by Ed McBain
“The guy began slapping me around,” Donato said, embarrassed.
“Slapping you around how?”
“Well, he hit me on the face, just slapping me, you know? And then when I told him I still didn’t have no money, he kicked me in the …” Donato stopped and looked at Dave. “He kicked me … down there,” he completed.
“What did you do?”
“What could I do?” Donato asked plaintively. “You ever get kicked in the nuts?”
The boys started laughing, and Dave was tempted to laugh himself.
“Order in the court!” Rourke shouted, and the kids laughed for just an instant longer before they sobered. Rourke stared at them menacingly, and then turned his attention back to Donato.
“Did you give this boy your money?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Donato said softly. He looked at Rourke pleadingly, and then he looked at the boys in the classroom. “I didn’t want no rupture. I didn’t want to get hurt. I …” He let the sentence trail.
“You gave him the quarter for your milk and carfare, is that right?”
“Yeah,” Donato said, almost whispering now.
The room was very quiet. Rourke walked away from Donato, and Dave watched, wondering what was coming next, beginning to get a little interested in spite of his earlier protests against the trial.
Rourke whirled suddenly and stabbed his forefinger at the gathered boys. “Look out there, Donato!” he said. “Look out there and tell me who this boy was!”
Donato stared out at the upturned faces, as if he were trying to recognize one of them.
“Who was it?” Rourke prompted. “Do you see the boy out there?”
“Yes,” Donato said, his voice dry. “Yes, I—I see him.”
“Who?” Rourke said.
Donato hesitated, wetting his lips again and staring out at the boys. The room was terribly silent now, as if every boy was holding his breath.
“I don’t think he remembers, teach,” Carlton said slowly.
His eyes sought Donato’s, holding them, and there was no longer a smile on his face. His mouth was very thin, and he continued to stare at Donato until Donato lowered his head and looked at the floor.
“Who was it?” Rourke said again.
Donato hesitated once more. “I—I don’t re—” he started, and then he cut himself short, aware of the eyes of the boys on him. Dave watched him, realizing that Donato could not back down now. He’d come this far, he’d told of the mugging, and he’d admitted he recognized the boy out there. The boy was obviously Carlton, and now Carlton had frightened him into silence, but if Donato kept that silence, he’d be acknowledging the yellow streak that ran down his back. He fidgeted in the chair for a few moments, wrestling with his delicate problem.
Then he blurted, “Sanchez! Sanchez is the one who did it!”
Rourke’s eyes popped wide. “Sanchez? You said—”
“I don’t care what I said. It was him, Sanchez!” He pointed a trembling finger. “Him, him!” he screamed.
“This is ridiculous,” Dave said, “Sanchez is one of my best—”
“Quiet,” Rourke snapped. “Keep quiet, Dave.”
The kids were excited now. They all knew Sanchez, and they knew him for a quiet Puerto Rican who never caused anyone a bit of trouble. Their heads swiveled to where he sat in the center of the room, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Me?” he asked. A tremulous smile formed on his thin face, and he began shaking his head. “No, this is a mistake.” He looked at Donato, and then he looked at Rourke, and then he looked at Dave. He kept shaking his head, and when he turned back to Donato, he said, “I did not take your money, Donato.”
“Don’t tell me!” Donato yelled, trying to save face by using bluster. “Don’t I know who kicked me? Don’t I know who—”
“Get the hell off that chair,” Rourke said quietly.
Donato stopped talking. He looked at Rourke sullenly and then got to his feet. “Sure,” he said. He slouched to the back of the room, took his seat, and then glared defiantly at the class. At the front of the room, Carlton was smiling.
“Next witness,” Rourke said tightly. He looked at Dave, and there was a strange mixture of determination and anger in his eyes, and for a moment Dave was puzzled.
“Danny Gilden,” Rourke said, and a short blond boy over near the windows stood and came to the chair at the front of the room.
“Man, you sure got a lot of witnesses,” Carlton said, smiling. “This mugger must be a millionaire by now, huh, teach?”
“Shut up, Carlton,” Rourke said. “This isn’t over yet.”
