he had no cause to harm. Like a caged animal, he paced around the living room twice, finally stopping dead-center in the middle. Clenching his fists at his side, he raised his face to the ceiling and shouted loudly enough to crack the plaster.
"SHIT! !"
Police Officer Greg Preminger thanked Sister Elizabeth for her assistance and walked back up the stairs toward the sanctuary. Greg's daughter would be starting first grade in the fall, and he wanted to make sure that she was registered for the proper CCD classes-the Catholic version of Sunday school. A native of Jenkins Township, Greg had been going to Saint Sebastian's his entire life. It was hard to believe that ten years had passed since Sister Elizabeth had taught him English during his senior year at Paul VI High School.
Because this mission was technically a personal one and he was still on duty, Greg was in a hurry to get back to his squad car before he missed a call. The dispatcher was carrying him 10-7, which usually implied a bathroom stop, but he'd been out of the vehicle for nearly fifteen minutes. It wouldn't be long before they started to check up on him. He took the stairs two at a time.
As he got to his car, he noticed a fire engine red BMW convertible parked way off in the back of the parking lot. Interesting that he hadn't seen it on his way in. Once back in the driver's seat, he picked up the microphone and marked 10-8, back in service, then drove across the lot to check out the vehicle. Nobody had said anything at roll call that morning about a stolen BMW, and normally cars of that value got specific mention by the sergeant. There was nothing on his hot sheet, either.
He decided to let it go, but when he got back to the main road, he had a change of heart. It was just a damned suspicious way to park a good car. He returned to the Beemer and called in the license number, just in case.
Patrolman Thompkins was waiting in Michaels's office when Warren Michaels arrived, and jumped to his feet at the sound of the opening door.
"Sit," commanded Warren, in exactly the same tone he would have used for a dog.
Harry sat, his back perfectly straight, his butt barely on the seat. The man looked scared to death, and Warren had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. From the outside, there was no trace of a smile, only the glare that so many police officers had witnessed at one point or another in their careers. It was a look of disgust, of disapproval. No first offender ever knew if there was an undercurrent of anger, because so few had ever seen Lieutenant Michaels angry. He was one of the good ones. And if he was disappointed in you, then by God the entire department was disappointed in you.
In Warren's mind, the ass-chewings for which he had become so well known were never ass-chewings at all. He never raised his voice-well, rarely-and it was always his intent to end sessions such as this on a positive note. When he took the time to pencil these meetings onto his calendar, he always used the term "attitude adjustment session."
Warren leaned way back in his squeaky vinyl chair and folded his hands across his chest, his elbows perched on the armrests. As he glared at Thompkins, the young officer made a valiant attempt for about five seconds to hold his own, but quickly looked down to a spot on the lieutenant's desk. Warren let him stew in the silence for a full minute before he said anything.
"So, you're our radio star, eh, Thompkins?" he asked evenly.
Harry's head snapped up, and his eyes locked on to Warren. He was ready to take what was coming to him like a man. "Yes, sir," he said firmly.
"Your career's important to you, isn't it, Thompkins?" Warren leaned forward and made quite a show of opening the other man's personnel file while he spoke.
"Yes, sir, it is."
"I notice from your file here that you seem to finish first in everything that you do. That's quite an accomplishment. You should be proud."
Harry shifted in his seat. The course of the conversation made him uneasy. He was expecting to get yelled at, not complimented. "I try, sir?' he said.
"Sergeant Hackner told me a few weeks ago that you have your heart set on a gold shield?' Warren went on. "Is that important to you as well?"
Uh-oh, here it comes, Harry thought. "Yes, sir, that's very important. You might say that's my career ambition."
Michaels pondered the response for a long moment, gauging sincerity. "Did you cheat on your entrance exam into the Academy?"
"No, sir!" Harry's response was instant and unequivocal.
"How about all the other tests and programs you've been involved with since you got your badge. How many of them have you cheated on?"
Harry's control of his anger was slipping. "None at all, Lieutenant Michaels. And, frankly, sir, I resent . . . "
"Shut up, Patrolman Thompkins, before you say something you'll regret. Resent things on your own time. On mine, I'll thank you to answer my questions. Do we understand each other?"
