Bridget began to cry. When he jerked her from the chair, she screamed in pain . . .
The world went dark.
She was in the bathroom now, dress pulled up around her waist, spraddled across the toilet. Her husband slapped her so hard that her head hit the wall.
“Now you can piss,” he ordered. “Go ahead—doit.”
Closing her eyes, she tried, her body trembling with the effort.
His voice rose. “Do itnow .”
Dazed, she felt the tears on her face.
He slapped her again. Falling sideways, she clawed at the sink with one hand.
She caught herself, pulled upright to stand, underpants around her ankles. In the cracked mirror above the sink, her husband’s face broke into pieces.
With one powerful hand at the base of Bridget’s skull, he smashed her face into the sink.
Bridget cried out in shock and pain. Reeling, she lurched toward the bathroom door, spitting fragments of her teeth.
Her son stood in the doorway, his eyes filled with terror. Bridget stumbled past him, into darkness.
She remembered nothing more. It was her eight-year-old son who had called 911.
* * *
Drained, Kerry studied her across the table. The cubicle they sat in was pale green in the fluorescent light. The air felt hot and close.
Kerry kept his voice soft. “I need you to testify.”
Mute, she shook her head, staring at the rings of coffee stains on the battered wooden table. At last, she murmured, “If I do, he’ll kill me.”
Kerry’s mouth felt dry. “Bridget,” he said quietly, “he’ll kill you if you don’t.”
Her greenish eyes, Kerry thought, were close to dead. Only her tears said that she had heard him.
* * *
When he returned to his office, Kerry loosened his tie and sat back in his chair, eyes half shut with weariness. He took no notice of Clayton Slade.
In Mary Kilcannon, Kerry thought, he had been luckier than he knew.
“So,” he heard Clayton ask, “how was she?”
Surprised, Kerry turned to him, wondering how much Clayton had divined from Kerry’s calls to the shelter, the hospital, the police. “A mess.” Suddenly Kerry realized that it would be a relief to talk like a professional, a lawyer. “Major gaps in memory. Past the legal limit when it happened. Scared to testify.”
“What about the injuries?”
“Shesays he slammed her face into the sink.He says she fell, so drunk she pissed all over herself. Which she did.”
Frowning, Clayton folded his hands across his stomach. “You’re going to need the kid,” he said.
* * *
That night, Kerry went to his apartment, put on some tapes of Bruce Springsteen and Southside Johnny, and began taking inventory of his life.
He was twenty-seven and single, the less gifted younger brother of a senator, with a boss who was his enemy and a docket of domestic violence cases. The sole escape was James Kilcannon; during Kerry’s first trip to Washington, Jamie had offered to secure him an entry-level position in the Senate bureaucracy. But Washington had no allure for Kerry, and becoming Jamie’s dependent would condemn him to a life in his brother’s shadow, having nothing of his own.
“You’re going to need the kid,” Clayton Slade had told him.
Unbidden, the image of his father came to Kerry’s mind.
In his last years, Michael Kilcannon had been a quiet brooding figure, drinking alone, ashamed of what he had become, unable to apologize to his wife or sons. For Kerry, his father was dead before he died; content that his mother was safe, Kerry hardly spoke to him. Then he was gone, and Kerry, to his shock, wept from loneliness and unresolved anger—he had desperately wanted a father, he realized, but all he had was the terror of his father’s violent moods, the determination never to be like him.
John Musso was eight years old.
Against the habit of a lifetime, Kerry forced himself to remember.
At eight, Kerry had known there was no help for them: Jamie had turned his back, and his mother feared calling the police. If she had done so, Kerry wondered, would he have had the courage to speak for her? But Mary Kilcannon had not been a pathetic drunk, as hopeless and indifferent as his father was brutal.
For Kerry to put Anthony Musso in prison, he must persuade this boy to believe inhim .
* * *
From the first moment, sitting with Kerry in the witness room, John Musso could not look at him.
He was pale, Kerry saw, with lank, dark hair and the habit of clenching his jaw, as if to withstand whatever might happen next. His fear showed in a convulsive swallowing.
“My name is Kerry,” he said gently.
