At a hearing before the sentencing, Furioso handed the judge a petition that had been signed by more than one hundred residents of Heathrow Heights, pleading leniency and declaring that William Cachoris, Peter Whitten, and Alexander Pappas had enacted a “racially motivated aggression” against their “peaceful community and its citizens” that had directly caused the shooting. Judge Conners stated that he would take the petition under consideration. But at the sentencing, he rejected the notion that the circumstances of the “prank” should be given any weight. “William Cachoris and his friends made a bad decision that day, a very stupid and hurtful decision . . . but in no way does their foolishness excuse the taking of a human life.” Conners went on to say, “This kind of thing goes on in the county all the time. We all put up with racial nonsense. I see it in my own neighborhood, and there is never any retribution of this kind.” The Post reported a rising murmur in the courtroom, perhaps a reaction of incredulity, as it was known that Conners lived in Bethesda, one of the whitest and most affluent areas of Montgomery County.
Judge Conners sentenced James Monroe to ten years in prison on the manslaughter charges. He would be eligible for parole in two and one half years. In addition, Conners sentenced Monroe to two years in prison for the assault charges and three years on the gun charges. These sentences would run concurrently with the sentence for manslaughter. Baker received the agreed sentence of less than one year. Defense attorney Furioso vowed to appeal. There were no further stories related to the case listed in the archives of the Washington Post.
Alex Pappas sat for a while longer, moving a finger in the dust that had settled on the computer table, making a line and another line through it that formed a cross. He switched off the lamp, went to the front door of the house, checked the lock, and left a light on for Johnny, who was at a movie with a friend. Upstairs, he passed Gus’s room but did not go inside.
Alex had convinced himself that Gus’s death had been random. On the last day of Gus’s life, the driver of the Humvee he was riding in had taken one road rather than another, and on the road he’d taken was a makeshift bomb hidden underneath debris. Did God send the driver of the Humvee down that road? Alex could not believe this. God gave us life; after that, he neither protected nor harmed us. We were on our own. But what about sin? There had to be punishment for sin.
Alex could have gotten out of the Torino that day. Alex could have demanded that Billy stop the car. He knew that what they were about to do was wrong. He’d let it happen. Because of his inaction, many lives had been broken. Two young men had gone to prison. Billy was dead. Gus was dead, too.
Alex undressed and got into bed. Vicki stirred beside him. Alex touched his hand to her shoulder and squeezed it.
“Vicki?”
“What?” she said, her eyes still closed.
“I’m going to call that man,” said Alex.
“Go to sleep.”
Alex extinguished the bedside light. But he didn’t go to sleep.
Fifteen
JAMES MONROE’S apartment was very small. Its single main room held a double bed, a cheap dresser, a couple of chairs, a television set on a stand, and a compact stereo on a wire cart. Monroe could barely turn around in the kitchen. When he sat on the toilet in the bathroom, he had to keep his arms in tight or they would touch the walls.
James Monroe and Charles Baker sat close to each other in the room’s two chairs. Both of them were drinking beer. Monroe was watching television, and Baker was talking.
Monroe did not particularly care for the show they were watching. It was the autopsy series set in Miami, and he didn’t believe one thing about it. But it was easier to watch the show than give his full attention to Baker.
“Now Red gonna shoot someone,” said Baker. “In his designer suit and sunglasses. You know that’s some bullshit, too.”
“What is?”
“I’m talkin about crime scene investigators drawing their guns out and shootin people. You know that shit don’t never happen. Even real police don’t pull their guns out, most times. But Red here, he kills a motherfucker with his gun every week. With that pretty head of hair he got, blowin in the breeze.”
From one of the many books Monroe had read in prison, he remembered a passage about American television shows that dealt with crime. The author said that it was a “fascistic genre” because in these shows the criminals were always apprehended, and the police and prosecutors always won. The shows were warning the citizens, in effect, to stay in line. That if they dared to break the law, they would be caught and put in jail. Monroe had chuckled a little when he’d read it. People wanted to be reassured that their lives were safe. These television writers were just making money by feeding citizens the lies they craved.
“Hmph,” said Monroe.
“That all you got to say?”
“I’m tryin to watch this.”
“What about the other thing?”
“What thing is that?”
“What I been tellin you about. My date.”
Baker had come to tell Monroe about the lunch appointment he had made with Peter Whitten the next day. Monroe had just shaken his head a little and kept his eyes unexpressive and focused on the TV.
“Well?”
Monroe swigged from his can of beer.
“I need you, man,” said Baker. “Need you to come with me. You don’t have to say nothin; just sit there beside me and be big. Send a message to this man so that I don’t have to threaten him direct. He’ll see it. He got to.”
Monroe wiped something from the corner of his eye.
“Man’s got money,” said Baker. “We could get some of it. It’s due us, understand? I’m gonna be generous and give you a piece of it for coming along. Not half or nothing like that, but somethin. After that, I’m gonna put my finger on the other one. Just go ahead and do him the same way. You know they got to be carrying guilt. In the newspaper, Mr. Whitten was braggin on how he’s a great friend to the Negro. Well, I’m gonna give him an opportunity to show it. If he doesn’t, he got to know, I’m gonna burn his reputation down.”