“It ain’t? Hell, I thought they already fingered your man. Sanchez, ain’t it?”
Sanchez was not a big boy, nor was he a particularly bright boy. He sat in his seat now, more perplexed than outraged, sure he had been a victim of mistaken identity, not aware of the unsubtle extortion going on around him. Gilden was already seated in the chair at the front of the room. Rourke suddenly seemed to remember a bit of legal procedure he’d forgotten before, a bit that had made it easier for Donato to lie.
He looked at Gilden now and asked, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Gilden hesitated. He eyed Carlton and then swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Go on,” Carlton said, amused. “Swear.”
“Can’t you control your own class?” Rourke asked Dave. “For God’s sake, I’ve got enough on my mind without—”
“Let’s be quiet, Carlton,” Dave said mildly.
“Why sure, teach,” Carlton said. “I was only trying to help things along. I’m as anxious as anybody to see justice done here.”
“Well …”
“What do you say, Gilden?” Rourke asked. “Do you swear?”
“I—I do,” Gilden said.
“Tell us about your mugging,” Rourke said. “Tell the court.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly no mugging,” Gilden said, hedging.
“What do you mean, it wasn’t a mugging? You were beat up, weren’t you?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose. I mean, I guess you could call it that.”
“You told me your assailant had a—”
“My what?”
“The boy who beat you up. You said he had a pair of homemade brass knuckles, fashioned from the handle of a garbage can lid. You said he used those on your face. Wouldn’t you call that a beating?”
“Well, yeah, I suppose.”
“What else would you call it?”
“That, I guess.”
The class began laughing. They were beginning to enjoy this immensely. They could see that Gilden was scared stiff, and they enjoyed his discomfort, and they leaned forward in their seats to better enjoy his discomfort. Dave glanced at his watch. There were still twenty minutes left to the period, and he wished they would hurry up and pass.
“Did you or did you not suffer a split lip from this brass-knuckles attack?” Rourke asked, more annoyed now, his annoyance showing in the rise of his voice.
“Well, I got a little cut, yeah,” Gilden said.
“A little cut? Was it or was it not a goddamned split lip?” Rourke shouted.
“Yeah,” Gilden said reluctantly. “I guess it was.”
“And did you or did you not also suffer a black eye?”
“It wasn’t nothing,” Gilden said. “Just a little black and blue, that’s all.”
“Did you get it from the mugger?”
Gilden paused and looked at Carlton. “Yeah,” he said, as if the word were forced out of him by torture.
“What did the mugger get from you?” Rourke asked.
“A buck,” Gilden said softly.
“He stole it from you?”
“I suppose.”
“Did he, or didn’t he?”
“He did,” Gilden said. “I guess.”
“Who?”
“The mugger,” Gilden said.
“Yes,
but who? Which boy?”
Gilden was silent.
“Who, Gilden? Who worked you over with brass knucks and stole your dollar? Come on, boy, talk!”
“Sanchez,” Gilden said in a whisper.
“Tell the truth!” Rourke shouted.
“That is the truth,” Gilden said stubbornly. “It was Sanchez. He beat me up and swiped the buck.” He nodded eagerly, wanting his story to be believed, glancing at Carlton for approval.
“Sanchez,” Carlton said. He clucked his tongue and wagged his head. “Such a quiet kid, too.”
“What?” Sanchez asked, puzzled. “Mr. Kemp, I didn’t—”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Rourke said tightly. “Who mugged you, Gilden? Tell the truth.”
“Sanchez,” Gilden said.
“Who?”
“Sanchez. What’s the matter, don’t I speak plain? Sanchez, I said. Sanchez. San—”
“All right, take your seat.”
“Sanchez. How many times I got to—”
“Take your seat!” Rourke said tightly. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. He looked troubled. He wet his lips nervously, and then glanced at his watch.
“This is a waste of time,” Dave whispered. “They’re all scared of Carlton. You shouldn’t have started this, Artie. You—”
“Shut up,” Rourke said.
“Can’t you see you’re not getting anywhere?”
“Shut up,” Rourke said. “Shut the hell up, Kemp!”