John would not look up. The only sign of his having heard was that his head became quite still; only his throat moved. No wonder, Kerry reflected, that at first the cops had thought this boy autistic.
“I work with the police,” Kerry went on. “My job’s to help you and your mom.”
John was silent. Kerry took a rubber ball from his pocket and placed it on the wooden table, resting it beneath his fingertips.
The boy’s eyes moved, surreptitiously, to the ball. “Do you like balls?” Kerry asked.
No answer.
“I’m giving it to you,” Kerry said. “Hold out your hand, all right?”
For a moment, the boy remained still, blue eyes fixed on the table. His hand slid toward Kerry, as if it had a life of its own. When Kerry placed the ball in his open palm, John flinched, and then his fingers clutched the red sphere so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Roll the ball to me,” Kerry said, “and I’ll roll it back. It’s a game.”
John swallowed again; at once, Kerry saw that he did not want to let go. “It’s okay,” Kerry told him. “You can keep it.”
More from fear than a sense of play, Kerry thought, the boy let the ball slip from his fingers and roll across the table. Kerry took the ball and placed it in John’s hand.
“Again?” Kerry asked.
As if in answer, John rolled the ball to Kerry. Rolling it back, Kerry wondered who played with this boy. John regarded others with suspicion, his second grade teacher had told Kerry, and his grades and attendance were abysmal. In school, his only animation was flashes of anger.
Silent, they rolled the ball back and forth. For John Musso, the dismal witness room was a refuge, Kerry realized—a few moments with a stranger who, whatever he wanted, did not seem to pose a threat. Kerry let the silence grow around them; the few times he had thrown a ball with his father, he remembered, there had been no need to speak.
What to say? Kerry wondered. When the answer struck him, its difficulty gave Kerry a window to the boy’s soul, and his own.
“Can I tell you something?” Kerry said at last.
The ball froze in John Musso’s hand. “When I was eight,” Kerry began, “my dad did things to my mom.”
The boy was still.
“He hit her. Like your dad does. I couldn’t make him stop.”
The boy swallowed again. His mouth, Kerry noticed, was not as tight. Kerry’s own mouth was dry.
“I’d lie in bed,” Kerry went on, “and wish that someone could help us.”
John was silent. His hand clutched the rubber ball again.
For the first time, Kerry took the ball from his grasp, then rolled it back to John. “I hated what Da did to my mom. I know you hate it too.” Kerry kept his voice soft. “If I can make him stop, maybe your mom will get better. But I’ll need your help for that.”
Kerry stopped there, letting the hope settle in John’s mind. The boy’s swallowing seemed convulsive now. Then his fingers loosened, and the ball slid from his hand.
Taut, Kerry watched it roll into his own. “You remember that night, John, when the police took your mom to the hospital? How did your dad hurt her?”
There was a long silence, and then John Musso looked up into Kerry’s eyes, lips trembling, shutting his eyes just before he w
hispered, “He smashed her face into the sink.”
* * *
This time, Kerry drove to the shelter to visit Bridget Musso.
It was a warm spring morning, and Kerry had the top down on his ten-year-old Volkswagen. The weekend promised to be a fine one, reminding Kerry that he had no girlfriend, no dates, no plans. That was another way he was unlike his brother, Kerry thought ruefully. But one look at Bridget Musso, and he forgot all that.
She was lolling on a battered couch, slack-faced again, and the tip of her nose was red. Quite deliberately, Kerry glanced around the barren meeting room, as depressing as a flophouse hotel, then asked, “Is this what you want for your son? Or you?”
She stared through him, wordless. Kerry sat beside her on the couch. “He doesn’t want you beaten anymore, Bridget. He doesn’t want you drunk anymore.” He paused, softening his tone. “Do youhear me?”
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
“Thenlisten .” Kerry’s eyes bored into hers. “Even though he’s frightened, your eight-year-old son is willing to go to court for you. Will you go forhim , Bridget?”
Her lips parted, but she made no sound. Sensing her uncertainty, Kerry put aside the fact that John Musso had not yet promised to testify, that he was using each of them to strengthen the other. “What is that boy worth to you?” Kerry asked. “Anything? Because unless you change things, all he’ll ever know is allyou’ve ever known. And all he’ll everbe is like his father.”