“No,” said Monroe.
“What?”
“I don’t want any part of it.”
“You in it already.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Your handwriting’s on the original letter. How you gonna say you not in?”
It was true. James had marked up the first draft of the letter, composed with pen on paper, after being prodded by Charles. Because James had been drinking too much beer that night, was exercising alcohol judgment, and hadn’t thought the ramifications through. Because Charles was too stupid to write the letter, legibly, grammatically, and without spelling mistakes, himself. Because James had just wanted Charles out of his apartment and it seemed the only way to get him to leave. He never thought Baker would deliver it. He thought Baker had been talking his usual brand of shit.
He’d had a problem with saying no to Charles since the incident. It had brought him all kinds of trouble. Once, it had led him back to prison.
“I don’t want any part of it,” repeated Monroe.
“I guess you don’t want money, either.”
“I work for my money.”
“In a cold garage.”
“Wherever. I work.”
Baker got up out of his chair. He paced the room in a small arc. He grew tired of it and pointed a finger at the face of Monroe. “You owe me.”
Monroe rose and stood to his full height. His eyes narrowed, and Baker dropped his hand to his side.
“Look, man. I’m only sayin —”
“That’s past,” said Monroe. He paused to slow his breathing some. When he spoke again, his voice was low and controlled. “Listen. You and me, we are over fifty years old.”
“That’s what I’m talkin about. Time’s getting short.”
“It’s time we learned. Be thankful for this opportunity we got to start new.”
“What I got to be thankful for? My stinkin
-ass job?”
“Damn right. I go to work every day and I’m glad to have it. Happy to rent this apartment that I can walk out of any time I please. Gaming people, doing dirt . . . that train left the station a long time ago, for me.”
“Not for me,” said Baker. “I can’t make it any other way.”
Monroe looked into Baker’s hard hazel eyes and saw that it was so.
“Those white boys fucked up our lives,” said Baker.
“I said no.”
“Don’t make a mistake. I still got the letter written with your hand.”
“I didn’t write a letter. I made a few marks and corrections because what you wrote was all messed up and damn near unreadable. I was just trying to teach you somethin. I didn’t think you were dumb enough to send it off. I was just doing you a favor.”
“I appreciate it. But still, the corrections you made are in your hand.”
“That a threat?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You wanna say something, say it plain.”
“Ain’t no hidden meaning to it.” Baker twitched a smile. “You and me, we joined at the hip. That’s all.”
“I been a gentleman and let you visit. Now it’s time for you to go.”
“I’ll get up with you later.”
“Go on. I got to get some sleep.”
After Baker closed the door behind him, James Monroe threw the dead bolt, went to the Frigidaire, and found another Pabst. He sat down in his chair and stared at the television but did not pay attention to the images on the screen.
He reached for the phone and made a call. The conversation he had was short and emotional.
Later, Monroe switched the channel on the television to a late Wizards game, broadcast from Seattle. He pulled up the tab atop the can of beer, tilted his head back, and drank deeply.
SUNSHINE HOUSE was one of the many food pits found on Georgia Avenue, both in the District and in downtown Silver Spring. The neon sign in the window advertised “Steak and Cheese, Seafood, Fried Chicken, and Chinese,” a shotgun approach that produced mediocrity and, ultimately, heartburn and diarrhea. The proprietor’s name was Mr. Sun, hence the store’s name. Sun owned three operations in D.C., Montgomery, and Prince George’s County; lived in a house off Falls Road in Potomac; drove an E-Class Mercedes; and had kids at MIT and Yale. Cody Kruger called the place Sun’s Shithouse. He and Deon ate there often.
Deon had just finished a plate of orange chicken, a side of fries, and a large Coke. His stomach hurt already. He had been driving north, seen the sign in the window of Sunshine House, and pulled into the lot. When he was stressed he tended to seek out food. The antidepressants he took were supposed to lessen his appetite, but they did not.
Deon wiped grease from his face and threw his napkin in the trash. He pushed on a glass door and walked out of the store toward his Marauder, parked in a spot facing the Armed Services Recruitment Center, a plain brick structure beside Sun’s. He got under the wheel and fitted the ignition key but did not turn it. He didn’t want to go to the apartment and listen to Cody. He didn’t want to go to the house on Peabody and see his mother’s swollen eyes.
He did not know, exactly, how he had gotten here. In elementary school, he had been an average student with limited social skills. In middle school, he had two close friends, Anthony Dunwell and Angelo Ross, but they were athletes and he was not, and in high school, they began to run with a different crowd. It was in his early high school years that he first experienced shortness of breath and nausea when he was asked to stand before the class and present his work. Meeting new people, he often stammered when he spoke. His mother took him to a shrink, who called his problem social anxiety and diagnosed him with panic disorder. Deon was prescribed Paxil, and that seemed to help. So did good weed. He became less socially retarded and, for a while, had a nice girlfriend, Jerhoma Simon, and then another with a brilliant smile who went by the name of Ugochi. For reasons he couldn’t recall or didn’t want to, those relationships did not last. After graduation there was a dry spell without girlfriends or new male friends, until he met Cody up at the shoe store. After that, there was one bad decision after another, and the entrance of Charles Baker, and here he was, nineteen, with money in his pocket and nothing ahead but more money or jail time, sitting in a parking lot.