He turned abruptly and began pacing the floor. Gilden was already back in his seat, and the kids were asking him hushed questions. Dave watched Rourke’s face, wondering what was going on inside his head. Rourke seemed to be thinking very hard.
“Artie,” Dave said, “let’s call it quits. Let’s just forget all about it.”
“With those little bastards laughing at me?” Rourke whispered. He brought his face close to Dave’s, and his eyes were curiously bright. “With all those little bastards ready to spread this all over the school? Not a chance! Just let me handle it.” He turned from Dave, and Dave stared at his back. Rourke cleared his throat, facing the class.
“The people call on Carlos Sanchez.”
Sanchez grinned uneasily. “Me?”
“Come on, Sanchez,” Rourke said, impatient now. “Get up here.”
Sanchez shook his head and pleaded mutely with the class, trying to explain his innocence with the gesture. He walked to the front of the room and took the chair offered him.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Rourke asked.
“Sí,” Sanchez said. “Yes, sir, yes I do.”
Rourke put his hands on his hips. He was sweating freely now, the perspiration beading his forehead and his lip. He regarded Sanchez in silence for a moment.
Then, very calmly, he asked, “Why’d you beat and rob those boys, Sanchez?”
Sanchez’s brows raised on his forehead. He stammered to get something out, and Dave said, “For Christ’s sake, Artie, this kid didn’t—”
“Shut up!” Rourke shouted. “Why’d you do it, Sanchez?”
“But I didn’t,” Sanchez said. “You know I—”
“They say you did!” Rourke snapped. “Why, Sanchez? Why’d you beat up those kids?”
“Me?” Sanchez asked incredulously. “Me? Mr. Rourke, I swear I didn’t do it. On my mother, I swear it. On my own eyes, I swear it.”
Dave looked at Rourke, and he saw the expression on the other teacher’s face, and he suddenly knew what Rourke was trying to do. Rourke had lost an enormous amount of face in the previous encounters with his witnesses. This had started as a cut-and-dried thing, so far as Rourke was concerned, but it had turned out to be something a little more difficult than that. Carlton had intimidated the witnesses, and Rourke’s case had been shot up the behind.
But Rourke was realizing that more than a few goddamned muggings hinged on the outcome of this trial. Rourke’s entire future at Bernard Vocational might very well be in the balance. Sure, he could back out now, forget the whole thing, admit that Carlton had won the hand. But the kids would know Carlton had won, too, and they’d say Rourke had turned chicken, and so Rourke was trying another tactic.
The tactic was disagreeable when Donato used it. It was abominable when Rourke used it. He knew his audience wasn’t a very bright one, and he knew only two of the boys had been mugged. The remainder actually didn’t know who was doing the mugging, though they sure as hell suspected Carlton. But, not being very bright, they’d be willing to change their minds, provided Rourke played his cards right.
And playing those cards right meant shifting the blame to Sanchez—the same way Donato had done earlier—pretending he was the one Rourke was out to get all along.
The realization struck Dave with the impact of a striking rattler. He digested it, and then he shook his head mutely, wondering what he could do to stop it. Sanchez was innocent, he knew that. But Sanchez was a little guy, a mild guy like himself, and it was the little guys who got stepped on whenever things got really big.
“Come on, Sanchez,” Rourke said, desperately trying to recapture the case now, “stop stalling. Two witnesses have already identified you. Why’d you do it?”
“No,” Sanchez said mildly, his hands fluttering aimlessly. “I did not, Mr. Rourke, I mean it. Well, look, look, I was beat up myself, Mr. Rourke. I had money stolen from me myself. I would not do a thing like that, believe me.”
“You’re lying,” Rourke said. “When were you beat up?”
“A month, two months ago.”
“He’s lying,” Carlton said. “Can’t you see that, teach? Come on, take the crook down to Mr. Hampton!”
“No,” Sanchez said firmly, “I’m not lying. I was beat up. I was robbed.”
“Where?”
“On the first floor,” Sanchez said. “The staircase near the auditorium. I swear it, Mr. Rourke.”
“He’s lying,” Carlton said, and the fever began to spread to the other boys.