The woman blinked, turning away.
Kerry wanted to grab her by the shoulders, make her look into his face again. He forced himself to be still. “Lookat me, Bridget.”
Slowly, she turned.
Kerry’s face was inches from hers. “If you help John,” he said, “I’ll put Anthony in jail. After that, he’ll be afraid to hurt either of you again.”
For a long time, she stared into his eyes. Then, as if Kerry had willed it, she nodded.
THREE
That evening, self-doubting and far more lonely than he cared to be, Kerry decided to drop by McGovern’s for a beer.
To Kerry, McGovern’s was the last great Irish bar. Vailsburg had changed so quickly that its own bars were dying off, turned to shops or meeting places or, in one startling twist, a black apostolic church. But McGovern’s remained as it was in the 1930s, with Irish memorabilia on the walls and fire and police hats suspended from above its oval wooden bar. Its rules were as timeless. Smoking was fine, but a man would be thrown out for cursing in front of a lady. There was no television to impede conversation, argument, or the chance to meet a prospective mate under acceptable circumstances: this was not a pickup bar, everyone knew, but a social club, and the common saying was that “more marriages are made at McGovern’s than in church.” The jukebox featured Irish tunes, and its longtime proprietor, an immigrant given to dancing the occasional jig, might stand a round or two. Because McGovern’s was near the law schools at Rutgers and Seton Hall, it was a favorite haunt of courtroom types; the bar’s ad in the law school newspapers read “McGovern’s—the only bar you’ll never want to pass.” More than one legal hopeful, Kerry thought wryly, had passed out at McGovern’s after failing the bar exam.
It was a Friday, and McGovern’s was filled with smoke, laughter, the sound of debate or gossip or flirtation. To his surprise, Kerry saw no one from the office. He thought about leaving, then contemplated another night spent with Southside Johnny and took the one empty seat at the bar.
Instantly, the proprietor, Bill Carney, a trim man of sixty with bright eyes and a gray mustache, appeared with a cool bottle of Kerry’s favorite, Killian’s Red. “ ‘Kerry Kilcannon,’ ” he said, smiling, “ ‘the fighting prosecutor, valiant for truth.’ ”
Kerry grinned. They had been playing this game since the night Kerry was sworn in, and his every appearance required a new billing. “ ‘Bill Carney,’ ” Kerry answered, “ ‘tax chiseler, refugee from the law, and scourge of the English Crown.’ ”
Bill laughed. “Would that it were true—the tax chiseler part, especially.” He poured Kerry’s beer. “So howare things on the frontiers of urban justice?”
Kerry sipped his beer and chose to tell some semblance of the truth. “Tough cases, long days. Today, especially.”
Bill gave him a quick shrewd look, born of ten thousand nights spent divining moods in an instant, and his eyes moved from Kerry to the woman on the next stool. “Do you two know each other?”
Kerry had hardly noticed her. She turned, giving him a quick, mock-critical appraisal. She was pretty, he saw at once—short auburn hair, a snub nose with freckles, large green eyes, and a generous mouth that formed dimples as she smiled at Bill. “Should I?” she asked.
Bill gave an elaborate shrug. “Jury’s still out on that one. Some days I hardly know him myself.” He turned to another customer, leaving Kerry and the woman to fend for themselves.
Somewhat embarrassed, Kerry said, “Bill’s at work again.”
Once more, the dimples flashed, this time in a smile that seemed slightly sardonic. “My parents met here,” she said wryly. “Bill thinks that’s a heartwarming link in a great tradition. I’ve no heart to tell him how miserable they are.”
The remark was so unexpected that it made Kerry laugh. With a few candid words, the woman had taken what might be a sentimental story and inverted it, easing Kerry’s sense that Bill Carney had assigned them to each other. “I’m Kerry Kilcannon,” he said, and held out his hand.
Her own hand was cool and dry. “Meg Collins. And Ido know you. From school at Sacred Heart.” She smiled again. “You were much older. Maybe ten.”
Kerry gave her a puzzled look and then made a connection of his own. “I saw you at a law school party, I think. Aren’t you Pat Curran’s wife?”