Deon touched the key in the ignition slot but dropped his hand away.
The boxed sign over the recruitment center was brightly lit. He recalled that down in Park View, in a similar recruitment office near the old Black Hole, the sign had always been lit and the windows kept smudge free. A clean storefront in a strip of run-down businesses, a beacon for the young men in the neighborhood who were looking for a job or a way out, many of them high school dropouts, many of them running from temptation and trouble, some of their own making, some not.
The times he’d been to places like Chevy Chase and Bethesda, Deon had never seen recruitment offices of any kind. But it made sense. Why would the army, navy, or Marine Corps waste their time, money, and effort on kids who were never going to sign up and serve? Those kids were going to college. Those kids had parents who would pay for their tuition and room and board, and later help usher them into the job market via their network of successful friends.
Looking through the plate glass of the center, he saw two life-size cardboard cutouts of soldiers, one black, one Hispanic, in full dress. In between the cutouts, large wire racks held dozens of pamphlets. He could guess that some of the pamphlets were printed in Spanish. Behind the racks were dividers, the kind that formed cubicles in offices. Deon wondered what these folks didn’t want citizens on the street to see.
On the window itself were numerous posters touting service. A picture of an aircraft carrier loaded with planes, troops, and equipment, ready for action, below the words “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of All Who Threaten It.” A photograph of a black woman, beautiful and proud eyed, a beret cocked jauntily on her head, the caption reading “There’s Strong. And Then There’s Army Strong.” Other posters mentioned enlistment bonuses of up to $20,000, thirty days’ vacation pay per year, 100 percent tuition assistance, and full health and dental benefits. Guaranteed training in a chosen career. The chance to travel.
Yellowish light bled out from beneath the padded dividers. Someone, some officer, was in there, burning the oil, alone and ready to talk.
Deon had nowhere special to go. He had the need to talk to someone, too.
He got out of the Mercury, passed under the bright, inviting light of the big sign hung over the recruitment office, and tried the handle of the front door. The door was unlocked. But Deon did not step inside.
Sixteen
RAYMOND MONROE stepped out of the therapy room a little after noon, intending to call Kendall and have lunch with her down in the cafeteria. As he pulled his cell from his pocket, he passed a young man, blinded in one eye, shrapnel wounds forming crescent scars around the socket, his head shaved and stitched on the side.
“Pop,” said the young man.
“How’s it going?” said Monroe.
“Awesome,” said the young man without sarcasm or irony, and he walked on in a square-shouldered stride.
At the elevator bank, Monroe waited for the down car beside a man his age who stood with his hands on the grips of a wheelchair. A young woman of about twenty sat in the chair, her hospital gown worn over a T-shirt. She had short black hair, blue eyes, and a bit of a mustache, most likely a growth spurred by steroids she had been taking postinjury. Both of her legs had been amputated high in the femur, not far below the trunk. One stump was badly burned and scarred with “dots,” small bits of shrapnel still embedded close to the skin surface. The other stump did not appear to have been burned but was twitching wildly.
“Hey,” said the young woman, looking at Monroe.
“Afternoon,” said Monroe. “How’s everybody doing on this fine day?”
“How am I doin, Daddy?” said the young woman.
�
�She just got fitted for her new legs,” said her father. His eyes were the same shade of brilliant blue as his daughter’s. “Won’t be long before Ashley’s walkin again.”
Both Ashley and her father had deep southern accents. Both of them smelled strongly of cigarettes.
“And after that,” said Ashley, “I’m gonna swim from one shore to the other and back again.”
“She wants to swim in the old lake,” said the father. “We got a nice clean one down by our home.”
“I will, too,” she said.
“Next summer, maybe,” said the father, as he reached down and touched her cheek. He smiled, his lip quivering with melancholy pride.
“Maybe you and I will get a chance to work together in the pool,” said Monroe.
“I’ll make you tired,” said Ashley.
“My little girl is game,” said the father.
“No doubt,” said Monroe. As the elevator doors opened, Monroe’s cell phone chimed in his hand, indicating that he had a message.
Outside the main building, he checked his messages. Alex Pappas’s voice told him he’d like to meet. Monroe hit auto-return and got Alex on the line.
“Pappas and Sons.” He sounded stressed amid the considerable noise in the background.
“It’s Ray Monroe.”
“Mr. Monroe, you got me in the middle of my lunch rush.”
“Call me Ray. Look, I didn’t know —”
“If you’d like to talk again, I’m stopping by Fisher House after work. Same time as the other night.”
“Okay. I was thinking we’d take a drive, go visit my brother.”
“I can’t talk now. I’ll see you then.” Pappas abruptly cut the connection. Monroe stood looking at the phone for a moment, then dropped the cell back into his pocket.
He went into building 2 and took the elevator up to Kendall’s floor. When he knocked on the open door to her office, he could already see that she was not there. Gretta Siebentritt, the outpatient therapist who shared the office with Kendall, swiveled her chair to face him.
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