“He’s lying,” they chanted. “He’s lying, ly-ing, ly-ing, lying.…”
“No!” Sanchez shouted. “Mr. Kemp, you know that. You know I’m not lying.”
Dave didn’t answer. He wet his lips and watched the class, and then he watched Rourke. He could not force himself to look at Sanchez.
“Who beat you up and robbed you?” Rourke shouted, taking a new tack, knowing Sanchez wouldn’t dare defy Carlton. “If you’re not lying, who did it?”
Sanchez hesitated, looking at Carlton. “I …”
“Who did it?” Rourke pounded. “Who?”
Carlton reached into his pocket idly. He put something on the desk top, and Dave studied it for a few moments before he realized what it was. It was the handle of a garbage can lid, skillfully twisted so that it could fit over a clenched fist. The outer metal was gnarled and hard-looking, and it caught the reflecting rays of the morning sunlight. Carlton shoved it before him on the desk top, toying with it.
“Come on, Sanchez!” Rourke said. “We know you’re lying, so why don’t you—”
“I’m not,” Sanchez said. He shook his head absently, and his eyes were beginning to cloud with tears now. He clenched and unclenched his hands in his lap, and Dave watched him, feeling this great compassion for the boy, feeling a sudden, overwhelming brotherly emotion for him, but not allowing the emotion to take hold of his mind and his body, not allowing it to intrude upon the orderliness within his head. He had avoided trouble ever since he’d come to the school, and he did not want trouble now. There were five minutes left to the period now, and then all this would be forgotten. Rourke would have purged himself, and he’d forget all about Sanchez, and no one would get hurt.
Except Sanchez maybe.
Oh, not really hurt, not a trip down to Hampton, only the mark of a bully and a thief, on a kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly, on a kid as mild as … as mild as …
“Who?” Rourke said again,
the sweat running down his face and staining his shirt collar. “Who, who, Sanchez? Who robbed you?”
The tears were running freely down the boy’s face now. His lip trembled and he could not stop the tears, and he rubbed at his eyes and shook his head, and all the while he watched the menacing brass knucks on Carlton’s desk, knowing the knucks were a warning to him, knowing they could be used on his face and his body. He kept shaking his head and crying, and his whole body began trembling as if something deep inside him were struggling to reach the surface. His thin frame shook violently, and Dave watched him, again feeling this empathy, and wanting to help, but at the same time not wanting to help.
And then, suddenly, as if the thing inside were too much to bear, Sanchez leaped to his feet. His brown eyes shone wetly behind the film of tears. He trembled for an instant, a last explosive shudder, and then the thing inside rose into his throat, and his lips parted, and his voice bubbled out of his mouth.
“No!” he shouted, “I don’t care! I don’t care the brass knucks!”
Dave saw Carlton slip the garbage lid handle over his fist, saw the fist tighten over it. Sanchez looked at the homemade knucks once more, and then he threw back his head and yelled, “Carlton!” as if he were ridding his body of something filthy. “Carlton beat me up, Carlton took my money, Carlton is the one!”
Carlton jumped out of his seat and started for the front of the room, the brass knucks gleaming on his fist.
“You lousy spic son of—” he started and Dave watched him, amazed that Sanchez had defied Carlton, amazed that the little guy had taken a stand, had fought against the odds, had defied the big things in life. Carlton rushed past him, and he could see the knucks gleaming with the sunlight from the windows, and suddenly Dave realized he’d been avoiding trouble all his life, all his goddamned life.
He saw his own hand reach out, and then he found himself spinning Carlton around. Carlton’s face changed in that instant. The hatred fled before a look of surprise, and then the surprise vanished, and a smirk perched on his mouth, and that was when Dave’s bunched fist lashed out and collided with his jaw.
He felt a sudden exultance sweep through him, and he knew then how Sanchez must have felt when he’d thrown back his head and shouted, “Carlton!” He saw Carlton drop into a heap at his feet, and suddenly all the boys in the class were shouting, roaring their approval, and Rourke stood by, surprised, the surprise smeared on his face like shaving cream.