Harry's jaw locked tightly. "Yes, sir?' he hissed.
"So you expect nee to believe that you've performed the way you have thus far in your career by working hard and following the rules?" Michaels continued. "No cheating, no shortcuts?"
Harry's eyes now bore directly through the lieutenant's forehead. "I can't dictate what you'll believe, sir, but I have in fact done it all by the book."
Warren grew quiet again and drew in a deep breath through his nose. "I gather, then, from your responses that you think cheating is wrong?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
"Even when the rewards are great? Even when it makes the difference between getting into the Academy and washing out?"
"I was raised right, Lieutenant Michaels. I was always taught that if you can't get what you want by working for it, then you shouldn't have it at all." He seemed to grow taller with pride as he made his response.
"Why, then, do you have a lesser standard for the collection of evidence?" As he spoke, Warren's eyes narrowed and he leaned all the way forward until his chest was pressed against his desk.
Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then he got it. His shoulders sagged visibly, as though deflated.
Warren didn't need a verbal response; the body language said what he wanted to hear. "You probably thought I was going to yell at you this afternoon for making a fool of yourself on the radio yesterday, didn't you?"
Harry nodded. His demeanor was suddenly that of a schoolboy in the principal's office.
"Well, take heart, Thompkins," Warren went on. "This is America, and it's your absolute, unalienable right to make a fool of yourself anytime you want, though next time I'd appreciate it if you'd go it alone, and leave the department out of it.
"The reason we're having this little chat, Patrolman, is because you cheated yesterday, and you got caught. There is a right way and a wrong way to obtain evidence, and your actions tell me that you're well aware that the right way almost always takes longer. You see this?" He held up the personnel folder.
"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled. "That's my jacket."
"That's right. And it's your career. It's the reason you're not out on the street looking for a job. You've had a long string of successes, Harry, and one huge fuckup."
Harry was startled to hear the lieutenant use his first name.
"I'll cut to the chase. This department has a skewed memory. Fact is, one 'oh shit' wipes out a lifetime of (atta boys: You've had your oh shit, Harry. One more and I won't be able to run interference for you, do you unders
tand?" Warren's phone rang.
"Yes, se Harry responded, wondering what had happened to the shouting, and how he could be made to feel this badly about himself without it.
As the phone rang a second time, Warren put his hand on it. "Next time I see your name in writing, I want it to be on a commendation or on the committee's recommendation for the next detective's slot, you hear?"
"Yes, sir." Harry braved a smile, which Warren returned.
The phone rang a fourth time. "Now get out of here and go to work. And don't ask Petrelli or the County Executive for any favors for a while:'
Harry exited and closed the door. The others were right, he concluded. Michaels was one of the good guys. He couldn't help but wonder, though, what kind of chewing out the big man himself had received after shooting his reflection in that mirror.
Michaels took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time, cradling his flip-phone on his shoulder as he fitted his weapon into its holster. He could hear his heart racing. A few seconds passed, then Jed answered on the third ring.
"Nicholson residence, Detective Sergeant Hackner."
"Jed, Warren. They've found the car in Pennsylvania, just north of Harrisburg. I'm on my way up there now."
"Great," Jed replied, amused by the sounds of exertion in his boss's voice. "I'll cover things here."
Chapter 22
Stephanie Buckman was running out of important-looking tasks to consume time. The big clock in the main corridor of the courthouse read 3:40, nearly two hours past the scheduled time for the hearing. Petrelli never showed up, and Stephanie knew from experience that his absence meant that she was stuck with a loser. Fuming as she paced the corridor, she mentally inventoried her bloated caseload. With thirty-three felonies and God only knew how many miscellaneous other matters pending, she had zero tolerance for tilting at Petrelli's windmills. To make matters worse, her high-priced opponents from Omega Broadcasting sat smugly on the other side of the corridor, engrossed in quiet conversation, showing no signs at all of stress. But then, she guessed she'd be calm, too, if she were hauling down $250 an hour just for the wait. Finally, at ten minutes to four, word came that Judge Verone was ready to begin.
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