“Youdid . And Iwas . We barely outlasted the party.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“Oh, it’s all right, really.” She spoke with brisk good humor, as if to ward off sympathy. “Without children, it’s more like a train wreck than a lingering illness. Suddenly your husband’s gone, and you never have to talk to him again.”
What had happened? Kerry wondered. But the empathy that made him curious kept him from asking; all he could offer was honesty. “Some days, being alone is better than others, I guess. There’s no one to talk to, but you can do what you want.”
Meg nodded. “That’s what I’m trying to learn,” she said. “Like going to the movies without a girlfriend, or coming here. It’s amazing—they don’t teach women that, do they?”
Beneath her question, Kerry heard an undertone of resolve, then wondered if he was in the way. “You shouldn’t feel stuck with me,” he said, then tried to ease this by adding, “You know, like on that game show where the date some woman’s picked comes out from behind the screen, and she looks at him like ‘There’s no waythis guy is ever getting near me.’ ”
Smiling, Meg touched his arm. “If I’d wanted you to leave, you’d know by now. My eyes get really blank, like by the end of one of Father Joe’s homilies.” She took another sip of beer. “That showis awful, though. The point must be to give you someone else to feel sorry for.”
Beneath his own smile of relief, Kerry had an unwelcome thought:As long as I’m working domestic violence, I’ll never need them. What he did need, Kerry realized, was to talk about John Musso. But this was not a subject for a first meeting, and it felt too close to his own life. “So what are you doing now?” he asked.
“I’m a legal secretary.” Again, Meg made her tone indifferent. “I’d do that till Pat got through law school, the plan was, then be free to finish college. Instead I’m getting my teacher’s certificate at night.”
The indifference was practiced, Kerry sensed; sheltered by her guise of fatalism, Meg was still back in the marriage, sadly pondering its end. “I guess Pat didn’t quite make a husband,” he ventured.
She looked at him, suddenly pensive, then gazed down at the bar. Around t
hem the smoke and talk and laughter afforded a cocoon of privacy. “He was young,” she said. “He kept wanting change, excitement, new things. Marriage isn’t like that, I discovered.”
For a moment, Kerry’s heart went out to her; she had offered him a piece of honesty in return, a brief glimpse of her own heart. But he had no experience to offer, knew too little about Meg’s to say. They sat together in silence.
“Anyhow,” she said at last, “I really should go home. Finals start on Monday.”
Wondering if this was true, Kerry felt hesitation overtake him. But Megwas pretty, and he was curious about her. Standing, he asked, “Can I take you home, at least?”
Meg paused, considering him, and then she smiled again. “You alwaysseemed nice, Kerry. At least to girls.”
She lived on the bottom floor of a duplex in Down Neck, the old Portuguese section, now favored by some young people for its low rents and good restaurants. On the way, they chatted about Vailsburg and common memories. “You looked so serious,” Meg told him. “Sometimes I wondered what was wrong.” But Kerry had learned the uses of humor. “Not serious,” he answered. “Prayerful. It was my only hope of decent grades.”
Arriving at Meg’s duplex, Kerry walked her to the porch. They stood facing each other in the cool night air.
“This was nice,” she said. “Seeing you again.”
The evening was over, Kerry knew. But she had not dismissed him, quite.
Looking into her face, he gently cradled her chin. Her eyes were wide, questioning. As he bent his head to hers, they closed.
Her mouth was soft and warm. He felt the smallest shudder of her body, and then, slowly, she ended the kiss.
Her gaze was serious, direct. “That was nice too,” she said. Then she backed away slowly and opened the door behind her, still looking at Kerry.
Driving home, he felt an unfamiliar lightness.
* * *
For the next two weeks, they went to movies or dinner, met at McGovern’s after work. Meg laughed easily now, spoke readily of her parents. With a certain dryness that did not quite conceal her resentment, Meg portrayed her father as an authoritarian misogynist, puzzled that any woman went to college. The unspoken subtext, Kerry sensed, was that her father and her husband had made her wary; she might consider marrying again, but not at the risk of losing herself. Though she sometimes seemed drained by the stress of job and school, the next day Meg would bounce back, cheerful in his company.
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